The Dry (38 page)

He called her by her mum's name the first time he hit her. She could see in her dad's cloudy eyes that the word had just slid out, as slippery as oil, as his fist slammed into her shoulder. He was drunk, and she was fourteen, with looks that were on the turn from child to woman. Her mum's photo had long been removed from the mantelpiece, but the woman's distinctive features were returning to the farmhouse each day as Ellie Deacon grew older.

He hit her once, then after a long while it happened again. Then again. And again. She tried watering down the booze. Her father realized from his first sip, and she never made that mistake again. At home she wore tops that showed her bruises, but her cousin Grant just turned on the TV and told her to stop winding up her old man. Her schoolwork deteriorated. If the teachers noticed, it was with a sharp comment about her lack of attention. They never asked why.

Ellie began to speak less and discover more what both her parents liked so much about bringing a bottle to their lips. The girls she thought were friends looked at her strangely and whispered when they thought she couldn't hear. They had enough problems of their own, with their skin and weight and boys, without Ellie making them look even more out of place. A few teenage tactical moves later and Ellie found herself out in the cold.

She'd been on her own in Centenary Park on a Saturday night with a bottle in her bag and nowhere else to be when she'd heard the two familiar figures laughing in low voices from the bench. Aaron and Luke. Ellie Deacon felt a flutter, like finding something she'd forgotten but once held close.

It took them all a little getting used to. The boys looked at her like they had never seen her before. But she liked it. Having two people in her life doing as she said rather than telling her what to do suited her fine.

When they were much younger, she had preferred Luke's exhilaration and bravado, but now she found herself more drawn to Aaron's subtle thoughtfulness. Luke was nothing like her dad and cousin, she knew that, but she couldn't shake the feeling that hidden deep in his fabric there was a small part of him not completely unlike them either. It was almost a relief when Gretchen turned his head at least part of the way with her radiant siren call.

For a while it was good. More time with her friends meant less time at home. She got a part-time job and learned the hard way to hide her money from her cash-strapped dad and cousin.

She was happier, but it made her careless and cocky around her dad. It wasn't long before her sixteen-year-old face, with a smart mouth shaped so much like her mother's, was forced against a couch cushion until she thought she would pass out.

A month later, a filthy tea towel was pulled across her nose and mouth while she clawed at her dad's hands. When at last he let go, her frantic first intake of air smelled like the booze on his breath. That was the day Ellie Deacon stopped drinking. Because that was the day she decided she would run. Not immediately, and not from one bad situation to something worse. But soon. And for that, she would need a clear head. Before it was too late.

The catalyst came in the middle of a dark night, as she awoke in her room to find his weight on top of her and his jabbing fingers everywhere. A stab of pain and his soused voice slurring her mother's name in her ear. Finally, mercifully, she was able to push him off, and as he left he shoved her hard, sending her head snapping backward and connecting with a crack against her bedpost. In the morning light, she ran her finger over the dent in the wood and groggily scrubbed the spot of blood from the pink carpet. Her head was aching. She felt the sting of tears. She didn't know where she hurt most.

When Aaron discovered the gap in the rock tree the next afternoon it was like a sign from above. Run. It was hidden, secret, and big enough to conceal a bag. It was perfect. Filled with a tentative spark of hope, she had looked at Aaron's face and let herself realize for the first time how much she would miss him.

When they'd kissed, it made her feel better than she thought she could, until his hand reached up and touched her sore head. She'd jerked away in pain. She looked up and saw the dismayed look on Aaron's face, and at that moment hated her dad almost as much as she ever had.

She wanted so badly to tell Aaron. More than once. But of all the emotions surging through Ellie Deacon's body, the most acute was fear.

She knew she wasn't the only person frightened of her father. His payback for any slight, real or perceived, was swift and brutal. She had seen him issue his threats then carry them out. Hoard favors, poison fields, run over dogs. In a community struggling to survive, people had to pick their battles. When every card was on the table, Ellie Deacon knew there was not one person in Kiewarra she could truly rely on to stand up to him.

So she made her plan. She took her saved-up money, and she quietly packed a bag. She hid it by the river, in the place where she knew it wouldn't be found. Waiting for her when she was ready. She booked a room in an anonymous motel three towns away. They asked for a name for the reservation, and she automatically said the only one that made her feel safe. Falk.

On a piece of notepaper, she scribbled his name and the date she had chosen and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. A talisman for luck. A reminder not to back out. She had to run, but she only had one chance. If my dad finds out, he will kill me.

They were the last words she wrote in her diary.

There was no smell of dinner in the air when Mal Deacon let himself into the farmhouse, and he felt a hot flash of irritation. He kicked Grant's boots off the couch and his nephew opened one eye.

“No bloody tea on yet?”

“Ellie's not back from school.”

Deacon snapped a beer from the six-pack by Grant's side and went through to the rear of the home. He stood at his daughter's bedroom door and took a swig from the can. It wasn't his first of the day. Or his second.

