Salvage (17 page)

‘I scare you now, don’t I?’

‘A little, yes.’

‘But you know I’d never hurt you. I’d never leave you. The rest, all of them, they’ll all go eventually, nothing left but a hole in the ground and a handful of hair.’

Melanie reached for her locket and faltered, the habit stronger than her knowledge that the necklace was gone, probably pulled off by Paul when they’d struggled in the water. When she’d discovered it missing in the helicopter, its loss had hit her like a physical blow, and she’d clung to Richard, suddenly so terrified of losing him, too.

‘I’ll take my chances, like everyone does.’

Melanie twisted her wedding ring. Richard was safe now. Helena had saved him. Why? To make Melanie choose? What if she picked option C, neither of the above?

‘You’re going to stay with him, aren’t you?’ Helena asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you are going to stay. To grow old. To die.’

‘I am happy to be alive,’ Melanie said. ‘I guess death’s the price I have to pay to realise that.’

Helena wiped a dark tear from her eye. It glistened, a ruby, on her finger. She licked it off and crossed to the window, as though she could see through the blankets and curtains.

‘I’m like the ocean. Constant. Never changing. The same thing, over and over again.’ She turned to Melanie. ‘Do you think the ocean gets tired?’

‘I can help you, Helena. There’s the whole world…’

‘I think it is time I learnt to swim.’

‘What?’

She jerked on the blankets covering the windows. They tore, the sound so harsh in the stillness. Dust clouded as the material crumpled to the floor. Sunlight lanced into Melanie’s vision, making her eyes water. The air glittered, sunshine on motes.

‘I think we must all learn to swim, each in our own sea,’ Helena said. ‘You have taught me that.’

‘Wait.’ Melanie reached out. ‘You don’t have to…’

Helena kissed her hand, her lips dry and cool, her exposed skin already flaking.

‘Walk with me?’

‘God, Helena, just because I won’t—’

‘No more living through others,’ Helena whispered. ‘This I can do for myself, and maybe then I, too, can know what it feels like to be truly alive.’

They walked hand in hand towards the sea, the sand scalding underfoot, the air fresh. By the time they reached the shore, Helena was leaning on Melanie for support. Her skin had taken on a waxen hue, the veins pronounced, blood leaking from cracks in her flesh like tree sap.

There were plenty of vehicle tracks on the dune but no sign of the Jeep. Melanie realised only then that no one had told her if they’d found Paul’s body.

They stood with waves lapping around their ankles. Melanie still wore her sandals; she didn’t care. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the answer.’ She was sure of that much.

‘It’s all right,’ Helena assured her. ‘I am not afraid of Jaws.’

She kissed Melanie on the lips, a taste of ash and copper lingering, and Melanie resisted the urge to wipe it away. It was all she had; she wanted to keep it as long as she could.

‘I think I will not wear my clothes to go swimming,’ Helena said, making Melanie smile even as she began to cry.

Helena stripped off her dress, and squared her blistering shoulders, and waded into the sea. The cloth washed around Melanie’s feet like weed and she pulled it out, unwilling to leave it like just another piece of flotsam. With the sopping material in her hands, Melanie squinted into the sparkling ocean until she could no longer see Helena’s thin, pale form. Gulls skimmed the water, as though searching, then, finding nothing, they soared higher to maintain their vigil.

Melanie hung the dress on a branch and sat in the shade to wait, just in case Helena fought her way back. She knew it was in vain but there was no rush. The last barge didn’t leave till late, and she liked the beach. It was peaceful here.

This novella was born of the sea. It washed up on the shore of Bribie Island over three years during my writing group’s annual retreats at the now defunct but then excellent Joondoburri Conference Centre. The Edge Writing Group have become friends as well as confederates, supporting my belief that the people we meet along the way are the best part of the writer’s journey.

The three Lady Corpsers also offered solid advice, and I appreciate having been able to float this story past them during our own seaside retreats.

Jack Dann, who kept the faith when I had none, inspirational Kim Wilkins, coffee compatriot Alison Goodman and the ever-supportive Sean Williams are among the tutors whose valued advice over the years has informed this story.

Wendy Rule’s
The Lotus Eaters
album was on high rotation during writing sessions. Elizabeth Vandiver’s translation of Sappho’s gorgeous ‘Hymn to Aphrodite’ was a beacon for this story’s themes — my thanks to former workmate Lyndal Cairns for the introduction to this work. I’m very pleased to be able to pay tribute to Wendy and Elizabeth with this book’s epigraphs.

