Sheerwater

by Leah Swann

  Except for today. He and Ava had saved a life today. The boy’s father had left an outpouring of gratitude on Simon’s phone. He permitted himself to think about what his own wrecked life had preserved for some unknown unfolding. He recalled the boy’s deathly face on the grass, his chest rising with that lifesaving breath. What would his life become? What actions for good or ill would he take?

  Simon looked up, expecting to see stars but found a dull expanse like that in his mind, everything he’d been so proud to know crumbling inside his skull. He got to his feet and turned his thoughts back to the two missing boys, sifting with methodical precision through the events he’d witnessed, trying to see what had been overlooked.

  LAWRENCE

  His sons were missing. He could hardly believe it.

  Lawrence stood at the window of his mother’s house and watched the detectives get out of their car. A man and a woman. That was probably some typical cop strategy, covering all bases. The woman must be Ballard, the one who had rung him to ask if it was okay if she called by to talk to him about what had happened. She might suspect me, he thought, and everything will be against me because she doesn’t know what I’m up against with Ava. The only thing that mattered to his wife was complete control over their sons. She’d stop at nothing. Hadn’t she just demonstrated that? A neighbour he was friendly with had told him days ago she was moving out. They’d seen the furniture leaving, in various cars and vans. Vanessa told him she thought Ava might be visiting Sheerwater. He’d put it together. She was moving to a remote coastal town almost four hours away from him. Not even telling him she was planning on going, let alone leaving a forwarding address. And by fleeing like a fugitive, she made him look like a monster.

  He turned to the living room wall of his mother’s house to look at the photographs of Teddy and Max. Framed and peaceful and contained, here in these images the boys were blank slates. Ava could spin any mythology she liked around them. And he knew she would. The boys were vulnerable to her. She was manipulative and clever. He had to let the police know that, somehow, without seeming bitter.

  Lawrence snapped out a couple of red gel caplets from a foil tray and gulped them down with water. He paused by the mirror. He was short and well built. His eyes shone clear, a genetic blessing from the dead father from whom he’d received nothing but money, memory loss, and these eyes that people said were blue enough to write poems about. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He heard the knock. Everything around him seemed as abstract as a waking dream.

  He opened the front door and shook hands with the woman and then the man. The woman introduced herself as Detective Fiona Ballard from the Colac precinct. ‘And this is Detective Dan Hawkins, my partner,’ she said, pointing a thumb to her companion.

  ‘Any news?’ Lawrence asked as he led them into the living room. There was a dining table at one end and couches at the other.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘You’ll be the first to know, mate, the first to know. You and Ava. In these cases the hardest thing is the waiting. We do get that. We’ll keep you informed at all times. You can call me whenever you want.’

  Ballard had a short face with a large chin and big, wet-looking eyes. Her skin was unmade-up, pores visible. She told him what had been put in place to find his sons. From a briefcase she took a notepad and a pen and put these beside her phone on the table. Was she recording? Lawrence didn’t like to ask in case it made him seem nervous or as though he had something to hide.

  ‘I’m worried you have a preconceived idea about me,’ Lawrence said. ‘Because of the interim intervention order she’s taken out.’

  ‘All sorts get an IVO. If I was influenced by that, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly,’ said the detective. ‘This is not a formal interview – I just want to have a chat, make a few notes. Been home all afternoon, have you? Says in my paperwork that you were visited by a psych nurse but we haven’t had confirmation yet.’

  ‘A mental health nurse, yes. For depression. Not for delusions, or anything like that. I’m just wondering, Detective, what leads you have.’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘You’re working on a theory of what’s happened?’

  ‘Exactly. So, Lawrence, I have a waiver form for your medical records – would you be happy to sign it? That will give us the confirmation we need that you were here at the time the kids went missing.’

  ‘Of course, no problem, I’ll sign it now.’

  Detective Hawkins took a slip of paper from a manila folder he had under his arm and put it in front of Lawrence along with a pen, pointing out where he had to sign.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Ballard said, taking the form and handing it back to Hawkins. ‘You’re not in employment at the moment?’

