Bay of Fires

by Poppy Gee

  “You nuts? You want to queue up to drop your boat in?” Sarah said.

  The fish was impressive, but what escaped the pressing crowd was the fact that Roger had motored all the way out there in his tinny. He was either brave or stupid; a patch of black rain clouds boiled on the horizon. His tinny was so light that a four-foot wave could flip it. He had caught the fish on an Alvey surf rod which Sarah had lent him. She probably would not have lent it to him if she had known he was going out so far in unpredictable conditions. But then again, Roger knew the ocean. If something bad had happened to him, even if he was using her rod, it wouldn’t have been her fault.

  Roger, ruddy-faced and grinning, held his catch up to the sky. It was a magnificent fish, more than a meter long, its scales shimmering in shades of bronze and turquoise. For once Roger didn’t try to conceal his deformed hand.

  Hall had been home in Launceston for a week when Ann Eggerton left a message on his landline. He almost didn’t call her back. He no longer worked for the paper and had no desire to listen to her condescending condolences over his abrupt resignation. Halfway through tidying up his garage, curiosity got the better of him.

  “I’ve got some news about Anja Traugott,” Ann said. “I thought you might want to know. Your replacement told me you were on gardening leave.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’re releasing the final results from the postmortem later today. I’m just waiting confirmation from the Swiss consulate that the Traugott family has been informed.”

  “Yes?”

  “Accidental death from drowning. Lacerations on her face and legs are consistent with having fallen from the rocks. Other injuries are consistent with decomposition from ocean predators.”

  Ann explained it was difficult for a forensic pathologist to prove with complete accuracy that death by drowning had occurred. Circumstance and elimination of other causes of death were considered.

  “There’s more. They excavated the mineshaft behind the tip that you told us about. They took a great deal of forensic evidence to Hobart yesterday. You’re a bit of a hero, Hall, stumbling across that.”

  “No I’m not. Tell me, has anyone come forward with further information about Chloe? Any witnesses?”

  “Early days, Hall.”

  Hall sat down on the sunken sofa in his sunroom. He picked at the yellow daisy pattern imprinted in the worn fabric while she prattled away about the difficulties the forensics team faced in determining a cause of death for Chloe. Once the police had taken her body away, there had been a couple of interesting calls to the Crime Stoppers hotline. Ann refused to elaborate, except to predict that the police would solve this case in due time. Hall listened without interrupting. This was good news. Maybe tonight he would be able to sleep properly.

  “You’re the best in the business, Ann.”

  “One other thing,” Ann said. “You didn’t hear it from me, but we might be looking for a media liaison for our Burnie office soon.”

  “Not a chance in hell.” He had almost said not a fucking chance in hell.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m joking. Thanks, Ann, but I need a break from the front line.”

  “I understand.” She liked that; in her voice he could hear satisfaction with the implication that her job was as difficult and meaningful as a journalist’s.

  Charred trees surrounded the tip like thin, naked survivors. Broken glass spun sunlight. Even Roger’s wrecked car had an aspect of beauty, its vintage lines evoking a bygone era. A red bauble, a Christmas decoration, lay surprisingly intact in the ash. Sarah picked it up. It looked like one from Pamela’s tree. Christmas seemed like months ago, a blur of sadness. How morose she must have seemed to her family, sitting in the armchair drinking beer after beer. She had barely spoken to anyone that day, had barely raised her stubby for any of the toasts. Things had changed a lot since.

  Early this morning a television crew had been driving around the area. Don had seen unmarked police cars coming out of the tip yesterday. Pamela speculated that new evidence had turned up, suggesting that a skeleton had been discovered in the tip, or a weapon. Sarah’s father pointed out that there had been many items thrown in there over the years that could be used as a weapon. Blunt fishing knives, rusted shards of corrugated iron, cooking pots, bricks, tools; John’s list had gone on and on. Erica said she no longer believed they would find anything. Not here in the burned-out tip, not in the lagoon if Don’s idea of dredging it ever happened, not washed in by the next big storm.

  Sarah listened to their predictions, keeping what knowledge she had of the facts to herself.

