28

Ryan was up for Easter. He flicked on the porch light from inside, and Brigitte called to turn it off. They didn’t need it — outside, a big, full moon was shining through the eucalypts. She leaned forward to light a mosquito coil and a citronella candle on the table.

‘Sure you don’t want to come inside?’

‘No, I want to look at the moon.’

‘Freak.’ Ryan made a howling noise as he came out with a bottle of red and two glasses.

‘Are you supposed to be drinking?’ she said.

He pursed his lips as he poured the wine. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,’ he said, looking at her Hello Kitty onesie that the kids had given her last Mother’s Day.

She pulled a blanket over herself.

‘What’s Aidan think of it?’ He handed her a glass.

‘Dunno. He’s never around lately to notice.’ She swished the wine around.

He sat next to her. He still looked pale, and a little diminished — not quite back to his bouncy self — as if somebody had drawn his image through old-fashioned tracing paper and the outline was lighter, the colours less vivid.

‘How are things?’ she said.

‘Fine.’

‘Really?’

He nodded and, from his shirt pocket, produced a joint.

‘Ryan Weaver, you are a bad influence!’

He lit the joint on the candle, took a few deep drags, and passed it to her. She hadn’t smoked for a long time, coughed, and felt dizzy immediately.

‘So what’s up with Aid? What happened?’ Ryan asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes.

He narrowed his. ‘Bullshit.’

She handed the joint back and looked at the moon rimmed by a blurry haze. ‘Well, not as much as you think.’

‘How much?’

She shrugged. ‘Half. Three-quarters, maybe. No — more like half.’

‘You or Aidan?’ He passed the joint.

She frowned and thought about Colin, Connor, Carl as she inhaled and exhaled smoke. ‘You think it was him?’

‘I don’t know anything, Brigi. Just guessing.’

‘It was just one stupid mistake, Ryan. And it wasn’t completely my fault.’

He nodded slowly, waiting for more, but she wasn’t going to tell him about the flinch, or Aidan’s moods, and definitely not about the foiled blow job in the cop car.

‘Oh, Brigi, not that author guy again?’

‘What do you mean “again”? I hadn’t seen him for years before —’ She coughed. ‘Dead in the water.’ A long, long time ago.

‘Isn’t that the name of his book?’

‘It was nothing.’ She passed the joint and reached for her wine.

‘It’s not a lie if you believe it.’

‘What?’

‘Remember George Costanza in Seinfeld?’

‘The sea was angry that day, my friends.’

‘The Soup Nazi.’

They both cackled, and then her shoulders slumped. ‘Fuck, what am I going to do, Ryan?’

‘Some couples survive adultery.’

‘That’s a repulsive word.’

‘Some end up friends. Platonic.’

‘Another bad word.’

‘There are no good words for it, Brigi. Brother-sister-like relationship.’

‘Great. Just like you and me.’ She snorted half-heartedly, and sipped her wine.

‘You could try saying “sorry”.’ He got up and walked to the edge of the porch, stepped down, and crushed out the joint on the grass.

Headlights flashed across the trees and the back fence; tyres crunched slowly on the driveway.

‘I’m going to bed.’ Ryan laid another joint on the table as he walked towards the door. ‘Talk to him, Brigi. Don’t be like me and Rosie.’

The new gate opened and clicked shut; the echoes of Zippy’s happy bark and Aidan’s silly laugh were still attached in her memory to the gate-sound. She stared at the golden candlelight flickering in the wind, waiting for Aidan to ignore her so she could get on with smoking and drinking in peace.

He walked across the porch, a little unsteady. He’d been drinking, too, shouldn’t have been driving. He didn’t rush inside to get changed, shower, or whatever else he was always in a hurry to do as soon as he got home these days.

‘Drink?’ She held up the bottle without looking at him.

He went into the kitchen and came back with a glass.

‘Cold,’ she said, rubbing her hands together.

He nodded, sat beside her, and poured himself a drink. She offered him some blanket, but he shook his head.

‘How was your day?’ she said.

‘OK.’

Maybe they could be friends. Brother and sister. Meg and Jack White. But the sensation in her pelvis when his leg touched hers was not something she ever wanted to feel from Ryan.

Sorry. Why couldn’t she just say it? She reached for the joint. ‘Want some?’

‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Found it.’ She lit up and took a couple of drags. ‘Look at the moon,’ she said, passing the joint to him, her hand lingering against his.

He coughed. ‘Where?’

She pointed and laughed.

He laughed, too. ‘How did I miss that? Is it a supermoon?’

‘No. But it’s pretty awesome.’ She felt floaty, far away.

‘Tell you something else strange,’ he said, exhaling smoke. ‘The night we reviewed the Carver crime scene with a group of forensic scientists. They came down to search in the dark for bloodstains.’

She shivered.

‘Sprayed luminol on the ground and vegetation near the first jetty.’ He passed the joint back to her. ‘And we all freaked out when the tree lit up like Christmas.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a false positive. The luminol reacted to an enzyme in the leaves. But it fluoresced for a coupla minutes. Very freaky.’

‘Wow.’ Her limbs felt heavy, as though full of a viscous substance. Liquid velvet. ‘There wasn’t any linseed oil at the crime scene, was there?’

‘Why would you ask that?’

She shrugged, inhaled smoke deeply, and exhaled.

‘There’s always linseed oil down there,’ he said. ‘In boat polish.’

And massage oil. She thought about rubbing some over his body as she leaned against him; he felt so warm, smelled so good. The moon swam.

When they’d finished smoking, she tilted her head back, reached up, and pulled his face to hers. An upside-down kiss. The sensation of falling. She turned and climbed astride his thighs, draping the blanket over them both. She kissed him, right-way up.

‘What the hell are you wearing?’ he said as he slid his arms around her.

His whiskers scratched her face as they kissed more urgently. The blanket fell to the ground. She stopped for air and said, ‘Have I ever told you you look like Jeff Buckley, Orlando Bloom, and that guy from Mad Men, all rolled into one?’

He laughed and tangled his fingers in her hair.

‘You’re my light, Aidan. Seriously. The kids are my earth, but you are my light.’

‘You are very stoned.’

‘So are you.’ More kisses. ‘Dance with me, Aid. Put some music on your phone, and dance with me.’ She stood and tried to drag him to his feet, but he pulled her back onto him, the crotch of her onesie sticky-wet.

‘It’s too late for dancing,’ he said as he led her to the bedroom.

She dreamed again of an angelfish. There was still water left in the plastic bag, there was still time. She looked for Aidan to help her, but couldn’t find him. The water drained away, her fish fell to pieces, and in her head she heard the voices of children weeping.

She woke, naked, tangled in the doona, the taste of Aidan in her mouth, the smell of his sweat and cologne on her shoulders, but he was gone.