by Meg McKinlay
January 16th.
HF, HF, HF.
Drawing invisible lines.
Electrifying the fence.
Keeping his name out of the minutes.
Driving his brand-new car home from Lenton on the night of the Festival.
The night of the crash.
His red car, his love of speed.
My stomach lurched as I remembered how we’d had to hold on as he careered around the corners, sliding out in the gravel.
Then it lurched again, sickeningly – that last moment on the roller-coaster before the bottom drops out of the world.
His red car.
My skin prickled.
“Oh my god,” I breathed.
“What?” Liam was staring at me.
I didn’t know what to say, where to begin, how to give him the piece that would click everything else into place.
“Your dad hates red,” I said.
“So?”
“He hates red,” I repeated. “It’s his car. It’s that date. He doesn’t want anyone swimming here.”
“There are snags and stuff,” Liam countered. “He’s–”
“No there aren’t,” I said quietly.
I told him about the minutes. About HF, HF, HF.
A bubble of silence rose in the space between us.
It was Liam who broke it. “He’s our friend,” he said. “He’s helped us out for years.” He looked up at me, as if willing me to agree with him, to nod and tell him he was right. “Mum said after the accident there were two kinds of people. She said some of her so-called friends just disappeared. They didn’t know what to say, how to handle it.” He shovelled one foot in front of him through the dirt. “As if it was something they had to handle.”
I nodded.
“But then there were other people who came out of nowhere, helping and stuff.”
“Like the Finkles?”
“Yeah. Mum even said they split up around then. They had their own problems but it didn’t matter. They were always ringing us up, seeing how we were going, helping out with things. Still do.”
“Like with a job for your dad,” I said softly, “and money for camp.”
“And other stuff.” Liam’s words came out in a rush, falling over each other. “I mean, they’ve been really …”
He stopped.
And I saw the moment he saw what I did, laid out before him, the moment the last piece dropped into the pit of his stomach, like a small, cold stone.
“The number plates are gone,” he said slowly. “I thought it was because it was a bomb.”
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. Something.” He looked away quickly, blinking.
“We need proof,” I said. Proof that the car was even under there, for a start.
And maybe more.
“Maybe there’ll be something there,” I said. “Something like …” I trailed off. Because I didn’t know how to say the words that would bring that fiery picture to life for both of us – words like scratch or dent. Something that proved he was there, I wanted to say, in his car, going too fast, causing Local Man/Horror Smash, something that had nothing at all to do with fatigue or driver error – or a crying baby.
I didn’t need to say it. Liam turned back to me, his jaw set hard.
“I’m going out again.”
“I’ll get the raft.”
I wouldn’t time him today, wouldn’t count one-cat-and-dog or watch the surface for bubbles.
I would just wait. I knew he would stay down as long as he needed to. As long as he could.
“Cassie, stop!”
Liam grabbed my arm and pulled me down into the shade of the tree.
There was a crunch of tyres, a rattling of chains.
We edged our way back into the scrub, keeping low.
It was Finkle again, changed back into his clothes but still slightly damp-looking. There were two other men with him. They were nodding as Finkle pointed out across the water and then down at the edge.
Liam gripped my arm. “What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think we can swim here today.”
The men were unpacking tripods and cameras and collapsible rulers from a case. One of them was punching buttons on some kind of handheld electronic device.
It looked like they were settling in.
“Tomorrow,” Liam said. “During the centenary.”
Yes. It was perfect. We could show our faces for a while, then slip away. There was no way Finkle could be here then. Not when he had a lever to flip and a head to unveil and a time capsule to bury.
We crouched low and crept along the tree line towards our bikes.
I glanced down at Liam’s leg. Blood was flowing from the graze on his knee. “You should clean that,” I said. “It could get infected.”
Liam shook his head as he slipped ahead of me through the break in the fence. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m going to be fine.”
twenty-two
Hannah made me wear my best clothes.
“Howard will want you in a photo,” she said.
I tucked my shirt into my pants, then did up an extra button near the collar so you couldn’t see my bathers underneath.
They weren’t my normal bathers. My Speedos were tumbling round and round in the washing machine, soaked in water and detergent.
“All that chlorine,” Mum said. “It’s good to give them a proper wash every now and then. And it’s not like you’ll be needing them today, is it?”
I shook my head. Then I went and grabbed the stripy bikini from the drawer where I had stuffed it.
It felt wrong, like I was wearing nothing at all. The flimsy straps sat there loosely rather than snapping securely across my back.
It wouldn’t matter today. It wasn’t like I was going to be doing my six or anything. And I could leave my shirt over the top for diving.
The ceremony was at one. The grand unveiling of the Finkle-head and the mosaic and the handprints, the flipping of the new fake lever, the burying of the time capsule, the off-key blaring of the brass band.
Then some photos, some potato salad, maybe a ceremonial sausage or two.
