18

The streets looked as though they were lined with silver, but it was just the rain. Drops sprinkled the taxi’s windscreen — little starbursts in the tail-lights of the car in front. The driver pulled up outside a Victorian cottage with a blue corrugated-iron roof and a picket fence. Always in a taxi to his door: wasn’t there a song about that? Paul Kelly? The porch light was on. Brigitte paid the driver, and pulled the hood of her cream trench coat over her hair as she stepped out.

The gate squeaked as she pushed it. She paused and looked back at the taxi. It wasn’t too late to leave; the driver was looking at his phone with the interior light on. She latched the gate behind her, hesitated again, and then continued up the path to the front door.

She remembered the last time she’d seen him (before the bookshop): five years ago, he’d visited her in hospital, after her breakdown. She’d had nothing more to say to him then. So why was she here now? Just to see — again? Because of the cooking sherry?

A heavy drop of rain fell from the awning and onto her nose, probably streaking her make-up. She rang the doorbell, pulled off her hood, and brushed rain from her coat. The taxi drove off, tyres sloshing on the wet road. Brigitte stepped from foot to foot, the high heels of Kerry’s boots clicking on the porch. They were a size too big and her feet slipped inside. She shoved her hands into her pockets. Her right fingers found a shell, and a lolly that Ella hadn’t liked and had spat into a tissue the last time they’d gone to the cinema. In her left pocket, she traced her thumb over the wedding band on her finger. The alcohol was starting to wear off. She should have stayed at Kerry’s house, in her pyjamas. And she shouldn’t have shaved her legs.

Maybe the doorbell wasn’t working. Good. She was turning away when she heard footsteps inside. A light came on, illuminating the stained glass above the door. A lock unlocked. The door opened. He smiled, golden down-light framing him in the entrance. He was wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and faded jeans. Warmth, and the familiar, comforting smells of fabric softener and cooking emanated from the house.

She could also smell that he’d been drinking, too, as he hugged her politely, stepped her inside, and closed the door. The feeling of almost drowning. She eased him away, politely, and looked down at his socks — she couldn’t tell if they were black or navy in the dim light.

‘Are you hungry?’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘There’s soup on the stove if you’d like some.’

Some people are feeders and some are fed. He’d always been a feeder, a nurturer.

He led the way down a narrow hall — polished floorboards, John Brack prints, a gilded mirror, ornate cornices, two rooms off to the right.

In the lounge room, there was a red leather couch, a tapestry-covered armchair, and a chocolate-coloured shag rug. Brigitte fiddled with her handbag strap. Matt turned down the volume on his retro record player — the same music she’d been listening to at Kerry’s. She placed her bag on the couch, and fumbled with her coat buttons.

He took her coat and hung it in the hallway.

‘Drink?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘What are you having?’

‘Something strong.’ He picked up the empty tumbler glass from the coffee table, and walked off through the archway.

She stepped into the adjoining study that would have once been a dining room. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were chock-full of books; a ginger cat slept across the computer keyboard on the roll-top desk.

Brigitte looked at the framed photographs on display. They appeared to be all of one child. Ethan? A blue-eyed baby in a yellow grow-suit swaddled in the arms of a woman whose face was out of shot; a very blond toddler with a severe fringe playing at a park; a pre-schooler in a pavilion at the Royal Melbourne Show, ice-cream on his face; a school boy wearing a Northcote Primary hat. The most recent photo had been taken in Matt’s lounge room — the boy sitting on the red couch, holding the ginger cat. The boy looked about the twins’ age.

The cat twitched its ears. Brigitte stroked it — ‘George’ on his collar tag. George’s fur rippled. She hoped Aidan hadn’t overfed Zippy. She bet he’d taken the kids to the pub for dinner, and let them drink lemonade. What the fuck was she doing here?

Matt came back with two serious glasses of whisky. He handed one to Brigitte, apologising for having run out of ice, and tilted his head at the lounge room.

He sat in the armchair and she perched on the couch, at the very edge.

‘How are you feeling?’ A concerned smile.

She shrugged, not trusting her voice.

‘Very sad to lose a loved one.’ He swished the drink around in his glass.

‘My brother’s in hospital, too. Attempted suicide.’

‘Oh, Brig.’ He stood and moved towards her, but she held up a hand and he sat back on the chair.

She downed half her drink, and indicated with her chin the photos in the study. ‘How old’s your son?’

