Chapter 10

It was a bad day for suits. But it was a wedding. There wasn’t really a choice. Simmo, eyes slightly glazed, handed out matching ties. They’d spent a couple of hours at the Paddo Tavern, downing schooners of XXXX and eyeing off the barmaids. Simmo had tried to use the fact that it was a wedding day to acquire free beer and phone numbers. When he didn’t get either, he proclaimed that the blond-haired honey behind the bar was either blind, stuck-up or a lesbian. There was toast after toast, bad joke after bad joke, until Dave put his foot down and decided that this was the absolute last round.

They retreated to the B&B Dave had booked. The place had aircon, and a fine view. From the verandah you could look out over the lush jacaranda trees and patchwork of tin roofs to the modest spires of Brisbane’s CBD. Tonight, Dave and his new wife would be spending their first night as husband and wife together. While Dave was out of the room, Simmo had helpfully put a large, black dildo under one of the pillows.

They’d had the suits fitted in the city a couple of weeks before the buck’s night. It was the first time Harry had seen any of the guys, other than Dave, since high school. They had a few beers (at Simmo’s insistence) – it was bizarre seeing them all again. The same faces but fatter, with less hair. There were beer guts and fat arses. Wrinkles. Grey hair. Harry supposed he must look the same to them. When you saw yourself every day it wasn’t such a shock. You knew you were getting older – the calendars and birthdays told you that – but in some ways the mind blocked it as an unpleasant truth.

Harry turned away from the other groomsmen and took off his t-shirt. He was hoping that no-one would notice. If he could just…

‘Hey! Haz! Nice ink!’ Simmo said.

Harry tried to pull on his suit shirt but Simmo grabbed it, held it down. He put his arm around Harry’s neck and turned him, so the rest of the group could see. Harry saw himself grabbing Simmo’s hand, just above the wrist, twisting until he heard a satisfying crack, then doubling him over so he could smash his ribcage with his knee and bring him down with a roundhouse to the back of the head.

Harry shook his head, to clear the image. Where did that come from?

The other groomsmen looked on with confusion, half-smiles. They were wondering if it was a wind-up. During high school, Harry’s rebellion stretched no further than growing his hair slightly long. Then he got it cut when his dad, who had other things to worry about – like paying the mortgage – failed to comment. He’d gone on to have a surprisingly uneventful time at uni. There may have been drugs and sex for others, but not for him. And then he moved into a stable, safe, white-collar job.

The drowning man did not match what they knew of Harry. Hell, it didn’t match what he knew of himself.

Simmo licked his finger and tried to rub it off. ‘It’s real!’

‘Yeah. Got it last week.’

Simmo screwed up his face, peered at the picture. ‘Um…interesting.’

Harry buttoned up his shirt.

Simmo pointed. ‘Ah, I know what this is about. Mid-life crisis! Early mid-life crisis!’

Dave took a step forward. ‘Hey, Simmo! Why don’t you tell us all about your tattoo?’

Simmo scowled. Dave shrugged.

‘What? Aren’t you going to show everyone the gecko on your arse?’

General laughter.

‘It disturbs me that you’ve seen the gecko on Simmo’s arse,’ Harry said, sensing the opportunity to turn things onto safer territory.

‘Well, we all have our secrets. Don’t we, Simmo?’ Dave blew him a kiss across the room.

Simmo shook his head. ‘Fucking homo.’

***

Harry stood at the altar of the small church in Paddington, looking back out at the family and friends. Suits and sunglasses for the guys. Chiffon and fake tans for the girls. There were no more familiar faces, thank god. All of ‘the boys’ were groomsmen and no-one else from school was there. No-one else to inquire about what he’d been doing these past twenty-odd years. When he got into uni, it was cool telling people he was doing journalism. It was so broad, and while the profession wasn’t well regarded, it still carried an edge. People thought of trashy TV – Today Tonight and A Current Affair – but they also thought of some of the big stories that had been broken. Phil Dickie, staking out brothels in his car and bringing down the Queensland government. Brisbane Mail journo, Hedley Thomas, unveiling the atrocious record of a rogue doctor at a regional hospital. It was cool. Journalists shone a light on the dark places. Even now, when he met people and they asked what he did, their eyebrows went up when he told them. But the follow-up question was always: ‘Oh yeah, where do you work?’. When he told them they invariably felt the need to explain that they didn’t read the local paper. Christine was right when she said the local paper was important to ‘some people’ – but few of those people were under sixty.

The opening strains of U2’s ‘With or Without You’ piped from the speakers. Dave turned as Ellie walked slowly into the church, holding her dad’s arm. She was beautiful. Brides always were. Family and friends turned in their seats and in that moment, everyone forgot that it was boiling hot and the ceiling fans were barely stirring the tepid air. You could see the couples in the room shift closer, clutch each other’s hands. For those who weren’t yet married, it was something to look forward to. For those who weren’t getting on, it was a reminder that sometimes things worked out. And for those who had been married a long time, like Dave’s grandparents sitting up front, it was rejuvenating.

