Across the Water

by Ingrid Alexandra

  ‘Some of those prescription drugs can be pretty potent.’ Harris says, levelling me with a frank stare. ‘Would you say your account of events of that night are reliable, or might you have been intoxicated and confused at any point in the evening?’

  A sudden flush of anger fills my chest. ‘If you’re suggesting I’ve made it up—’

  ‘We’re not suggesting anything, Mrs Dawson,’ Harris says crisply. ‘Just trying to ascertain an accurate account of events.’

  Jamison shoots another look over her shoulder at Harris and turns back to me with an apologetic smile. ‘Was anyone else with you during the evening? Anyone who might be able to verify your account of things?’

  ‘No. I was alone in the house. Well, apart from when Dee showed up.’

  ‘And, as far as you could tell, would you say that Mrs Waters was intoxicated at the point in time when she left your house, which you say was around …?’

  ‘Just after midnight. And, well …’ I feel disloyal to Dee somehow, but I know I have to tell the truth. ‘She was a bit drunk, yes.’

  There’s silence apart from the faint whir of the recording device and the sound of Jamison’s pen scribbling on her notepad.

  A thought occurs to me, and I feel a sudden stab of fear.

  ‘You won’t … you know, tell him, will you? Samir, I mean. You won’t tell him where you got the information about him?’

  Harris looks at me. ‘Not if you don’t want us to.’

  There’s a pause during which the only sound is Jamison’s pen scratching on her notepad.

  ‘I just wonder. If something did happen … and he knows I saw …’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no cause for concern,’ Harris says. ‘But if you’re worried, there’s no reason for us to disclose our source.’ He flashes a brief, charmless smile that I’m sure is meant to reassure me, but it does the opposite. I have the sudden and intense urge to leave.

  ‘Will that be all, or …?’

  ‘Just a couple more questions, and you’ll be on your way.’

  I slump back in my seat. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You say your husband stayed in Sydney on Wednesday night, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. That’s correct.’

  ‘Do you know where he stayed?’

  I feel an unexpected jolt of fear. Is Adam a suspect? ‘Yes. Yes, of course. He was in a hotel in Sydney. Like I said, he couldn’t get back to town because the road was closed.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the hotel? Approximate time of check in?’

  ‘Yes … well, no. He didn’t … I mean, he didn’t give me the name. But he would have given you the details earlier, surely?’ My voice sounds higher than it should, and my palms are starting to sweat. The memories of my previous police interrogation bubble to the surface.

  ‘There’s no need to get upset, Mrs Dawson. Your husband isn’t under suspicion; we’re just following protocol,’ Harris says, sounding bored. He doesn’t look up from his notepad. Twat.

  Jamison leans into me, rolling her eyes in feminine solidarity. ‘As Sergeant Harris says, we’re just following protocol. We’ve checked with the hotel reception and it’s been confirmed that your husband checked in around 8pm and checked out around 6am the following day. There’s no need to worry.’

  My shoulders sag. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur. ‘I do know he said he checked in around 8pm – he called me just after. And he checked out early so he could be in a meeting.’

  Harris shoots Jamison an irritated look but says nothing. Jamison shrugs and sits back in her seat. ‘She should have the right to know she isn’t in any danger,’ she says bluntly, and I smile at her in gratitude. ‘Well, I think that’s about it then,’ Jamison says, lacing her hands together and cracking her knuckles. ‘Anything else you think of, however insignificant you think it is, let us know. It could help us find her.’ She hands me a business card. ‘My number’s on here. You can reach me directly, anytime.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, genuinely appreciative at having been taken seriously. I’m about to ask whether I can leave when I’m struck by a thunderbolt of recollection. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.

  ‘There is something!’ I exclaim. ‘Something Dee said that night. She mentioned that Erica, her neighbour, was minding Ruby that night. But that doesn’t make sense. Because didn’t Erica say she last saw Dee and Ruby that afternoon on the bridge? Erica was the neighbour who last saw them, isn’t that right?’

