He was on the second bit of cold pizza when the landline rang and he felt a rush of relief. It must be Bridget. He jumped up to answer it.
‘Mr Finn Brennan?’ An unfamiliar voice.
‘Yes?’
‘David McNally, Northern Gazette. What’s your response to the charge that your son’s death is the result of criminal negligence?’
Finn pressed his finger to the red button and cut off the call.
‘Was that Mum?’ Jarrah kept his eyes on the TV.
‘Someone trying to sell something.’ The phone rang again but Finn turned his back until it stopped. ‘If it rings again, leave it.’
He went into the kitchen, closed the door behind him, and sat heavily at the table. There was no curtain at the window and his skin prickled as if he were being watched from out in the darkness. He stood up again and turned out the light. It was a relief. He could relax his face, let his body slump. Allow despair.
He couldn’t face ringing Bridget. He pulled out his mobile and texted her again.
The message went with a little whooshing sound. When no reply came, Finn stared at the phone in the dark. It was late. Would his father be awake? Every time Finn had called, Helen or Conor had answered; his father was never well enough to come to the phone. That’s what they said.
He pressed the number.
‘Hello?’ Conor’s voice, anxious.
‘It’s me. What are you doing there?’
‘Finn. Shit, you scared me. I’ve been keeping an eye on Dad.’
‘Is he OK? Can I talk to him?’
Conor paused. ‘He’s devastated, Finn. I don’t think he could handle talking.’
‘Jesus.’ Finn rubbed his face. ‘Should I come down?’
‘You’ve got enough to cope with. Why don’t you leave it till Dad’s stronger?’
‘I just want to see him.’ Finn’s lip was trembling like a kid’s.
‘I know. I just worry it’ll be worse. For both of you.’
‘OK.’ Finn took a deep breath. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
He hung up. What the hell was going on down there?
No reply from Bridget. Finn laid the phone down on the bench where he could see it and waited. At ten-thirty Jarrah put his head in the door. He didn’t ask why Finn was sitting in the dark.
‘I’m going to bed. Night.’
‘Are you all right?’
Jarrah shrugged. ‘I guess.’ He turned away without another word. He hadn’t even asked where his mother was, Finn realised.
He gave Bridget another hour, but she didn’t reply. Shortly before midnight he gave up. He stepped out into the cooling night, made the journey through the pool area, past the silent water, into the studio. Smelled the trace of molten metal as he undressed. Lay down and stared into the dark.
At four-fifteen, he looked at the clock. She still wasn’t home.
BRIDGET
It’s past the darkest hour and moving towards dawn when you pull up on the street and get out of the car. A cold front came through in the early hours and the clouds hang heavily overhead, misting the night. The first few drops of rain spit on your face as you stand there, still, looking up into the sky.
After being with Chen, you can breathe.
You know what Finn will think. You’ve been out virtually all night with a man. There can only be one explanation. You hope to make it inside before Jarrah wakes up and possibly comes to the same conclusion. Before Jarrah has new questions to add to the litany of unasked, unanswered ones crowding your lives.
Nothing happened, you remind yourself. If Finn accuses you of anything – if he dares – you have that to hurl back at him. Nothing happened with Chen. Nothing.
Well, that’s not quite true.
You’d paused in ranting about Finn, about his arrest, about the disaster your lives have become, when Chen changed the subject.
‘I never met Toby,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me about him? Was he like Jarrah?’
The question floored you. No one asked that. Once Toby was gone, no one dared ask you to remember.
‘No, nothing like Jarrah. Toby was like … curious. Had to know how things worked. It was like he had a grown-up brain in a kid’s body, with a kid’s vocabulary, and all he wanted to do was grab the world. You couldn’t stay angry with him though, even when he was bad. People just loved him.’
Chen smiled. ‘More like you or his dad? You’re both interested in how things work.’
You’d never thought of Finn and you in that way before. ‘I don’t know. Neither of us ever had that much energy.’
‘Who did he look like?’
‘He had eyes like mine. Hair from Finn’s side. But didn’t look much like either of us. Or his brother.’
‘Would you be OK to show me a photo?’
You dug out your phone and handed it over. ‘Scroll back and you’ll see him.’
He was quiet, stopping to look, scrolling again. You moved next to him and looked over his shoulder, but one photo that closely framed Toby’s grin was too much. You walked away.
‘Sorry.’ Chen put the phone down.
‘Don’t be. I like that you want to see him.’
He looked up at you, his face soft. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
You’d told it several times. To the police, to Meredith, to people who knew, to the family. You’d learned it the way you’d learn a story or a speech, so that you could say it without reliving those moments, so it wouldn’t destroy you.
You steadied yourself and opened your mouth. But what came out was a child’s whimper.
‘I don’t know.’
And you started to sob. ‘One minute he was reading on the floor and the next minute he was gone and I don’t know how he got out there, there was no way for him to get into the pool, the gate was shut when I looked and so I went back inside and looked in there.’
