Belinda
CASTLES
The River Baptists
First published in 2007
Copyright © Belinda Castles 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Castles, Belinda.
The river Baptists.
ISBN 978 1 74175 193 2 (pbk.).
eISBN 978 1 74176 199 3
I.Title
A823.4
Typeset in 12/15pt Granjon by Midland Typesetters, Australia
For Brad and Ellie, with love
Lord help me …
Because my boat is so small,
And your sea is so immense.
Medieval French prayer
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Danny Raine contemplated the scene before him, his stomach shifting, watery. His father faced him on the bench at the stern of an eight-foot aluminium dinghy, his once-white T-shirt spattered with blood. The gore of grey prawns and worms was spread across his lap and seat and the metal floor in front of him. His bulk was hunched, focused on threading a worm onto a hook. There was a decent chop out here at the heads. Danny had watched him put away a six-pack so far this morning; he’d dropped the worm at least four times, sworn passionately with each of them.
Danny felt the pull of sleep, wished for bed. Not his bed, someone else’s. Anyone else’s. Someone soft and smiling. He’d been awake late, listening to the sounds of the house. He sent himself through the walls, slipping through the levels of noise: a car with its motor idling on the next street, a cat and a possum wailing in battle, the mysterious rumblings of the hot water system. He probed through the ordinary sounds for a sign of trouble. But there was nothing. He’d lost a couple of hours’ sleep for nothing, again.
Danny lifted his eyes to the horizon, trying to ignore the stench of the bait. Beyond the boat lay the island’s blunt, rocky escarpment, blackening against the grey sea. An unpredictable current tipped the tinny around on the increasing swell. His stomach lurched and he tried to put breakfast from his mind. The eggs had been a bad idea. As he watched his mother fry them, then scrub the pan while he and his father ate, he could see she was working up to saying something. Her hand trembled for a moment as she cleared the plates. ‘I’ll get the barbie going at six to cook your fish,’ she said, eventually. Then there was the scrape of his father’s chair as it flew back, and his finger was a centimetre from her face. ‘I’m going fishing with my boy. We get back when we get back.’ I have to leave here, Danny had thought. I can’t watch out for her anymore. But if he hadn’t left by now, a grown man, who could believe he ever would? And she wasn’t the only one he stayed for, the good it did him. The hooks were in him, sharp and deep. If he struggled, they drove in deeper.
‘Look after him,’ she whispered in the doorway as his dad loaded the gear into the car, in preparation for the hour-long drive to the river. ‘His knee’s playing up. Makes him cranky.’ He’d almost laughed.
Behind his father, the motor lifted free in the chop, the screws loose from slack maintenance. Danny watched him stand, prawns cascading from his gut, turning to force the prop back under the water. One little shove, Danny thought. No one would be any the wiser. Or sorrier. He let himself see it for a moment, his arms reaching forward across the little boat, hefting the clumsy old goat overboard. The thought of touching his filthy clothes, the bulky, softening body beneath, kept his hands where they were, plaiting and unplaiting an old length of rope in his lap. He hadn’t touched his father since he was a boy. He remembered hugging him when he came home off a run on his rig. There were still flashes then: days, weeks, of an ordinary man, a father you could touch without thinking. His dad brought home a puppy once and wrestled with the boys and the yappy little lab on the patchy lawn. They were all filthy afterwards, and starving, but his mum laughed and fed them and washed the boys and the dog. There was something between them then, the males in the family, that wasn’t tainted or shaming.
As his father turned back to face him, the tinny tipped steeply into the river and Danny pitched forwards, grabbing onto his seat to arrest his slide. His father managed to stay in the boat through broad ballast—his wide backside—and the slowness of his body, sloshing about in counterbalance to the waves until he got a decent hold on his bench. Then, as the boat levelled, Danny caught a glimpse above his father’s shoulder of a white-crested wave, bigger than any surrounding it. Before he had time to react a surge of water slammed into the side of the boat, and Danny slid across the bench until he was half-standing, gripping the side of the boat with his body clenched, almost horizontal. ‘Dad!’ he shouted—all he needed was a good yank on his jacket to overcome the force of the wave—but his father was glancing about, panicky, trying to tell where the next wave would come from. As Danny finally began to right himself another wave hit, and he grabbed for anything that would anchor him to the tossing boat. Then his foot slid on a gristly mass of prawns and bilge slime, and he was overboard; ears, mouth full of salty water, submerged in the cold, churning liquid, a frenzy of thrashing limbs.
There was no way to gauge how long he was under. It was like being dumped when he went bodysurfing as a kid, his whole body tossed about like a toy in a washing machine. Back then he’d wait to find a smooth bank of sand beneath him, get on his feet and lift his head free so he could start clearing his sinuses of ocean and beach. There was nothing for his feet to find here; the whole world was moving around him, but at last an upstretched hand reached a place above the water for part of a second and he forced his head in the direction of air, gulping it like a fish on the floor of his father’s tinny.
