Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  But it seemed an age before she muttered, ‘Grady’s. They’ll be with Grady.’

  Cade was still none the wiser, but I didn’t waste time thinking on it. I remembered Grady, with his dark skin and his farmer’s hands. ‘Near the settlement?’ I asked her, already not liking the sound of it.

  Another long silence, and a murmur from Cade, before she said, ‘South of the Port.’

  But that was no better, because there was nothing south of the Port except empty salted wastelands. Taggart seemed pleased enough though.

  ‘Then that’s where we head,’ he said. ‘We’ll set up a base and gather in the rest. And we’ll take a real close look at that Port.’ Then he gave me a nod. ‘Good job, lad.’ But his thanks couldn’t have been worse timed.

  ‘I shouldn’t have trusted you.’ Alex spat the words at me.

  ‘You can always trust me, Alex. Always.’

  ‘Never again,’ she said, low and vicious.

  Cade rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear, this is what Ballard would’ve wanted. We can’t just give up. Not after all this time.’

  She shrugged him off, contemptuous. ‘You have no idea what Ballard would’ve wanted. He’d never agree to working with the Watch.’

  Which was exactly why he was lying dead upstairs. And it was probably a good thing Garrick wasn’t around to say so. Alex was at breaking point, and if she tipped it might be enough to break Cade too. So Taggart and I kept quiet. Because it was becoming real apparent, to me at least, that a woman’s fury was not to be messed with.

  But Cade ploughed on, braver than either of us. ‘Alex, we can’t bring him back. He’s gone, and we need to pick up and carry on. I know this is hard for you, but we have to work with whatever God gives us. Every tool at our disposal.’

  Taggart sighed, kind of long suffering, but I felt a quick chill, remembering Tate’s words on the road outside the Citadel.

  And Alex wasn’t buying it either. Glaring at me, all sorrow and scorn, she said, ‘And you, Jem? Are you doing this to carry on Ballard’s fight? Or are you doing it for your precious Watch?’

  ‘Neither,’ I said, and leaving the support of the wall, not caring that Cade was beside her, wanting only to comfort her as I had so many times before, I limped across the tunnel. ‘I’m doing it for you, Alex.’

  Too worn out, too beat up, and way too slow to block her hand; the crack of her palm on my cheek was sharp and clean, enough force to turn my head, but the hurt was greater in my heart than on my face. As nasty surprises went, it was a good one. Her colour was high and she was panting a little, maybe from exertion, coz fuck knows she’d packed a punch into that slap. And when I spoke, I kept my voice real gentle, and my eyes real hard, because I reckon I’d taken enough.

  ‘That’s the last time you ever hit me. You hear? The last fucking time.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Watchman,’ she said, with a small bitter smile. ‘I’ll never touch you again.’ And she retreated, away from me, away from her husband, to stand alone and out of reach. Belonging to no man.

  ‘You done?’ Taggart asked. ‘Coz we got a long night ahead.’

  But they didn’t need me for that. Watch and Disses, it was a hellish alliance and I didn’t much care any more. And if I couldn’t have what I wanted, I’d take what I needed: my cot. Rest. Solitude. Feeling weak and suddenly sick, not wanting to show either as I turned away from Alex, I pulled up to sway in front of Taggart. He didn’t try to steady me, but gave a single nod and waited for me to ask what I had to know.

  ‘What Reed said, about me being chosen from the start? Was that true?’

  He didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah, lad. I think it was.’

  I didn’t reply; just moved on. I had no energy left for the questions that should’ve followed; everything would have to wait. And, hobbling just as I had back in the mine when Tate had supported me, gentle and strong, I finally reached the tunnel entrance, rounding the corner and gripping the wall to ease my hurt. It wouldn’t be the slowest walk of my life, but I reckoned it was going to be the loneliest. And the most painful.

  But I’d barely made it a few metres when I heard the uneven beat of boots behind, beside, then in front to block my way. Cade. And I groaned.

  He eyed me carefully, and kept his voice low. ‘I think you’re done with the hard way now, Watchman.’

  If there was a threat there, I didn’t hear it, but his message was loud and clear. I just didn’t have the strength to answer it. So I did what everyone else had been doing. I lied.

  ‘Yeah. I guess am.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and I stared at him, wondering, thinking of Reed’s words and remembering Alex’s despair.

  ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ I asked him. ‘About what I did. My first assignment.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t know. Ballard believed there was no reason to tell her. Now, I hope, there’s no need.’ And there was the threat.

  ‘No,’ I agreed, feeling sick again.

  Looking satisfied, he peered up the long tunnel. ‘You might need some help getting to where you’re going.’

  I shook my head. This wasn’t his place and he wasn’t the one I needed. In times of trouble, better the arsehole you know.

  Ten steps, twenty, thirty, and I felt him behind me, long before I heard him. You don’t live with someone for so long and not know his presence.