Twelfth Planet Press was my first choice of publisher for this story, so I was elated when Alisa Krasnostein confirmed, only a day before she won a World Fantasy Award for her press’s achievements, that she would publish the book. What a great job she and her team have done. Dion Hamill has capped it all off with his atmospheric cover art.

I also owe my deepest thanks to my wife and fellow writer Kirstyn McDermott for her unflagging support and uncompromising, insightful critiques.

Jason Nahrung grew up on a Queensland cattle property and now lives in Melbourne with his wife, the writer Kirstyn McDermott. His fiction is invariably darkly themed, perhaps reflecting his passion for classic B-grade horror films and ’80s goth rock. He has an MA in creative writing, is the co-author of the supernatural thriller
The Darkness Within
(Hachette Australia), and has more novels and short stories in the works. He works as a journalist and editor to fund both his travel addiction and an enduring love affair with New Orleans. He lurks online at www.jasonnahrung.com.

You can tell a lot about a person from their coffee order. I play a game with the girls who work in my café—guess the order before the customer opens their mouth. It’s fun because half the time you’re spot on—the bloke who would rather die than add anything to his long black, the girl who doesn’t want to admit how weak she likes her latté, the woman who’ll deliberate for twenty minutes as to whether or not she wants a piece of cake (she does), the mocha freak, the decaf junkie.

The rest of the time, you’re completely wrong. An old age pensioner requests a soy macchiato, a gang of pink haired school girls want serious espresso shots, a lawyer in a designer suit stops to chat for half an hour about free trade… The best thing about people is how often they surprise you.

Ever wondered what kind of coffee a murderer drinks? Yeah, me neither.

I tumbled into the kitchen of Café La Femme, arms full of bakery boxes, a vintage mint-green sundress swirling at knee-height. Late as usual, but at least I was wearing my favourite sandals.

A lady can cope with anything when her shoes match her bra.

Nin paused in the middle of kneading focaccia dough to stare at me from under her expressive eyebrows. I love her eyebrows. They make Frida Kahlo’s look meek. ‘They’re here again,’ she said, and went back to kneading.

My assistant cook doesn’t use paragraphs when a sentence will do, so I had to read between the lines. ‘They’ almost certainly referred to several respected members of the Hobart police force, most of them in uniform, some of them armed. ‘Here’ meant all the comfortable chairs in the main room of the café, and probably leaning on the counter as well. ‘Again’ meant that Nin was sick to death of them all asking her where I was, and how I was doing, and I probably owed her a raise.

I couldn’t afford to give her a raise, so I piled my boxes of bread rolls, bagels and croissants on the bench and tied on my
Barbarella
apron instead. ‘Can I help you with that dough?’

Nin’s eyebrows judged me so hard.

‘Okay, okay. I just have to bring in the eggs, and then I’ll go front of house. Five minutes.’

I ducked outside and took several breaths of salty spring air before she could object. Five minutes, and I could just about deal with a café full of guns and bicycle clips. Couldn’t I? The café courtyard is a gravel square walled in by sandstone blocks that were once shaped by convict hands. I keep saying I’ll clean it up and put tables out here, but the truth is I don’t want to lose my little sanctuary of calm.

Our local egg supplier had left a basket by the back step. I’d asked her more than once to take them straight into the kitchen so no one will trip over them, but she claims to be afraid of Nin’s eyebrows. Who can blame her?

As I leaned down to pick up the basket, I caught a whiff of strawberry perfume, and then someone came up behind me and yanked my braid, hard. I reacted with a lifetime of skipped self defence classes by screaming like a girl, and slamming my basket of eggs behind me and into the face of my assailant.

‘What the—!’ she exclaimed in disgust, and let go of my hair.

Oops. I turned around to see a tall, glamorous woman in black. Not black like a Goth, but black like Emma Peel in
The Avengers
, circa 1966. ‘Is that actually a cat-suit?’ I asked, impressed. Even if I had a stomach as flat as hers, I doubt I’d have the nerve to wear something like that, and I have (almost) no shame when it comes to fashion.

