Riptides

by Kirsten Alexander

  The kids are digging into an intense argument about who-cares-about-what, which suits me perfectly.

  ‘To protect his wife. I presume he’d like to keep her out of jail.’

  ‘And my dad won’t believe it was an accident, though it obviously was. You told us the body had been laid out and the door was closed.’

  ‘Don’t recall saying that.’

  ‘Roberts –’

  ‘Makes mistakes.’

  ‘Your men took photographs. The medical examiner.’

  He exhales loudly. ‘Are you telling me how to do my job, boy?’

  I call up flashes of the stories Mark told me about his investigations into the Whiskey Au Go Go, the two men rotting in jail, swallowing metal and clawing the walls, locked up for life with no evidence, the crooked cops and judge in collusion. Doyle holds the power here. The only value I have is in my relationship to a journalist who’s educated me about how scared I should be right now. ‘No, not at all. But seriously, how do you suggest I keep him away from Eumundi?’

  That’s a word I’ve said only a couple of times in my life, and my timing in saying it again could not have been worse. Mark has walked into the kitchen, kissed each of the kids on the top of the head, nodded to me, and is on his way to the fridge. After I mumble a ‘Good to talk to you, have to go now’ into the receiver and then hang up, Mark asks me – placing a longneck on the kitchen bench, not making eye contact – ‘Eumundi?’

  I stand still as a lizard as Mark pulls out a drawer, removes a bottle opener and looks up at me.

  I feel my face reddening but make an effort to keep my voice steady. ‘Yeah, the ginger factory. Friend asking whether it’s worth a visit.’

  ‘That’s in Buderim.’ He flicks the lid off the bottle, takes a tumbler from the dish rack.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You said Eumundi.’

  ‘Pretty sure I didn’t.’ He’ll put two and two together, but I’m not going to help speed up the process.

  Mark pours the beer and drinks a slow mouthful, letting the silence hang. ‘My mistake.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday 25 December 1974

  Charlie

  ‘Pop. Pop. Pop.’ I lie on my side, watching as Sarah taps on Dad’s forehead with admirable persistence. ‘Wake up, Pop. Santa’s been. Pop.’

  He wipes the crust from his eyes and reaches for his watch.

  ‘Are you getting up?’ Sarah asks him. Standing next to my father’s bed, bouncing on the spot, saucer-eyed with anticipation, a fairy in front of an ogre.

  ‘It’s five in the morning, miss. But I suppose that’s as good a time as any.’

  Dad heaves himself up into a sitting position. ‘Mum and Dad awake?’

  She shakes her head. ‘They’ll make me stay in bed. Come to the tree, Pop.’ She makes a show of pulling him upright.

  Once he’s standing, Dad gives me a whack on the foot. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Dad holds Sarah’s hand as she tugs him down the dark hallway to the living room. I follow. She stops when she sees the tree, now circled by a dizzying number of brightly wrapped presents. Abby has left the lights on overnight so the tree flashes gaudy colours, and the tinsel and metal decorations glow and dim with each throb of light. Sarah runs to the tree and kneels, overwhelmed by the number of gifts, the excess of it all, as the twins run down the hallway, screeching in excitement.

  I feel a light touch on my arm. ‘Merry Christmas,’ Abby says.

  ‘If you guys haven’t got a unicorn chewing grass outside, I’m leaving.’

  She smiles back at me. Mark stands next to her, his arm draped across her shoulders. ‘I’m sure Santa came up with an alternative.’

  ‘What’s an alternative to a unicorn?’ I ask.

  ‘You want to do the honours, Sarah?’ Mark says, and she leaps into action, picking up one parcel after another, reading the name on the tag and handing it to the right person. She quickly becomes annoyed at Joanne’s slowness in unwrapping, and Petey’s insistence on grabbing his own gifts, and gives up the job, turning her attention to tearing into a gift labelled for her. Abby takes over.

  I’ve brought gifts from Bali: a sarong and wooden salad servers for Abby, wood carvings for Mark and Dad, miniature gamelans and twangy instruments made out of coconuts and metal spikes for the kids. Abby shakes her head at the sight of the musical toys, but Petey seems happy. Kids love noise.

