The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(69)

Instead he stooped and with a tissue wiped her engraved name free from dust and dirt. He did the same with her date of death. He’d never needed a reminder of the anniversary. As far back as he could remember, he’d known that she’d died the day he was born. Complications and blood loss, his father had told him gruffly when he was old enough to ask, before looking at his son in a way that made Falk feel that he was almost, but not quite, worth it.

As a kid he’d taken to cycling out to the cemetery alone, at first standing solemnly for hours in penance at his mother’s grave. Eventually, he realized nobody cared whether he stood there or not, and their relationship had thawed into something of a one-way friendship. He tried hard to feel some form of filial love, but even then it had seemed like an artificial emotion. He simply couldn’t ignite it for a woman he’d never known. It made him feel guilty that deep down he felt more for Barb Hadler.

But he’d liked visiting his mother, and she was a hell of a listener. He’d started bringing a snack, books, and homework and would loll about in the grass by the headstone and chatter in free-flowing monologue about his day and his life.

Before fully realizing it, Falk found himself doing that very thing now, stretching out his limbs and lying back in the stubby grass alongside the grave. The shade from the trees took the edge off the heat. He stared at the sky, and in a voice barely above a murmur, he told her all about the Hadlers and his homecoming. About seeing Gretchen again. About the heavy feeling in his chest when he’d seen Mandy in the park and Ian in the shop. He spoke about his fears that he might never find out the truth about Luke.

After he had run out of words, he closed his eyes and lay still beside his mother, cocooned by the warmth of the ground at his back and the air all around him.

When Falk woke the sun had moved in the sky. With a yawn he stood up and stretched his stiff joints. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there. He shook himself off and set out through the cemetery toward the main gates. Halfway, he stopped. There was one more grave he needed to visit.

It took him far longer to find this one. He had only seen it once, at the funeral, before he’d left Kiewarra for good. Eventually, he stumbled across it almost by accident: a small stone huddled anonymously among a crowd of more ornate memorials. It was overgrown with yellow grass. A single bunch of dead stalks wrapped in tattered cellophane lay under the headstone. Falk took his tissue and reached out to wipe the grime from the engraved name. Eleanor Deacon.

“Don’t touch, you mongrel.”

The voice came from behind, and Falk jumped. He turned and saw Mal Deacon sitting deep in the shadows at the feet of a huge carved angel in the row behind. He had a beer bottle in his hand and his fleshy brown dog asleep at his feet. It woke and yawned, exposing a tongue the color of raw meat as Deacon hauled himself to his feet. He left the bottle at the foot of the angel.

“Get your hands off her before I cut ’em off.”

“No need, Deacon. I’m leaving.” Falk stepped away.

Deacon squinted at him. “You’re the kid, aren’t you?”

“Eh?”

“You’re the Falk kid. Not the dad.”

Falk looked at the old man’s face. The jaw was set with aggression, and the eyes seemed more lucid than they had the last time.

“Yeah. I’m the kid.” Falk felt a pang of sadness as he spoke. He started walking.

“Right. Pissing off for good this time, I hope.” Deacon moved after him, shaky on his feet. He pulled his dog’s leash tight after him, and the animal yelped.

“Not yet. Mind your pet.” Falk didn’t break stride. He could hear Deacon trying to follow. The footsteps were uneven and slow over the rough ground.

“Can’t leave her in peace even now, eh? You might be the kid, but you’re just like your dad. Disgusting.”

Falk turned.

There were two distinct voices coming from the yard. One loud, one calmer. Twelve-year-old Aaron dumped his schoolbag on the kitchen table and went to the window. His father was standing with his arms crossed and a fed-up look on his face as Mal Deacon prodded a finger at him.

“Six of ’em missing,” Deacon was saying. “Coupla ewes, four lambs. Few of those same ones you were looking over the other week.”

Erik Falk sighed. “And I’m telling you they’re not here, mate. You want to waste your time walking over to check, you be my guest.”

“So it’s a coincidence, is it?”

“More a sign of your shoddy fence line, I reckon. If I’d wanted your sheep, I would have bought them. Weren’t up to scratch, to my eye.”

“Nothing wrong with ’em. More like why buy ’em when you could nick ’em from me? Isn’t that right?” Deacon said, his voice rising. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve helped yourself to something of mine.”

Erik Falk stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

“Time for you to leave, Mal.” He went to turn, but Deacon grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

“She called from Sydney to say she’s not coming back, you know. You happy now? Make you feel like a big man, does it? That you talked her into buggering off?”

“I didn’t talk your missus into anything,” Erik said, shoving his hand away. “I’d say you did a good enough job of that yourself with your boozing and your fists, mate. Only surprise is she stayed as long as she did.”