by Lily Malone
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. ‘Yes. No.’ I wave the Corona bottle at him. ‘I don’t know. God, Brayden, taking him away from his father has got to be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.’
I fold the chips into the centre of the paper — I can’t chew them, they taste like rubber.
‘The best thing for any kid, surely, is for his mother to be happy,’ Brayden says.
‘Maybe, but I feel like crap right now.’
‘Give it time. Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide anything tonight.’
He hasn’t pulled the blinds. The porch light is on and insects dive-bomb the globe outside. Brayden turns off the television, which means the only light in the lounge comes from outside, and from the glow spilling from the kitchen.
I’m watching the bugs when my mobile phone shudders to life on the coffee table. I’m sure it’s Jack, and the thought of him on the end of the line leaves me cold.
‘If that’s Emmy, I’m not here,’ Brayden warns before I can say anything.
It surprises me. I don’t know why it’s such a secret that he’s here.
I stretch for the phone, pick it up and check the caller ID. Nathan Blain.
‘It’s my boss.’ I accept the call.
‘Jennifer,’ booms the bass voice. I’ve never been able to get Nathan to call me Jenn. ‘I’m sorry about interrupting your Friday night. Have you got a minute?’
‘Sure, Nathan, go ahead.’
‘I got your message that you would be in Busselton for a few days? Are you there now?’
‘Yes. We got here this afternoon.’
‘Good. I was talking with Kennett Pickering today — he’s the Principal at our Dunsborough branch — and he mentioned one of his sales guys is trying to get a new listing but the sellers are playing hard ball. I said to Kennett that you were holidaying in Busselton, and I said we might be able to get you along to the property while you’re there.
‘The agent is Carl Barron, and I told Kennett that if you went to the property with Carl to work up the marketing words — you know, so he can tell the sellers if they list with Blain & Barrow they get a professional freelance journalist on the job — it might get him the listing. Dunsborough branch would pay you the same rate as we do.’
This all comes out in a persuasive salesperson rush and finishes when Nathan says, almost apologetically, ‘I hope you don’t mind my putting your name forward?’
‘No, I don’t mind.’ I look at my watch which is crazy, because it’s too dark to see the clock face. ‘I’d be happy to do it. How do you want me to work it from here?’
He says he’ll text me Carl Barron’s mobile number and I should call Carl in the morning to set up a time. Then he wishes me a good weekend and a happy holiday, and hangs up.
I look at Brayden, a bit stunned. ‘I have a job tomorrow in Dunsborough.’
‘Yeah? Who with?’
‘The Dunsborough branch of Blain & Barrow.’
Brayden takes a slug of Corona, rubs his beard. ‘Do you think there’s an opening for the kind of work you do here? Every second shop in Busselton is a real estate agent.’
I think for a moment. ‘Maybe. Somebody’s probably already doing it. There aren’t many new ideas in the world anymore.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve got a foot in the door. You know the real estate business.’
‘Maybe,’ I say again. ‘But don’t worry about that now. I want to know why you being here is so top secret that I can’t tell Emmy?’
His gaze skips away. In the next second he picks up the TV remote and starts flicking through channels. It’s really not like Brayden to be evasive — he’s usually an open book.
The hairs on my neck stand.
He channel surfs again, and worse-case scenarios clatter in my head.
He’s sick. He’s got cancer.
‘Brayden? You’re scaring me.’
Giving up on the television, he flicks it off, tosses the remote to the seat. ‘You promise not to say anything to Em?’
‘Promise.’
His eyes lock with mine. ‘There was an accident at the mine last week.’
‘What kind of accident?’ My heart skips a beat. Someone got buried alive? A colleague lost a leg? But Brayden’s sitting there large as life, he looks fine. My heart beats again. ‘But you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ He crosses his legs at the ankle and draws them slowly across the carpet until his heels hit the base of his chair. ‘I’m fine. But I might have killed someone.’
Chapter 7
I jolt forward so fast I almost propel myself from my seat. ‘What? Who?’