  It’s a spectacular morning, the sky a bright blue, air warm but not hot. After we’ve admired one another’s gifts of books, bubble bath, jewellery, aftershave, tools and appliances, after Petey has shown me his G.I. Joe and Joanne has held her Viewmaster to Dad’s face so he can enjoy it, too, Abby makes us breakfast: scrambled eggs on toast, coffee and Tang for the adults; Froot Loops for the kids. While she’s cooking, Mark balls up the torn wrapping paper and puts it in a box to take outside. I sit with the kids and check out their presents with them. Sarah clutches her toy unicorn, which is the size of a large cat, with enormous plastic eyes, a horn decorated in pastel-coloured glitter and a pink ribbon collar studded with diamantes. I thought she’d be disappointed when I watched her unwrap what clearly was not the living unicorn she’d asked for, but she adjusted in a heartbeat, and now declares her love for the toy in her arms. Dad stands watching, hands in pockets, unsure what to do with himself since there’s no newspaper on Christmas Day.

  By the time we’ve finished eating, it’s 7.15 am. I stand outside, mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, and try to imagine what Beau might be doing now. I’m not sure if he’ll know it’s Christmas, if that’s even something they acknowledge on the commune. Maybe Maria has made him a gift?

  I wish I could tell him that the first Christmas without your mother is the hardest, and it’ll get easier – not better – that the pain will dull each year until it feels sad but normal she’s not there. I wish I could do the things for him that I’d wanted someone to do for me. I’d fill his day with activity and distraction, keep him moving, make him laugh. The worst thing is to be alone, sitting in the quietness with no escape from the ache of loss in your gut.

  At four in the afternoon, when by rights we should be sleeping off lunch, Abby wedges the front door open to a pulsating flow of people who, one gush at a time, fill the house. Abby introduces them as ‘from the street’, ‘from Sarah’s school’, ‘from Mark’s work’. There are women who ask after the twins before anyone else, women who carry gifts of potted poinsettias, bowls of trifle, plastic trays of sandwiches, and know where they need to go, and men who seem befuddled about why they’ve brought their family to this house for more Christmas carry-on. Before even an hour has passed, the house resembles a zoo at feeding time. The air is filled with talk and laughter, with kids running and spilling.

  I want to go back to bed, but Abby tells Dad and me to talk to the guests. I stand next to Dad as a man with a thick black moustache and puffy hair says he’s sorry to hear about his loss. He asks Dad how he’s coping. Dad still has no coherent answer to this question. The man drifts away, then one woman after another comes over to offer Dad more chicken, more coleslaw, more watermelon. He wants none of it. He’s hardly eaten in weeks. The rest of us ate our own body weight at lunchtime, and in this hot, crowded room the food smells swill in the air, mixing with sweat and cigarette smoke. Dad is jollied and talked at. I’m finding even a sideline dose of this exhausting, but I’m better than Dad at coming up with shut-it-down answers: ‘Yep, Bali’, ‘Soon as I can’, ‘No one special right now’, ‘Well, hey, it’s summer, it gets steamy, right?’ I don’t know how he’s coping with the ramped-up version. I head outside for a break, watching people socialise while I smoke.

  As I squash my cigarette stub under my thong, Mark calls out to me through the back door. ‘Charlie, phone.’

  I have no idea how he heard it ring but I go into the crowded kitchen, cover one ear with my hand and press the phone against the other.

  It’s Constable Roberts. ‘
Sorry to disturb you, Mr Scott. But I need to ask you about a few things your daughter said when we spoke yesterday.’

  ‘You’ve got Charlie, Scott Junior. My brother-in-law must’ve misunderstood. And, uh, I know you take your job seriously. Respect for that. But it’s Christmas Day. Can this wait until tomorrow?’ Why would Roberts be calling when Doyle has already laid down the law? They don’t seem to be sharing notes.

  The kitchen is not as packed as the living room but still, these people are making a hell of a noise, flicking their ring pulls at invented targets, pouring dregs of warm wine down the sink, laughing and back-slapping, crunching on chips and peanuts. A line of kids, led by Sarah, elbows their way through the room to run into the backyard. I concentrate to hear what Roberts is saying.

  ‘Skye’s body,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine anyone without some degree of compassion taking her out of the car, folding her arms –’

  ‘I reckon we’ve covered this.’

