Rebecca wills the camera to swing left, sensing Aden is outside the shot, arms crossed, watching. The weather report comes on. She switches off the TV, realises she’s had it on constantly.
She takes her cigarettes out to the back step and sits in the weak morning sun. The day is overcast. Her view is of overlapping dry paddocks rising to a ridge of bush. There are no sheep she can see. There are never any sheep. She could count on her fingers the times she’s sat outside and looked up to a flock of ewes. They’re like a locust plague moving through in the night and gone the next morning. There must be a shady side to the property they prefer to graze in the daytime.
Rebecca lights her cigarette. Three of the dogs come out from under the house and sit with her. Their smell is pungent, but one she’s used to. They scratch and nip at their coats. The boxer sneezes in disgust at her cigarette and moves away.
Rebecca constructs a scene in which Mrs Kincaid is reading the newspaper surrounded by Tri-Love friends, rolling cigarettes, discussing threesomes and other such bohemian issues. It’s a better picture than the one she’s been entertaining, one in which Mrs Kincaid is a bloated corpse floating in the river. Much better than that.
The most difficult thing to comprehend, though, is the idea of Mrs Kincaid coming home and going back to walking past the front gate and turning up at the school stalls buying fruitcake. After this, does Rebecca go back to riding on the school bus with Zach? And will he sling insults her way as though nothing has happened, sneer and say how he heard she let the local drug dealer give it to her doggy-style, and how she must have liked that? Is the outcome as simple as Joanne Kincaid: Town Nut, Rebecca Toyer: Town Bike?
Hard to know what to make of it then when Aden turns up on a motorbike. The dogs are whipped up into a frenzy by the sound, the dust, the helmet. They snarl when he dismounts, they’re as vicious as she’s ever seen them, foaming at the mouth, and it’s no better when he takes his helmet off and tries to calm them. They’re so savage she has to run barefoot down into the yard and yell at them to get back, scream at them to sit. He has to go around behind his bike to stop from being bitten.
Away from the noise and danger, he says to her, ‘I have that effect on animals. I think they take offence.’
Rebecca’s out of breath and unable to look at him. She watches the dogs go over to the bike. They sniff at it. One shies and they all jerk and run away.
‘I don’t think they’ve ever seen a bike like that before,’ she says.
‘Road bike.’
They stand on the porch. Because of the commotion any normal way of greeting each other has been thrown out of kilter – he’s closer to the door than she is, they haven’t got to test the water with hellos, or work out what’s going on with the first few sentences. There’s an awkward moment in which they swap places so as to take up their proper roles – as though they need their respective stage marks before being able to deliver the right lines.
He’s dressed head to toe in black leather, his jacket zipped up under his chin, tight pants, boots and gloves. He creaks with every move. He takes off his gloves with his teeth, puts them in his helmet. Under his arm he has a brown paper package, tied with string. He takes it and holds it out for her.
‘I’ve brought you a present.’
If it’s meant to shock, it does. Rebecca brings up her gaze. His smile is apologetic.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring you or come and see you. It’s been a hectic few days. But I know it’s no excuse. I’m really sorry.’
His hair is flat to his skull. He has blond, gingery bristle on his jaw and around his mouth, dark circles under his eyes. His nose is sunburnt. He’s not as handsome as she remembers him, but it doesn’t matter, it somehow makes him more perfect.
Something in her face makes him say, ‘You do know the search has been called off?’
‘I heard on the news this morning.’
‘It’d pretty much finished up anyway. But someone thinks they’ve seen her up at Charlotte’s Pass.’
‘Yeah.’
He licks his bottom lip, wipes it dry with his thumb. ‘So, anyway, I thought you’d be pleased – you weren’t the last to see her.’
When Rebecca doesn’t respond, he says, ‘I said you could keep my jumper.’
‘It didn’t really fit.’
‘Luke Redman said he saw you.’
‘Did he?’
Aden looks down at the package she’s still not taken from him.
‘I’ll go if that’s what you want, but please let me give you this.’
‘Luke Redman is a prick.’
‘I’m really sorry. It was Nigel, you know. I could have killed him. He can’t keep his mouth shut.’
Rebecca looks away. ‘You don’t have to give me anything.’
‘I’m not here apologising – I mean I am, but I’m not here just to apologise. I’m here because I want to see you.’