Grey water rose and fell around him, surging into his nose, mouth and eyes, making it impossible to see for more than a second or two at a time. He swivelled as best as he could in the swell to find the boat, kicking furiously to stay afloat. As the water dipped he sighted it, distant and small already, past the island, headed seaward. He felt something large, sinewy, inhuman, brush by his leg and shrank into himself, thrashing away from that spot. Slow down, he told himself. Think. Where are you? Amid the peaks and troughs he forced himself to find his bearings. He was drawing closer to
a bushy point, maybe fifty metres downriver. There was a sheltered bay beyond it, he was pretty sure, a fishing village, a kids’ rec centre. If he could make land, he could pick his way through the bush and walk there along the rocks. Lightning forked out to sea, crashes of thunder following a second or two behind every flash. The strikes seemed close to his father’s boat, a tiny figure attacked by an angry, alien sky.
He slowed his kicking for a moment, trying to figure out what he needed to do to get to land. The surge was pushing him towards the point. A piece of wood, a slimy plank almost a metre long, nudged his cheek. At first he pulled back from it, but seeing what it was, he took hold with both hands and began to kick for shore. As he grew closer, the swell ducking him under, he glimpsed sharp-looking rocks, smashing surf. But then he drew level and saw that there was a gap, a short sandy beach beneath the trees. His legs felt as though someone was holding onto them from beneath, pulling him under. He stopped pushing for a moment, trod water, then kicked hard across the rip with everything left in his exhausted limbs. After a few more maddening dunkings he was dragging his sodden body across the narrow beach to the dank shelter of the bush.
When he reached the first stand of eucalypts, he laid his cold, wet head on the damp earth. He blinked away the mist of saltwater in his eyes and looked back towards the mouth of the river. Beyond the beach, just visible in the darkening afternoon amid the greys of the churning water, the dark island, the blackish shore, was his father’s little boat and the hulking figure that occupied it. Danny felt as though he had been down, down to the bottom of the river, down through the layers of silt and had emerged somewhere else, in a new world. The tiny boat, the grey ocean, were beyond an invisible, unbreachable border, in the world of a film or a dream. Danny took deep swallows of air; water ran from his nose. You can look for me forever you black-hearted son of a bitch, he thought. As far as you’re concerned, I’m dead. And as far as I’m concerned, from now on, so are you.
Chapter 1
Rose sat at the desk beneath the open window in the smallest room in the house, watching the green marker on the wide black river blink in the dark. Beyond the glow of the open laptop lay the night, and all the people in it. The black turtle shell of the island was dotted with lights, but between these she knew were more houses, their inhabitants moving and dreaming in the dark. She closed her eyes and imagined that they were some heat-sensitive, X-ray device that saw across distances, through walls, to the shapes within the houses, seeing the things that people did in secret to make themselves feel loved.
She lifted her hair off her sweaty neck and tied it in a knot, forcing herself back to her work. Her days were spent in a dream, floating around on the silver river. She could only work at night. All the busyness of the world must end so you could sit in this little pool of light, the night dark around you, and imagine the ways that people wanted to touch each other, and themselves, if there was no one to answer to about it.
When she’d done her thousand words, she snapped shut her laptop and left the room, closing the door. Out in the living room she arranged herself carefully on her side on the sofa, settling her swollen belly on a cushion. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a dark figure cross the gap in the verandah fence and she caught her breath. Soon she saw it was pissed, grumpy old Tom from next door stumbling about—she recognised the slight hunch, the spindly legs beneath his shorts. She sank back into the sofa. The silence here, when it came, was deep.
Even now, though, she heard the low increasing hum of a tinny approaching. Then its light appeared in the gap, growing larger in the dark, steady on the flat river. It was like watching her memories, coming towards her in the blackness. She imagined that if she kept watching, the light would slow as it reached her jetty and become a little boat, two figures climbing out of it, onto the ladder, laughing, drunk. She and Ben, people from a different time, eight months ago, before the year was severed, into the time before and the time after.
She closed her eyes. They’d been drinking at the pub. The ride back across was chilly, but the alcohol had made her immune, excitable. ‘I love this place,’ she’d said, gripping his arm for warmth, her backside cold on the seat of the tinny.
‘I can see why,’ he said. ‘Sub-zero temperatures, mud, a pub full of guys who look like Cousin It . . .’
‘But the river at night—look at it, Ben. It’s magical.’ The night was just black shapes, the moon thin behind a cloud. The mound of the island, the looming cliff on the opposite shore. A train rushed out of the tunnel north of the river and thundered across the bridge, a long snaking worm of orange lights sailing above the black water.
She could just make out his features in the glow from the tinny’s light. He was shivering, his lips darkening against his white skin. ‘Inspirational place to write your porn, I imagine. All those hotties at the pub.’ She gave him a sharp nudge that rocked the boat. ‘Steady, kid!’ He gripped the bench.