‘Just turned ten.’

‘Live with his mother?’

He nodded. ‘Can’t believe you had three.’

‘Me neither.’ She drank some more and relaxed a little into the couch.

She told him about the twins and Ella and life on the island, tracing her fingertips over the stitching on the armrest. ‘And I have a perfect job as a script writer for a local TV station.’

He looked impressed. ‘Do you still write fiction?’

She shook her head.

‘A shame. You were very good.’

No, she wasn’t. Part of the stitching had come loose; she smoothed down the threads. ‘I miss the city.’

‘Does Aidan know that?’

Nobody knew.

Matt sipped his drink, and nodded and listened to all the things she missed about the city: the sounds, the shops, the anonymity, decent coffee, cats. He stretched out, knees apart, drink hand on the armrest, his other arm draped along the chair’s back. He’d always been a good listener. Feeder and listener.

‘The island doesn’t feel like home.’

‘Must be strange down there at the moment.’

She frowned and tilted her head. The room tilted with her and then started to spin.

‘Poor Maree Carver. I feel so sorry for her family.’ He shook his head. ‘Just awful. Her throat slashed …’

For a moment, the room stopped spinning. They never release all the details, in order to trip up the suspect. She went cold, gripped her glass tighter, and glanced down the hallway, saw her coat hanging on a hook. The sound of a truck gearing down on Victoria Street rumbled through the house.

‘I can’t believe they went through all the gory details on the news.’

The news! Of course!

‘The media coverage has been salacious.’ He shook his head. ‘Her poor kids.’

She nodded and gulped the last of her drink, almost laughing out loud at her stupidity.

They sat without speaking for a while, awkward, listening to Nick Cave singing about prostitutes and mermaids.

When Matt left the room, she played Russian roulette with herself: if there was a text from Aidan on her phone, she’d leave straight away. She fished her phone from her bag — spun the cylinder. No new messages.

Matt came back with the bottle of whisky, but she covered her glass when he offered her another.

‘Just one more,’ he said. ‘A nightcap.’

She sighed, like she had no choice, and slid her hand away so he could pour.

‘Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Not after you stood me up at the coffee shop,’ he said as he sat down, placing the bottle on the coffee table, one of the sharp corners still covered with a plastic child-safety guard. ‘Remember that night on the island we went swimming?’

She looked up at the framed Nick Cave poster on the wall, as if trying to remember. As if she didn’t still have nightmares about it. ‘When I almost drowned? And you left me?’

‘You didn’t almost drown.’ He laughed it off. ‘And I never left you.’

She stared into her glass. ‘How come you didn’t look for me after the car accident?’ Why had she asked that? They’d been through this before. She was slurring her words.

Matt leaned forward in his chair. ‘I did look for you. For a long time, even after Detective …’ He searched the corner of the room for Sam’s name. ‘Your first husband warned me not to.’

He was lying.

‘You really want to know the truth?’

She knew the truth, but nodded anyway.

‘I figured you just didn’t want to be found.’

She didn’t stop him this time when he moved across to the couch and sat next to her. He didn’t smell of cinnamon and bergamot anymore. The heavy, herbal-musk scent coming off his skin must have been synthetic — she sneezed.

‘That you were too young,’ he said. ‘And didn’t really love me.’

He’d given up on her, she knew that. She’d been too much of a mess. It was a long time ago. It didn’t matter anymore. She wanted to go home. She went to place her glass on the coffee table, but missed, and it fell to the rug.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ His voice seemed to be coming from far away.

She stared at the glass, unable to focus clearly. Shouldn’t have drunk the whisky so quickly. Or the cooking sherry, or the wine. She felt his hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair.

‘First I heard of you again was when the other detective, your Aidan, turned up all those years later.’

She brushed his hand away. ‘There was a baby.’ Shut up, Brigitte. Shut up now! She turned and looked into his eyes; his face blurred into two. ‘I lost it in the car accident.’

‘I know.’

How could he know that?

‘Aidan told me.’

She shook her head. Aidan had never told her that he knew.

‘He knew everything, Brig. Somehow he put all the puzzle pieces together. All the pieces he wanted to anyway.’

She narrowed her eyes: What are you talking about?

He raised his eyebrows: You know exactly what I’m talking about. If anybody asks, can you say I was with you last night? Words she had regretted as soon as she’d said them down the phone line, nineteen years ago.

‘I could have been an accessory after the fact.’ He was slurring his words, too.