‘You don’t have to. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I hope it matters. I want it to matter.’
‘I thought I was too young?’
He grimaces. ‘Well, it’s sort of out there now, and any grief I was worried about I’ve already copped. I’ve had the lecture from my mother.’
‘Your mum knows?’
‘It’s a small town.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Despite everything, it’s happening – she’s shifting her weight, glancing up at his face. She catches herself touching her hair. The gift is momentarily forgotten. He’s got that unwavering light-grey gaze back, fixed on her, and a tentative smile showing the bottoms of his pointed teeth.
‘I thought we could go for a ride,’ he says. ‘I’ve brought my other helmet. I’ve even brought a picnic – tell me that’s not laying your cards on the table?’
‘You brought a picnic?’
‘Yep.’
‘Your mother’s made you do this, hasn’t she?’
‘I won’t lie, she made the picnic. And she’s invited you to dinner tonight. My mother thinks food fixes everything.’
‘And she bought the present?’
‘I did that.’
‘Dinner at the restaurant?’
‘I come with free dining and a full menu,’ he says, opening his arms. ‘It’s the only thing past girlfriends say they miss about me, so I suggest you take me up on it. I’ll put my waiter gear on and wait on you, if it makes you feel any better.’
‘It might.’
He smiles.
‘You probably just want to sleep with me again,’ she says, but it doesn’t come out the way she would have liked – sassy, flippant. Around him she can’t pull it off. She stumbles over the words, makes a mess of it, blushes and looks down at her feet.
‘Well, there is that too,’ he says.
The gift is a black leather jacket. Not, as she thought upon first tearing the brown paper, a black jumper. It’s a bike jacket, with extra pieces sewn into the elbows and shoulders, a zip down the front, cut to fit, stiff leather. It frightens her. She’s never been given such a gift. She sits down to look at it.
‘Where did you buy this?’
‘I went for a ride last night. Did a bit of early-morning shopping in the city and drove back this morning.’
‘It’s a leather jacket.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can’t believe you’d get me this.’
‘I’m worried it’s not going to fit. I got the woman in the shop to try it on for me, but … I dunno … Do you like it? Try it on.’
She stands, doesn’t quite know how to handle it.
It’s solid on, encasing.
He says, ‘You have to wear it in.’
Rebecca moves her shoulders, zips it up.
‘How does it feel?’
‘Good.’
‘Not too tight?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Like a tailor he comes forward and checks the fit for himself. He turns her around. He eyes it critically. ‘It’s pretty good.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘You don’t ask that.’
‘I can’t believe you bought me a leather jacket …’
‘I’m actually being a bit presumptuous – here’s your bike jacket because you
will
be riding with me.’ He laughs. ‘No, I got it because I reckon they’re the best jackets you can buy. They’re well made and they look better the older they get. Do you like it?’
‘Yes.’
He backs up and smiles. ‘You’ve gotta go and look at yourself.’
In her bedroom, in front of the mirror, she has a moment to herself, and in that time she stares into her eyes, and doesn’t look at the jacket. She feels the leather constrict every breath, touches her fingers to her lips and feels her respiration warm down the backs of her fingers. She holds her gaze, sees her own confusion, feels sorry for herself.
He comes in and catches her. ‘Hey – it’s not meant to make you cry.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
She takes a deep breath.
Of course he touches her then. The real apologies start, said softly in her ear, with his body close to hers, and she can’t believe they’re this close this quickly. She wonders whether it’s sex or love that makes it so personal like this.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you,’ he says, and there’s a part of her that thinks
He’s very good at this … this seduction …
It’s an adult word, too sophisticated for her, but it’s the only word that fits.
They kiss and it’s like settling into a more comfortable place. Making out is easier than conversation. It’s less awkward. But also she feels in him his tiredness. He
has
been up all night, his eyes are bloodshot, his muscles slack. When he pulls back from the kiss he grins in that dopey and fatigued way – drunk with drowsiness, no inhibitions. He tugs her onto the bed with him. ‘Will you sleep with me, Rebecca?’
He holds her with one arm against his chest. The room spins around her.
‘Yes.’
‘Mmm …’ He closes his eyes. ‘You know … I even like the way your name sounds.’