But by then, Liam and I would be long gone.
We’d be up at the lake with the underwater camera he had borrowed from his mother’s cousin’s second-best friend. It had a built-in flash that was way better than a leaky torch.
We would get evidence. We would piece the puzzle together carefully and exactly, so no one could take it apart.
We gathered near the clocktower – the class, the community, everyone in New Lower Grange and plenty of other people besides.
Hannah was beaming. There were journalists from the city with notebooks and clipboards. There was even a TV crew with microphones and cameras.
Hannah walked around, shaking hands and welcoming everyone.
On a trestle table nearby, copies of the centenary book were stacked in neat, tidy rows.
I stood in my best clothes, buttoned up one hole too high, and waited.
Then Hannah’s phone rang and I saw her frown. She shook her head. She opened her mouth, said a few words, closed it again. Then she hung up and looked around with a panicked expression at the gathering crowd.
It was 12.45.
She walked to the podium and tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I do apologise. There may be a slight delay. The mayor has some urgent business to attend to. Rest assured he will be with us as soon as possible.”
A slight delay? How slight was slight? I wondered. And what was urgent business anyway? Was this more Finkle-spin and we’d be standing here all afternoon while he trimmed his beard?
I grabbed Hannah before she could disappear into the crowd. “What’s going on?”
“Howard had to go to check on the water guys.”
“What water guys?”
She waved a hand. “Oh, they’re letting more water into the lake or something.”<
br />
“They’re what?” My heart raced. “But what for?”
“Howard says it’s too low,” Hannah said. “It’s getting dangerous for boating and stuff. Lots of snags or something.” She sighed. “If I’d known about it, we could have had the ceremony up there. It would have been symbolic. But it was all a bit last minute – too late to move things.” She checked her watch and frowned. “I hope he won’t be long.”
“Finkle’s flipping a lever?”
“What?” She shook her head. “There’s no lever.”
“But he’s drowning the town, right – all over again?”
“Cassie, do you have to be so dramatic? It’s just a bit of extra water. It’s not the same thing at all.” Then she leaned towards me. “Aren’t you hot like that? Why don’t you undo …”
I took a step back, out of reach. Then another. Then I turned and hurried through the crowd, searching for Liam.
Finkle was going to drown the town, the car, everything all over again.
It would be sunk deep, so deep we would never get back down there. The water rushing in would break up the car, tumble it over itself, send its rusted pieces flying in all directions.
And we had no proof, just a pile of wood and a mirror that could be from anywhere.
No one would believe us.
I wouldn’t believe us, if I wasn’t already me.
I raced through the gathering crowd and finally spotted Liam over by the headless plinth. He was wearing dark trousers, but underneath I could see the telltale lines of his board shorts.
“We have to go!” he said when I told him. “We have to go now.”
I nodded. But how? There was no time. No time to go back for our bikes and ride up there. There was no time at all.
We stared at each other hopelessly.
There was no way.
Then I heard a familiar noise. An engine chugging and spluttering as it pulled into the car park: old, worn brakes squealing in protest.
A faded rusty once-green ute held together by duct tape and optimism.
I grabbed Liam by the wrist. “Let’s go.”
twenty-three
“You’re kidding!” Elijah said. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Not kidding,” I said.
Next to me, Liam shook his head, tight-lipped.
It was squashy in the front seat of the ute. I was jammed up sideways against the door with the handle sticking into my side.
We were getting there, though. We were getting there fast.
Elijah hadn’t even argued.
When we ran towards him babbling Finkle and lever and hurry!, he just nodded and said, “Get in.” Then he threw the car into reverse and squealed out of the parking lot.
On the way, we explained. That is, I explained and Liam’s hands clenched slowly into fists on his lap.
“Wow,” Elijah said. “Seriously? Are you sure?”
I glanced at Liam. Were we? Was I? I had felt sure before about Mrs Finkle, and it turned out I had known exactly nothing.
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I think so.”
“Unbelievable.” Elijah flattened his foot on the accelerator.
When we turned off the highway, my heart sank. The barrier across the track was locked in place.
But Elijah didn’t even blink. He slowed only slightly, then veered around the barrier, through the long grass and onto the rough gravel track.
It was a bumpier ride than the one we’d done with Finkle. Elijah’s ute wasn’t exactly a 4WD. It wasn’t designed for this kind of driving. It wasn’t designed for much of anything.
We struggled and strained up the hill and around the bends, Elijah easing his foot on and off, leaning forward, a look of determination on his face.
Finally, we skidded around the last bend, pulling up in front of the fence, with its gate and its warning signs and its chunky, padlocked chain.
Padlocked. Not open.
There were no cars here. No official-looking men. There was no one.
I jumped out of the car and ran for the break in the fence, sprinting through the tree line and down to the water’s edge.
