***
8:48pm
Adam’s still not back. I spoke to him earlier; he was sorry I’d had a shock but explained there are plenty of fishermen about town. ‘He was most likely heading over to collect oysters,’ he told me. ‘There are oyster beds along our side of the creek. I’m so sorry, darling, I should have warned you.’
‘Yes, you should have,’ I grumbled, feeling foolish. I allow the familiar sound of his voice to soothe away my fears at being left alone in this house, especially after the campsite I spotted earlier. But since ending the call they’ve crept back in, whispering that ‘someone’s out there’, even though I know I’m just shaken from my earlier scare. Was the man I saw the one who’s been camping over here? Or was he just a local fisherman, like Adam said?
I check the lock on the bathroom door twice before I shower, startling at every sound as I stand beneath the spray.
I knew Adam would be late, but it’s disappointing all the same. It’s a two-hour commute one-way to Sydney and that’s excluding the short boat ride across the creek. I don’t know how anyone could live here permanently. And they don’t, really. Not on this side of the water. People eventually figured out that a nice view wasn’t adequate compensation for the damp and the mould, the proximity to tangled bushland and marshy swamp, the boat-only access. Everyone except Tim Dawson, who apparently thought there was nowhere better on earth.
I was trying to be positive for Adam when I told him the buyers that have paid the deposit will come through with the settlement, but the possibility they won’t does worry me. I won’t be able to rest until it’s finalised; the thought of living here indefinitely terrifies me. I think I’d go mad.
But no matter how I feel, I have to try to be strong for Adam. He’s been through enough, and I know he worries about me as it is. This is a partnership, the first real one I’ve had in truth. Men used to be just for fun, for distraction, but Adam’s changed all that. I’m married now. I have to be prepared to pull my weight.
I pull the musty blanket up to my chin, glass of red in hand, watching through the loft window as the lights flicker on across the water. People arriving home after a day’s work, no doubt exhausted after the long commute, happy to be home. Since there isn’t even a bloody television here, it seems they’re all I have for company.
Adam says the houses on this side of the creek are old fisherman’s cottages, and that back in the thirties when this town was established the wealthy lived on the main land and the fishermen lived over here, in the boat-access only part of town. Now Oyster Creek is more of a suburban commuter town, and all but this house across the water have been abandoned. There are still fishermen, apparently, but every sensible one has chosen to live on the ‘good side’ of town. The man on the left – it’s definitely a young man, not a boy – appears, passing across the upstairs window and through a door, emerging a minute later with a towel around his waist. He’s attractive in a generic, athletic sort of way. Probably an Aussie, born and raised with a surfboard under one arm.
It appears that the top floor of the house is self-contained: kitchenette, bathroom, lounge chair, wardrobe. I don’t see a bed, but perhaps there’s one on the left, out of sight. Is he travelling? Renting? Living alone? He looks like someone who’d park himself, if temporarily, in a generic seaside town somewhere on the Australian coast. The towel begins to slip from his hips and I quickly look away.
The couple on the right, Erica and Samir, are in the kitchen, sitting at an island, bathed in red-gold light from an overhead lamp. Erica stands and runs fingers through her short, light-coloured hair. There’s something about her stance, her movements, that makes her seem tense. What was she shouting at Dee for earlier? She picks up a wine glass and tips her head back to drink. The man sits with his head in his hands. I wonder if they’re fighting, and if so, what about?
I kneel on the window seat and press my nose to the glass. I’ve left the light on downstairs but up here it’s dark, rendering me invisible. I feel like a voyeur – and I suppose I am in this moment – and it gives me a guilty thrill. As I lean forward, my fingers touch something cold and hard. I pick up the thing, half buried in dusty cushions, and it’s heavy and black. Binoculars.
I snort and put them aside. Tim Dawson and his birdwatching. I always thought it was such a strange, isolating hobby. But then, as Adam says, he was a fairly isolated man. Just like this house.
Erica has put down her glass and is stirring something on the stove now. The man stands behind her, puts his arms around her but she tenses and pulls away. She turns to face him and points an accusing finger to her left. A light blinks on in that direction, as if her pointing triggered it.
It’s the upstairs light in the middle house. There she is, the Botticelli woman with long hair. Dee. She opens the sliding door to the balcony and walks slowly outside, as if trying to be silent. She looks from side to side then squats in the darkest corner. A small flame appears, lighting her face briefly, and then there’s the unmistakeable small, red glow of a cigarette.
I take a long sip of wine, an unpleasant tightness in my chest. I can’t help it; even as I pity her, I wonder about the baby. Where is it? Has she left it alone? Or is Rob there somewhere?
As if on cue, the wailing begins. It’s fever-pitched, loud even from here. My heartbeat speeds up. That sound can still get to me.
The woman doesn’t move. It’s a good minute before the red glow disappears and then she rises, slowly as if it’s a great effort, and half limps inside. Is she injured? Recovering from something? There’s something familiar about her gait, but I can’t put my finger on it. Despite the chill, she’s in a thin slip of a nightgown, her cascade of hair spilling everywhere, her engorged breasts low-hung and stark white as she bends, lifts her child from its cot and slides the straps from her shoulders.
Silence. The infant suckles, little legs kicking, and my heart thumps. There’s something world-weary, defeated, about the woman as she stands, motionless against the incessant wriggling of the baby, and turns to stare out of the window.
There’s something different about her face – a darkness surrounding one of her eyes. Without thinking what I’m doing I grab the binoculars and aim them at the window. I have a clear shot of her face, and there’s no doubting what I’m seeing. Dee is sporting a black eye: purple and blue and tinged with yellow. I feel a twinge of empathy and something else. Something deep in my muscle memory triggers a sense of panic. Did she have this when I saw her last, or is it new?
As if in slow motion, Dee bends and places the baby down, out of sight. Then she swings wildly to the right, grasps the stem of a floor lamp and throws it, like a javelin, to the floor. There’s the distant sound of splintering glass, and the scene goes black.
Chapter 7
Liz
June, 2017
Tuesday, 7pm
Adam will be late again tonight, so instead of being miserable and hiding in the attic like a crazy voyeur, I’ve taken his advice and crossed the creek to have a meal at the pub. Never mind about the money, he said, your sanity’s far more important. I didn’t miss the jibe, albeit well-intended, so just to prove him wrong, here I am, having made sure I crossed the creek in daylight. At least Adam will be here soon to escort me home, and we can take the boat.