Swimming on Dry Land (9 page)

‘Pregnant?' I get this sickening feeling, a hot-cold flush that traps the air inside me. I stare out of the window while Maddie goes on.

‘Imagine, she's up the duff and there he is, pounding her. Good job he moved out. Sick bastard.'

I offer Maddie a beer, which she accepts, knocking the top off on the edge of the windowsill. ‘And now little Georgie, not the brightest button in the box. What do you make of it? The only thing the three of them have in common, as far as I can see, is that they live in this shithole. No offence.' Maddie downs her beer in large gulps. ‘Jake says the men are knocking off early to help with the search.'

‘Good.' I breathe deliberately in an effort to keep my balance.

Maddie slaps my shoulder as she goes out. I watch Monica sleep for a while. With my left hand on the sheet I try to smooth out the creases.

Walsh and Delaney call over around eight o'clock the next evening. I lead them into the office. There's a faint whiff of perfume in the air, Caroline's; it isn't a flowery smell, more like wood after rain. Makes me feel oddly nostalgic.

Pulling out a couple of chairs, I offer our guest detectives a drink, but it seems that I'm the only one in need of refreshment. So I pour myself a whiskey, taking a swig before I sit. My desk is cluttered. Monica used to sort my papers into neat piles before all this rigmarole. Walsh asks after my eldest niece as he strides around the room, finally standing behind Delaney's chair.

‘The doc gave her a tranquilliser,' I tell him.

He nods and then shakes his head.

‘We need a few more details from you,' Delaney says, dragging her chair up to my desk.

‘Fire away.'

‘What is Georgina's middle name?'

‘Her middle name?'

‘You are her uncle?'

If I smoked, I'd light a cigarette right now. Since I don't, I pick at my left nostril and study Delaney's teeth.

It's a good minute before she goes on: ‘How would you describe your relationship with your niece?'

‘My relationship?'

She throws a sharp glance back at Walsh, which stops him from flicking his pen on and off.

‘In the average day,' she says, forcing her words through those enormous teeth, ‘how much time did you spend with Georgina? On average.'

I make one of those huffing sighs. Can't help myself. ‘She takes a bath every day. Cleanest girl I ever met.' No one laughs. ‘It's an obsession.'

‘An obsession?'

‘The caravan doesn't have a bath.'

Delaney finally cuts to the kernel. ‘What's your theory, Mr Harvey?' She drops her clasped hands on the desk and leans in towards me.

‘My theory is that Georgie fell down a shaft.'

‘If it wasn't for the fact that she has water – am I right in thinking she has some kind of water bottle?' I nod. ‘If it wasn't for that, there is no way she would survive. Four days is a long time. Even with water, it's unlikely.'

‘Unlikely.'

‘How do you explain the fact that she hasn't been found? That none of the three missing have been found?' She sits back, taking her hands off the desk.

‘I'm not the detective,' I say. Delaney has a way of winding me up, making me come out with all these smart comments.

Walsh starts pacing, tapping his pen against his forehead. We both watch him. When he stops tapping, Delaney turns back to me. ‘Would you say that you and Georgina were close?'

‘Did you ever keep goldfish?' Before Delaney jumps in, I add: ‘Georgie's a bit like a goldfish. Goes round and round without bothering. Doesn't care whether she passes a bridge or one of those fake castles. Fish don't mind if you buy coloured stones or grey stones for the bottom of the tank.'

‘I don't think… '

‘You asked if we are close. As close as you get to your goldfish that you feed every day. You don't want it to die.'

As she gets up, I ask: ‘Do you think the other two were murdered?' It's a valid question.

‘Do
you
?' Delaney gives me her interrogator's eyes. I might as well be in a James Bond film, except my office lacks the wall-sized fish tank and the requisite blonde. (Delaney is mouse-brown and as far from a Bond girl as … well, you or I.)

Enough's enough. ‘Sleep well,' I say, heading for the door. ‘Be a long day tomorrow.'