She looked at her knees. ‘You might as well have been driving that car.’

‘And you wouldn’t have done the same?’

‘I didn’t kill Eric Tucker.’

‘Half?’

She raised her head and glared at him.

‘Three quarters?’

‘You know it was Sam.’ The know had come out as a growl.

He tapped a finger on his nose. ‘Don’t worry, postman doesn’t always ring twice.’

She didn’t know what that meant, but was sure he wasn’t talking about the book, or the film with Jack Nicholson. Matt put his glass on the table and went to the bathroom, leaving her staring up at the Nick Cave poster. Contact one ghost from the past, and all the skeletons start rattling out.

She jumped when she heard her phone. It rang out before she found it in her bag. A missed call from Aidan. He called again. She rejected it and threw the phone back — the loaded chamber.

The landline rang in the study, and Matt answered it. After a few ‘hellos’, he hung up. A wrong number.

‘Let’s not talk about the past anymore,’ he said.

Best idea all night.

He swayed, and smashed his shin on a non-childproof corner of the coffee table. ‘Ouch!’ He fell against her on the couch, laughing and rubbing his leg.

And then, somehow, his face was too close to hers. He kissed her. Or she kissed him. Their teeth clashed, clumsy.

‘You shouldn’t have come, Brig.’

‘You shouldn’t have texted me your address.’

He took her chin in his hands and kissed her without awkwardness this time, kissed her like Aidan used to. Strange but familiar. And wrong.

The landline rang again, and she pulled away.

‘Just telemarketers,’ he said.

She touched his hair. Very wrong. She closed her eyes, and their tongues found each other as if nineteen years had not gone by. The room stopped spinning and started falling. Matt’s old place in Fitzroy, her hand holding tight to the bannister, cinnamon and bergamot, Matt standing at the top of the stairs. A little blue Tiffany box tied with white ribbon. And she was young again, that girl again, wanted again. They fell back together on the couch, mouths attached.

One of Kerry’s boots flew off as she wrapped her legs around his hips. He ground against her. Very, very wrong.

‘I never stopped thinking about you.’ His face was hot against hers.

Oh, fuck — a cramp in her thigh. She gritted her teeth and ignored it. His hand was inside her shirt. Could he feel her scars? Broken in the same places — a drunken musing.

‘Crazy to think what we could have had,’ he said, breathless, mouth against her ear.

What does that even mean? Sounds like a line from an R.E.M. song. Having is not the same as wanting, she thought vaguely as he fumbled with her jeans button.

Oh God. His fingers inside her, so wet.

‘God, I want to fuck you,’ he said.

She moaned and arched her back, aching for him. Aching as you should only ever ache in a dream — for something that should never be. Wanting, having, falling, drowning. If you love me, you’ll come in.

Telemarketers aren’t allowed to call this late? ‘Stop.’ She pushed him away.

‘Nobody will know.’ He tried again, but she pushed harder and he sat up.

She straightened her shirt, smoothed her hair, and cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her lipstick was smeared over his face. She saw what she hadn’t noticed at the bookshop: the wrinkles around his eyes, the grey hairs among the blond. The photo on his book jacket must have been taken a few years back, or been photoshopped. She also saw what she’d missed nineteen years ago: the condescension under the charm.

He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You suddenly remembered how much you love your husband and your children.’ He steepled his fingers together and exhaled. ‘They’re lucky.’

She couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad. He turns away at the top of the stairs, the cold bluestone wall, her key on the bottom step as she leaves him for the last time. Had she walked home or caught a taxi? She couldn’t remember. How long had he waited before returning that Tiffany box?

She’d been right in the hospital half a decade ago: she had nothing more to say to him. It was just the cooking sherry.

When he stood up, she blinked and averted her eyes from his erection.

He left the room and came back with blankets and a pillow, and dropped them on the couch. ‘If you change your mind, first door on the left.’

Dried garlic and chillies hung from the ceiling in Matt’s kitchen. A hundred condiments were lined up on the bench. An expensive-looking coffee machine and an old-fashioned set of scales, like Nana used to have, sat next to a block of serious-looking knives. Brigitte thought she was going to vomit as she drank a glass of water.

She unlocked the back door and stepped into Matt’s little paved courtyard. She leaned against the house, nausea subsiding with gulps of freezing air. The rain had stopped and the city sky was ashen. Under a mini-basketball hoop, a child’s scooter rested against the wooden fence. She thought about ruffling Finn’s hair and kissing the top of his head. She wanted to hug Ella, and hold Phoebe even tighter. Most of all, she wanted Aidan.