  Last night was the first time she had slept properly since before she punched Jake. Every night since she’d left Eumundi, Sarah had woken several times from lurid dreams in which she lost control and physically hurt people she cared about—her mother, Erica, Henry the dog. Lying awake in bed she would rationalize the dreams, but reality was worse. Nothing, no justifying, could change what she had done to Jake. Her biggest fear, exacerbated by a tiny, mean voice in her head, was that she would do it to someone else. That being a man-basher was her fate.

  Last night was the first time she had felt confident that this would not happen. It wasn’t a promise to herself, or a guilty reaction, it was a fact. She knew, without doubt, that the situation with Jake was a mistake she would learn from. For the first time in weeks, Sarah slept past the stifling silent early hours and woke to the now comforting sounds of her family beginning the day.

  Sarah crouched down to pick up the Christmas decoration. How it survived the fire, she had no idea. Without thinking, she tossed it onto the front seat of Roger’s Valiant. It occurred to her that it might confuse the investigation, that the television crews might turn it into a story. She grinned.

  Riding her mountain bike back to the shack, she noticed a glint of green metal through the trees. Parked at the top of Roger’s driveway was the Holden. Her stomach flipped. Hall Flynn, too gutless to drive down the sand trap driveway. She smiled. She peered in the window and noticed he had cleaned the car. There was a new yellow sticker on the back window. An Alvey Reel Fills the Creel. He must have stolen it from her tackle box. She paused for a moment then pedaled hard for home, smiling a smile so wide it made her cheeks hurt.

  Hall walked toward the little blue shack with the red geraniums. Someone had been shucking abalone on the wooden picnic table; the shells were scattered on the grass. The bloated technicolored surfboard Sarah and Erica called The Pig leaned against the bunkroom wall. Wet bathing suits were spread on a banana lounge; he recognized the budgie smugglers as John’s tight-fitting racing briefs, and Flip’s red one-piece. The familial intimacy of the tangled swimsuits halted him. Perhaps he was intruding, had intruded enough already on this family’s summer holiday.

  Sarah strode around the corner before he had time to rethink his plan. She carried a shovel in each hand.

  “You were at Roger’s for so long I thought you must be planning to spend the night there.”

  “I’m sure he’d let me camp on his veranda couch if I need to.”

  “You’re dreaming. That’s the cats’ bed.”

  It was important to explain to Sarah why he was here. He weighed his words. The main thing he had planned to say was that he didn’t want to leave things like they had been left. Instead, Sarah handed him a shovel.

  “Come on. I need your help.”

  On the beach Hall leaned on the shovel while Sarah dragged her toe through the damp sand, drawing the lines for the trench they were about to dig. She explained that the lagoon was full and washing into the edges of the dune grass. It wouldn’t take much work to dig the trench to release the pent-up tea tree–stained water into the ocean. Some people were concerned that it was environmentally bad to meddle with the lagoon. It would upset the natural ecosystem, drain the lagoon of micro fish food. They were idiots. The lagoon was pushing against the sand that lay between it and the ocean; it would break through of its own accord any d
ay now.

  He had expected questions about Anja Traugott or Chloe Crawford. But Sarah did not mention any of it. She didn’t even ask why Ned Keneally’s byline was now running under the Bay of Fires Killer banner.

  “Let’s start work,” she said.

  She jammed her shovel into the sand.

  Deep down the sand was heavy. It slumped off the spade before it could be removed from the trench. Sweat stuck Sarah’s clothes to her skin. Beside her Hall panted with exertion under the harsh afternoon sun. He was too exhausted to talk, and that was a good thing. Half an hour before he’d looked like he was about to have an emotional meltdown. He’d had that thoughtful half-smile and made too much eye contact. He was back, and she was glad to see him. Hopefully, he would just accept that things would be okay without having to talk about it.

  It wasn’t long before the beach became crowded. Sarah directed everyone where to work; Erica and Steve were to dig halfway between the lagoon and the sea, John and Flip halfway between there and the lagoon. Jane Taylor grunted with a shovel on her own. Several curious families who had rented some of the fishing shacks wandered along the beach to watch as progress was made. Some of them dug with their hands. A new group of people had set up tents in the campground beside the lagoon. Some of their children joined in. Simone and Sam Shelley were the only ones missing.

  Hall asked Flip where they were.

  “Gone, Hall,” Flip said. “She had urgent business back in the States. They left yesterday. She told Pamela they could only get business-class tickets at such late notice. I went past their place and it was all closed up like it was winter.”

