He went back to the one-bowser petrol station for another miraculous coffee. It wouldn’t wash the taste of humiliation from his mouth, but it might come close. The same unsmiling man was behind the counter. He greeted Caleb with a slight raise of his chin and nodded towards the coffee machine. Caleb nodded back and leaned against a shelf of out-of-date biscuits to wait. This had been a good idea, this was his sort of place. A place of silent communication and really good coffee. Where he could do very little to fuck things up.
He’d done everything wrong. Stood with his back to the door, not got Beck on his side, let McGregor get in the first punch. And every punch after that. It shouldn’t have gone that way; he was stronger than McGregor, fitter. But apparently a lot stupider.
‘Retard boy.’
Move on. At least he’d discovered that McGregor didn’t have any connection to Blondie or the Copperheads. The man was a minor player at most, not worth his time. Put the whole thing down to some hard-won information and be thankful that there’d only been one witness to his humiliation. And no involuntary pissing of his pants. God.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tried to refit the SIM. The fifth time today, but it probably couldn’t be counted as obsessive until it reached double figures. He finally slotted the card into place and switched on the phone. A few seconds later it buzzed: a message from Kat, sent thirty minutes ago.
—You around? I need to see you x K
Oh thank God. Don’t gush, but make it clear how welcome her message is.
He typed a reply then deleted it, wrote another one, deleted it. A sudden realisation that Kat’s iPhone would be showing her exactly how long it was taking him to type a reply.
—Yes. Where?
Only a short wait before the phone vibrated.
—I’m sketching out on coast rd. meet you at Ant’s
Ant’s place was out of the question, ditto the motel, but a quiet moment alone with Kat on a clifftop would be safe. And perfect.
—No. Stay there. I’ll find you
He went to the counter to pay. His coffee was waiting for him like an offering.
‘Happy?’ the old bloke asked.
He thought about it. ‘Yes.’
He did a long and circuitous loop of the town, then drove along the coast road until he caught sight of Kat’s Beetle, recognisable from a great distance. He parked behind it and winced. He hadn’t viewed the X-rated mural from this angle before. The ‘artist’ had incorporated the exhaust pipe into a coupling that was both alarming and anatomically dubious. How was this car still on the road? Where were the outraged citizens when you needed them?
He followed a faint path through the scrub to a sandy clearing at the edge of the cliff. The sea stretched below him, silver in the midday sun, its salt smell lifting on the breeze. Kat was sitting on a beach towel in the shade of a banksia, the eagle feather tucked behind her ear. She was sketching, her shorn head bent in concentration, her hand moving freely as something looping and wild formed beneath it. He stood watching for a moment; Kat was drawing, and all was right in the world.
She gave a little start as he walked towards her. ‘That was quick.’
He smiled. She really was getting back into her work – he’d driven around town for twenty minutes before heading here.
He kissed her forehead and sat in front of her, nodded at the sketchbook. ‘Can I look?’
She closed it and tucked it away. ‘When it’s finished.’
‘A new sculpture?’
‘Tattoo.’
A tattoo? She didn’t even have her ears pierced.
‘You hate tattoos.’
‘No I don’t, I’ve just never felt the need for one before.’
A need for a tattoo. What sort of need was that?
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
Something crossed her face, quickly gone. Worry? Fear?
His mouth was suddenly dry. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m fine. But half my ’lations have been on the phone complaining about you. They say you’re trying to connect Jai to bikies.’
‘Not connect. But I think the Copperheads might have had something to do with his death.’
‘Well, back off a bit, will you? If the cops agree, they’ll never stop hassling Aunty Eileen. Mick said that you’d already had a go at her about it.’
‘How does Mick know that? Not that I had a go at her.’
‘Mick knows everything. Everybody knows everything, you know how it is. You’ve got to stop hassling her. She’s old and she’s sick and she’s lost just about all she had.’
‘I wasn’t hassling her.’
It was impressive, really, how expressive her face was. A clear declaration of the exact level of his stupidity without her resorting to speech or sign.
‘I won’t speak to her again,’ he said. ‘Or anyone else you’d care to name. Make me a list.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ But she didn’t look relieved. She turned the sketchbook over in her hands and flicked its edges. Kat fidgeting was not a good sign; whatever she was worried about, it wasn’t her relatives getting snippy with her.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed. ‘You didn’t even know Portia. Why are you still going with this?’
‘Because she came to me for help.’
‘And you did what you could. Did more than most people would. So, why?’
‘Her eyes –’
No, not here. Not with Kat. Once open, those sluice gates might never close. He couldn’t pour his vile sludge onto her happiness, not when he could barely keep himself from drowning in it.
‘Working this case makes me feel better,’ he said. ‘Think of it as my version of sketching.’
She looked down at the sketchbook and ran her fingers across the cover.
‘I want to ask you something,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to upset you.’
Oh God.
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Are you getting any help? Seeing a counsellor again?’
A wave of heat rose up his neck and into his scalp. Only one thing could have prompted her to ask that. ‘Maria told you what happened.’
‘No, Mum knows how to keep a secret. But you had a panic attack in the middle of the highway. You think half the town hasn’t told me?’
‘It wasn’t a panic attack.’
She slipped into speech. ‘Oh, babe.’
‘I just… It was hot.’
‘Cal.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Us.’
The ground slid away beneath him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I know I haven’t been fair to you. I haven’t been fair to either of us. I should have put an end to it months ago, instead of dragging it out. But we need to stop now, before it gets any harder.’
He managed to lift his hands. ‘I know I fucked up before. With the miscarriages, and before that. But I’ve changed – I’m talking, we’re talking. Look at us now, talking.’
She blinked rapidly. ‘I know. I know how hard you’ve tried, and I love you for it, I really do. But I have to find a way of dealing with my own pain. I can’t fix yours too.’
The weight lifted from his chest. Was that all she was worried about?
‘You don’t have to fix anything. I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. You are a very, very long way from fine, and you’re not doing anything to get better.’ She was signing too fast, her hands barely finishing each shape before flying to the next. ‘I wish, I really wish I could help you, but I can’t. Do you know why I went away? Because you were trying so hard to prove that you were all right, it was killing us both. I thought that if I gave you a bit of space, you’d work at getting better. But you haven’t. You’re even worse than before. You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, you’re just running around trying to save a woman who’s already dead. And I can’t handle that. I can’t let that be my life.’
‘I’ll drop the case. It’s not that important.’
‘Cal.’ She swiped at her eyes. ‘The case isn’t the problem. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t think I’m good for you anymore. And I know you’re not good for me.’
His hands were raised, gripping empty air. He let them fall.
Kat inhaled shakily. ‘I want to finalise the divorce.’
Like a punch to the throat.
‘OK. OK, I’ll… OK.’
He stood, tried to remember how to walk. To breathe. To exist.