Delaney nods in her trite, contradictory way. I open the door and see them both out through the sitting room. Monica is balanced on the edge of the settee, writing in her notebook. I'm surprised she's still awake.

Walsh peers over her shoulder. ‘Busy, eh?'

‘You haven't found her, have you?'

Unfazed by Monica's directness, he says: ‘Not yet.' He frowns slightly, picking at the flaking skin on his fingers.

‘She's good at hiding, isn't she? Better than me.'

He pushes out a smile and follows us into the hall, closing the door behind him. In a low voice he asks: ‘What do you know about Mr M?'

‘As much as you. I told you everything last time, there isn't much to know.'

They leave. The slap of the door closing makes the air sting red for a second or two. In the dim of the shop nightlights I notice that the canned drinks need restocking. Another job for Karlin tomorrow. I don't tell her what to do; she's her own boss. Only sometimes I notice things.

I stay out of the search. Someone has to keep an eye on Monica. By 9 am I'm in the office making calls to fencing contractors, trying to get the best deal. I fix an appointment with Barrier Lines. Then I go through some paperwork, spin another story to the bank, write to my lawyer friend. This way I get through the morning without stewing too much. In my experience, once you let yourself believe the worst, it might as well have happened.

Caroline comes in around lunchtime to check on Monica.

‘Any luck?' I ask. I lean back against the office door, holding a mug of tea.

She props herself on the edge of the camp bed, smoothes the hair off Monica's face, and starts talking in a whisper.

‘Do you need anything?' I say. She pulls the sheet up to Monica's chin and adjusts the cover. ‘Caroline?'

After a minute or so she gets up and leaves without acknowledging me. That's when I slam the mug hard against the wall. It smashes; shards of porcelain and lukewarm tea fly across the room. Monica hides her head under the sheet. After hammering out my full range of curses, I decide to follow Caroline, but change my mind as I reach the door.

‘Uncle Eddie?' Monica emerges from the sheet and hoists herself up on her elbow. ‘Are you cross with me?'

‘Course not. Sorry, skunk. Didn't mean to frighten you.' I pick up the bigger pieces of mug and chuck them in the bin. Mug-throwing is not the kind of thing I would normally do. ‘Things don't always work out the way you want them to.'

‘What do you think Georgie is doing?' Monica knits her hands together and stares at me.

I want to give her an answer, something that might make her smile, but the best I can come up with is: ‘I don't know. I really don't.'

Monica nods. ‘She's got us this time.'

A week goes by. Let me take you through it. Last Tuesday, the day Caroline ignores me, I drink a bottle of wine and add three new buildings to my Akarula model. The next day, mid-morning, Caroline marches in. I'm in the office doing paperwork. She stands in front of my desk, arms folded, and says, ‘Seeing as you're not bothering, can you at least watch Moni.' Not bothering? What's that supposed to mean? She doesn't give me a chance to ask or explain, just rushes out as if she's being chased. What difference will an hour make? Mid-morning is our time. Ordinarily Mike would still be asleep.

Thursday, Caroline and Mike come in exhausted. I've made dinner, which neither of them eat. Mike plays around with his cutlery. When I turn on the light – we've been sitting in the dark – Mike says, ‘I don't believe…' and stops right there, looking down at his knife as if he's never seen one before. Then he sinks into his half-sleep state. Caroline flaps around, fetching water for his bloody pills, but then he springs to life. ‘I'm going back out.' He lets his knife fall to the floor.

‘There's no point searching in the dark,' I tell him as he does up the laces on his boots.

Caroline tacks on behind him, turning to say, ‘He won't sleep until he finds her.'

So Mike is suddenly the hero; and the way Caroline's been looking at me lately, I must be the Anti-Christ. If I worked like a dog, would that make me a better person? Is it a sin to live the easy life? No life is easy. Surely she knows that. There are people searching; detectives on the job. Why not let them get on with it? She's furious with me for not beating myself into the ground like her and Mike. I know she is, but she doesn't realise that I'm already ten feet under.