For Harry, it was pure hell. Because he couldn’t help but imagine Bec walking down that aisle. He would have gladly married her, even though things were less than perfect. Even though to some extent he’d had to mould himself to her idea of who he should be. Was that necessarily a bad thing? Already, he’d noticed his drinking had picked up, back almost to the point it was before they met. He was finding it harder to control his temper. And while he hadn’t actually lashed out at Simmo earlier that day, when he thought about hurting him it was as though someone else was in his head.

Simmo nudged him. Harry was still staring at the bright rectangle of light, even though Ellie wasn’t there anymore. She and Dave were holding hands now, as the celebrant took them through their vows. Everything was white. The walls, the flowers, Ellie’s dress. But in Harry’s mind, all was dark. He saw a face, eyes and teeth almost glowing in the gloom. Harry let his eyes go slack, knowing that if he tried to focus on the face, it would disappear.

His neck burned. The old man leant forward and dipped the bamboo shoot into a clay bowl filled with black. Then he sat up straight again and Harry saw the line of the woman’s shoulder. She had long, black hair. He couldn’t see her face, because the only light in the room was a candle, somewhere behind him. He felt her grip his hand, and he could smell her. Cheap deodorant. Sweat. The heady musk of sex. She drew in breath as the man applied himself to her neck. She leant back, almost in ecstasy, and he caught a glimpse of her face.

‘Harry!’ Simmo. Nudging him again. ‘Shit mate, you on the hammer? Is that part of your new biker look?’

Dave and Ellie were already on their way outside. There were tears aplenty in the crowd. The groomsmen were meant to form up with the bridesmaids, and Harry was standing there like a doped-up loser. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. He rubbed his face and moved forward, following Simmo’s lead. He offered his hand to his bridesmaid – he thought her name may have been Lisa, or Leela – and they walked out into the early afternoon. There were guests waiting to throw confetti.

Shit, people still do this?

Well-wishers milled around outside. Cars slowed as they passed, some to check out the wedding, others just worried about hitting one of the kids running around on the crowded footpath. A few clouds gathered in the west, but Harry doubted there would be a storm. But something big was brewing.

He walked around the side of the chapel, to where Simmo had stationed an esky for people to grab a quick drink before heading to the reception, which was going to be at a conference centre down by the river. There were soft drinks and poppers for the kids, and Harry had to admit that while Simmo could be a real dick, he wasn’t all bad. Harry reached in, pushing the imported beers aside until he fished out a VB.

Harry cracked the can, sculled deeply, then walked back up to the road. The photographer was busy with Dave and Ellie for the time being. Simmo and the other groomsmen were hanging with the bridesmaids. The best man had procured a bottle of champagne and was filling glasses, both for the bridesmaids and for his wife, who clearly wanted the bridesmaids to know that her hubby was off the market. They may have been fat and balding blowhards, but they were also accountants and engineers who’d been plying their trades for close to twenty years, while Harry was stuck on comparatively minimum wage. Money = power = sex appeal.

Out the front of the chapel was a zebra crossing, leading to a lookout that offered a great view of the city. There was a piece of quirky street art Harry had driven past countless times. It looked like a comfy lounge chair with a throw over the back. It was only when you got close you realised it was concrete, covered in small coloured tiles. It had already attracted a small gaggle of wedding guests, so Harry moved over to the stainless steel rail and looked out at the city.

He didn’t see it though. He saw the woman. The way her hair fell about her face. The line of her bare shoulder. The sharp intake of breath as the old man started tattooing her. And there wasn’t any doubt that that was what was happening. And he knew exactly what the tattoo was. A grid, filled with strange sigils.

She’s out there somewhere.

Harry felt his breath quickening, his heart racing again at the thought of meeting her.

‘Kyla.’

He spoke the name. He knew it came from the dreams. He didn’t know who she was, or why he was dreaming about her, or what the hell it had to do with people drowning. But he knew that he had to find her.

‘Hey.’

Harry turned. Dave was there. ‘Hey Dave.’

‘Photo time.’

Harry finished his beer. He went to move past his friend, but Dave grabbed his arms, gently but firmly.

‘You okay?’ Dave asked.

‘Lots of people have been asking me that lately.’

‘Well?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Harry looked at the ground. Shook his head.

‘Harry, we’ll sort it out, okay? Just…just don’t do anything rash.’

It took Harry a while to realise what Dave was talking about. And then he flushed.

‘No…I wouldn’t. Thanks, man.’

Together, they walked back over the crossing, where people were still milling about in front of the chapel. Simmo filled them in on the deal with the photos. Dave and Ellie just wanted some basics with family and the bridal party. Then the newlyweds and the best man and maid-of-honour were heading to New Farm Park for some arty shots, before meeting everyone at the reception venue.

Someone had their iPhone out, watching news. Harry slowed. There was a white car, a government car, Australian flag flying from the bonnet. The guy holding the phone saw Harry looking over his shoulder.

‘It’s the PM. On his way to Government House. He’s gonna call the election. Mid-December, they reckon.’

Harry felt the sky darken, felt his limbs grow heavy. And he had no idea why.