16
No-one else gets to read the report in the paper. When Zach’s father is finished with it he folds it in half and throws it in the bin. He goes through to the living room and turns off the TV. Not content with this, though, he takes a crystal vase from the top of the mantelpiece and hurls it at the screen. In among the smashed glass the TV makes a popping sound, like a huge globe going out.
Aunt Belinda is at the kitchen bench, serving up a late lunch, a roast. She flinches, but continues ladling gravy. Zach sits at the table watching his father’s movements through the open door of the living room. The phone rings.
‘I’ll get it,’ his father says as he enters the room.
‘Ben Kincaid,’ he says into the receiver. He lowers his head to listen. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I don’t see why I should. You read what I’ve had to … Watch the reports I’ve had to on the news … I don’t care … No, you listen to me! This sort of thing doesn’t go away with a retraction. I don’t want another single thing about my family or my wife in the paper. And I want the name of whoever authorised it to be put in print …’ There is a pause while he listens. ‘I didn’t mention it!’ he says, his voice rising to a bellow, ‘Because she didn’t have a car! The reason for the search was because she didn’t have a car! Why would I? … Don’t question my fucking reaction! My name is being dragged through the mud, my wife’s name is being dragged through the mud, the whole thing is a fucking circus! … No,’ he says, ‘don’t bother. I’ll find my own way up there.’
He slams the handpiece into the cradle and stands facing the wall.
‘Aden Claas,’ he says after a moment, his demeanour more controlled. ‘Aden Claas has done this.’
17
While Aden sleeps, Rebecca goes out to the bike and takes the picnic from where it’s packed in the compartment beside the seat. His wallet is there, pens and chewing gum, the usual bits and pieces, a box of condoms, a tatty paperback –
The Catcher in the Rye
– and a packet of tobacco. The bike is cobalt blue, sleek, new-looking, similar to what you see on racing tracks. She doesn’t unwrap the food, but takes it inside and puts it in the fridge.
When she checks on him she sees he’s summoned up enough energy to take off his boots and jacket. He’s lying on his back, hands under his head, in a white T-shirt and his leather pants, white socks, feet crossed at the ankles, deep in sleep. Not a twitch, not a flicker, rest that doesn’t call for blankets or curling on your side, but the ability to simply close your eyes.
True to her word she lies down on the bed beside him. She doubts she’ll sleep, but tries.
He’s reading when she wakes. He’s beside her with
The Shining
open and held in one hand above him. ‘You’re better than me,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t live alone and read this sort of stuff. I’d be a nervous wreck. Or haven’t you even read it?’ He turns the book to look at the spine. ‘What do you do – surgically remove each page and then glue the book back together when you’re finished?’
‘I look after it,’ she says quietly.
He thumbs through the pages, opens at a random spot and starts reading again. She fidgets because he’s bending back the cover, because he’s not reading front to back, and because he’s in her bed and reading.
‘This is bothering you, isn’t it?’ He doesn’t wait for her response, but closes the book and twists onto his side, pretends he’s going to lob the book over onto the chair. Rebecca reaches up to take it from him.
‘Here,’ he says, placing it with exaggerated reverence into her hands, ‘I’m sure Stephen King would be flattered you keep his novels looking so unread.’
His arm snakes around her as she puts the book on the bedside table.
‘Will we go and have our picnic?’ He pulls her into him, kisses the back of her neck. ‘Or stay here …’
‘Where were you going to take me?’
‘It’s cold,’ he says.
‘It’s not cold.’
‘It’s windy.’
She moves her arm to block his hand from wandering any further down her body. ‘It’s not that windy.’
He continues to kiss her neck. He edges his fingers beneath the band of her tracksuit pants, but when she’s unresponsive he groans and gets up from the bed.
‘What is it about eating while sitting on the grass that women find so appealing?’
This, she’d like to tell him, is why it appeals – the river, the moving sky, the sheltered spot, the way he lies propped up on one elbow and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and the way the conversation winds like the breeze, never jarring but always fresh. ‘… in pubs or bars,’ he is saying, ‘it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s not some kind of industrial site or gold mine. I’ll pick fruit or shell scallops before I’d ever pull on a hard hat. I’ll go up through Queensland and right up Cape York, across into the Northern Territory. You have to time it right though, so you’re not travelling through during the wet …’