Well that was Thursday. Then Friday I meet her in the shop, just as I'm leaving to go and check some details for the fencing contractor who is due to arrive any day. We hover either side of the crisp stand. Caroline asks where I'm going. When I tell her, she shakes her head in disbelief. I understand that she's distraught, but why take it out on me? Can't she see what I'm doing? Doesn't she get the fact that I am trying to protect everyone?

‘What's happened to you, Eddie?'

Frankly I wasn't going to get into one of her brain-wrecking conversations, so I left it at that.

Saturday comes and goes. I don't see Caroline at all; she basically avoids me. Sunday, she is out all day, searching with the rest of them. I check up on Monica every now and then, but I've got work to do. And she seems fine. She's an independent sort of girl.

Mike comes in around lunchtime with a small plastic figure in his hand, which is hard to see because it's caked in dirt. He shows it to Monica, who just shrugs and goes back to her book. I ask him what he's doing.

‘Thought it might have been Georgie's. I found it behind one of the portacabins,' he says, wiping it clean with his shirt flap. When he leaves, I throw the figure in the bin. Does he really think this will help?

Mike spends most of Monday with the detectives, and I figure that if I'm going to make it up with Caroline, now is my chance. We're in the kitchen. I rustle Monica onto her feet, and ask Caroline if she wants to come for a drive.

‘A drive?' she says, acting all furious again before storming out and forgetting her sun hat.

My niece and I drive round to the general store, which is more or less in the middle of the street. Monica shoots off down the side of the wall to fetch the watering can. Ellie Warton may have given up with the lawn, but the tubs are a blaze of colour: some sort of thick-leafed ivy, and a succulent with reddish leaves that Michael calls Devil's Tail.

‘Post arrived?' I ask as I go in. The store is like a cave, with metal shelves stacked up to the ceiling. Ellie is piling bags of sugar in a pyramid on the counter. She's the kind of woman you can imagine baking bread in the middle of a typhoon.

‘Well?' she says, with her customary sigh. She is the oldest of the Akarula women, fifty-something at a guess. Her husband, Scott, has been a miner, or at least involved in mining, for over thirty years.

‘I thought I heard the mail plane.'

‘About an hour ago. I expect this is what you're looking for.' There are a pile of letters and small packages on the counter, but then I see the box on the floor behind her. Ellie plucks at the dark hairs on her chin as she studies me.

‘They said it was a big one.' I go round and try to lift it, but can't shift the thing more than an inch.

‘Weight of a dead body,' she says without smiling.

I push the box outside.

‘Wait up.' Ellie goes through to the back and comes out wheeling a trolley. Together we manage to lug the box onto the metal prongs. Can't say I especially like this woman. Her eyes are too small; they make her look mean. Both of us watch Monica spray the flowers with that red tin watering can.

‘How's Scott getting on?' I wheel the box over to the truck with Ellie bent over holding on to the front.

‘Asthma's at him.' She runs her hand down the side of the box and then pins me with one of her small-eyed stares. ‘How old is she?'

‘Four.'

She nods and shifts round to Monica. ‘Aren't you the best helper? Wait up till I see what I can find.'

Monica is not stupid. Every time she waters Ellie's tubs, she gets a free notebook.

‘What's in the box?' Monica asks as we drive back.

‘A surprise for your dad.'

At the service station, I pull up outside the shed, and push the box in with Monica's help. Mike's birthday is not for another week.

And now it's Tuesday again. A handful of people have already turned up to complain about their bounced cheques. I explain that there has been a miscommunication and assure them that I will sort it out. I'm on a thin rope, though. Any day now the bank will send their house-thieves in to repossess the lot, unless I can convince them to stay. People are restless. My fence should be up in a week, which will lend some security to the place. It doesn't help that Delaney and her sidekick are going round like a pair of scaremongers. They've already stayed too long. The last time it was only three days.