It was about four hours of driving on the highway before Alison began to feel exhaustion overwhelm her. She’d hit the New South Wales border about an hour back, and now, as she rolled into Holbrook, she searched for a place to sleep. The land-bound submarine in the center of town was opposite the first motel she spied with a flashing vacancy sign. She turned into the car park and sat for a minute in the car, her head resting on the steering wheel while she gathered her thoughts.
He couldn’t know where she was. There was no way. He wouldn’t expect her to go back to where they’d known each other, back to where they’d been together. Surely, if he expected her to flee it would be to Melbourne, not Cairns.
She had the advantage. She had the advantage. She had the advantage.
Alison was startled from her thoughts by a sharp rap on the window; she pulled up from the steering wheel and peered out into the darkness. A middle-aged woman with ratty brown hair and a cigarette in her hand was staring at her through the window, other hand on her hip.
“Not a bedroom, love; if you want one of those it’ll be sixty dollars for the night.”
Alison opened the car door. “Sorry, I’ve been driving for hours, I was just having a quick rest before I came in to see you.”
“You want a room, then?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, come on, let’s get you set up.” The woman flicked the cigarette onto the ground and stepped on it as she lumbered into the office. The sprawling one-floor motel consisted of a row of redbrick rooms, a small fenced pool, and a dimly lit office off to the side of the driveway. Alison already knew the bed would be made with a cheap floral quilt and overstarched white sheets. She could see the brown glass sheeting of the shower cubicle and the dusky pink floor-to-ceiling accordion blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows without even needing to check in. But she needed sleep, and this was as good a place as any. In the office the woman fussed about with Alison’s ID and credit card for a good five minutes before handing over a key to room 14.
Alison threw her bag down on the bed and lay flat, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back up. She felt the dusty wallpaper with her fingertips before pulling her hands away from the wall and rolling onto her stomach. For a minute she closed her eyes and considered going straight to sleep. But her stomach grumbled loudly and she reluctantly pulled herself upright. At the very least she needed a drink after all that driving, and she sure as hell wasn’t willing to pay minibar prices.
She’d walked for less than a minute down the brightly lit but eerily deserted main street before she saw the Holbrook Hotel. Inside Alison clocked the dining room. It was out the back and empty. She sat down and looked at the menu and settled on the steak and chips. A man came to take her order and brought her a glass of water and a shot of whiskey, as requested. While she waited for the food to come out she googled Gil. On the surface he seemed easy to find. His Facebook profile was unrestricted, and Alison could read his updates. They were inane, stupid comments about footy. Or the weather in Cairns. Or the last big fish he’d snagged. They stopped about two weeks ago. Alison looked at his personal information. There was an email address listed, the same one he had when they were together. She’d forgotten he was so open, so willing to let anyone in. Always looking for the way to leverage it best—get the most out of every interaction, every person who crossed his path.
She drafted him an email. If he was responsible for Simone’s death, and he thought Alison had these tapes he wanted, then he might just be curious enough to say something useful. Alison thought maybe she could get information without giving away where she was.
Gil
I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at. You don’t get to ask me for anything. Maybe we should talk about the tapes. My number’s in the signature.
Alison
Reaching out to him made her skin crawl. But she closed her eyes, saw Simone’s face swimming in the dark before her, and sent the email anyway, then took a large swig of her whiskey and googled Chris Waters.
The last three articles he’d written popped up, all of them about the bushfire. She started to read, but every word, every quote from a friend or acquaintance about their lost loved ones, made the acid in her stomach rise. She was about to put her phone away when it buzzed.
Another message from Billy.
Sal says you’ve gone away. What the fuck are you doing?
Alison’s face flushed. She felt the bile flip and twist in the pit of her belly. She didn’t know how to tell him to back off. She didn’t know if she wanted to tell him to back off. She drained the rest of the whiskey.
I’m looking for Michael Gilbert Watson. Don’t worry about me Billy, I can handle this fine.
After she pressed send Alison spent longer than usual staring at the screen, waiting to see if he would send a response. She was interrupted when the waiter dumped her plate on the table. A small, fatty fillet, graying around the edges, sagged on a bed of soggy chips. This atrocity was cloaked in a green-brown pepper-flecked sauce and finished off with a side of wilted lettuce and thickly cut red onions. She called out and asked for hot English mustard. Anything to mask the overwhelming impression she was eating dinner either in a hospital or a nursing home.
