6

I’m not a very good swimmer, she said as she undressed in a dream, lacy white underwear glowing silver in the moonlight. She sat on the first jetty and dangled her feet in the water.

If you love me, you’ll come in, Matt said. He pulled at her legs and she told him to stop. He didn’t stop. She kicked him, too hard, split his lip. He touched a hand to his mouth and came away with blood.

He grabbed at her legs again; she slipped and splashed into his arms. Royal-blue eyes. She tasted blood in his kiss, leaned back and looked at the sky. There were two moons, side by side, spinning. She pulled at his shorts, wanted him, needed him. Ached for him. Ached as you can only ache in a dream — for the lost or the dead or for something that can never be. He pushed her hands away and told her they had to swim to the other side first.

He dived under. But didn’t come up. She rolled her body around in the water and couldn’t tell which was the island and which was the mainland. She felt something touch her leg. A log or something floating in the water. Where was he? Matt! She twisted to kick the floating thing away. Her head went under. She came up coughing and called him again.

She heard a splash. It sounded like he was swimming back. But it was too late — she was drowning.

I came back for you, he said. The floating thing was beside him. It wasn’t a log. It was a corpse: flesh like a plucked chicken’s, dusky-pink and cyanotic. Red light on glass. Lifebuoy is for saving lives. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. And she couldn’t make her body swim. Couldn’t move at all — as if her limbs were filled with cement, paralysed. Salty water rushed into her mouth, her nose, down her throat, burnt her lungs.

Somebody was crying, whimpering. She pushed up through the blackness, the bubbles, towards the sounds of sorrow, gulping the air at the surface.

She opened her eyes. Above her heartbeat, she could still hear the whimpering. She pushed down the doona and rolled over.

‘Aid.’ She touched his shoulder; it was damp, sweaty. He was curled in a foetal position, his body twitching through his own nightmare. ‘Aidan.’ She shook him gently. She thought — had hoped — his bad dreams were over; he hadn’t had one since they’d moved to the island six months ago. She folded her arms around him, patted his back the way she’d done to soothe the kids when they were babies. ‘Shh, it’s OK. Just a dream.’

As the tension started to leave his muscles, she held him tighter, lips to his salty eyelids, his mouth. More kisses, deeper, tongues together. She felt his erection against her thigh, took it in her hand, milked it gently.

‘I’m too tired, Brig.’

She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, held his hands, kissed them, sucked his fingers. A low moan resonated deep in her throat as she slid all the way down. She closed her eyes and saw the start of her dream, remembered the ache. No. She forced the thought under and opened her eyes. As they adjusted to the dark, she watched Aidan’s face — mouth open slightly — as she rocked her hips slowly.

The timber bedhead beat time against the wall as she moved faster, curled her toes, tensed her muscles. Almost. Almost. She felt him go soft and pull out.

She sighed and slumped forward, ear to his chest, heard his heartbeat.

‘Sorry,’ he said. It sounded as though his voice was coming from somewhere other than his throat, echoing in a cave.

She ran her fingers through his chest hair. Their skin was glued together with sweat, and made a suction sound as he rolled from underneath.

The first birds were starting up. Brigitte had thought it would be peaceful on the island, but sometimes the birds drove her crazy. They didn’t just twitter: they squawked and screeched and warbled and laughed. Cockatoos, magpies, kookaburras, and whatever those multicoloured birds were called.

Aidan whispered, ‘Brig, what’s your greatest fear?’

She thought for a moment. There were a few. Hospitals. Death. The alternative — growing old. All equally weighted fears. But it was the water, drowning. She couldn’t tell him that, because he’d want to know why. He thought she just didn’t like the slimy algae in the lakes down here.

‘Don’t really have one,’ she lied. She started to feel her hangover, thirsty, and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. ‘Do you?’ She took a long drink.

‘No.’

She didn’t believe him. He’d brought back dark things from the shooting at Laurie Hunt’s. He’d gone in all swagger and bravado, and come out with his life — just — and something else that never left him. She’d seen glimpses of it in his eyes, but it always slithered away before she could catch its tail.

‘The woman in the water,’ he whispered. ‘I …’

‘What?’ She replaced the glass.

He shook his head.

‘Tell me, Aid.’

‘Nothing. Sorry.’ He turned his back to her.

She reached out to touch him. It was ever so slight, but she felt it, saw it in the half-dark — a flinch. Her eyes prickled.

She rolled onto her back, traced a hand down her body, over the scars on her chest, her stomach. Some parts were numb: she could touch but not feel.

The smoke detector started to beep for a new battery — it took her a while to realise it wasn’t one of the birds. Aidan swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘Have to change the battery.’

Drifting, dreaming, falling, drowning, waking. Finally sleeping. Through the bubbles, she heard ‘Kiss You All Over’.

It was Cam on the phone, flustered: ‘Maree Carver didn’t turn up at the studio, and she’s not answering her mobile.’ It sounded like he was driving. ‘We have to film them for the next series of farmers’ market TVCs.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Her voice was croaky.

‘The cooking demos!’

She cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes.

‘You’re gunna have to do it.’

She glanced at the alarm clock: 6.45am. ‘No fucking way.’

‘Don’t worry. Maree must’ve got confused and thought I said to meet at the market. When she turns up, you can go home.’

‘No, Cam.’

‘Pick you up at the ferry shelter in Paynesville at 7.30.’

‘No …’

He’d already hung up.