  ‘Look – it’s a bit embarrassing for me to say this, but the truth is that I had some trouble at work and it was mutually agreed that I’d take some leave. That was after Ava had her breakdown and we’d started fighting, and then she blew me away with the intervention order. I haven’t seen my sons for almost three weeks. It’s been terrible. Just terrible. I miss them so much.’ Lawrence put his arms on the table. Under the rolled white cuffs of his shirt the tanned skin of his forearms felt naked and alert, the short gold hairs rising like feelers. ‘And now she takes them. I feel – panicked.’

  ‘What do you mean, she takes them? Do you mean that she was taking them to Sheerwater? Or that she’s faked their kidnapping?’

  The woman said this so flatly it barely seemed like she was asking questions. Was she being aggressive? Lawrence couldn’t yet read her. There was no relationship between them and he knew he must form one somehow. He wanted to understand what she was thinking. He must be helpful to her.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. All I know is that she left early. She didn’t tell my solicitor she was moving house. She didn’t leave an address. Don’t you find that – odd?’

  ‘How do you know what time she left?’

  ‘I don’t. But she must have left early to be at the accident before midday.’

  A loud mewing and a thump came from the laundry. Lawrence got to his feet. ‘So sorry about that. The kittens. I completely forgot.’

  ‘Kittens?’

  ‘My mother’s neighbour was taking the last two to the pound this morning, and of course I thought of Max and Teddy and how they’d love them . . .’

  He went through the kitchen to the laundry and brought back a cardboard box with two striped kittens inside. Placing it on the floor, he knelt beside it, reaching in to stroke one of the tiny stripy heads.

  ‘You mentioned Ava had a breakdown.’

  ‘That’s right. It was terrible for the boys to see that. She wouldn’t stop crying. Her mother had to take care of the children. She wouldn’t see a doctor, though. She was stubborn about that.’

  ‘How long did that go on for?’

  Lawrence looked up at the detective, his fingers still rubbing the kitten’s head to set the purr going. ‘I can’t quite remember. About a week.’

  ‘She was crying for a week?’

  ‘On and off. Her mother had the kids. You could talk to her – Vanessa. She’ll tell you. It was terrible for everyone.’

  ‘When did this happen? I’d like to establish a clear sequence of events.’

  ‘A few months ago. We’d had a big fight. She asked me to move out. When she seemed okay, I moved here – I couldn’t leave before then, of course, because I had to make sure the boys were okay.’

  ‘And you’re personally under the care of a psychiatrist? Dr Helen . . .’

  ‘Glover. Helen Glover.’

  ‘Why are you seeing Dr Glover?’

  ‘Depression, like I said. I’ve suffered from it for years.’ Lawrence got back up onto his seat. One of the kittens jumped out of the box and scratched at the expensive beige carpet and pulled up a few loops. ‘Hmm, my mother won’t like that,’ he said, tapping the kitten gently with his foot. ‘Guess I didn’t think about the carpet. I w
as only thinking of the boys. Their delight, you know? Children just love little animals, don’t they? I did. I wasn’t allowed a pet.’

  ‘Lots of photos on your walls,’ Hawkins remarked, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Yes. Photos make the past consumable. They’re like the corpses of yesterday. They make you nostalgic. But they don’t bring anything back.’ Lawrence looked across at the framed pictures of Max and Teddy. ‘So what can you tell me about my sons? Have you got – ideas? Are you sure the boys were even in the car?’

  ‘You think your wife is lying?’

  ‘Not lying. I’m confused about what happened. All I know is that she was taking them away. And I don’t know where they are, and no-one knows where they are, which is terrifying to think about. I’m trying not to think about it but it’s all I can think about.’

  ‘So this is how I’ve been briefed,’ said Ballard, and ran through the sequence of events that her officer had told her. ‘I’m very interested by your suggestion. Do you think she might have hidden them and then made up this story?’