There was nothing and no one and for a minute I couldn’t work it out, why Hannah had said that, where Finkle had gone.
And then I looked up. And out. Across the water to the dam wall which curved up high in the distance.
Of course. Of course they weren’t here. They were where the controls were, all the way up at the power station probably. Finkle and the engineers and the computers, deciding where the water went and when it went there.
Meaning here. Meaning now.
But then something moved on the dam wall. There was a figure, a small shape in the distance, silhouetted against the sun.
There was someone there.
And that was closer. Close enough?
“We have to go round,” Liam said, coming up behind me.
“There’s no time.”
Even though it was closer than the power station, it was still too far – all the way back down to the road, all the way round on the highway, the long stupid distance to a swimming hole that was so far away it never made sense to anyone but Finkle.
We could run around the edge of the lake – through the trees and the scrub, past the Point and the viewing platform and all the way along the wall. But that was a long way too. Too long.
What we needed was a straight line from here to there.
I looked out across the lake.
“The raft!” Liam darted across the open ground towards the bush we kept it hidden behind.
But I shook my head.
The raft was too slow. It was heavy. It zigged and zagged.
I was stronger these days. I was faster.
I ran to the water’s edge. I kicked my shoes off and dived in.
Just before I hit the water, I heard Elijah yelling behind me.
“Cassie! Don’t–”
It’s an odd thing when you’re swimming. You can’t hear anything much. It’s like watching a video clip with the sound off, seeing everyone screaming at you from the sidelines as you turn to take a breath.
If I was too slow, I thought, if they flipped the lever and the water came at me, first in a trickle, spilling down the wall, then in a raging torrent, hopefully I wouldn’t hear that either.
I knew I wouldn’t see it. I was breathing only on the right, not turning my head towards the wall. There was no time for Mr Henshall today. All of that stuff about rules and technique and following the black line up and down, up and down, felt like it was a million years ago.
Today, it was all about speed.
I should probably have thought of that before I dived in with my clothes on. My pants were heavy around my legs and my shirt sleeves flapped with every stroke I took.
I couldn’t stop now, though. I had to keep going, to keep my head down and just get there.
Out into the middle, past the drowned car and the fire tree and the pointless No Swimming sign.
Further. Faster.
How long would it take? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?
It was hard to predict distance across the open water.
I lifted my head for a second, making sure I was still lined up with the edge of the wall. When I got there, I’d haul myself out. I’d run up the little stairs etched into the side of the slope, all the way to the top.
I’d tell whoever was up there everything – about Finkle and the car and the red and … just everything.
I looked over at the stairs. Swim there, climb the stairs, run along the top of the wall.
I had come the quickest way but it was still too long.
There was no time.
I turned back towards the wall. Maybe ten pool lengths away. Five hundred metres.
I couldn’t have swum it a few months ago, not after making it this far already.
Five hundred metres. Less than ten minutes.
And I didn’t need to swim it all. I didn’t need to get right up against the da
m wall. Just close enough. Close enough to be seen and heard.
Close enough that I would be in the way.
I reached down and pulled my socks off, then my pants, leaving them floating on the surface of the water in my wake.
Then I set off towards the wall, alternating strokes – swimming freestyle for speed, then grandma stroke so I could see.
About fifty metres back from the wall, I stopped. I took my shirt off. I peeled it off and held it above my head, waving it round and round.
“Hey!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Hey!”
The figure turned. Even from this distance, I could tell it was the round shape of Finkle.
There was no one else there but he was waving one arm and yelling. No, not yelling. Just talking loudly. Into the phone he had pressed to one ear.
The phone that connected him to the power station, to the engineers and the computers.
Did he see me? I didn’t know. I only knew that as I watched and yelled and waved my shirt, he turned back towards the river and motioned with one arm, sweeping it down towards the ground in a strong, swift movement like someone dropping the flag for the start of a race.
There was a sound, low and heavy, like something shifting. Then another underneath it, or over the top maybe. They were mixed up together so I couldn’t separate one from the other. I looked around me to see where it was coming from, what was happening.
And I saw it – slow at first, a trickle. Then faster, steadier.
Water starting to gush out from the dam wall.
Water that had churned and boiled over itself through the massive pipes, rushing at the press of a button all the way down the mountain, all the way here, to the wall, to the lake.
To me.
Then I heard something else.
A horn blaring, over and over, back from the other side of the lake. An old green bomb bumping and rattling its way around the edges, broken pieces of wire mesh dragging from its bonnet.
Liam was leaning out the passenger-side window, pointing and waving his arms wildly towards me.
Water was spilling down the walls, faster now, and harder. I shot a glance to the side, towards the bank. Could I swim for it? I didn’t see how. To get to the steps, to get anywhere I’d be able to scramble up for higher ground, I would have to head in towards the wall, where the water was churning.