Chen took hold of you and wrapped you close and let you cry. When your weeping came to an end you stayed in his arms a little longer. In truth, you wanted him to lead you into the bedroom. You yearned for the comfort of skin contact with another human. He wanted it too, you were pretty sure. But instead he got you tissues, refilled your wine, sat down so you were a little way apart.
‘Where do you think Toby is now?’
You rolled your eyes. ‘Nowhere. You know that.’
‘Is that what you feel?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I feel.’
He leaned back. ‘I was really close to my grandfather. When he died, I wasn’t so sure any more. I felt his presence sometimes. Especially in his room.’
‘There’s no evidence …’
He shrugged. ‘There are some interesting studies under way showing continued awareness after brain death.’
You stared at the ground for a long time before you could say it. ‘I’ve been in the pool. I felt him there.’
Chen didn’t seem to find the notion of your haunted pool ridiculous, but speaking it aloud was unsettling. You realised how late it was. You’d barely make it home by dawn.
Now, standing outside the house, you’re relieved things went no further. Staying out the entire night after Finn’s arrest is inflammatory enough, never mind actual infidelity.
The light is just beginning to shift from black to blue, the first cackle of early kookaburras drifts down the street. You slip your shoes off, sling your handbag over your shoulder, pad softly across the lawn, picking up dew on the soles of your feet. Climb the three steps. Cross to the pool gate.
The timer is all out of whack and the pool light gleams. Way back, Finn installed a soft green underwater light to look more natural than the previous cold blue illumination, and he set the timer so it came on in the evenings. It was subtle and beautiful, and all winter you were looking forward to night swims in summer. Now the water flickers moodily and you want nothing more than to push open the gate, step ins
ide, drop to your knees and reach in for him.
You hold still. Soon the day will start. Soon you’ll have to face Finn and find out what this all means.
Before that, you want one more thing for yourself.
You ease the catch up, inch the gate open, step through, close it with an imperceptible click. You move, one barefoot step at a time, towards the pool, to a spot where you think Finn won’t be able to see you if he wakes and looks outside.
You kneel, bring your face close to the water and gently push your fingertips past the surface resistance, feeling the coolness reach the webbing where your fingers join your palm.
You mouth: ‘Toby.’
In response, a soft but unmistakable volley of metallic clicks. Not in the pool, but out there somewhere, in the garden or the street. You jerk your hand out of the water and come back onto your heels. Push your hair from your eyes and look through the fence, trying to find the source of that sound. It comes again. It takes your brain another few seconds to understand what you’re hearing. A camera shutter.
You push yourself to your feet, run to the gate, ease it open and hurry softly along the verandah into the house. You risk one more glance before you open the door and this time think you see the glint of a lens out on the street. You duck inside and slide the door shut behind you. Stand still, heart hammering, as if hunted.
‘You’re home.’
You physically jump at the sound of his voice from the lounge. ‘Fuck, Finn. Why don’t you have a light on?’
‘Why didn’t you turn one on?’
You take a shuddering breath. ‘There’s someone out there taking photos.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘They took a fucking picture of me!’
‘I think it’s the press. A journalist phoned last night.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing.’
Silence falls between you. Is he going to ask where you’ve been? You get in first. ‘So what happened at the station?’
He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘They want to test some new laws about pool fencing, Malcolm says. He doesn’t think it will go anywhere. He says not to worry.’
You snort. ‘And Malcolm is?’
‘The solicitor Edmund organised.’
‘What now?’
‘I’m on bail. There’ll be some kind of hearing, I think.’
You need to know more, but you’re exhausted. Birdsong rings out in the garden, piercing the quiet, letting the day in. It’s nearly light; you can see him slumped on the lounge, smell the pizza boxes still sitting there.
You heft your bag and head to the kitchen. The night falls away behind you, into the same place as the circumstances of Toby’s death, the place that can’t be approached. Let Finn think what he likes. He has more to lose by asking than you do.
JARRAH
Woke with an early-morning stiffy and lay there till it went away by itself. I hadn’t done – that – since he died. Hadn’t wanted to. But after 17 days I was feeling it. Plus, I had Laura to think about.
Weirdly, I thought differently about her. Before we were friends I’d pictured her taking off her top, or something like that, when I did it. It had been kind of fuzzy, like a dream. But now that we’d kissed, it was real. Didn’t know how I felt about it. Scared as well as excited.
Thing is, I didn’t know what to do. Knew nothing. Only way I could think to find out was to look for porn online. The family computer was set up with parental controls, supposedly for Toby’s benefit, though maybe it was really for mine. I suppose I could have looked on my phone, but I kept remembering that time in Hobart with Oliver Neumann. It was disgusting and I couldn’t get those pictures out of my head afterwards. I didn’t want that again.
Anyway. Worrying about Laura and my morning stiffy was easier than thinking about the night before and Dad.
It had kind of been working, not asking and not knowing whose fault it was. I didn’t have to hate one of my parents more than the other. But the police arrested Dad, so it must be his fault.
It was like a worm had got into my heart in the night. Like the ones dogs get, the worms that breed until there are millions of wriggling white things in there, so the dog’s heart hasn’t got room to beat and it dies. The first worm had got into mine while I was asleep and I could feel it starting to spread. The worm of blaming Dad.