  ‘Once I would have said no way. But then, the Ava I thought I knew would never have taken the boys and moved house without informing me, no matter what was going on between the two of us.’

  ‘No photos here of her, though. Your wife,’ said Hawkins, who was still looking at the row of frames on the wall.

  ‘No photos could do her justice,’ said Lawrence. ‘She’s the opposite of photogenic. I find her unphotographable. I think she was in one that my mother took down. As you can imagine, since the IVO she’s not exactly my mother’s favourite person.’

  ‘You mentioned work before,’ said Ballard. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I studied advanced maths and trained in the classics – I planned an academic career. And then it occurred to me that there’s zero connection between the classics and the acquisition of wealth, so I switched to commerce. These days I work for MacIver and Brooks. I’ll make partnership when I go back to work.’

  ‘Become a partner in the firm, you mean?’ Ballard wrote this down. Lawrence couldn’t help noticing that she was taking incredibly detailed notes. Already the page was full of tiny writing.

  ‘Mind if I use your bathroom?’ asked Hawkins.

  ‘Sure. If you go out to the hallway it’s the second door on the left.’

  ‘And how long have you been married?’ Ballard asked.

  ‘Five years. We got married about four years after our first son was born. Ava got pregnant only months after we met. She didn’t tell me until it was too late for an abortion. I admit – I wasn’t happy about that at first. I wasn’t ready. That’s how I felt. But of course all that is forgotten when the baby arrives. I loved him from the first. Max. He’s a dear boy. Very sweet. Very gentle.’ He coughed. Something was prickling deep in the well of his throat.

  ‘Must’ve been young when she got pregnant.’

  ‘She was twenty – nearly twenty-one. In her third year of an arts degree. She never graduated. We split up for a bit over the pregnancy – but what can I say, I was in love with her. She’s so unusual. The way she moves, how she is. She’s athletic, strong, and she also has this . . . intelligence. She loved everything I had to show her – I’d never been out with a girl so interested in music, in art and books, in ideas. Of course, I didn’t know then how affected she was by her past.’

  ‘Her past?’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you’d give me a cigarette, would you? I saw some in your briefcase.’

  Wordlessly, the detective took the pack out of her briefcase and offered it to Lawrence. The foil rustled as he withdrew a cigarette. The sun felt warm through the window. An iron candlestick cast a short and elaborate shadow on the table.

  ‘You’re not joining me?’ Lawrence asked.

  ‘You were saying something about your wife’s past?’ Ballard was closing the pack, tamping down the cardboard lid with her thumb.

  ‘Well, her mother, Vanessa, had Ava when she was young too. Vanessa was a single mother, always upgrading her boyfriends and moving house. No stability, all that. She finally married a millionaire called Derek about a decade ago. Vanessa doesn’t know who Ava’s father is – or if she does know, she’s not telling. So Ava’s conflicted and sort of, I don’t know, touchy about that. She never had the stability of a loving masculine presence.’

  Lawrence lit the cigarette with the matches beside the iron candlestick. He moved it from between the tips of his fingers to the V at the base of his forefinger and middle finger and experimented with taking a drag. It didn’t feel right.

  ‘My hands are shaking. I can’t stop thinking about my boys. This upset is not good for my condition. I have . . . fewer emotional resources than usual. You understand? I am an awkward man when it comes to emotions, Detective. I know that. Are the boys alright? Surely that’s all that matters?’

  ‘How did you meet Ava?’

  ‘At a New Year’s Eve party.’

  Lawrence had first seen Ava at Brighton Beach, where she moved through the waves like a creature in its element. He’d introduced himself to her at a New Year’s Eve party in Mount Dandenong that he’d gatecrashed knowing that she’d be there. He’d wandered around in his best shirt sipping from an open bottle of Carlton Cold to blend in with the crowd, until he found her outside by the rocky water fountain and fell as though from a great height for the woman and the white shift and the almost-black hair. She was something pure, something straight from the earth and somehow like music, as complex as a Bach fugue and as simple as three notes on a flute.