She returned to the lounge room, found her phone in her bag, the photos of Matt’s son watching her. A siren screamed along Separation Street as she woke her phone up with a swipe. The keypad-dial screen was already open, Aidan on the top of her contacts list. No wonder they’re called smart phones. Her hands shook. Nothing happened. Papa had died, Ryan was in hospital, she was very drunk, but still nothing had happened. Such strength and restraint, Brigitte, you deserve a medal. Too bad there’s already a Saint Brigit.

She took her phone back outside, hesitated, and then called him.

‘Hi, honey.’ What the fuck was she doing? She didn’t call him honey; she’d never called anybody honey. ‘I just noticed your missed calls. The ring volume was turned down.’ She was trying hard to sound sober, but it wasn’t working.

‘Been ringing Kerry’s landline.’

‘Really?’ A little too bright — her that’s amazing what you did at kinder today voice. ‘Must be off the hook.’

‘No. It’s ringing out.’

‘I’ll check. Might have to report it out of order.’

Silence.

She could smell Matt on her skin and in her hair: herbs and musk, and sweat. She wanted a shower. She wiped her mouth. Somebody dumped bottles into the recycle bin next door.

‘I love you,’ she said.

He hung up. She stood there in the cold for a while.

Sitting on the toilet, she looked down at her slippery underpants, glistening in Matt’s bathroom light. Ashamed, she wiped them with toilet paper.

There was a bottle of Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men on the shelf. Nausea rose again as she washed her hands. She was a mess: hair matted, make-up smudged, eyes bloodshot. Aidan knows. This time she really was going to be sick. She dropped to her knees and heaved up her guts. It was all liquid, no food. Imagine if Matt walked in now and saw her driving the porcelain bus like a pathetic teenager after year-twelve graduation. Crazy what he could have had.

She flushed and rested her head on the seat for a minute or two. His toilet was much cleaner than the one at home. She reached for the toilet paper, wiped her mouth, and sat back against the basin cupboard, shivering, hugging her knees.

Aidan could have put a police trace on her phone, or something. She was being silly as usual, paranoid. It was late; he’d just sounded tired. She was tired. Of course he didn’t know. And anyway, nothing happened. Just like she’d seen nothing as Maree Carver’s body was lifted from the water — only the ferry’s flashing red light reflected in the Bateau House’s glass doors.

After she’d booked a taxi back to Kerry’s house, she straightened the blankets and pillow on Matt’s couch. She pulled on her coat and tiptoed down the hallway. Soft snores drifted from his bedroom.

She waited for the taxi on the street, without once looking back. The rain started again, falling in sheets, opalescent in the streetlight.

Dead in the Water was on Kerry’s kitchen table where she’d left it, next to the bowl of papier-mache fruit. She threw the keys and her bag down and rushed to the bathroom.

She washed her hair and brushed her teeth in the shower, and scrubbed away with Kerry’s raspberry body wash every trace of Matt and his Obsession.

She slept the cruel fitful sleep of the guilty and the drunken. In a dream, she was looking at old photographs of herself in an album, wishing she still looked like that. Then she was walking down a street with Papa, past the pub in Clifton Hill where she and Ryan used to drink. Phoebe ran across the road — she was little, wearing the red coat she’d had when she was five. Lights shined on her. Headlights. Soundlessly, a car ran her over and didn’t stop. Brigitte ran to her without screaming. She cradled Phoebe’s limp body on the road and yelled for Papa to help her. But he was gone.

She woke up whimpering.

Last night didn’t come back immediately. At first it was fuzzy — black-and-white, abstract, but soon the images sharpened to screaming colour. Oh, no, no, no, I kissed him. More? No, just a kiss. Nothing. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. It was too hot; she kicked off the doona. Diaphragm breathing wasn’t enough. She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose, sucking in carbon dioxide and wishing for Valium.

She walked through Kerry’s house — holding onto the wall, head pounding — and drank two glasses of water in the kitchen.

There was a text to Aidan on her phone that she couldn’t remember sending: Goodnight my darling. You are my light. Love you so much xxx. He hadn’t replied.

It was 5.32am. Too early to ring her family, to check they were OK, to remind Aidan to hold the kids’ hands when they crossed the road.