Crept out of bed and dressed in silence. Didn’t want to see Mum in case we were now both on the same side against Dad. Grabbed my pack and eased open my bedroom door. It was all quiet out there and Mum’s door was shut. I’d glanced at the clock when I heard her park the car, and it was nearly morning. If she was asleep, she’d probably stay that way for a while.
I tiptoed down the hall, down the steps, through the lounge and outside. No one stopped me. Pushed open the gate, rolled my bike past Mum’s car and took off.
No one much was around at school. I sat in Laura’s alcove, pulled out a book, tried to bury myself. Don’t know how much later Laura tapped me on the shoulder. I raised my face from the words and tried to squash down my morning thoughts of her.
‘You’re early,’ she said.
Felt my lip start to quiver and quickly got a grip. ‘Thought you had rehearsal?’
‘This arvo, you know that.’ She threw down her bag and dropped on to the bench beside me. ‘Walk after school?’
My throat got tight. Fear or looking forward to it – they both felt the same. ‘Sure.’
She tilted her head and smiled a secret smile behind her hair. A smile that hurt inside my chest and for some reason made me think of Toby. I tried to find something to say that wouldn’t pull me down.
‘Done that English homework?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Need some help?’
That, thank God, took us through to her friends arriving and the blast of the bell, and I was OK and the day was going to be all right.
I thought.
Made it through to lunchtime. Got a roll from the canteen and sat with Laura and the girls again, eating while they chattered around me. A nod every now and then was enough when they were all together.
But I started to feel weird looks from around the playground. Three kids hunched over an iPad stared at me, then looked down as soon as I caught their eye. My back prickled. What was going on? By final period it felt like everyone in class was looking away as soon as I lifted my head. When the bell went I grabbed my things and headed to the door.
Laura was waiting outside. ‘It’s in the paper. About your dad being arrested.’
Trapped, I looked around for escape. Passing kids stared at us.
‘Are you OK?’ She reached for me.
My arm burned where she was holding it. I pulled free. ‘Gotta go.’
‘Do you want a lift home?’
‘I’ll meet you after rehearsal.’ I spun around, pushing against the tide of kids pouring down the hall. Fought my way through them, found the door, stumbled outside. It was raining, so no one was out there. I put my head down and ran along the path, keeping close to the edge of the building to avoid the line of windows looking down on me. Scuttled around the playground over to the fence and found the hole leading to the little forest. Scrambled through it, scratching my arm on the rough edges, getting muddy. Ran along the track into the trees. Found my old hiding place under a tree, out of sight, surrounded by bushes. Tucked myself there.
The rain kept falling. I was soaked and muddy anyway. It didn’t matter.
Had this crazy idea if I sat there long enough, Toby would come toddling down the path, his fists in the air. Weed it, Jawwah! Weed it!
He’d like it there in the forest – it was like the island where the monster kings were, overgrown and out of bounds, no grown-ups to be seen. He’d come around the corner and see me and his eyes would light up and he’d run and I’d sweep him up and throw him until he laughed and laughed and put his arms around my neck. Then I’d throw him on my back and run with him.
Fuck.
I never knew when it would hit me like that. Could be OK for a day, two days. Then it came: a Toby moment. Hurt so much it made me dizzy.
After a while my phone pinged. Probably Laura, and I didn’t know what to say to her. But I wiped my eyes on my arm, opened my bag, pulled it out. A number I didn’t know.
How the hell did Tom get my number?
Laura would want to talk if she found me. I couldn’t stand it.
Didn’t want anyone knowing my hiding spot. Texted him a street corner. Pushed my way out through the weeds, scoring a few more scratches along the way. Because of the rain there was no one out. I waited at the corner, my hair slicked down and dripping, my clothes sodden. Tom pulled up and I opened the door and squelched in.
He had a copy of the newspaper on the dash, folded. ‘Seen it?’
I shook my head. ‘Everyone at school has, but.’
He put the car into gear. ‘Take a look if you want.’
Don’t know what I expected, something about Dad I guess. I unfolded the paper and half the front cover was a photo. Mum, in the dark, looking down into the pool. The pool light was on, shining up on her face. The headline: WHO’S TO BLAME?
I snapped it shut. I’d been doing OK at school, but I knew what it’d be like now. The whole school talking about my parents. How did Dad do it? Would he go to jail? All that attention back on me because they thought my dad killed my baby brother. Didn’t matter what the truth was, I knew that much.
It was still raining when Tom pulled up under a tree a long way from school. He’d found my shoes and handed me my shorts and singlet too.
‘Stalker,’ I said.
‘I got ’em off the line. Didn’t go in your room, don’t worry. And your dad gave me your number the other day.’
I stood in the shelter of the car door to change after Tom got out. The clothes would only be dry for a few minutes. I didn’t care. I wanted the rain. I wanted a storm.
Tom was stretching his leg on the bonnet of the car. ‘Ready?’
Sixty Seconds Page 13