‘Last Thursday afternoon. We needed a delivery collected in town, and the guy who normally drives the tipper was off sick. I said I’d go.’ He punches his thigh with his fist. ‘Long story short. I failed to give way at an intersection and I hit four pensioners, all in the one car, all driving home from the local lawn bowling club. Three of them were okay but one guy — the passenger sitting behind the driver — Emergency Services had to cut him out of the car. Royal Flying Doctor Service flew him to Perth. He’s not so good.’
My head is one big pulsing questionmark. Or maybe it’s twenty small pulsing questionmarks, all clamouring for attention. I don’t know what to ask first.
‘But he’ll be okay? Won’t he? The man who got flown to Perth?’
‘I wish I knew. Poor old bloke is almost eighty. His wife was in the car too. They’d been married fifty-three years. She yelled that at me while they were trying to cut her husband out of the wreck.’
‘My God.’ I’m trying to figure out what this means; keep coming up blank. ‘Does that mean you’ll be charged or something? Arrested?’
If he hears me, he doesn’t answer.
‘The passengers were carrying all these leftover sandwiches on trays on their laps. Little white triangle sandwiches they’d made to share for afternoon tea. Damn things were everywhere. The cops and the paramedics kept stepping on sandwiches. Everything stank like curried egg and ham.’
I take a deep breath. ‘You didn’t see the give way sign?’
His hand lashes toward me. ‘I saw the sign. I didn’t see the damn car. I didn’t see anything to give way for.’
Brayden is a brilliant driver, always has been — I’ve seen him reverse a truck or trailer in and out of places I wouldn’t tackle head first. All those four-wheel-drive tracks we used to explore, he got us home safely every time.
‘But I don’t get it, Bray. How? I mean… what happened?’
‘They were on the highway, heading into town. I was coming in off the road from the mine. They were in some tin-can white sedan and I never saw them. I couldn’t stop.’
‘You weren’t… you hadn’t been drinking, or… anything?’ I’m thinking drugs, but I can’t say it.
‘It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Course I wasn’t bloody drinking. We get drug-tested every day.’
‘Speeding?’ A sinking feeling hits my stomach. ‘You weren’t on your phone?’
His hand flashes again, palm white in the half-light. ‘It’s a give way sign, not a stop sign. I slowed approaching the intersection, looked, didn’t see anything coming — and picked up speed. I thought the road was clear. That’s when they hit me.’
‘Have you talked to the police?’
He nods. ‘Couple of times. At the site and then at the police station.’
I have no idea if I’m asking the right questions, but I know that if I don’t keep him talking, he’ll clam up. Even getting this much has been like pulling teeth. ‘Maybe… do you think… if the driver had been younger? If he’d had better reflexes, maybe he could have swerved — ’
Brayden cuts me off. ‘It was my fault, Jenn. One hundred percent. They were doing the speed limit. It’s a ninety kilometre zone along there. They weren’t expecting a tipper truck not to stop.’
‘They hit you doing ninety clicks?’ My voice chokes. ‘What about you? Are you okay?’
‘Bloody hell,’ I mutter. ‘You got out of the truck okay?’
‘Yeah. I went back to try and help. Two of the people in the car got out on their own — the two in the front. The lady in the back couldn’t get out, and neither could the bloke who was hurt worst.’
I shake my head. I can’t stop shaking my head.
For the moment, I’m all out of questions. He’s all out of answers.
We’re both out of beer.
‘I need chocolate,’ I say eventually. ‘Either that, or I need Scotch.’
‘Chocolate I can do. I finished the Scotch last night.’ Brayden shoots from his chair like he’s glad to escape, then returns with the box and holds it for me to choose.
I pick out a green-wrapped peppermint and a second shape I don’t know, and chew, slowly — peppermint first — while my mind races. ‘Can you handle another couple of questions?’
‘A couple.’
Cleaning chocolate from my teeth with my tongue, I try to put my thoughts in some kind of order.
‘You said the police came?’
‘I called the ambulance, they got there first. Cops were just after.’
‘Did anyone else see what happened? I mean, were there any witnesses?’ Chocolate number two has tiny bumps on top and as I lift it to my lips, I smell strawberries.
