Watershed (47 page)

He eyed me carefully, and kept his voice low. ‘I think you're done with the hard way now, Watchman.'

If there was a threat there, I didn't hear it, but his message was loud and clear. I just didn't have the strength to answer it. So I did what everyone else had been doing. I lied.

‘Yeah. I guess am.'

‘Good,' he said, and I stared at him, wondering, thinking of Reed's words and remembering Alex's despair.

‘She doesn't know, does she?' I asked him. ‘About what I did. My first assignment.'

‘No, she doesn't know. Ballard believed there was no reason to tell her. Now, I hope, there's no need.' And there was the threat.

‘No,' I agreed, feeling sick again.

Looking satisfied, he peered up the long tunnel. ‘You might need some help getting to where you're going.'

I shook my head. This wasn't his place and he wasn't the one I needed. In times of trouble, better the arsehole you know.

Ten steps, twenty, thirty, and I felt him behind me, long before I heard him. You don't live with someone for so long and not know his presence.

‘Not staying?' I asked, not stopping, but every step harder than the one before. Garrick fell in beside me, slowing his pace to mine.

‘Nah,' he said. ‘Taggart can handle it. Better at all the small talk.'

I didn't doubt that for a second, but I wasn't fooled. Done doing unto others, Garrick was taking care of his own.

‘Reckon you earned yourself a few more marks tonight,' he said.

‘Fuck that shit. I'm done.'

He laughed. ‘We'll see.'

I thought about what lay ahead, about the war Taggart hadn't wanted, about Tate and Connor, about Quinn and Amon and all the other Disses we had to track down; and I thought real hard about the message that Cade had deciphered and then folded away. The one that had been meant for Ballard.

‘You remember any of that code?' I asked Garrick.

‘Some,' he said, and I felt his stare. ‘Why?'

‘Dunno. Might be important,' I said, then tottered a few more steps before asking, ‘You trust Cade?'

‘You askin' coz of him or coz of her?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Answer's the same, but the questions are real different. You'd better make sure you're asking the right one.'

‘So it's a no, then.'

‘Never trust a man who trusts God, Jem,' he said, then added, ‘Or a woman with a knife.' And there was an edge to his voice I hadn't heard before.

‘Tate and Connor,' I said. ‘You get that from Cobb?'

‘You're gettin' better at workin' shit out, aren't you?' he said. ‘Dunno what Reed had going with him, but he sure was one to brag. And Cobb was real happy to share.'

Or maybe not so happy, I thought, remembering the man's opened body staked to the wall in Garrick's room. And feeling a sudden rush of nausea, hot and vile, I bent over, fighting to get air inside me, and failing.

Garrick watched me, impatient. ‘You gunna be doin' this all the way back, or you want some help?'

‘Is she still there?' I gasped. Because it wouldn't do to show any weakness now.

‘You stupid prick. C'mon.' He ducked under my good arm, taking all the weight, and I groaned when he started off, almost carrying me along. ‘It ain't worth it, Jem. She'll fuck you up.'

‘I'm gunna get her back, Garrick,' I said, slurring the words and sagging against him, and I heard his growl, as ominous as thunder rolling over the Sea, faint and fading out. But I didn't care. Alex was worth it, and I'd get her back.

Because I was Jeremiah and I was –

‘You know what to do,' he says, and I swallow, but everything's dry – so dry – throat, tongue, mouth. Voice. Dry as dust.

‘I can't.'
I can't.

‘You can. Or you know what'll happen.' He doesn't smile. ‘I'll be here, Jem, waiting.'

waiting

waiting

I enter the room, treading carefully around the boards I know will creak under my weight, following a path not walked in almost eight months. It's as I remember, the suffocating quiet begging to be broken, silvery dust motes stirred by my breath, simple furnishings; a table and three chairs, the long bench with its bucket, the hearth housing the cooking pot, a patched hemp rug on the floor. But this is no homecoming. Everything screams fear and dread and self-loathing. Despair. Ahead, a single window shaded against the heat, and silhouetted, a frail figure. The one I've come to find.

She turns, puzzled, then shocked. A face I know so well, have loved so long, a face I never thought to see again, a gentle face, but without its gentle smile. There's sorrow, and weariness, and a despair to match mine. Her voice is as frail as her body.

‘Jeremiah.' Her hands reach for mine, clasping with worn, dry fingers; her eyes weep the last of her water, wetting her face.

