Bay of Fires (24 page)

It caught him off guard when Sarah mentioned she was considering returning to Eumundi at the end of the summer. Maybe he had misread the situation, but he thought she was looking to start a new life in Tasmania. The conversation during their pub lunch had been clear; her ex-boyfriend had physically abused her. Something irrevocable had happened and she could never return. She hadn’t gone into the details and Hall had not pressed her. It wasn’t his business. But she couldn’t go back. Hall had written feature articles on the subject for the weekend paper; a woman returned to her abuser on average eight times before she left for good. She should not go back.

“Men who don’t respect women never will,” he said.

He took her silence for agreement and added, “People don’t change, Sarah.”

She nodded. She picked up a shell and threw it into the sea.

“Do you want to go back to the barramundi farm?” he said.

“Not an option.”

“So sell the house.”

“Renovator’s dream. I wouldn’t get jack for it.” Sarah climbed up to the jumping rock. “You coming?”

He didn’t want to jump into the rock pool. He had never liked jumping off rocks or bridges. Reluctantly, he followed her over to the edge, took a breath, and jumped. In the seconds he was in the air he noticed a flash of color moving across the tops of the rocks. Someone else was there.

T
he day after the press conference, Sarah wanted to show Hall the rock pool. Hall had already planned to go boating with Don, so Sarah arranged with Don to drop Hall off at a precise point at the other end of the long beach. From there, it would be a short climb across the granite boulders to the rock pool. She could have gone in the boat with them, but she wanted to jog instead. It was pleasant running on the beach and she did not stop; she ran past all the shacks and the lagoon, she avoided a dead fairy penguin lying in the sand, and she only glanced briefly at the place where Anja’s body had washed in.

She ran along the hard sand, through the white light that poured down everywhere on the beach, and her muscles and lungs began to hurt. Always, when she exercised, Sarah felt a sense of righteousness in the pleasurable pain. Forcing her body to do intense exercise was good for her. She concentrated on her breathing and let her rhythm slow into a steady pace. In front of her, as far as she could see, the beach was empty. There were no other footprints.

Yesterday, noticeably absent from the press conference was Roger Coker. Sarah had overheard several comments on this as she waited with the onlookers, who were all agitating for something to happen. Deliberately, she had stepped closer to Bunghole and his mates.

“Anyone would be here unless he had something to hide,” Bunghole had said.

Sarah had pointed out that, on the contrary, killers usually made a point of coming to gatherings like this.

“Look around,” Sarah had said.

Bunghole had not answered her but someone else had said, “He’s mad as a cut snake. Madder than his old woman.”

It was true—Mrs. Coker was mad. Sarah had once heard her swearing at Mr. Coker as he dragged driftwood up from the beach to burn as firewood. Crowlike, with her hunched back and a neck that swiveled with rough jerks, she hurried him along with language fouler than any Sarah had ever heard. Of course, she had heard worse since working on the fish farm.

At the press conference Sarah had positioned herself behind Don so the panning cameras couldn’t film her. It had been interesting watching the crowd’s interest in the television crews. Some people must have come straight off the beach as soon as they heard something was happening; beach towels hung from their necks and zinc smeared their noses. Others, such as Erica, who was wearing lipstick and a nice skirt, had had time to dress up in case they appeared on the news. Sarah had studied each face.

What she had told Bunghole was true. Someone at that press conference was a killer. One of the campers was her bet—and she had not ruled out Bunghole. He was vile. As she had searched each face in the crowd for a sign of guilt or secret pleasure, Bunghole had bared his tongue lewdly at her. Sarah had stepped sideways so he could no longer see her.

Two other people had behaved inappropriately at the press conference in Sarah’s opinion—Sam and Don. Cross-armed and cocky, Sam had grinned at Sarah the entire time. It was irritating. Holding his arm was Simone, her head dipped so her wide-brimmed hat hid her face. Don and Sarah’s father had calmly discussed a turn in the stock market; the ordinariness of the topic was as discomfiting as the enjoyment on the faces of the campers. When someone muttered something about Roger, Don had turned to acknowledge the comment. Sarah had seen his face; he had been smiling. It was a nasty smile, that of someone who knows he did the wrong thing and is glad about it.

The silence was uncomfortable when Anja Traugott’s parents had walked out of the shop. Crossing the park, the Swiss couple had looked out of place, from another time, like characters in a children’s fairy tale. Their skin was pale and their clothes were dark. The father had answered the media’s questions in halting English, but it was Anja’s mother who Sarah could not get out of her mind. She had gazed beyond the gabbling reporters, her eyes shifting to each onlooker, one by one. The mother’s face was contorted with rage and sorrow. It was a heartbreaking combination.

