Riptides

by Kirsten Alexander

  Joanne passes the book back to me, sceptical it will offer anything pleasing. Petey runs back into the room and bellyflops onto the bed, causing another round of laughing, outrage and wriggling. Only Beau stays composed. He reaches across my lap and taps Petey on the leg and Petey becomes quiet. When Beau sits back, Joanne rests her head on his shoulder.

  I whisper into Beau’s ear, ‘Please teach me how to do that.’

  After a few pages, Joanne and Sarah drop onto the floor to play marbles. Petey wanders off to do who knows what. And I read Beau a poem called ‘At the Seaside’. He shows me the pictures he likes best: a parade of Arabian royalty and African animals, children building a ship from cushions and chairs, a boy making a sandcastle.

  ‘Can we go to the beach one day?’ he asks.

  I close the book and lay it on my lap. ‘You like the beach?’

  ‘Dad said my mum used to take me to the beach when we lived in Cairns. I don’t remember though.’

  ‘We’ll go then. I’ll arrange it.’

  I lift a soft curl off his forehead. He looks up at me and smiles.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Saturday 8 March 1975

  Charlie

  He isn’t happy. He doesn’t even show much surprise, offers a humph of displeasure at the first sight of me. Had I been in a sarcastic mood rather than just wrecked from tiredness, I’d have opened with: ‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’re all okay. No need for alarm. Just drove five and a half hours because you won’t take a bloody phone call.’ My body aches from so much sitting, my hands sore from gripping a steering wheel that shuddered and tugged on the bumpy, potholed road.

  My dry mouth makes an unwanted smacking noise when I say hi. Dad says nothing in reply. He glowers at me from behind the grey flywire mesh. I speak fast in case he’s about to slam the door. ‘Beau,’ I say. I’d thought about this opener. Not elegant, but it was the only word that mattered right now and I knew it would get his attention.

  ‘What about him?’ he says. And with that, we’re talking. I fight to ignore my body’s aches, hunger and thirst, and concentrate on whether I should say more on the doorstep or use my father’s interest to get inside. He scans my face, clearly deliberating on whether to send me away or show how interested he is (I’ve seen him smother this before: curiosity, eagerness), to speak or maintain the upper hand. Ryan is right – cynical, but right: people are locked in an eternal battle to be top dog. Every conversation, every silent interaction, we’re vying for dominance. Withholding affection then dangling a taste of it (Sal), having sex with your best friend’s man to punish a neglectful husband (Lou), the strategic trading of fact and anecdote to show you’re in the centre of the storm (Mark), being frenetically busy, loudly competent (Abby), letting your sister, your mate and your father deal with life’s responsibilities so that you can stay adolescent (me). Right now, my father is in control of whether or not I can step onto his turf, but I have information that we both know he wants.

  ‘It’s important,’ I say. ‘Let me in.’ I throw down the gauntlet, done with the games.

  But my father won’t back down to his son – he’s too proud for that. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he says. ‘Nothing stopping you.’ And he turns his back on me and walks to his living room. I let myself in, follow him like a child.

  Once we’re in the living room, both seated, no drinks on offer, after I’ve made a U-turn to his bathroom, taken way longer than necessary in there, my father thumps the button on his armchair that flicks up his footrest and stares at me – arms folded across his middle, legs outstretched, king of his domain. ‘Go on then,’ he says. Jesus. No wonder the world is constantly at war.

  I don’t have it in me to keep up our stand-off. So I tell him about Abby and Mark, Maria and Beau. Everything. To the mundane and rhythmic sounds of my turkey friend Lenny scratching up leaves outside the open window, a magpie warbling, and the washing machine chugging.

  Dad doesn’t respond the way I’d imagined he would. He doesn’t want to come to Brisbane to see Beau. ‘What for? It was my job to get him out of that hellhole but I’m not going to mother the boy. Abby will do that.’ He shrugs off Beau’s bumpy entry into suburban life.

  ‘Abby had to lie to the principal to get him into the local school,’ I tell him. ‘They asked where he’d come from and she said he’d been home-schooled. On his first day there Beau cracked it about the guinea pigs being in a cage. Then kept wandering away from his desk. Normal life freaks him out.’