‘Other cars stopped, but I don’t think they saw the impact. I heard a bloke say something about working in a shed a few hundred metres away, and that he came out when he heard a bang.’
It terrifies me to think of Brayden on the side of the road, all alone. Even if he wasn’t hurt, at least not badly, it must have been one hell of a shock. He’s only human.
‘And you haven’t told anybody? No mates? What about Pope?’ Brayden and Pope have been buddies forever.
‘Emmy sees more of Pope than I do these days.’
‘What about someone from the mine? A health and safety counsellor or someone? Did anyone from the mine even bother to come out?’
He nods. ‘The HR guy — but he was more worried about the truck than me. Once the ambulance came, I was just in the way. The first cop took all my details and then his partner tag-teamed me — good cop, bad cop. They made me do a breath test. The second guy asked me all the same questions.’
‘Maybe you should have asked for a lawyer.’
‘I didn’t have anything to hide, Jenn.’ The steel in his tone rebounds off the walls. Maybe he thinks he said it too harsh because he holds the chocolate box out to me. ‘Sorry.’
Lucky dip. ‘Be Turkish Delight.’
I see a glint of his teeth as he smiles. ‘I already ate all those.’
‘I got caramel.’
‘Try not to sound so disappointed.’
The sweet takes some chewing.
Brayden sits in silence through my jaw gymnastics and waits patiently while I crumple the wrappers into ever smaller shiny balls, shaping them between my fingers until they’re the size of peas. Then I start picking at the foil wrap, opening it up, smoothing it out flat.
‘Jesus, Jenn. Come on, spit it out.’
‘Well…’ The lump in my throat swells like a bee-sting. ‘I’m thinking: what’s the worst that can happen? Do you know?’
In the half-dark, his face is like granite. ‘If the old man dies, I could go to jail. Dangerous driving occasioning death I think they call it.’
My mind screams. Jail is for murderers and rapists and drug dealers. Not him. ‘But — it was an accident…’
He stops me. ‘Don’t worry about me, Jenn. Worry about the old guy.’ He picks up the television remote. ‘Now if there’s a decent Friday night movie, what’s say we watch it? I want to forget about the whole thing. The whole reason I came here was to see if I could put it out of my mind for a while. You and Seb being here — you guys are helping me do that.’
I don’t blame him for wanting it to all go away. ‘If there’s no movie, I can always kick your arse at Scrabble.’
He laughs and clicks the remote. As the plasma screen blinks into life he says, ‘Don’t tell Emmy about the accident please, Jenn.’
‘I won’t. But why not?’
‘Wait a few more days — see if the old man gets out of intensive care. As soon as there’s something… concrete, I’ll tell the family.’
Concrete. A chill climbs my spine. ‘You mean if he dies.’
‘Yeah. I guess.’
I’m not a religious person, but I’ll be praying for that old man tonight.
Chapter 8
Brayden finds a movie on one of the digital channels. It’s Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck in Armageddon. I watch till the part where Ben starts singing Leaving On A Jet Plane and I start crying. Twenty-six times I must have seen this movie and I still need a box of tissues to get me to the end.
‘You know Bruce saves the world, don’t you?’ Brayden says, as I blow my nose again. ‘It’s a Hollywood ending, Jenn. A big, beautiful, happy Hollywood ending. Don’t cry.’
‘Bruce dies.’
‘Yes, but Ben and Liv live happily ever after.’
‘And on that note, I’m going to bed.’ I swing my legs to the floor and stand straight.
We wish each other goodnight and I head for the shower, then bed, moving quietly so I don’t wake Seb. A couple of times I kick the portacot by accident. Once, I hear him stir. Carefully, I lean over the cot. His forehead is warm to my touch. The blanket is tangled around his legs. It’s not cold, so I drape the rug over the side of the cot.
Once I get horizontal, I’m not tired at all. When I close my eyes, burned rubber, wrecked metal, and triangles of splattered white bread haunt me.