  “Shame,” Hall said.

  “It is a shame when people have too much money to enjoy the simple things.”

  Hall didn’t comment. Perhaps, as he suspected, Sam had rung the Crime Stoppers hotline. Perhaps the police had even approached Simone. Hall could imagine her feeling that there was no choice except to whisk her son away.

  He studied the beach dig. Sarah had gauged the lagoon’s shape, its fullness, and plotted the most strategic spot to dig the trench. In two hours they had dug a forty-meter trench in the middle of the beach. Either side of it, fifty meters of digging remained when Don and Pamela arrived with bottles of champagne and the Weber.

  Later in the afternoon only three meters remained between the trench and the lagoon. Sarah whistled and everyone stopped work. Pamela opened another bottle of champagne, and a couple of kids from the campground poised themselves with their surfboards. Knee-deep in water in what was the dry trench, Hall tugged on Sarah’s arm. The wall of sand between them and the lagoon quivered. Hall watched it nervously. Any moment now a measureless torrent of water would storm through the weak sand wall, gobbling everything in its path.

  “Maybe we should stand up there with everyone else?” Hall said.

  “Timing it is the challenge.”

  A trickle of water oozed through the damp sand. It was tea tree brown, definitely not seawater. Hall moved down the trench and hoisted himself out. Sarah followed. They barely made it out as the pressure from the lagoon exploded. It was louder than Hall expected; the sound of sliding sand, the slish of mud. A cheer rose up, and parents pulled their children back as the huge water rushed forward to the ocean. It gutted the beach and surged into the sea, the azure water swamped with a tea tree stain, yellow and frothy.

  Sarah whooped. Others clapped and hooted. One kid jumped in with his surfboard. He was the first person to plunge into the water, and he skillfully rode the current out into the ocean. Steve clutched a boogie board, holding on as the tormented water ripped out to sea. He was a strong guy, and he made it look difficult. Sarah rode The Pig surfboard along the rushing waves at the edge of the gutter, using her upper-body strength to steer. She had told Hall she expected him to follow.

  Above the noisy rush Hall was aware of a conversation being conducted in self-conscious tones. He did not mean to eavesdrop.

  “I’ve got some rubbish Felicity wants to get rid of,” John Avery was telling Jane.

  “Trailer is there if you want it. Three o’clock I’ll be around.”

  “Done.” John nodded curtly.

  Jane watched him walk away. Not a measured glance, Hall noted, just long enough to confirm he was leaving. Dr. Avery strolled around the lagoon to where his canoe nestled in the dune. Jane met Hall’s gaze, holding it until he looked away.

  “You can see that too?” Roger spoke from behind Hall. “No one else can.”

  For a moment Hall contemplated feigning ignorance. Instead he said, “How do you know?”

  “I’m smart.” Roger’s eyes narrowed as though he were looking into the sun. “Real smart.”

  On The Pig, Sarah coasted out into the ocean. Hall did not want to follow. It wasn’t getting in that was the hard bit, it was getting out. If he rode that boogie board, he knew he would careen out to sea, marooned in the grungy water.

  John’s canoe shot down the lagoon toward the entrance. Water gushed under him; he tapped the water with the paddle in a futile attempt to steer. As the canoe entered the opening, it was seized by frothing water and spun in circles toward the ocean. John frantically tried to control the canoe. Jane cackled. Flip shouted for him to be careful.

  “She’s right,” Roger said. “He should be careful. If he wants to make it back to shore in one piece. That lagoon will flick him out into the southwesterly circular current and whoosh…”

  Roger tapped the air as though he were a magician wielding a wand.

  “You reckon a body wouldn’t come back?”

  “I know a body wouldn’t come back.”

  Hall paused. His mind sorted previous conversations, rearranged small details, recalled notes he had taken. Stop it, man. It’s over. He moved away from Roger, toward the rushing water.

  It would be days before the sea would return to its natural color. Rain fell in the Blue Tiers, trickled through old-growth sassafras and myrtle forests, filled ancient rainforest creeks, flushed the St. Columba and Detention Falls, nursed freshwater salmon and platypus, gushed into the Two Rivers and watered Pyengana dairy farms, trickled through unnamed tin-mining creeks, soaked through the Sloop and Piccaninny marshes before draining into the Chain of Lagoons. Now it was being returned to the ocean.