  ‘What was your first impression of Ava?’

  ‘She . . . inhabited me completely. I became, I admit, a bit obsessed. And she was devoted to me. I’d never experienced devotion from another human being, not even my mother. That word – devotion – was strictly theological until the sixteenth century; it was solely about devotion to God. It only gained a broader meaning later – but it’s not a common quality in people, in my experience. I discovered that Ava had this most unusual capacity. It was like . . . a well I could draw from. That unfamiliar quality of devotion was as deep and fresh as spring water. I knew I had to be with her. She was the one.’

  ‘So what went wrong? An affair?’

  ‘It’s complicated. She thought I was lying to her about things when I wasn’t. She has trust issues. I don’t blame her. She never had people she could trust when she was growing up.’

  ‘Says here the reason the IVO was issued was because you slammed her against the wall and she cut open her head.’

  ‘That’s what she said. It’s just crazy. I know how this must look to you, I see it. But I promise you, I have never touched her. Or the boys. Who doesn’t have a temper? I slam doors. Sometimes I break things. I take my frustration out on objects, never people.’

  ‘She made it up?’

  ‘Of course she did,’ he said. ‘Ava slapped me once. Not that anyone’s the slightest bit interested in that.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just after Max was born. The first time she accused me of lying.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t remember now. She was over-emotional. Weepy. Couldn’t cope.’

  ‘How do you feel now about Ava?’

  ‘I love her. And sometimes . . . and it’s dreadful to admit this, but to be honest with you, I sometimes hate her.’

  Ballard raised her large chin. ‘So you’re not in love with her anymore?’

  ‘Of course I’m in love with her. I’m a fellow almost damned in a fair wife.’

  ‘But she won’t be your wife for much longer, will she?’

  ‘Well – that’s not definite. It’s probably hopeless but I’m really hoping we can work things out. The occasional moment of hatred is a part of love, right? I love her because I love her and I can’t say where it begins or ends or what it means – we are one. There’s something cruel about love and how it disturbs your peace of mind, betrays your calm, don’t you thin
k, Detective Ballard? Love hurts us.’

  ‘So the songs say.’

  ‘But not in your experience?’

  The detective’s gaze shifted to the doorway through which Hawkins had passed several minutes earlier. She was making a judgement, Lawrence thought. People insisted on putting everything into categories of good and bad. It was obvious to Lawrence that nothing was inherently good or bad. Context made things so. Code made them so. And context and code varied from person to person.

  ‘Her stories are against me. It’s her word against mine, all the time. It’s enough to drive you crazy,’ he said. ‘And she – she has a ring of truth. Accused me of pushing her and that she “saw stars”. She’s the master of detail. Anyway, I’m not going to try to convince you. What matters right now are my sons.’ He swallowed, surprised by a pain deep in his thorax that seemed as hard as a crowbar, pointing down at his stomach.

  ‘Do you feel the same moments of hatred in your love for them?’

  ‘Of course not. No. Absolutely not. Love for your children is different. It’s not obsessive. It’s much less complicated, right? Wholesome. Brings out the best in us.’

  ‘Tell me about Max and Teddy.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s start with Max’s favourite colour.’

  A muscle flickered in Lawrence’s jaw and he smiled. ‘Max’s favourite colour is green. He prefers football to cricket. He likes playing Monopoly. He sulks. He’s a soft and over-sensitive boy, not tough, but smart in his own way, good at schoolwork. Ava spoils them, she doesn’t discipline them. He has blue eyes. He’s quite like his old man in the looks department. But gentler than me. Nicer.’

  ‘My notes say Max’s eyes are brown.’

  ‘They’ve darkened a bit, that’s true. You said on the phone the area’s being searched? How long will that take?’

  ‘They’ll calculate that based on how far the boys could have got on foot from the scene, if they crossed the road, or if they tried to climb down the cliff—’