  ‘If someone ran her off the road then tried to make her comfortable but left her there, maybe that person wasn’t able to get her to their car – because it would take two people – or else there were two people who disagreed about what to do. Do you see where I’m going?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, no.’

  We’re both less guarded, bolder, with Christmas drinks under our belts.

  ‘I think she was alone,’ he says, ‘and that there were at least two people in another car that forced her off the road, probably forced her off unintentionally. And I think one of those people was a woman, to lay her like that. And the driver might’ve been a man who didn’t want to get involved with local trouble since he wasn’t planning on staying. Does that strike you as a possible scenario?’

  I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette but the pack is empty. ‘As possible as any other I suppose, but wouldn’t you want some evidence to back up a wild idea like that?’

  I watch as Petey pours a can of lemonade into a hole he’s dug in the lawn then stirs it with a stick. He has two mates with him, who are adding fistfuls of grass and dirt.

  ‘Are you with your family today?’

  ‘I’m at my mother’s house,’ Roberts replies.

  ‘You’re from a big family?’

  ‘Eight kids.’

  Catholic. ‘Well, I don’t want to keep you from them. And your girlfriend I suppose? She won’t be too happy about you working today.’

  ‘Hardly any cars drive along that road, and since you and your sister were travelling, and stayed in Chinchilla . . . I’m still unclear about why you did that. When you were so close to your father’s farm.’

  ‘You’ve met Abby. Once she’s got an idea in her head, that’s what she does. It was a night in a hotel, no biggie. We’d been fighting, not thinking straight. She told you that.’

  ‘What were you fighting about?’

  ‘Nothing much. You have sisters, yeah, in that eight? You must fight with them sometimes.’

  He pauses. ‘I do need to speak with your father.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a lot of people here right now. I don’t see him anywhere. Might have ducked out for some air.’

  ‘I’ll give you the number I can be reached on today.’

  ‘Sure.’ He tells me a phone number. I offer a few uh-huhs, pretend I’m writing it down.

  ‘I’m not giving up on this,’ he says. His tone has changed, suddenly sober and professional. ‘I know I’m right.’

  I hang up, push through the kitchen crowd to get to the bathroom to think, tamping down my urge to find Abby and recite the conversation to her. Last I saw her she was actually having fun, drink in hand, laughing with a group of her friends. I close the bathroom door and sit on the edge of the bath, staring at the cross-pattern of wire reinforcing the mustard-coloured glass shower screen. The shower door is askew. It would take a minute to fix, but getting Mark’s toolbox from the shed would entail navigating a maze of small talk.

  I’m terrified at how close Roberts is getting, and nervous he’ll find out his boss has offered us a highly suspect deal. I wonder how many cops know about the commune, how many cops aren’t corrupt.

  There’s a knock on the bathroom door, then a woman’s voice. ‘Hello in there? I’m busting.’

  I rise unsteadily, flush the toilet and turn on the tap. ‘One minute.’

  I open the bathroom door to Lou. She’s wearing a long red-and-white-striped dress and reeks of sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. She’s holding a champagne flute on an angle so precarious the liquid touches the lip of the plastic on one side.

  ‘Charlie!’ Her smile is large and generous, lopsided. ‘How have I not seen you today?’ She gives me a hug, spilling champagne on the back of my shirt. ‘Are you having a good Christmas, babe? Better now you’re in Brisbane, after all that car crash, fiancée stuff.’

  Before I can reply, she puts her hand, sticky and warm, on my arm. ‘Sorry, not “stuff”. Tragic, obviously.’ She holds up her glass. ‘Idiot juice. I’ve had a few.’

  I smile at her. She’s got a louche, unbuttoned sexiness about her, wet lips. ‘Not a problem,’ I say.

  She looks at me with great concentration. ‘Are you okay? Coming home to drama must be the last thing you wanted.’ She gestures at the crowded living room with her glass, sloshing champagne onto shag carpet. ‘I mean – y’know.’

  There’s so much of this woman, so much hair and breast and hip, so much energy and volume. And she’s crazy drunk.

  ‘You were wanting –’ I tilt my head towards the bathroom door.

  She blinks vaguely for a beat, then speaks in a rush. ‘Yes. Desperate.’ She lets go of my arm.

