In the bathroom, the tile felt cool on Alison’s cheek: the blanket over her head was damp, the camphor smell stuck in her nostrils, the wet fibers stuck to her arms and legs. She breathed deeply, trying not to panic as the roaring cracks and low whooshes of the fire seemed to close in around her; slowly, the tiles began to heat up until they were too hot to lie on comfortably and she wasn’t sure what to do.
She lifted the blanket and saw the room was ablaze around her, the flames licking the wood of the ceiling. All of a sudden, the window burst inward, showering the room in shards of sharpened glass, and the air rushed in, full of embers and smoke. Alison pulled the blanket around her tighter—she was naked, but she couldn’t remember getting undressed. The floor was so hot, it burned her skin where she touched it, and Alison contorted her body, cocooning herself the best she could to stay protected.
She pulled the rapidly drying blanket over her head and closed her eyes; it was too hot, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t feel her legs, she wondered why she wasn’t dead, she felt the tears on her cheeks and thought how strange it was she could still cry; everything was quiet.
Alone still, desperate sobs escaped her as she breathed deeply, feeling the air all the way into the depths of her lungs. The blanket was over her head and she ripped it off, sitting up straight and opening her eyes. The motel room was stinking hot.
It took Alison a couple of seconds to work out where she was. She lifted her hands in front of her face and examined them. No burns. Her legs were still there, in perfect working order. She didn’t find it hard to breathe. Her phone was vibrating and wailing, the alarm Alison had set now into its ninth minute of harassment. She rolled over and killed the noise, looked to see if she’d gotten any messages.
The usual from Billy.
Two from Chris Waters.
There was one from Gil too.
Nice to hear from you so soon, Ally. Do you think I’m fucking dumb? I know Simone and you were in it together. You know it’s in your best interests to do what I want.
She knew she should go home, show Billy the text, tell him everything, leave it up to the cops.
But the cops didn’t care about Gil. Billy had said as much last night. Said Simone’s death was accidental. Jim was right—radiant heat, probably. Not an ex with a grudge and with a fire as cover. If she went home, Alison knew she would be a sitting duck. No one would believe her about Gil, because everyone thought she was in shock, imagining things.
Alison picked up her phone and typed a response.
I don’t know what you think you know about me and Simone, but you’re wrong. Where are you?
She hesitated for a few seconds before she pressed send.
The message zinged off. She imagined it sitting in Gil’s inbox. Him opening it. Her skin itched. Alison rolled out of bed and turned on the shower. She let it run cold, the shock of the temperature raising bumps all over. As she lathered the shampoo in her hair, she closed her eyes. In the darkness, she could see the flames again, licking at her hands and feet, popping the glass in the window, boiling the water in the bath. Eyes wide-open, Alison leaned against the tile. The cold water from the showerhead cascaded over her. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she got out. Blue lips, chattering teeth, hair stuck to her like strands of cold spaghetti. Dressing quickly, Alison opened the door of the room to see about the breakfast tray. Cornflakes, orange juice, long-life milk, and a banana. She ate it quickly, not really tasting anything.
When she went to pay the bill and check out, the ratty-haired woman was back at the desk.
“Better not have had anything from the minibar without telling us. We can take it from your card, you know.” She stared, inscrutable.
“Nah, just breakfast. Thanks again, you have a lovely place here.” Alison smiled, wanted to keep it light.
The woman dragged the key across the countertop. “If you’re heading for Sydney, there’s a big crash on the highway, it’ll be a few hours at least before it’s clear—maybe the rest of the day, who knows. You take the road to Bega, hook up to the Pacific Highway, you’ll make better time today.”
Alison beamed at her. “Thank you, thanks so much.” She climbed into the car for another long leg, blasting the air-conditioning until the car felt like a refrigerator. It was a four-hour detour to get to the coast road, but the GPS confirmed the woman’s intel. A petrol truck had lost control in a storm, overturned on a hairpin bend, spilled its guts everywhere, and the Hume was closed indefinitely.
The coast road was narrower, bordered by tall eucalypts and shadow-casting pines. Cooler by a significant margin than the wide, flat, grass-bordered inland route. It was all pine needles and gray sand shoulders, with fewer cars, and far fewer trucks. But this road required a greater degree of concentration, as it wound its way along the headlands. Alison stopped for lunch in a little dot on the map with a service station, a bakery, and an antique shop heavy on the iron lacework. Sitting in the driver’s seat, windows down, sunglasses pushed back on her head, she ate in quick, mindless bites, pastry flaking off the too-dry sausage roll, dusting her top and shorts. Her hair frizzy in the heat, sweat collecting on the back of her neck, running down her chest.
Outside, she could hear the thrum of the ocean. Not distant, insistent. She got out of the car, scarfed the last of her sausage roll, and dusted herself off. Off to one side of the road there was a beach track, soft gray sand leading seemingly over a cliff. She locked up and headed for the path. It was hard to follow, overgrown. Ferns low down whipped her ankles, bottlebrush, acacia, cut-leaf daisy, eucalypt, all pushing in on the sides. She walked with purpose. Heavy, stomping footsteps creating vibrations designed to make the snakes scarce.