  My heart rate increases as I realise this means Erica could have been lying.

  Jamison frowns and Harris scratches his nose. When Jamison replies, she ignores my question. ‘Hmm. That’s interesting to know, Mrs Dawson. And you’re certain Mrs Waters identified Mrs Haddad as the person minding her daughter, and not someone else?’

  ‘Yes,’ I wrack my memory to see whether she might have said anything else, but I’m certain she’d said Erica was minding Ruby. We’d had a discussion about how fond Erica was of her, and I thought it strange she was minding Ruby so shortly after they’d had such a terrible row. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’

  The officers exchange a look and then Jamison turns to me and smiles. She flips her notepad shut and Harris straightens, joints popping as he rolls his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Dawson,’ Jamison says. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  She stands and I take my cue and stand, too.

  As they’re seeing me out, I turn to Jamison. ‘Do you have any clues … any idea what might have happened to Dee? And the baby?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘We’re following several leads,’ she replies, her expression solemn. ‘But at this stage, we’re not at liberty to divulge any further information.’

  ***

  Monday, 11:15am

  As I walk down Cockle Street towards the creek the following morning, I gaze up at Dee’s house. It’s easy to imagine her there, easy to imagine everything’s fine. The window must be open upstairs – the curtains are stirring in the breeze. I imagine she’ll appear at any minute, Ruby on her hip, humming some nursery rhyme. Is the husband – Rob – back yet? There are no cars in the driveway. What a terrible situation to have to come home to. An empty house and a missing wife and child.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement in the window of the Haddads’s kitchen but when I look up, the window is empty. And when my gaze returns to Dee’s house, the blue and white tape catches my eye and my stomach sinks. Dee isn’t just going to appear. She and Ruby are missing.

  Pelicans are flying low above the creek’s surface – eerily calm today – and the melancholy cry of the crows sounds in the distance. I’m nearing the entrance to the bush track that leads across the creek when I sense someone behind me.

  I turn to see Zac, an oyster trap hanging from his shoulder from a thick rope, a beanie pulled down to his eyebrows.

  ‘Didn’t scare you this time.’

  ‘Must be getting used to it.’

  ‘Need a lift?’

  I frown. ‘A lift?’

  He shrugs, his face remaining expressionless. ‘Tide’s too high to cross now. I thought I warned you about that.’

  I sigh. I hadn’t stopped to think about the tide this morning, which is quite stupid given the circumstances. I suppose I haven’t been thinking clearly.

  ‘Look, my boat’s the same make as yours. Why don’t I just show you how to use it and we can stop having this same conversation?’

  I eyeball him, berating myself for not remembering to ask Adam about the boat. I’m not even sure it’s in working order; it could be rusted through for all I know.

  Perhaps noting my hesitation, Zac grunts. ‘Last thing you want is to be trapped over there at high tide with no way out. Especially given what’s happened.’

  I feel a chill, as if someone walked over my grave.

  ‘Your husband still hasn’t shown you how to use the boat? He’s not too worried about you, then?’

  ‘Fine,’ I snap, irritated.

/>   Zac nods and turns away, but not before I catch his smirk. He trudges over the foreshore towards the water where a blue and yellow dinghy sits on the sand. The smell of fish stings my nostrils.

  Zac throws the oyster trap into the back, drags the boat to the water and climbs in. ‘Come on then.’

  Trying not to breathe through my nose, I clamber in, steadying myself with both hands on the side as I find my balance on the wooden seat. I can feel my English complexion turning pink after my walk and wish I’d brought a hat.

  The boat wobbles from side to side until I plant myself in the middle of the rear-most bench seat and before I have a chance to protest, Zac clambers in beside me. He smells of sweat and the sea but it’s somehow not entirely unpleasant. ‘Just flip this’—he shows me a switch on the motor—‘and pull this, hard.’ He guides my hand to a handle, which I yank back as hard as I can.

  The engine splutters to life so suddenly I yelp and Zac chuckles. I hadn’t realised these things even had motors. He shows me how to steer the boat and before long I’m getting the hang of it. ‘You learn quickly,’ he laughs.

  ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘All that protesting you did earlier. Like you had something to prove. But now look at you.’

  I don’t know what to make of that so I say nothing, concentrating on the pressure of the water against the rudder and the way the light plays along the water’s surface, changing when I change direction. In only a minute or so we’re on the other side and I don’t even have to ask how to stop; the boat lands on the sand and stops of its own accord.

  Zac shows me how to kill the engine and when I get to my feet I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. It’s going to be so much easier, now, providing Tim’s boat works as well as Zac’s.

  But Zac’s not smiling. He’s staring at something over my shoulder. ‘You heard about Dee Waters, then?’

  The smile drops from my face. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Don’t hold too much hope of them finding her.’

  I look at him sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Bit of a wild one, she was.’ He doesn’t say anything else. I feel a spark of annoyance – that seems to be all anyone can say about her. And I can’t help but notice his use of ‘was’. It gives me a shiver.

  ‘So they tell me,’ I mutter. ‘Did you know her well?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well enough.’

  Silence.

  I sigh. He’s a funny one: chatty one minute, silent the next.

  A duo of plovers flies overhead, their cackles filling the air.

  ‘She was struggling,’ he says after a beat.

  ‘Who? Dee?’

  Zac looks at me as if I’m simple. ‘That baby was always screaming. Kept me awake most nights; can’t imagine how she would have coped.’

  ‘But she had Rob to help, didn’t she?’ I probe.

  Again, he stares like I’m stupid. ‘Good old Rob.’ He says in a tone I can’t interpret.

  I let out a frustrated breath. I don’t know why I’m bothering. ‘Well. Thanks for the ride.’

  But it appears the conversation isn’t over. ‘Cops spoken to you yet? Haven’t seen ’em over this side.’

  I slant him a look. ‘I just came from the station over in Brave Cove.’

  ‘That right?’ Zac eyes me squarely. ‘You know something?’

  Those electric blue eyes unsettle me and I find myself looking away.

  ‘No.’ I lie. I consider saying more, explaining, but why should I? If he can be evasive, so can I. And I don’t know him enough to trust him. For all I know, he had something to do with Dee’s disappearance. ‘She probably just took off somewhere for a while.’ I try to inject some commitment into the statement. ‘You know what it’s like when you have a new baby.’

  Zac looks at me strangely and I inwardly cringe. Why did I say that? As far as I know, neither of us knows what it’s like to have a baby.

  A sudden image comes of a chubby toddler, clinging to her mother’s leg – and then it’s gone. I close my eyes as I stumble over the memory.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, avoiding Zac’s gaze as I push past him towards the house. I can feel his eyes on me as I approach the back door. The wind picks up, wailing past, like a ghost. My skin feels numb.

  When I reach the door and look over my shoulder, Zac has already gone. But when I lift my gaze, I see Samir staring out from the kitchen window.

  Chapter 22

  Erica

  June, 2017

  Sunday, 3pm

  I don’t need to work. I’m lucky that way, or at least that’s what my sister likes to tell me. Samir’s income is enough by miles for us both to live on. Which is good, because I’m used to my creature comforts; they’re the only remaining comforts I have. If I had to give those up, too, I don’t know what I’d do.

  I work because I need to keep busy. And the hospital is just that – busy, busy, busy. It’s perfect for me. Or at least it was, before the Incident. The incessant noise and the fluorescent glare grated on the nerves of my co-workers but not on mine. Those lights kept me awake, alert, their reassuring buzz an integral part of the symphony along with the hum of machines, the background chatter and the slap of shoe-soles on linoleum. The coffee was bad yet hot and there was never time to stop and dwell; it was all shuffle onwards, chatter with the other midwives, settle babies, answer calls.