‘It was,’ said my assailant. Egg and shell dripped down over her black jumpsuit and form-fitting black leather vest, and into her fitted leather boots.

‘Great outfit,’ I offered.

‘Thanks.’ She crossed her arms, elegant and menacing despite wearing twenty dollars worth of smashed free range egg. ‘So where is he?’

‘You’re going to want to get in a shower really soon. Raw egg does bad things to hair, when it goes hard…’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She paused meaningfully. ‘Tabitha? I’m in a hurry here. Your landlord. The arsehole. Where is he?’

Ah, well that made more sense. She was looking for Darrow. ‘Does he owe you money? Or are you planning to hurt him?’ Both possibilities were more than likely.

‘Both. Hurry up, I can feel my hair hardening as we speak.’

‘I don’t know where he is,’ I admitted. ‘Honestly, haven’t seen him for weeks. But he’s Darrow. He’ll stroll back in, sooner or later.’

She gave me a filthy look, and somehow managed to still look gorgeous in the process. ‘You wouldn’t lie to protect him, would you?’

‘Of course not.’

Yeah, I probably would. There’s something about stupidly attractive men. They smile, and your knees turn to honey, and suddenly you’re doing things you never thought you would, like giving false witness, or accidentally learning how to poach quail eggs. But I wasn’t lying today. ‘If you must beat the information out of someone, why not try his white-haired old grandmother?’

The woman in black smiled tightly. ‘Good suggestion. I’ll keep it in mind.’

I didn’t feel guilty. Darrow’s white-haired old grandmother was more than a match for either of us. ‘Okay, then. I have to go inside and call my egg supplier. And evict twenty
police officers
from my café.’ I backed away from her, until I reached my kitchen door. ‘Oh—Xanthippe?’

‘What?’ she said, sounding tired.

‘Good to see you back.’

She glanced down at her egg-streaked outfit. ‘Yep. Just like old times.’

Back in the kitchen, Nin had put the focaccia in our little pizza oven to toast, and was making salad rolls so that the breakfast crowd could take their lunch away with them. When I was growing up, a salad roll was a confection-like sticky bun filled with cheese, tomato, lettuce, beetroot and sliced egg, all glued together with a mock-mayonnaise. Good old Australian corner shop tucker. Now, if it didn’t have cranberry sauce, gouda or red pesto on it, our customers whinged the roof down. Oh, and ham wasn’t good enough for most of the hipster lunch set, even if it was triple smoked and carved off an organic local pig. 98% fat free turkey and smoked salmon were where it was at—with a growing interest in grilled mushrooms and haloumi.

I realised I had reached the point of no return when I put ‘tofu and ricotta salad roll, deconstructed’ on the menu, and it became my biggest seller. After that, I started really having fun. If food isn’t creative, what’s the point?

Unfortunately I still had a very vocal (if minority) customer base who were firmly attached to the good old days, and relied on me to provide the basic staples of Man Food. Steak, fried potato products and pies. I never had this much trouble with the uni students when I was working at the café on campus. At least they appreciated an ironic sprout when they saw one.

Well, no more. The old guard were going to have to find their pies somewhere else. I had hipsters to feed.

The customer bell twanged loudly in the café.

‘In a minute,’ I protested as Nin’s eyebrows became stern and judgemental. ‘Egg emergency.’

As I picked up the phone, a tall, dark and handsome police officer in street uniform put his head through the swinging doors. ‘Tish, the natives are getting restless.’

I rolled my eyes at the old nickname, and handed the phone to Nin instead. ‘Call Monica. We’re going to need another three dozen. Might require grovelling.’

She dialled, knowing a good deal when she saw one. It was up to me to deal with them up front.

‘So,’ I said to Senior Constable Leo Bishop, ‘by natives, you mean the usual gang of reprobates?’

Bishop grinned his gorgeous grin at me. ‘The accepted term is still police officers, you know.’

We went through to the café together. Two ordinary customers sat at a window table, enjoying platters of muesli trifle and plum honey toast. The other fourteen customers—sprawling on tables and generally holding up the walls—were mostly over forty, uniformed and slightly dangerous. Even the detectives were so painfully plain clothed that their police credentials were obvious.

Bishop was pushing thirty, but the other adjectives still applied. Uniformed and dangerous. ‘One of these days,’ I warned him in a low voice. ‘You’re all going to get bored with keeping an eye on me.’