His eyes flicked to the white bedpost, with the dent in the wood and the mark on the pink carpet below, and he frowned. Deacon felt a cold spot form in his chest, like a tiny ball bearing. Something bad had happened there. He stared at the dent, and a grotesque memory threatened to emerge. He took a long drink until it slid back silently beneath the shadowy surface. Instead, he allowed the alcohol to carry the first tendrils of anger through his veins.

His daughter was supposed to be here, and she wasn't. She was supposed to be here, with him. She might be late, a rational voice barely whispered, but then he'd seen the way she'd been looking at him lately. It was a look he recognized well. The same look he'd seen five years earlier. A look that said, enough. Good-bye.

He felt an acid wave surge through him, and suddenly he was slamming open her wardrobe door. Her backpack was gone from its usual spot. The shelves showed one or two gaps in the neatly folded clothes. Deacon knew the signs. Her sneaking around. Keeping secrets. He'd missed them once before. Not again. He wrenched drawers out of the dresser, upending the contents on the floor, his beer spilling on the carpet as he rifled through for clues. Suddenly, he stopped still. He knew with cold certainty where she'd be. The same place her bloody mother used to run.

Little bitch, little bitch.

He staggered back to the living room, hauled a reluctant Grant to his feet, and thrust the truck keys at him.

“We're going to get Ellie. You're driving.”

Little bitch, little bitch.

They took a couple of cans for the road. The sun burned orange as they tore along the dirt tracks toward the Falks' place. No way was she leaving. Not this time.

He was wondering what he would do if it was already too late when he caught a glimpse, and his heart jumped in his throat. A single sudden movement as a pale T-shirt and familiar flash of long hair disappeared into the tree line beyond the Falks' place.

“She's there.” Deacon pointed. “Heading toward the river.”

“I didn't see anything.” Grant frowned, but he pulled the truck to a stop.

Deacon jumped out, leaving his nephew behind as he ran across the field and plunged into the shadows of the trees. His vision was tinted red as he stumbled along the path in pursuit.

She was bending over by an odd-shaped tree when he caught her. Ellie heard the noise too late and looked up, the perfect o of her mouth gaping wide in a scream as he grabbed her hair.

Little bitch, little bitch.

She wouldn't leave. She wouldn't bloody leave this time. But she was writhing, he noticed through his haze, and it was making it hard to hold her. So he clubbed her with an open palm, around the head. She staggered and fell backward, landing with a soft groan on the edge of the bank, her hair and shoulders dipping into the black river water. Her eyes were looking at him in that way he recognized, and he thrust a hand under her chin until the murky water covered that face.

She'd fought when she realized what was happening. He stared at his own eyes reflected back at him in that dark river and held her harder.

He'd had to promise the farm to Grant as they searched the bank in the dying light for stones to weigh her down. He had no choice. Especially once his nephew found the note with Falk's name on it in her pocket. Suggested it might be a useful item to leave in Ellie's room. They searched until the last of the light disappeared, but they never did find her backpack.

It was only much later, when he was alone that first night and for many nights to come that Mal Deacon wondered if he'd meant to hold his daughter quite so tightly.

Falk sat for a long time after reading Ellie's words, staring out at the empty river. At last, he shut the diary and zipped it back into the bag with the other possessions. He stood and slung the backpack over his shoulder.

The sun was gone, and night had fallen around him, he realized. Above the gum trees, the stars were bright. He wasn't worried. He knew the way. As he walked back to Kiewarra, a cool breeze blew.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I had never realized how many people were involved in bringing a novel to life, and I am truly grateful to the many people who have helped me along the way.

A big thank-you to my editors, Christine Kopprasch and Amy Einhorn at Flatiron Books, Cate Paterson at Pan Macmillan, and Clare Smith at Little, Brown, who have elevated the book through their intelligent notes, insight, and advice. Thank you for offering me such a wonderful opportunity as a debut author.

I am very grateful to all who worked so hard to get this book ready and onto the shelves, including the various talented copyeditors, designers, and marketing and sales teams.

I feel lucky every day for the constant support and tireless work of my agents, Clare Forster at Curtis Brown Australia, Alice Lutyens and Eva Papastratis from Curtis Brown UK, Daniel Lazar at Writers House, and Jerry Kalajian at the Intellectual Property Group. They have gone above and beyond at every turn.

Thank you to the Wheeler Centre in Melbourne and the judges, organizers, and supporters of the Victorian Premier's Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript. The award is an invaluable opportunity for emerging writers, and winning in 2015 gave me a key that opened a thousand doors.

To get a book published, I had to write it first, and for that I will always be indebted to my fellow writers on the Curtis Brown Creative 2014 online course. Thank you for the wisdom of your collective talent; this book almost certainly would not exist in this form without you. Special thanks to teacher Lisa O'Donnell, my friend Edward Hamlin, and course director Anna Davis.

And thanks and love, of course, to my family, Mike, Helen, Michael, and Ellie Harper, for making books such an important part of our life. And to my lovely husband, Peter Strachan, who always believed in this novel.