  ‘Not staying?’ I asked, not stopping, but every step harder than the one before. Garrick fell in beside me, slowing his pace to mine.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Taggart can handle it. Better at all the small talk.’

  I didn’t doubt that for a second, but I wasn’t fooled. Done doing unto others, Garrick was taking care of his own.

  ‘Reckon you earned yourself a few more marks tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck that shit. I’m done.’

  He laughed. ‘We’ll see.’

  I thought about what lay ahead, about the war Taggart hadn’t wanted, about Tate and Connor, about Quinn and Amon and all the other Disses we had to track down; and I thought real hard about the message that Cade had deciphered and then folded away. The one that had been meant for Ballard.

  ‘You remember any of that code?’ I asked Garrick.

  ‘Some,’ he said, and I felt his stare. ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. Might be important,’ I said, then tottered a few more steps before asking, ‘You trust Cade?’

  ‘You askin’ coz of him or coz of her?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Answer’s the same, but the questions are real different. You’d better make sure you’re asking the right one.’

  ‘So it’s a no, then.’

  ‘Never trust a man who trusts God, Jem,’ he said, then added, ‘Or a woman with a knife.’ And there was an edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before.

  ‘Tate and Connor,’ I said. ‘You get that from Cobb?’

  ‘You’re gettin’ better at workin’ shit out, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Dunno what Reed had going with him, but he sure was one to brag. And Cobb was real happy to share.’

  Or maybe not so happy, I thought, remembering the man’s opened body staked to the wall in Garrick’s room. And feeling a sudden rush of nausea, hot and vile, I bent over, fighting to get air inside me, and failing.

  Garrick watched me, impatient. ‘You gunna be doin’ this all the way back, or you want some help?’

  ‘Is she still there?’ I gasped. Because it wouldn’t do to show any weakness now.

  ‘You stupid prick. C’mon.’ He ducked under my good arm, taking all the weight, and I groaned when he started off, almost carrying me along. ‘It ain’t worth it, Jem. She’ll fuck you up.’

  ‘I’m gunna get her back, Garrick,’ I said, slurring the words and sagging against him, and I heard his growl, as ominous as thunder rolling over the Sea, faint and fading out. But I didn’t care. Alex was worth it, and I’d get her back.

  Because I was Jeremiah and I was –

  ‘You know what to do,�
� he says, and I swallow, but everything’s dry – so dry – throat, tongue, mouth. Voice. Dry as dust.

  ‘I can’t.’ I can’t.

  ‘You can. Or you know what’ll happen.’ He doesn’t smile. ‘I’ll be here, Jem, waiting.’

  waiting

  waiting

  I enter the room, treading carefully around the boards I know will creak under my weight, following a path not walked in almost eight months. It’s as I remember, the suffocating quiet begging to be broken, silvery dust motes stirred by my breath, simple furnishings; a table and three chairs, the long bench with its bucket, the hearth housing the cooking pot, a patched hemp rug on the floor. But this is no homecoming. Everything screams fear and dread and self-loathing. Despair. Ahead, a single window shaded against the heat, and silhouetted, a frail figure. The one I’ve come to find.

  She turns, puzzled, then shocked. A face I know so well, have loved so long, a face I never thought to see again, a gentle face, but without its gentle smile. There’s sorrow, and weariness, and a despair to match mine. Her voice is as frail as her body.

  ‘Jeremiah.’ Her hands reach for mine, clasping with worn, dry fingers; her eyes weep the last of her water, wetting her face.

  And I weep too.

  ‘He told me you were dead,’ she says.

  I am. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘No,’ she says, and I know she knows. But she grips my hands tighter, with all the strength I don’t have. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been, or how it is I’ve returned. Finally, she summons a smile that’s slow to spread, pushing into her sadness like the first of morning’s light. ‘At least you’ve finally cut that hair.’

  ‘Oh, Gam.’ I pull her to me, cradling her thinness and feeling her soft sigh. And we stand like that, old and young, woman and man, good and bad, until she gives me a gentle squeeze and I let her go.

  ‘Jeremiah,’ she says again. ‘My Jeremiah.’

  ‘No,’ I tell her. Not yours. ‘I’m not Jeremiah any more.’

  There’s a heavy silence until she nods, just once; a bitter bow of her head. ‘Yes, I see that. But to send you? It’s so cruel.’

  ‘They’ve made me – I can’t –’

  I can’t

  I can’t

  ‘Then don’t,’ she tells me.

  ‘If I don’t, they will,’ I say, and then sob, ‘I’m not Jeremiah any more.’

  She understands, as only she can. As she always has. ‘No, not now. But one day. You remember what I told you. What goes around comes around. Every time.’

  I bring up my right hand so it’s between us. She won’t let go of my left.

  ‘Why did you do it, Gam?’ I whisper.

  It takes a long time for her to reply. ‘For the same reason you did. Because I thought it might make a difference.’ Then she sighs and looks around the small room. ‘You know, your grandfather never liked this place. And he was right. This isn’t our world any more. We don’t belong here.’