‘It’s not porn. It’s erotic fiction, for adventurous ladies.’
‘Ha! The kind of adventure you can have with one hand.’
‘I have to tell you, it’s a damn sight better than working for Wank Weekly.’
‘That I can believe.’
The cliff reared above them; they were almost at her jetty. ‘I always have trouble finding it at night,’ she said, slowing the boat to a putter.
‘How do you find it?’
‘Well, I usually find next door first. His dog starts yapping as soon as you get anywhere near his place. And there’s a yacht that’s often moored just out from my jetty, too.’
‘Your jetty. How long’s he letting you stay here? Hasn’t your sister dumped him?’
‘Yes, well.’
‘Yes, well what?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get inside.’
‘This doesn’t sound good.’
She giggled, and pointed the tinny at the ladder, bumping the pillars of the jetty twice as she tried to get the nose into position so Ben could jump off. ‘Look, I can just grab hold of it now,’ he said.
‘No, no. I’m going to put you in the right spot. Have faith.’
When she’d finally tied off and they’d staggered along the narrow, rotting jetty to her verandah, she pulled back the screen door noisily and the dog began to bark. ‘There he goes,’ she said.
‘Fucken shut up, Dog!’ a voice snarled from the darkness.
‘Delightful neighbours, too,’ Ben murmured as they stepped inside. ‘This is nice,’ he said as she turned on a couple of lamps, illuminating the old sofas, the bright rug. ‘Sort of slum chic.’
‘I like it.’ She emerged from the tiny kitchen at the back of the living room with a bottle of white wine and two tumblers.
‘No, it’s nice. I mean it. Are we really going to drink a bottle of wine?’
‘Well, we can start it. Put the rest away for later.’
He laughed and threw his coat on one sofa, flopped on the other. She wedged herself into the small space he’d left. ‘So, what’s the scandal?’
‘Oh, God.’ Her face was hidden behind her hair as she worked the corkscrew.
‘What, Rose?’ She looked at him. She’d known his face all her life—his curly hair, his huge brown eyes, the mouth that seemed too small, insignificant in comparison. She had pictures of him as a kid—he looked just the same in them as he did now. She concentrated on his eyes for a moment. The teasing in his voice, his eyes, had disappeared. She didn’t want to tell him, now, but he was looking at her, waiting.
‘I’ve kind of got a thing going with James.’
He stood suddenly. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No, I’m not kidding. It’s not that big a deal. Sit down.’
His hands were on his hips. ‘What did Billie ever do to you, Rose? Are you getting your own back for something?’
‘No.’ She poured the wine, her stomach turning over. ‘No, it wasn’t deliberate. She dumped him. What does it matter? She can have anyone she wants. It’s just a
bit of fun. I’m not planning to tell her about it, actually.’
He began to say something, then sat down. ‘Rosie,’ he sighed. ‘You’re a disaster.’
‘I know,’ she giggled. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Do you forgive me?’
‘What’s it got to do with me?’
‘But if you forgive me, then it’s OK. I can sleep at night.’
‘I forgive you,’ he said, holding her hand against his leg, drinking his wine. ‘Oh my God. This wine is fucking terrible.’
They’d been on this sofa. Right here. They drank the awful wine, all of it. They crashed together in her bed, in T-shirts and undies, the way they always did. He faced away from her; she hugged his back. They’d slept like that since they were kids, through uni. She couldn’t imagine they ever would again. ‘I wish you were my brother,’ she’d whispered in his ear. He shook his head into his pillow.
It was seven months now since she’d last seen him. She couldn’t call him; couldn’t imagine breaching the gap. She’d seen him one more time after that night, and had a feeling, even then, that he’d only come because, when she rang him, she’d been crying. It was a month after the night she told him about James, and she’d heard nothing in the meantime. They usually talked every few days. When she could speak, she asked him to come to the funeral.
He came, of course. His eyes were wet as he walked along the track towards where she was attempting to tie off the boat. She couldn’t hug him; she was ankle-deep in mud, down in the riverbed. She’d woken to thick fog clinging to the river, the end of the jetty not visible from her bedroom window. There was no ferry for two hours, so she’d had to take James’s boat. As she edged forward into the mist, she felt she was entering a cloud she would never leave. She eased the boat slowly in the direction of the opposite shore, and knew she would only find it by chance. Sounds came to her through the cool white fog: a train’s ghostly wind as it whipped from the tunnel, a voice sailing through the cloud from another boat. She slowed almost to a standstill; the boat must be near. Eventually, little gaps began to clear in the fog and she caught glimpses of the island, the railway bridge, and navigated slowly towards the shore. By the time she reached it, her black suit was clinging to her and she was sweating with a mild panic in spite of the cold. She fought the urge to be sick.
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