  ‘He’ll adapt,’ Dad says. Even the issue of Finn’s potential return meets with a clipped reply: ‘I’m sure Mark and Abby will sort something out. Mark’s a clever fellow.’

  His stubborn insistence on treating our conversation like a news report, one in which he has no vested interest, is infuriating. He cares. At least, I think he does. But once I’ve answered his few questions, we fall silent. I know what’s coming next, though.

  ‘If you think driving up here to tell me this, or your sister taking Beau in, redeems you, you’d better think again. You’re lucky I let you in. You’re a murderer. Your sister’s a scheming liar.’

  I lean forward and speak as calmly as I can. ‘Dad, we are genuinely sorry, but insulting me –’

  ‘Insulting you? You bloody baby,’ he shouts. In an instant, his forced composure vanishes. His voice is shrill, wounded. His face is red.

  I want to get up and leave. But I force myself to stay and take his stream of vitriol. Because my visit to the farm has two goals: tell Dad about Beau; man up and fix what’s broken. So here goes.

  I still don’t know the chick version of man up. Maybe it’s just what they do all the time. But it doesn’t matter, since on this occasion we’re both men. Point is, I need to offer Dad space to let rip at me, to say everything he needs to, and then own that I caused his pain. Me, not Abby. Me, not Finn.

  And he does let rip. ‘Have you or your sister given a moment’s thought to what you’ve stolen from me? I’ve buried two women I loved. Your drunken childishness means the rest of my life will now be empty, lonely, meaningless. You took Skye, took our future, our child. And you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself because I called you a name? What did I do to end up with a son like you?’

  The act of hurling abuse at me, and of putting his pain into words, quickly exhausts him. I stay quiet and listen. When he’s run out of things to say he sits panting, as if he’s run a marathon. I know better than to try to lighten this moment. No jokes, no switching to more comfortable topics. I agree with him that everything he’s said is true, tell him again that I’m sorry, and wait for him to break the silence.

  ‘You can sleep here tonight, then I want you gone.’

  Late afternoon I realise that if I’m going to stay we’ll need food. I’ve looked in his fridge – eggs from his chickens, the heels of a loaf of white bread, milk, some wrinkly carrots. Not sure what he thought he was going to eat for dinner but this is not enough for two people. I have a carton of beer in the boot of Abby’s car – an ill-considered peace offering – but it truly didn’t occur to me to bring food.

  I find Dad in the laundry, angrily shoving another load into the washer as if he hates the machine and everything he’s putting in it. I tell him I’m going to Chinchilla to get dinner supplies.

  ‘What, cornflakes?’ he says. I’m going to have to take blow after blow until he softens. Which might be never. And my only adult choice is to do nothing, let it wash over me.

  ‘I’ll buy some chops, vegetables, some bread. Anything else you want while I’m there?’

  He turns around and huffs. ‘You’ll never find the supermarket. And I don’t want you on the road. You’re a menace.’ Ignoring the fact I drove to him from Brisbane. ‘I’ll drive.’ He waves a sock at me. ‘But you’re paying.’

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll cook, too,’ I say.

  He throws the sock in the machine and turns it on. ‘You don’t know how to cook.’ Then leaves the room.

  The Chinchilla super
market is small but our needs are basic. I push the wobbly trolley along the scuffed lino to the tune of ‘hurry up’ and ‘where are you going?’, with a brief break from the droning personal criticism while Dad vents his spleen on the kid stacking shelves: ‘Sold out of it every time I’m here.’ Dad decides on chops, green beans and mash for dinner and, since I’m paying, adds shampoo, laundry soap, insect spray . . . I don’t care. I take two tins of tomato soup, a box of Weet-Bix and a jar of honey from the wooden shelves and put them in the trolley, trying to think ahead for Dad, channelling Abby’s forward planning, and remain quietly proud of myself even when Dad notices and says, ‘Your money.’

  The fluorescent lights seem to glow brighter as the sky outside darkens. A storm is on its way. We were lucky to make it inside before the rain came. Through the plate-glass windows I watch a beer-bellied man in overalls make a surprisingly graceful dash across the road from the feed store to the chemist.