I think about what Brayden’s told me. It’s a long time since my journalism days but I’ve written about murders, rapes, robberies, gang killings, hit and runs. What Brayden’s described doesn’t seem so bad on a scale of one to ten in road accidents. He wasn’t drunk or drugged, he wasn’t speeding. It doesn’t seem like there’ll be witnesses who might testify he was driving erratically.
I tick off the list in my brain, and feel hopeful.
He stayed at the scene. He rendered assistance.
But I’m biased, and Brayden isn’t the victim here. There’s another family hurting.
So I toss and turn, turn and toss.
Behind the wall at my head the exhaust fan starts in the bathroom. Soon afterwards there’s the spray of the shower, then the slide as Brayden juggles the glass screen shut.
Years ago I’d lie in this room, listening to Emmy breathing deep and even from the single bed beside me. Brayden would be in the shower, and I’d fall asleep wishing I could be a soap bubble, slipping across his chest, curling from his hip, gliding the length of his leg.
I wonder if Emmy knew — when we met in year nine at Karratha — that I wanted to be her best friend because I thought that would get me close to her brother. If she did, she never let on.
By the end of that first school term it didn’t matter, I loved Emmy too.
***
Sebby’s cries send me scrambling out from under the quilt. I can’t see a clock, but it feels way earlier than usual. Poor little man, I’ve shot his routine to pieces. He’s in another strange room, in another strange house. No wonder he’s mewling like a frightened puppy.
‘I’m here. It’s okay.’
When I pick him up, he burrows his head in my chest. Heat radiates through my cotton nightgown. ‘Shush, buddy. It’s okay.’
Sliding the door as quietly as I can, I step out into the kitchen. Brayden has left a light on above the old pull-out rangehood and it’s enough for me to navigate by without blinding me.
I sit Seb on the countertop and get my first real look at him. Sweat plasters his hair
flat where he’s been laying, the rest of his curls spike in a Mohawk. His cheeks are twin dots of red fire.
It’s not milk he wants. I think we’ve got teeth trouble again.
‘It’s okay mate.’ Leaning close, I pat his polka-dotted back and kiss his curls, trying to think what to do next.
There’s a bottle of Baby Panadol in the nappy bag in my room — I never leave home without it. But I can’t put Seb down while I get it or he’ll scream blue murder.
What to do?
‘Do you need a hand, Jenn?’
I almost jump out of my skin.
Brayden’s shoulders fill the doorframe, his chest golden and bare. He’s pulled a pair of dark tracksuit pants on in a rush, they’re twisted at his waist, doubled over, right where the line of crisp hair arrows down his abdomen and disappears. Yeah. Right there.
Stop staring and speak. ‘I’m sorry, Bray. Did we wake you?’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Concern is etched deep on his face. ‘Is everything okay?’
I jerk my gaze away. Perhaps my brain will work better if I don’t look at his body.
‘I think he’s cutting a tooth.’
Brayden winces. ‘Sounds painful.’
Seb gapes around my arm to peer at Brayden and his face splits in a huge, six-tooth grin. I can’t help but laugh and as I do, the tension falls from my shoulders.
‘He doesn’t look like there’s too much wrong with him,’ Brayden says, coming closer.
‘I should patent you. You show up and he’s all smiles — it sucks actually. I’m the one who puts in all the hard parenting yards and you get the glory.’
Brayden reaches past me to tweak Seb on the nose. There’s a moment where his shoulder grazes my skin. ‘What’s up, mate? You look like you’ve wrestled a croc in your sleep.’
I smooth Seb’s Mohawk. Brayden straightens a bang of his fringe, and our knuckles brush.
In the soft light, he’s a glorious mountain of man, all smooth muscle and supple skin. He smells of soap, toothpaste and crisp summer sheets. I could inhale him forever.
‘Cupcakes, hey?’ he says, looking sideways at me, letting his gaze flick to my feet.
Mid-thigh — pink with a pattern of cupcakes — my nightwear isn’t X-rated but it does hug my post-baby curves. Thin straps hold it to my shoulders, and from Brayden’s height, he’s probably getting a great view of the cleft between my boobs.
