Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(55)

This evening, though, Falk tied his laces and pulled the door of the guesthouse closed behind him. The sky was pink and orange and the air still thick and warm. The kitchen lights glowed from the cottage. Dinner had been cleared away, and Raco and Rita were putting Eva and Henry through their regular bedtime routine.

Falk jogged to the end of the driveway, then turned right. He hadn’t been this way before, and went where his legs took him along the empty country road, paying enough attention to be sure he could find his way back. He ran for a while before the road turned a gentle corner, and up ahead Falk saw the lush green of the vineyards give way to an open park. Falk slowed as he heard the familiar sound of a distant football bouncing against the ground. He stopped, leaning against a playground fence to catch his breath. Beyond the slide and swing set, a figure was running an unhurried length of a community footy oval.

The player was too far away for Falk to make out his face, but he recognized him simply by the way he moved. Shane. It could be no one else. Even with the extra years and a few extra kilos, Shane McAfee still had it. He bounced the ball as he ran, control and grace in every step. At the fifty-meter line he drew his leg back and kicked in a smooth sweeping motion. The ball sailed through the center posts, clean and clear. It was beautiful to watch.

Shane stood for a long moment on the silent oval in the growing twilight, hands on hips. At last, he ran a palm over his face and slowly walked across the empty field to retrieve the football. Falk suddenly felt like he was intruding on an intensely private moment, and he turned away, picking up speed again and continuing down the track before Shane saw him there.

Falk clocked up another couple of kilometers and was just wondering whether it was time to turn around when he spotted the old reservoir track. He hadn’t known there was access along here, but suddenly there it was, a subtle break in the bushland. He’d run past it even as his eye snagged on the faded sign.

East Reservoir. No public vehicle access. Hiking permitted.

Falk dropped his pace to a walk, his breathing heavier now, and went back to look. The geography in his head shifted and slotted into a new position as he tried to get his bearings in relation to the body of water that he realized must be hidden behind the trees. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the soft hum of the country highway.

The reservoir entrance was wide enough for a single truck or car to pass through but was barred by a waist-high metal gate. The gate was padlocked to a post that didn’t quite meet the bushland at the side, so walkers over the years had simply stepped around, wearing the packed earth smooth.

Falk checked his watch, then the sky. There was still plenty of soft light left in the evening, but that could disappear fast and he didn’t know his way well. Still, the path was clearly marked and if he kept the water on his—he consulted the sparse map in his head—on his left, he should eventually end up at the festival grounds. He could find his way back from there if it came to it.

He stepped around the gate and ran a few paces along the dirt path, emerging sooner than he’d expected from the trees. Right in front of him lay the reservoir. It stretched out ahead, almost black now that the sun had gone. How many stadiums’ worth of water had Raco said? Whatever the number, Falk could believe it. From this angle, it looked vast and deep in a whole new way.

Falk dragged his eyes back to the trail and started running again. The bushland on his right hummed and sang with late birdcall, and the track ahead was wide and smooth with a gentle gradient, and he soon fell into a rhythm. He was focusing on his breathing and trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, not to think about work when he spotted the figure up ahead.

It was hard to make out any detail amid the deepening gloom, and whoever it was had their back turned. They were standing at a safety barrier that—Falk realized with a jolt of surprise—was guarding the Drop. How far had he come? He looked at his watch. Judging by his pace, he could only be a kilometer or so from the gate. The distance was less than he’d expected.

Up ahead, the figure was hunched over, doing something to the railing. Falk pictured Dean Tozer’s memorial plaque and, more specifically, the mess and graffiti left after the previous night.

“Hey!” His voice was sharp, and the person startled and dropped what they were holding.

Shit. It was Joel, Falk realized straightaway. Tall and lean, the boy frowned into the poor light, relaxing only a fraction when he saw who had spoken. He bent to retrieve the item now rolling around by his feet. Luna was at his heels, tail twitching, watching them both.

“Sorry, mate.” Falk raised his arm and slowed to a walk for the final stretch, catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw someone had made a bit of a mess last night—”

Falk stopped as he reached the Drop. In Joel’s hands, he could see now, were a damp cloth and a bottle of cleaning fluid. Falk looked up, and their eyes met, almost level. The young bloke shrugged and looked away, embarrassed.

“It’s not like anyone else is going to do it,” Joel muttered, turning back to the railings. He sprayed the solution on the woodwork around his dad’s plaque and scrubbed hard at a black mark near one corner.

Falk nodded slowly. He ran a hand over the barrier nearest him. It was clean and damp under his palm, the crusty residue from earlier wiped away. Joel looked to have cleaned about half the length of the railings.

“How often do you come out here and do this?” Falk asked.