  As I force my trolley to turn into the next aisle, I hear Dad – who’s stomped off ahead of me – speaking.

  Roberts looks genuinely surprised to see me, but so did Finn in the RE beer garden. This encounter isn’t as suspicious as that one since I know Roberts lives in Chinchilla and the town has a population of about three, but still . . . Are the cops and their crooks following me? That sort of thing happens. They could’ve even bugged Dad’s farm, Abby’s house. I walk towards them with the trolley.

  ‘Or do you prefer to be called by your Christian name when you’re off-duty?’ Dad asks, his voice awkwardly formal. ‘I imagine as with other jobs that –’

  ‘Eric. I’m Eric when I’m off-duty.’

  We stand in a circle. There are no other customers. At the end of the aisle I can see the checkout chick in profile – sixteen at most – arms folded across her blue apron, skinny ponytail, watching the rain fall in sheets from the gutter onto the footpath. The bagger, another rangy, sloped-shouldered teenager, glances our way before he returns his gaze to the girl.

  ‘Eric, I’m glad we ran into you because it’s been several weeks since I had any updates from you or your sergeant,’ Dad says. ‘I hope you’re still giving your full attention to investigating Skye’s accident.’

  Roberts doesn’t strike me as the scoffing kind, but he scoffs. ‘I would if I could. Sergeant Doyle has declared this a closed case – car trouble. Which leaves me with nothing to investigate. He did tell you that, didn’t he?’ He frowns in confusion.

  Dad has no idea about the deal Doyle struck with Abby and me. But I did think Doyle would’ve told him the case was closed, come up with some lie about why. Whether it’s an oversight or deliberate, I can see on Dad’s face that this is a blow. There’s no longer any mystery he needs explained by the cops, but the fact they’ve stopped investigating must suggest to him the case is not important, that Skye’s death deserves no more man hours.

  It’s obvious that Dad asked Roberts about the case because it’s all they have to discuss, and he did it aggressively because he goes on the offensive to feel in control. It’s like Abby with her lists. But with this unexpected turn in the conversation the three of us are floundering. Dad’s winded, unable to figure out how to navigate this encounter without losing face. Off-duty Roberts has unwittingly broken news and must be wondering why. And I just want to get food and leave this place.

  ‘Your sergeant needs to communicate a little better,’ Dad says. ‘That’s something I should’ve been told. I –’

  ‘Okay,’ Roberts says, eyes shooting from Dad to me and back again. ‘What if we drop this charade? We’re all adults. John, you know, don’t you?’

  Dad straightens up. ‘I know you lot are acting like Keystone Cops. It’s been three months and –’

  ‘And we know what happened. We know your son and daughter were driving to your farm and ran a car off the road, killing the driver –’

  ‘Hey, whoa!’ I say.

  ‘That is an absolutely outrageous –’ Dad is loud, but neither of us can stop Roberts from forging ahead.

  ‘They crossed the bridge. Your son told the publican and three customers at the Chinchilla Pub that they crossed the bridge that night. They were driving away from your farm, not towards it. They had wet hair and clothes because they’d been in the rain, in the ditch with your fiancée. They lied about the times. They lied to you about everything. John, I know the who and when and I can guess at the how, but I can’t answer any of the whys.’

  ‘Come on, Dad, let’s go. You don’t need to listen to this.’

  Dad ignores me, keeps his focus on Roberts. ‘I don’t think you know a single thing, son, or you’d have charged someone by now. I think you’re hoping to provoke me or Charlie into saying what you want to hear. But that’s not going to happen.’

  Roberts glares at me. ‘Your father was engaged to her. How can you cause her death and then shop for . . . Weet-Bix . . . with him? How can you lie to him?’ Then returns his attention to my father. ‘John, you know what I’m saying is true, don’t you? That’s why you left your daughter’s house and came back to the farm, isn’t it?’

  ‘The farm is my home. I never intended to stay with my daughter forever.’