And I weep too.

‘He told me you were dead,' she says.

I am.
‘Not yet.'

‘No,' she says, and I know she knows. But she grips my hands tighter, with all the strength I don't have. She doesn't ask where
I've been, or how it is I've returned. Finally, she summons a smile that's slow to spread, pushing into her sadness like the first of morning's light. ‘At least you've finally cut that hair.'

‘Oh, Gam.' I pull her to me, cradling her thinness and feeling her soft sigh. And we stand like that, old and young, woman and man, good and bad, until she gives me a gentle squeeze and I let her go.

‘Jeremiah,' she says again. ‘My Jeremiah.'

‘No,' I tell her.
Not yours.
‘I'm not Jeremiah any more.'

There's a heavy silence until she nods, just once; a bitter bow of her head. ‘Yes, I see that. But to send you? It's so cruel.'

‘They've made me – I can't –'

I can't

I can't

‘Then don't,' she tells me.

‘If I don't, they will,' I say, and then sob, ‘I'm not Jeremiah any more.'

She understands, as only she can. As she always has. ‘No, not now. But one day. You remember what I told you. What goes around comes around. Every time.'

I bring up my right hand so it's between us. She won't let go of my left.

‘Why did you do it, Gam?' I whisper.

It takes a long time for her to reply. ‘For the same reason you did. Because I thought it might make a difference.' Then she sighs and looks around the small room. ‘You know, your grandfather never liked this place. And he was right. This isn't our world any more. We don't belong here.'

And maybe it's reason enough, but it's no excuse.

Dreams are nothing more than playing fields for the dead. But first the dead have to die.

I find the box. It's where it's always been, beside the mat I used to sleep on, hidden beneath the ragged hem of the curtain. It's fuller than I remember. Taking out a letter, I unfold and smooth the paper, but I can't read the words; they're small fish on the page, darting and dissolving in a hot wash of salted water, and the dark is closing in, shadows reaching out from the walls.

I don't hear him. Just feel his hand on my shoulder, heavy, a weight to press me to the chair.

‘Is it done?' he asks.

‘Yes.'

‘And the tag?'

I shake my head. A breath, maybe a sigh, and I hear him cross to the cot. A few seconds is all it takes, and he's back again, beside me. He'll always be there, always checking, always pressing, always crowding. Because I'm not Jeremiah any more, and now I belong to him.

‘And these?' He takes the letter and scans it, before looking down at me. But there's none of his usual scorn, none of the impatience he showed outside; he nods before refolding the paper and packing it away. When he hands me the box, I hold it tight to my chest, with both hands.

‘C'mon,' he says. ‘There's work to do.'

Writing a book is not a solitary endeavour and I've been very fortunate to gather an army of supporters along the way. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people:

• My agent, Gaby Naher, for your unwavering professionalism.
  
• Meredith Curnow, my editor Lex Hirst, and all the crew at Random House, for your boundless enthusiasm. I couldn't ask for a better publisher.
  
• Kate O'Donnell, of Line Creative, for pushing me in all the right directions;
  Watershed
  would never have made it to the shelves without you.
  
• Author Toni Jordan, for somehow managing to see potential in what was still a larval submission to the VPLA; the support you've provided since has been invaluable.
  
• The ACT Writers Centre 2014 HARDCOPY Program for offering me a place within a wonderful community of writers. Particular thanks to author Nigel Featherstone, for your friendship and your brilliant coordination of the program, and to my fellow Hardcopiers for your never-say-die attitude.
  
• Kylie Pye, Cathy Fleay, fellow writer, Sam Hawke, my step-daughter, Bronte, and my sister, Louise, for reading patiently and advising wisely.
  
• My two sons, Jack and Robbie, for managing without me for so long.
  

And to any who have offered support or encouragement along the way, I thank you. It's been a hell of a ride.

Finally, love and special thanks to my aunt, Alice Halstrom, who read every word of every draft and never once flinched at any of the content; I remain your greatest fan.

Jane Abbott was born in the UK, raised in the leafy suburbs of Sydney's North Shore, and now divides her time between Melbourne and central Victoria. She has tried her hand at most things and lived in many places.

Her second manuscript,
Watershed
, was written in 2013; it received a Commendation in the 2014 Victorian Premier's Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript. Her first manuscript for YA readers,
Elegy
, will be published by Penguin Random House in September 2016.