  And maybe it’s reason enough, but it’s no excuse.

  Dreams are nothing more than playing fields for the dead. But first the dead have to die.

  I find the box. It’s where it’s always been, beside the mat I used to sleep on, hidden beneath the ragged hem of the curtain. It’s fuller than I remember. Taking out a letter, I unfold and smooth the paper, but I can’t read the words; they’re small fish on the page, darting and dissolving in a hot wash of salted water, and the dark is closing in, shadows reaching out from the walls.

  I don’t hear him. Just feel his hand on my shoulder, heavy, a weight to press me to the chair.

  ‘Is it done?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the tag?’

  I shake my head. A breath, maybe a sigh, and I hear him cross to the cot. A few seconds is all it takes, and he’s back again, beside me. He’ll always be there, always checking, always pressing, always crowding. Because I’m not Jeremiah any more, and now I belong to him.

  ‘And these?’ He takes the letter and scans it, before looking down at me. But there’s none of his usual scorn, none of the impatience he showed outside; he nods before refolding the paper and packing it away. When he hands me the box, I hold it tight to my chest, with both hands.

  ‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘There’s work to do.’

  My darling Jeremiah,

  This is a letter (the first of many, I hope) filled with words that are meant just for you. Words that are sometimes hard to say, or if said are soon forgotten. This way you can keep them and read them whenever you like. My words to you.

  Every time I look at you, I wish your mother could see what I see. I know she’d be so proud of her son. And I wish you could’ve known her too, her lovely smile (so like yours), her pretty face, and her sing-song voice. Every day when I watch you playing on the streets, in the dirt, I wish things for you that are gone – the joy of a dog, the thrill of a fast bike, cold ice cream and hot frothy chocolate, television and movies, computer games, the fresh shade of a big tree and the cool softness of grass beneath your bare feet. And every night, when I kiss you goodnight and wait for you to begin your dreams, I wish you’d never known hunger or thirst or fear, had never seen cruelty, or felt pain. But these are just wishes, and wishes never come true.

  So I also hope for things, because hopes can come true. I hope one day you get the chance to read a proper grown-up book (if you do, make sure you smell the pages; believe me, there’s nothing like it). I hope you’ll always have friends around to help you when life gets tough, and that you stay safe and well and whole. I hope your luck follows you wherever you go, and that you always smile in the face of trouble. I hope you never cause harm to others, that you grow up to become as good and gentle a man as your grandfather, and that when you’re older someone will come to love you as much as I love him. I hope this day, and every day after, will be your happiest.

  We will always love you.

  Gam.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is not a solitary endeavour and I’ve been very fortunate to gather an army of supporters along the way. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people:

  My agent, Gaby Naher, for your unwavering professionalism.

  Meredith Curnow, my editor Lex Hirst, and all the crew at Random House, for your boundless enthusiasm. I couldn’t ask for a better publisher.

  Kate O’Donnell, of Line Creative, for pushing me in all the right directions; Watershed would never have made it to the shelves without you.

  Author Toni Jordan, for somehow managing to see potential in what was still a larval submission to the VPLA; the support you’ve provided since has been invaluable.

  The ACT Writers Centre 2014 HARDCOPY Program for offering me a place within a wonderful community of writers. Particular thanks to author Nigel Featherstone, for your friendship and your brilliant coordination of the program, and to my fellow Hardcopiers for your never-say-die attitude.

  Kylie Pye, Cathy Fleay, fellow writer, Sam Hawke, my step-daughter, Bronte, and my sister, Louise, for reading patiently and advising wisely.

  My two sons, Jack and Robbie, for managing without me for so long.

  And to any who have offered support or encouragement along the way, I thank you. It’s been a hell of a ride.

  Finally, love and special thanks to my aunt, Alice Halstrom, who read every word of every draft and never once flinched at any of the content; I remain your greatest fan.

  About the Author

  Jane Abbott was born in the UK, raised in the leafy suburbs of Sydney’s North Shore, and now divides her time between Melbourne and central Victoria. She has tried her hand at most things and lived in many places.

  Her second manuscript, Watershed, was written in 2013; it received a Commendation in the 2014 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript. Her first manuscript for YA readers, Elegy, will be published by Penguin Random House in September 2016.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or tra
nsmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Penguin Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Watershed

  9780143780731

  First published by Vintage in 2016

  Copyright © Jane Abbott, 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A Vintage book

  Published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.penguin.com.au

  Addresses for the Penguin Random House group of companies can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com/offices.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Abbott, Jane, author

  Watershed/Jane Abbott

  ISBN 978 0 14378 073 1 (ebook: epub)

  Climatic changes – Fiction

  Water-supply – Fiction

  Dystopias – Fiction

  Science fiction

  A823.4

  Cover image © carloscastilla/www.bigstockphoto.com

  Cover design by Josh Durham, Design by Committee

  Ebook by Firstsource