As Sarah ran, she imagined explaining to Anja’s mother the conversation she had had with Anja. I’m sorry, Sarah silently rehearsed. I told her to go there.

What did Sarah want? Their forgiveness? It was a conversation she would never have. Her words of regret were of no use to the Traugotts.

Throughout the press conference Hall had been in professional mode. He had remained on the edge of the media scrum and listened without looking, his head bent to his chest. Occasionally he had scribbled something in his notebook. She found his detachment attractive. When the press conference ended and the woman in charge had led the Traugotts away, an immaculately groomed woman approached Hall. They had spoken for a few minutes. Sarah noticed that the woman wore high-heeled pointy-toed shoes that sank into the earth as she walked away.

Sarah wondered what the woman had said to Hall. He had left before Sarah could speak with him. Thinking it over now, as she jogged along the beach, she knew she wouldn’t ask him how well he knew that woman. That would be embarrassing.

The other annoying thing that had happened at the press conference involved Simone. Sarah had approached her, planning to engage in some friendly small talk to make up for the awkwardness in the shack the other night. Simone had greeted Sarah, and then, almost immediately, Simone’s attention was diverted to a good-looking man who was coordinating one of the news teams. With his suit and gelled hair, he exuded importance. He had smiled at Simone and placed a hand on her arm.

“Excuse us.” He had barely glanced at Sarah.

Neither had Simone. They had marched across the park to where the Apple Isle TV news team gathered beside their vehicle.

Despite that it was now a day later Sarah still felt slightly rebuffed. Maybe Flip and Pamela were right about Simone—she was more interested in receiving attention from men than holding a conversation with another woman.

At the end of the beach Sarah stripped off her T-shirt and running shorts and strode into the water. She let the waves smash around her legs while she got her breath back. There was a boat one kilometer down the coastline, but it was too far away for her to tell if it was Don’s vessel. She turned her back on the ocean and surveyed the beach.

Today, she had not stopped as she passed the place where Anja was found. She imagined the Traugotts standing there, looking across the whispering grasses to the empty beach, holding hands, tying their flowers to the driftwood so they wouldn’t blow away. The man and the woman, forced to visit this island at the bottom of the world where their daughter perished. For them, Tasmania would be forever a place of death.

That morning the paper ran four pages on what it was calling the Bay of Fires Killer. There were photos of the Traugotts: standing alone looking at the headlines on the sign outside Pamela’s shop, surrounded during the press conference, their tear-streaked faces bent together. There was also an incredibly beautiful photo of Anja which Sarah had not seen before. In Hall’s article it was revealed that the police had a suspect. An east coast resident who was helping police with inquiries, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Hall had refused to name names when Sarah had asked him about it the other day. He would not even say whether she knew him. It was creepy, not knowing.

Sarah waded out of the water and stretched her body across a warm flat rock. Fatigue caused her eyes to sting momentarily as they shut. Light pricked the darkness beyond her closed lids. Things she thought she had forgotten wafted through her sleepy consciousness: how Tasmanian summer sun never feels hot until a person is sheltered from the wind, the silence of a beating ocean, the deliciousness of unresolved desire.

Since the first night Hall had not touched her. Insecurity made her analyze their first night together, rehash each bit she remembered, until she wasn’t sure what was real or imagined.

Jake said she fucked like a man. Although that was anatomically impossible, his meaning was clear. She wasn’t soft or seductive; in bed she liked to ask for what she wanted. Apparently this was not a turn-on.

There had been opportunities for Hall to make a move. Maybe he wasn’t interested in her in that way.

Erica said she was overthinking it. “Unbutton your shirt and he’ll take care of the rest of it,” she had advised. But that was the kind of demanding, intimidating behavior Sarah wished to avoid.

He liked her. Why else would he follow her down to the gulch in the dark, stand beside her for hours catching nothing?

The sun delivered a hot assault to her back. The sound of a boat engine drifted across the water. She opened her eyes. It was Don’s boat. She ran into the shallows and waved so they would see her.

How many times had she sat above the rock pool as a teenager staring out to sea? Past Sloop Rock and the shadowy kelp fields the ocean’s blueness merged with sky. Hours and days when perfect swimming weather meant there was no point fishing. Diving to the bottom and swimming in tight circles to see the baby bull kelp, the starfish, and the cold-water coral growing in the underwater garden.

