34

Jeremy’s red ute was parked in front of the primary school. Brigitte put her hands into her pockets and rested against the iron fence while he unlocked the passenger-side door. The interior light didn’t come on automatically; he reached up and switched it by hand. He scooped up the things from the seat: clothes and some cleaning products. A scarf or cloth, embossed with Lang Hardware’s logo, hung over the side of a bucket — he must buy his rags from there, too. Must remember to tell Harry. He threw them in the back, under the tarp cover.

The interior smelled like burnt plastic and the ghost of air freshener; the seat was freezing. After a few protests, the ute started. The stereo lit up and played ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’. It sounded like Cold Sizzle.

‘You like this music?’ Jeremy asked.

‘Not really.’

He turned it off. ‘What do you like?’

‘Tom Waits.’ Her words sounded slurry, so she didn’t discuss her music preferences any further.

‘Just need to warm her up a bit first,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. He made a face like he was shaving as he checked out his grazed cheek in the rear-view mirror.

Brigitte pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. Jeremy turned on the heater; it blew dusty air in her face. In her side mirror, she saw a group of men stumble out of the pub and look up and down the street. Nausea roiled inside her.

Jeremy flicked on the headlights and pulled out, too quickly. The tyres squealed; the ute jerked and her head hit the headrest as he made a U-turn. He took the first exit at the roundabout heading out of town, towards the highway.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, but everything started to spin. She opened her eyes and looked at the line where the windscreen met the dash — if she kept her head still and just stared at that, she was OK. Like focusing on the horizon the time she’d been seasick on the Spirit of Tasmania.

Jeremy asked if she was all right. She mumbled and gave a tiny nod, without looking away from the dashboard horizon. She jumped when he ran her window down a few centimetres. The cold air on her face was the best thing she’d ever felt; she gulped mouthfuls of it.

After they’d been driving for a while, she felt brave enough to try closing her eyes again. Everything stayed relatively still.

‘I know what you’re going through,’ Jeremy said. ‘I was engaged, but it didn’t work out.’

The headlights of oncoming vehicles flashed on the insides of her eyelids.

‘After my sister died, I got depressed. It’s hard to lose somebody you love. I lost the plot for a while, and my fiancée couldn’t cope. Can’t blame her.’

She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming when Jeremy made a phone call, asking Scott to hold the last ferry.

White lines rushed under the car; lights caught distorted faces in the tree trunks. She and Tate were sitting side by side on the first jetty. A dolphin spraying blood from its blowhole dove across a full moon. Tate pushed her into the water.

She woke with a start, her mouth filled with saliva. She swallowed and swallowed, sure she was going to puke all over Jeremy’s car, but she kept it down. They were in Paynesville, thank God. She reached down for the water bottle and mints in her bag.

The Esplanade was deserted. The ferry was waiting — red light flashing on the island-end. In the distance, Scott was a grey, lanky figure on the upper-deck walkway. Jeremy drove past the Bateau House, past the Mariner’s Cove motel, and took the U-turn for the ferry waiting-bay.

There were no other vehicles or passengers on board. Jeremy stared straight ahead as the ferry crossed the strait, his hands resting on the steering wheel. His knuckles were red; there was a Band-Aid on the webbing between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Over the wind and the ferry’s cranking, Brigitte heard wisps of country music: ‘A Good Year for the Roses’.

At the other side, Scott waved as they drove off onto the island. It was dark, just a few house lights and the glow of the public phone box at the park. Brigitte glanced in her side mirror. She doesn’t make the return trip, no. Was the ferry’s light one of the last things Maree Carver ever saw?

Jeremy drove up Seventh Parade instead of Fourth Avenue. Brigitte frowned at the side of his face.

‘A short cut,’ he said.

After six months, she still didn’t know the short cuts on the island.

She saw torch light before the tall, lean figure rounded the corner up ahead and walked towards the ute.

‘Your welcoming party,’ Jeremy said, squinting at the light in his eyes. He slowed to a stop beside the park.

She felt like a naughty teenager. Sprung. Aidan opened the passenger side door. Brigitte thanked Jeremy for the lift as she stumbled out, feeling pale and fragile.

Aidan stood with his arms crossed, feet apart. He glowered at her shoulder; she looked down at Tate’s blood on her coat. Jeremy drove away, crunching gravel on the roadside.

‘Why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone?’ Aidan’s eyes were black pools in the phone-box light. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’

She turned and staggered towards home, bumping into trees. He stomped after her.

The porch light was on. The doors slid open, and Harry stepped out. ‘Brig,’ he said out the side of his mouth as he headed to his house. He patted Aidan on the back as he passed.

Brigitte rushed inside.

‘Come back here. We need to talk!’ Aidan yelled.

She ran to the bathroom, and vomited red wine and Sex on the Beach in the toilet, and on her hair and shoes.