I make another coffee, hoping to muster the energy for a jog. It’s the least I can do to occupy myself since I’ve sworn I won’t look at or touch anything work-related (doctor’s orders, literally) and the thought of starting on the piles of junk makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Besides, it might be nice to see the town, take in the scenery, ‘let myself relax’, as Adam says. Pearl Bay is ‘a little slice of paradise’, they tell me. Might as well make the most of it.
***
1:15pm
I wasn’t hungry – I rarely am, these days – but I forced down some soggy, left-over salad and managed to locate my running shoes at the bottom of a suitcase, and now I’m looking for a way across this God-forsaken creek. Adam’s taken the motorboat, of course, and I’m not keen on trying out the rickety-looking thing with oars. I’m sure he said there was a footbridge not far along the way, but I’ve been walking for at least five minutes now and all I’ve encountered is sludgy, marshy earth and dense bush.
I hadn’t known I’d be so isolated here. Adam painted this stop gap as if we’d be on an extended honeymoon. It’s a house by the water in sunny Australia, after all! But the reality is entirely the contrary. It’s creepy, if I’m honest. I’m trying not to get lost down a rabbit’s hole of negativity, but I really am starting to think we could have organised things a bit more sensibly. That I could have had some forewarning of what staying in this place, if only for a few weeks or months, would really be like.
The sun is so hot here, even at this time of year, and despite the wet season being over and winter creeping in, Adam’s warned me it can still get humid during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration from the back of my neck, remembering how I hate the heat.
Something crunches loudly under my foot and I rear back in fright. I look down to see the long, curled up body of a snake.
‘Fuck!’ I stumble backwards, my heart pumping, before realising that it’s not a live snake, merely its discarded skin.
A whimper of relief escapes before I feel a surge of anger. For fuck’s sake, let’s admit it, this place is a nightmare. I’m either going to be killed be some horrible Australian creature or go mad imagining I might. How could anyone choose to live in a place like this?
Gathering myself, I trudge along, determined to find the footbridge and, in turn, civilisation. After a minute or two, the rhythmic thud of my shoes on the pebbly shore sounds suddenly amplified. Confused, I stop for a moment, listening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Silence. I whirl around, straining to see through the dense trees, but I can’t see anyone. My pulse leaps in my throat. No one lives over this side of the creek. Adam said the other two houses are abandoned. Why would anyone be here?
It’s then that I notice it. In a small clearing just a metre ahead, something dangles from a tree. Squinting, I see it’s a plastic baby doll. Something has been placed on its head, vaguely representing hair – dark green tendrils of seaweed, still glistening with moisture, and its painted eyes stare vacantly ahead.
An unpleasant tingle travels down my spine. There’s what looks to be the remains of a campfire, some empty beer cans and a pair of tattered and muddied trainers strewn about beneath the doll. Has someone been camping over here?
There’s the crunch of leaves behind me, and instinctively I break into a run, feeling foolish after a time when no one materialises. I tell myself the campsite could have been there for a number of days – weeks, even. Except the seaweed was still wet …
I’m out of breath when I finally reach the bridge. It’s made of wood that looks partially rotted and is covered in moss. I sigh in disappointment, unsure I can trust it to carry my weight. Vines dangle from two large, moss-covered trees flanking its entrance, and the other side seems very far away. The river has widened here and when I look into its murky depths I can no longer see the bottom. From the direction of the water flow, it seems the tide is coming in.
I shiver, suddenly cold despite the humidity. It seems everything is damp here – the air, the earth, the plants. No wonder the house is full of mould.
I hesitate, pressing the ball of my foot down onto the first mossy plank. To my surprise, it doesn’t give an inch. Tentatively placing one foot after the other, I make my way across, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach the other side. I’m safe.
Chapter 6
Liz
June, 2017
Monday, 4:15pm
I’ve made it across the three-mile beach that runs along the other side of town, parallel to the creek, and now my lungs ache with each breath. I’m out of practice. Adam and I spent our three-week honeymoon over-indulging on everything imaginable (not to mention sending us knee-deep into debt) and now I’m paying for it in more ways than one.
The sun has passed over the mountain and a fog has descended. The air is thick with moisture and beads of perspiration cling to my forehead. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been gone, how early it would grow dark.
I reach Cockle Street on my way back to the house and stop to admire the three matching houses all in a row. They’re vastly different street-side; less decorative than the grand facades facing the creek. I’m staring at the house on the left with it’s perfectly trimmed hedge when a heinous screeching fills the air. I stop and cover my ears, looking up towards the sound. A flock of large white birds with yellow crests fill a tall, gnarly tree, one of several lining the street. They’re making an awful sound, like harpies squawking, and then another sound chimes in, battling to be heard over the din. The baby crying again, I think, but it isn’t that.
I turn to see the red-haired woman, Dee, standing in her driveway, the blue door slightly ajar. A fair-haired woman – Erica, I assume – is blocking her exit, waving her arms, screaming something incomprehensible, too hard to hear from where I stand, beneath the raucous birds. Dee’s cowering, shoulders hunched, head down. She’s shaking her head, the baby clutched to her chest, its chubby legs flexing at her hips.
I feel suddenly too visible, exposed. Should I go over there, check everything’s okay? Wrapping my arms across my chest against the sudden gust of cold air, I hesitate. Dee looks defeated. She stands, jiggling the baby mechanically, and lets Erica’s tirade crash over her, and I feel a rush of protectiveness. Leave her alone! She’s holding a baby, for fuck’s sake.
It’s then I realise who Dee reminds me of. My stomach clenches just as I feel the familiar pang of guilt. And when the baby begins to wail, I clap my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes against an unwanted image.
The urge to intervene has vanished. I walk fast, pulling my hood up around my face, hurrying along the narrow end of Cockle Street which tapers to the creek’s entrance. I’m not looking forward to crossing that bridge again, to the trek through the bush, but I do want to get warm and pour myself a glass of wine. As I pass the final house there’s a rustling in the bushes to my left. I lose my footing, tripping over a crack in the path as a tall shadow enters my peripheral vision.
My breath catches as I take in the tangled beard, tattered beanie and fierce eyes. The irises are piercing, electric blue against deeply tanned skin. The man makes a sound like a growl and I give an involuntary yelp, side-step him and run like hell.