  It was only part time – three days a week – so the perfect work-life balance, really. And because the hospital is down in Sydney I sometimes slept the night at my sister’s place after work. It wasn’t just the convenience; it was being surrounded by the precious squeals and smells of my twin nephews, Jamie and Jake – their soft yellow curls like duckling down, the smell of bubble-gum shampoo after their splashy, steamy bath, the nostalgic aroma of mac and cheese or fish fingers or spaghetti bolognaise filling the house. I quite enjoyed the novelty of sleeping in my old childhood bedroom, even though I was still partly annoyed Sylvia had inherited the house (apparently I didn’t need it, what with being married to Samir), and listening to the soft snores of my nephews in the next room, until one – or both – of them would wake and climb into bed with me. There was always something happening. Chaos kept the thoughts out. But now … all that’s gone. And all that remains are the thoughts.

  It was inevitable, I suppose. Jeannie and Gaz were having problems, for one thing. Nothing too serious, as far as I could tell. Their main issue was renovating on a budget so tight they’d blown it by day one. It didn’t help that they knew we had plenty of money and I didn’t offer to help – I make a point never to lend money to friends or family; it’s too troublesome – and then there was the fact that Jamie and Jake had reached the Terrible Twos and their preschool was cracking down on their ‘behavioural issues’.

  I suppose it also had a bit to do with the Incident – the toll it took on me and how I wasn’t handling it too well. And the fact that they had two toddlers and I’d been staying so often … I don’t blame them, really. They’re a young family, decent people trying to make ends meet. They don’t need me hanging around.

  So now I’m spending time away from my sister and time away from my job and it’s probably just as well because it was all getting too much and Samir was worrying about me being stressed and not having enough time to myself. Well, that’s certainly not an issue anymore.

  I wouldn’t say I’m lonely. A bit bored, maybe, but not lonely. They’ve said it won’t be long until I can go back to work and all I have to do is keep seeing Doctor Jones, sitting in that stuffy little office with the patchwork cushions and torn leather seats that smells like my grandfather’s old study, smiling and telling him all’s well, and I’m sure that in no time at all he’ll be signing me off for return to work.

  Then I can take a break from this house. From this street, this town. It’s claustrophobic sometimes, living here. It can be so quiet my thoughts are like sirens and knowing everybody has its downsides, although it’s nice having fami
liar people nearby in case anything goes wrong. Not that my closest neighbours would be much use, all tied up with their newborn as they are.

  I can see her now, pushing that unsteady-looking stroller down the street. She doesn’t take her out often enough, in my opinion – not that it’s any of my business. I do know she’s trying her best. I know it hasn’t come naturally to her, that much is obvious. But honestly, a new mother going around dressed like that is a bit much. Surely she’d be more comfortable – and would be able to walk further – in proper shoes, not those ridiculous raised flip flop things (I don’t know what they’re called; I’m more of a sensible dresser) in this weather, and in a dress so tight I can see what she had for breakfast. She doesn’t even look like she’s had a baby, she’s so skinny, though God knows she’s got breasts until Tuesday.

  I look down to find my hands pressed to my abdomen and I push down the sudden flash of anger. Yes, still, that part of me where You were attached aches. I swear there are scars in there I can feel, that bear your name. And yet, on the outside, everything has gone back to normal. Back to the way it was before, as if You never existed.

  I watch as a plump arm is flung out of the side of the pram and my fingers itch for little hands to grasp. And, just for a moment, I allow the pain to burn and spread.

  ***

  3:40pm

  I can feel him behind me, though I haven’t heard him enter the room. I stare out of the living-room window at the white-grey sky, tracking rain as it falls and fills the grooves and dips in the road. Dee’s red hood is no longer visible – she and Ruby have disappeared down the road, probably on their way to the café for those croissants she likes. She should really eat some food with more nutritional value, especially since she’s breastfeeding.

  Four wood ducks – two male, two female – waddle across the lawn, prodding busily at the wet grass with their bills, wading through the deepening puddles. The water slides right off their backs.

  ‘Miserable weather,’ is all he says.

  I silently disagree. I love this weather. It makes me feel like there’s nothing more I should be doing than staying indoors with a book which – frankly – is all I have on my to-do list at the moment.