Alison chewed on her overdone steak. The fibers turned from sinew to dust in her mouth. Another sip of whiskey would have washed it down well enough. She kept eating, hunched over her plate, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. But the whiskey had disappeared faster than the food. The bartender called out to her from across the room.
“Want another, love?”
Alison nodded, raising her hand in thanks and smiling weakly, her mouth full of food. He brought her a beer, not a whiskey, the head foamy, spilling over the top of the glass as he set it down. He smiled at her, seemed to be waiting for her to say something.
“Thanks, much appreciated.” Alison tipped the glass in his direction before taking a sip.
“No worries. You passing through to Sydney?”
“Sure, passing through.”
“Didn’t think I knew you. I’m Matthew, this is my mum’s pub.”
He looked at least forty, the skin on his arms leathery from sun, permanently stained with a web of tattoos. His face was set with pure greed. Alison took another bite of the steak, the meat mushy in her mouth. She chewed slowly, thinking of a way to untangle herself from the conversation as painlessly as possible.
“Pass my compliments on to her, then. Nice place.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response, took it as an invitation to sit.
“Not too busy. Don’t mind if I take my break here, do ya?” Alison took another bite, didn’t say anything. “Where’re you staying tonight, then? The Main Street Inn, I imagine?”
“Not sure I’m staying, got a long way to go, so I might push on after dinner.” Alison knew this lie would make it impossible for her to keep drinking.
“Shame, was going to give you your next one on the house, but can’t be encouraging drink driving, can I?”
“You’re too kind, but no, I am going to finish this one and be off.” Their eyes locked across the table, long enough for Alison to see something in his. But maybe she was imagining it. He had a wedding band on his ring finger, and a soft, beer-padded belly.
Alison’s phone rang. It was Billy. This time, she gladly answered.
“Hi.” She forced her voice to sound lighthearted.
“What are you doing, Ally? Jesus.”
“I’m in Holbrook. Making good time actually.”
“What?”
“Well, I’ve still got a fair way to go, but it’s a good start.”
The bartender sat across from her, listening, staring as she spoke.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you need to come home. This is stupid. They did a second autopsy, and pending the inquest finding, they’re pretty confident Simone died in the fire. Whatever you think you’re looking for, it doesn’t exist.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of days; you won’t even miss me.” She smiled at the bartender, trying to seem casual, keep her voice light. The woman at the motel had photocopied her license. She’d charged her card. If Billy needed to find her, he could. She thought about the open lot in front of the motel rooms. It was dark, with nowhere obvious to hide. The office would be closed now. The bartender was looking at her chest.
“Alison, you’re not thinking straight. You need to come home. I know this is hard. I know you’re probably in shock. I want to help you, but you won’t fucking let me.”
“Thanks, Billy, I gotta go.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats. “Please don’t do this, Al, it’s not going to fix you.”
Alison slipped her finger onto the phone screen, ending the call before she took it down from her ear.
She waited to be sure Billy wasn’t there anymore and then said, “Love you too.”
A shadow of annoyance passed over the bartender’s face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looked away.
“Boyfriend?” he asked as she placed the phone back down on the table.
“Yeah, he’s worried about me driving all this way alone.”
“You’re a big girl, what’s he scared of?” He leaned forward enough for the whiff of onions and cigarettes, and something else, something long dead and rotted in his gullet, on his breath, to hit Alison full on. She tried not to physically react, kept the smile in place.
“Oh, you know cops, paranoid something bad’s going to happen.”
He pulled back quickly, stood up from the table, pushing the chair back with enough speed and force that it rocked a little in his wake, and picked up Alison’s half-eaten meal.
“Finished?”
“Yeah, thanks.” She smiled at him again, keeping her reactions the same as before. It was his behavior that had changed. More formal, less eager to please.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, hope you have a safe drive.”
“Thanks, and please do tell your mum what a great place this is.”
Alison drained the rest of the beer from her glass, slapped two twenties on the table to cover the meal and the drinks, and walked out of the pub, not stopping to look back.
The street was empty, dark now. Alison hustled to her motel. The room was suffocating, so she turned on the fan. It rattled as the fins rotated, and to block out the sound of it, she turned on the TV. She lay on top of the sheets and closed her eyes, exhausted, and fell into a deep sleep. It was the first night of proper rest she’d had since the fire.