Down the tentative trail, curving in and out of the cut, the crowded foliage obscuring the sea, which Alison could smell now as well as hear. Wet salt caught in her throat, and pushing through a thick tangle of branches, Alison burst onto a wedge of earth where nothing but soft, wide grass grew. The beach unfolded in front of her, white sand, slight waves breaking on a sandbar a little way out, the water clear as glass, a school of flathead dancing, suspended in the crystal liquid. It was lush here, green, the air heavy with moisture and the scent of bottlebrush. Alison stood for a moment, frozen in place. She traced the edge of the water, the lines of the rocky outcrop that brought the cliff down sharply to the ocean, and surveyed the jewel scaffolding all around. Behind her, the softly beaten track wound upward, the branches overhead heavy with moisture, supple and full. There was nothing dry here, no tinderbox waiting to catch. She savored it.
The beach was deserted and in this isolation she felt safer than she had for days. The heat of the fire, the menace of Gil—they could not touch her now. Alison stripped down to her underwear and waded into the shallows. The water was warmer than she expected, and the quiet unnerved her. She looked back toward the shore, clocked the track she’d come in on, saw another a little farther up. If anyone came down, she’d know about it well before they made it to the beach. Farther out, on the horizon, ships made an orderly queue. In the water she submerged her body, held her breath, wallowed in the knee-deep surf. Head turned toward the sky, floating, buoyant legs and arms askew. Alison wanted to stay here forever. She didn’t want to keep going north or turn back south. She wanted to exist forever in this suspension of her life.
Maybe the solution to this problem was to get away, far away, and never go back. Leave it all behind and finally move to Paris, or somewhere else Gil couldn’t find her, or wouldn’t look for her. Would he always look for her? She didn’t know, but maybe finding these tapes would put an end to it all, somehow.
Alison didn’t know if she wanted to stay in Lake Bend. She didn’t want to ever feel again the way she had as she’d cowered from the fire. The pads of her fingers began to curdle before her eyes. She watched as, wrinkled, wizened, they softened like overripe fruit. It was time to get out. A stiff wind raised bumps on her arms, her legs. Caught the wet and cooled her. Teeth chattering, lips blue, Alison stood, took in the expanse once more, and then turned back to the sheltered shore, the stiff incline of hard-to-burn deep jade. The salt on her skin already drying in the relentless sun, she trudged toward her discarded clothes, dressed quickly, and found the path.
Without looking back, she began the ascent. She didn’t know how long she had been in the water, or how much time she’d lost. It annoyed her, how easily she was distracted. She needed to get back to the car. She wanted to see if Gil had sent any more messages, revealed anything useful. In her haste, Alison hadn’t bothered to put her shoes on before stomping back along the path. The trail bent sharply, turned at the base of a tree with a root system prominent enough to snag an impatient foot. She tried to catch herself as she fell, but she just ended up with more scratches and scrapes. Winded, her palms shredded, Alison sat up, tried to find a comfortable way to reorient herself. There was blood on her leg, her shoulder, the taste of metal in her mouth.
“Shit.” Her voice punctuated the silence, not needing any kind of reply. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
OK, now she felt better.
Alison got up, wiped her palms on her shorts, grimaced as the sting hit her. She kept on trudging up the path, moving inevitably toward the road, her car, the world. When she eventually peeked out onto the shoulder of the highway and saw the tiny stop-in town before her, Alison was less relieved and more reluctant than she’d expected. The unsettled swish in her stomach that had largely dissipated as she floated in the sea was back. She heard the voice of reason in her head, telling her to turn around, head home. She ignored it. The car was quiet, suffocating. She sat in the driver’s seat for a while, thinking about nothing in particular, focusing on the trees outside, trying not to fall asleep in the afternoon sun. It was time to go. She checked her phone, just to see.
Three messages from Billy.
2:13 pm
Al, please call me.
2:18 pm
We can track your phone you know.
2:23 pm
Detective Mitchell is pretty pissed you dated Simone’s ex and didn’t tell her.
So they knew, then.
A text from Gil came through.
You’re a lying bitch. Nothing’s changed. Don’t worry Ally, I’ll find you.
She put the phone down. Felt the pounding in her chest. Tried to calm it. He didn’t have any idea where she was. No one had any idea where she was, unless Billy made good on his threat to track her. Gil would only find her if she let him. She pulled out of the shoulder, the loose gravel spinning under her tire tread. With a shudder the car nudged back onto the road, and she was on her way. Alison cranked the radio, listening to golden oldies as she wound around the coast road, wishing suddenly that she had a better plan than to go to Cairns, try to find whatever it was Simone had hidden from Gil. She wondered had it been in the car with her? But surely if it had been, the police would have found it and Chris Waters would have known about it.
With every passing moment, she was beginning to regret her choice to make this trip, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn back. The road was twisted, but easy, and after a time, Alison made it onto the Sydney stretch, wide, forgiving.