  I stand aside but rather than going into the bathroom she slouches against the doorframe and continues talking.

  ‘Knows how to throw a party, doesn’t she? It’s all going to plan. Tick, tick, tick.’ She gulps down another mouthful of champagne. She looks over her shoulder into the living room, where a group of revellers is dancing near the stereo. ‘See that? She made that happen. Doesn’t happen by itself, you know.’ Her smile is gone. ‘Has it all, doesn’t she? Twist in the road won’t kill her.’

  Her gaze is set on Abby, who is shouldering her way through the crowd holding aloft a round white tray. I’m suddenly terrified that Abby might have confided in her boozy friend, and that by road she means our road, the road. But she doesn’t elaborate, just gives me her glass. ‘I shouldn’t be allowed to drink.’

  ‘People’s lives are never as simple as you think,’ I say. ‘Everybody has troubles, even Abby.’

  She laughs. ‘You’re a funny one.’

  When Lou goes to the bathroom I return to the gathering for lack of anything else to do, dumping her glass on the first empty surface. I’m about to make my way over to Abby, who’s standing near the veranda door, topping up people’s drinks, when Mark holds his arm up to get my attention, then comes towards me, slapping backs and clinking cans on the way.

  ‘Get you a drink, Charlie?’ he asks. ‘Beer, Bundy?’

  ‘I’m taking a breather. Party’s going well.’

  He takes a slug of his beer, crushes the can and locks eyes with me. I see the face of the journalist, the interrogator, considering the best approach. ‘Abby tells me you and John went to help his mate Rick out on Monday. How’d that go?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Moved some things.’

  ‘Did you? I could’ve helped if it’d been on a weekend. Kind of strange he asked you to help on a weekday. You know he still works – teaches at TAFE. I guess he took the day off.’

  ‘Pretty sure everyone but you ended their work year weeks ago.’

  ‘Got it done then?’

  ‘Yep.’

  His eyes haven’t left my face, not when he’s been jostled, not when a drink is spilled on his hand. I feel sweaty and try to think of a way to disengage. I’ve told him I don’t want a drink, and he knows I’ve come from the bathroom . . .

  ‘Charlie, I don’t think you went to Rick’s house. I think
you went to Eumundi. And you’re only now realising how out of your depth you are.’ I look for someone to make eye contact with. ‘I’ve been searching for that place for months. So the fact Skye’s boy is there is more than a little interesting to me.’

  ‘Bit of a leap.’

  ‘I know more about that commune than you can imagine. I know what goes on there and who’s running it. And I’m not on board with you taking one of their kids and bringing him into my home.’ No more pussyfooting around.

  ‘Mark, I get it. But Dad’s decided.’

  ‘To take another man’s son?’

  ‘The kid’s in a dangerous situation.’

  ‘Do you have any proof he’s in trouble?’

  ‘I met his father. And the place is – like you said, it’s no apple farm.’

  He leans closer. ‘Describe it.’

  Given that Doyle wants Mark to become less interested in the commune, this is dangerous turf. I want Mark to believe Beau shouldn’t be there but I don’t want to whet his appetite about the place or give him any information he doesn’t already have.

  Mark looks around to see if anyone is listening in on our conversation. But the people near us are gleefully unaware. ‘How far out of Eumundi is it?’

  Children run past us and between us. Abby’s dancing with a man who’s wearing a metal bowl on his head and mouthing lyrics into a wooden-spoon microphone.

  ‘Mate.’

  I make a move to walk away but Mark puts his arm across my shoulders.

  ‘Jim. How you doing? Meet my brother-in-law, Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie, mate, merry bloody Christmas. You’re related to this bloke? You lucky bastard.’

  When Jim is distracted by a woman carrying a platter of cheese and pineapple chunks on toothpicks, Mark speaks directly into my ear. ‘I’m going to need you to take me there, soon as we can.’ He pats me jovially then walks away.

  Someone has turned up the music. The half-dozen people nearest the stereo holler the words to ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ and jump about. Lou is in the centre of the group, arms above her head, eyes closed, singing. A man wearing gold chains, shirt unbuttoned to show his hairy chest, stands behind her with one hand on her waist. They chop at the air in clumsy rhythm: ‘Ha!’