  ‘Why on earth aren’t you speaking up? You loved her. I’ve interviewed every person who ever saw you two together and they all say you were in love. She was carrying your child! Why are you letting them get away with it?’

  ‘They’re not getting away with anything,’ Dad says, and in a strange way that’s true.

  I walk to the checkout, Dad and Roberts following me, and pile one item after another in front of the checkout chick as fast as I can. Her badge says Tansy but I don’t think that’s a name. ‘Tansy,’ I say. ‘We’re in a real hurry. How quickly can you guys get this stuff in a bag?’

  ‘You didn’t know right away, did you?’ Roberts says to Dad. ‘I saw how you greeted them, how your daughter baulked at the word fiancée. You didn’t know then what they’d done, but you do now.’

  I turn my head around. ‘Man, this is harassment. You need to stop. You’re not even on duty.’

  He ignores me. ‘Don’t you want justice? Let me do my job.’

  ‘You can’t bring her back,’ Dad says. ‘And that’s the only thing that I want.’

  ‘Am I missing something?’ Roberts says. ‘Tell me, sir, please. Because for the life of me I can’t imagine why a man would take this. How much can a father forgive? Surely not this.’

  Outside the supermarket, the squall is gathering strength. Wind batters at the windows, slanted rain hits the panes. On the road, cars have slowed to a crawl, heads down against the waves of water. Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks across the sky. For an instant, the power fails in the supermarket and the lights go off, then flicker back to life. The checkout girl and bagger gawp at us shamelessly, ignoring everything else.

  I take out my wallet and ask Tansy how much I owe. She looks at me like I’m mental. ‘I haven’t rung anything up yet.’

  ‘Why?’ Roberts stands behind my father. ‘Why stay quiet?’ He’s staring at Dad with hunting-dog concentration.

  ‘How much?’ I say to the girl. ‘Roughly?’

  ‘You want me to make up a number?’

  ‘Yeah, do that. How much?’

  She picks up a tin of soup and slowly rings it up on the clunky register. She doesn’t want this conversation to leave the store.

  ‘Jesus, forget it.’ I grab the meat, green beans, throw down more than enough cash to pay for them. ‘Dad, we’re going.’ In an instant we’ve switched roles: I’ve taken charge, speedy with adrenaline. ‘Now.’

  I open the supermarket door to hot wet air, walk into the wind for a half-dozen steps or so, before realising that Dad is not behind me. Then I see him lurch out the door with Roberts still talking at him.

  ‘They’ve committed a crime. It’s not an option to ignore it.’

  Dad raises his forefinger. ‘You are an officer of the law. You know better than to make accusations without evide
nce, in or out of uniform. You should be ashamed of yourself.’ He stops. I can hardly hear his voice over the rain. ‘How do you not understand? They’re all I’ve got left.’

  ‘Oh no. Dad.’ I jog back to where he stands, grab his arm and pull him towards the car. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘That’s not how things work,’ Roberts says, following us. ‘People commit a crime and they go to jail. You can’t decide when laws apply to you.’

  Dad pushes my hand off him. ‘What good would come of locking up a young mother, leaving her husband to raise a family on his own? What good would come of jailing my son, destroying his life and mine?’

  ‘Dad, stop talking.’

  ‘Don’t you want justice for Skye?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve lost a fiancée and a baby. I want them back. And if you lock up a hundred people that’s never going to happen. The one you’ll hurt most if you send them to jail is me.’

  We stand under the cover of a sagging canvas, rain pooling above our heads.

  Roberts glares at me. ‘One day you’ll need me. Or someone like me. I’m the type of cop you want on the force. A cop who cares about the truth.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘You’re right about everything.’

  ‘Charlie, no,’ Dad says.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad.’ I hadn’t anticipated my manning-up would extend to a confession to the cops, but lately life is throwing all kinds of curve balls. ‘There’s no evidence and Doyle has shut the case. But if you need to hear it – and you seem to – you’re right. I was driving. I fell asleep. Abby tried to get Skye up to the car but she couldn’t. It was too late anyway . . . It’s on me, the whole thing. And I’ll be sorry till the day I die. You good now, man? We’re done?’