Beside her, Hall shaded his eyes and searched for yachts on the horizon. She was used to him now and his lengthy pauses. No longer did his silences induce her to chatter pointlessly. He didn’t know everything about her, but he knew enough. He didn’t call her by her surname or swear around her, and she appreciated that.

“So I came across something interesting,” Hall was saying. “Don Gunn has connections to the One Nation party.”

Hall described a political rally where he had seen Don deliver a speech, years ago. Apparently Don had been unperturbed when confronted with his own homophobia.

“Don Gunn is sixty. Who isn’t quietly homophobic from that generation in Tassie?” Sarah shrugged. “In Queensland no one admits to being racist, either, but if there is an Aboriginal person sleeping at a bus stop, no one will even nudge him with their boot to see if he is dead or alive.”

Hall nodded. “Don was quite nasty about Roger Coker.”

“One minute Pamela reckons Roger’s got an overweight girlfriend staying at his place, next minute he’s gay.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “As far as I know, Roger’s not gay. Don’t mind Don. He’s a harmless old bugger, really. By the way, Dad and Don didn’t realize the council was thinking of designating a nudist beach near here. I’m worried they’re planning to visit for a swim.”

“That should give my angry residents over there cause for complaint. Will they pose for a photo?”

“They might not be allowed to go. Pamela doesn’t believe in nudist beaches.”

“I think I heard her say something about that.”

“Yeah. She got quite cross, actually. They were only joking about it. She told Don to shut up.”

“That man needs to learn to do what he’s told.”

While they were laughing, a large wave showered them with what looked like liquid drops of sunlight.

“Nice one,” Sarah said, holding her palms upward to catch the droplets. “This is a million miles from my old life. I don’t want to go back up north.”

Immediately, Sarah wished she had not spoken. Hall wanted to talk about it. She rocked against her knees and didn’t answer him properly. She wouldn’t go back, but not for the reason he thought. His concern was so reassuring she could almost believe she was the wronged woman.

When she was with him she didn’t feel that gnawing emptiness, that wide landscape of thought where nothing she had done or said was worthwhile. Loneliness was an unpredictable creature. Fishing on an empty beach, clearing out a gutter from the top of a wobbly ladder, checking over water quality reports at three in the morning; none of that made Sarah lonely. It was the last beer before closing, no plans for a Sunday, or some crap song from 1985 that reminded her with painful hopelessness of a time when she had been a hopeful teenager. Hall knew loneliness. They hadn’t talked about it, but she could see it in his eyes. She suspected that, unlike her, he expected to feel that way forever.

Sarah let him talk for a while, then casually stood up and got ready to jump. Midair, she grabbed one knee, landing in the middle of the rock pool with a huge splash. Hall followed, arms flailing as though he was trying to slow himself down. When he surfaced, he climbed out. Drying his face and neck, he looked up the hill with a concerned expression.

“There!” Hall dropped the towel and ran up the granite boulders. “I’ve seen you!” he shouted.

Sarah hauled herself out so quickly she tore her knee on the mussels growing on the edge. She knew who Hall was chasing. She had seen Sam’s long afternoon shadow undulating from out of the cave when they arrived. He disappeared into the casuarinas before Hall was halfway up the rock face.

“Give it up!” she yelled to Hall. “You’ve lost him.”

“Why would he run?” Hall said as he came back.

“Sam is always spying on people.”

“Is that right? Don Gunn caught him peeping at Anja. Pamela told me.”

“He used to spy on me and Erica when he was a kid. Try to eavesdrop on our conversations. Erica used to flash her boobs at him, and he was so disgusted it made him run away; then he got older and that made him stay, so she stopped.”

“I feel sorry for him. He keeps thinking of excuses to come and talk to me. He’s lonely.”

For the first time since Christmas Day, Sarah’s indifference to Sam shifted slightly. She had barely spoken to him since the incident. Maybe she would agree to take him fishing next time he asked.

A yacht on the horizon, a white flag on the great slab of blue, distracted her. Hall saw it too and ran down to the edge of the rock.

“There’s a returning yacht!” Hall waved even though the boat was ten kilometers out to sea. “Ahoy!”

All week they had watched the racing yachts sliding down the coast toward Hobart. By the time the yachts reached the Bay of Fires, the most treacherous part of the journey across Bass Strait was behind them. They were only a day’s sailing away from the dockside festivities. A couple of days ago the yacht that would come last had passed. Sarah had felt sorry for it, but Hall had told her not to.