  Pamela, Flip, and Jane sipped champagne. Hall stepped into line beside them.

  “Come on, Hall, we’re all waiting for you to show us your stuff,” Pamela called.

  The others, tipsy, hooted in agreement. Reluctantly, Hall toyed with a button on his shirt. He wasn’t a strong swimmer; how humiliating if someone, Sarah probably, had to rescue him. He knew he should wait until the torrent calmed. The canoe looked like it was spinning out to sea.

  Erica was on the edge of the river, undecided whether to jump. She knelt down, her boogie board held out. She looked over her shoulder to see who was watching her and rolled her eyes and laughed. In the churning, directionless shallows, Sarah yelled directions to her father.

  “You’d be an idiot to swim in there,” Jane said.

  He had not noticed her move around to stand beside him. Her eyes were smiling.

  “Here’s your excuse.” She held out a champagne-filled plastic cup for him to take.

  Sarah wrapped her towel around her waist. It was cold now that she was out of the water. Over the roar of the draining lagoon Sarah couldn’t hear Roger and Hall’s conversation. Roger gestured with his fishing rod at the sea, and Hall was talking and counting on his fingers. She came closer and listened. Large schools of mullet were sweeping up and down the coast. Hall thought he might have a chance of catching something.

  “Roger, don’t make it so easy for him,” she interrupted. “In the morning, Hall, I’m going to get some trevalla, if you’re around.”

  Mullet were too easy. Not a sport fish. If Hall wanted to catch something other than a toadfish, it should be a trevalla. It would test him. It would test her, too; the frustration of standing back watching while he potentia
lly lost the fish off the line might be more than she could stand.

  Acknowledgments

  This novel began as a story written at the kitchen table in the precious, fleeting hours that my babies slept. I never really believed it would be published. The person who waved the magic wand is Julia Kenny from the Markson Thoma Literary Agency. She is an amazing, creative, sensitive, and clever editor who transformed my manuscript into a novel. Julia spent countless hours editing Bay of Fires and apparently effortlessly found a wonderful publisher in Reagan Arthur Books (an imprint of Little, Brown) and Headline Publishing Group. I was fortunate to have two gifted editors work on my manuscript. Together, Headline’s Imogen Taylor and former Little, Brown editor Andrea Walker improved Bay of Fires with their insightful and intelligent editorial suggestions. Julia, Andrea, and Imogen made this novel happen. We have never met, but have worked together from opposite sides of the world, and this book is a kind of collaboration. Many thanks to Reagan Arthur and her hardworking team, including Ben Allen, Marlena Bittner, Amanda Lang, and Sarah Murphy. Everything they do exceeds my expectations. Thanks to Julianna Lee for the gorgeous cover artwork. Freelance copyeditor Amanda Heller and proofreader Audrey Sussman put the finishing touches on the novel, and I am comforted by their high standards. I am grateful to the wonderful, passionate people at Headline: Imogen Taylor, Frankie Gray, Holly McCulloch, and Laura Esslemont, all of whom are generous in sharing their talent and their time. I thank Siobhan Hooper for creating the beautiful jacket. And thank you to the fantastic people from Hachette Australia who worked on the novel: Matt Richell, Carolyn Chwalko, Anna Hayward, and Asha Mears.

  I am extremely grateful to the staff in the School of English, Media Studies and Art History at the University of Queensland, where I wrote this book as part of a master’s degree in creative writing. Bay of Fires owes a big debt to Venero Armanno; in particular, he was influential in transforming the novel from an odd love story into a murder mystery. Veny was generous, honest, and encouraging, and I feel lucky that he was my thesis advisor. The theoretical research I did under Hilary Emmett’s exceptional guidance broadened my mind and the scope of this novel, such as the focus on single women. I received a five-thousand-dollar University of Queensland Completion Scholarship, which was helpful as I finalized the draft of my book. I was fortunate to have two accomplished writers kindly read my manuscript: Laurent Boulanger and Marion May Campbell. They both advised me well on how to improve the novel. I also thank Stuart Glover, Bronwyn Lea, and Julienne Van Loon for their creative ideas in the early stages of writing.