The Survivors(37)

Kieran wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘Right,’ he said, finally.

Lyn was clearly waiting for more of a reaction, and they were all saved by the sound of a bell ringing from the serving hatch. Verity blinked and shook her head as Lyn walked away.

‘Back in a minute,’ she said, and headed in the direction of the toilets.

Kieran stepped aside to let the cameraman pass on his way out for a smoke, and wandered over to the community noticeboard. Among the usual notices for private piano lessons and sunrise yoga, a collection had been started for Bronte. Or her family at least, Kieran guessed. A grainy colour printout of her staff photo was pinned to the board. She was smiling, her eyes a little too wide, as though she’d been caught off guard by the flash. A money tin sat on a small table below. A candle placed next to it had blown out, its black wick looking sad and shrivelled.

Kieran fished out what little cash he had in his pockets and put it in. The box felt quite empty, but it couldn’t have been there long and Lyn was right, there weren’t many people about. The walk into town had been even quieter than usual. He and Verity had seen a couple of men walking their dogs in the deepening twilight. No women though, Kieran realised now, other than Verity, who had clearly been desperate for a break from Brian.

It simply had not occurred to Kieran not to step outside. He had offered to bring Audrey with them and been surprised when Mia had looked out at the gathering gloom and hesitated.

‘Do you think you should?’

‘Yeah, why not?’

‘I don’t know. It’s getting dark. Maybe it’s better not to, until we know for sure what’s going on.’

‘Maybe, but –’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, whoever did that to Bronte, they’re not after blokes and babies, are they?’

Mia wavered, then shrugged. ‘How can we really know that?’

‘Because …’ Because they just did, Kieran thought. He knew it for the same reasons Mia did. Because that was life. Because whatever else might come the way of grown men, they didn’t wind up strangled to death in the surf. Kieran had no problem walking around Evelyn Bay now for the same reason that he didn’t think twice about taking short cuts through unlit parks, and felt no need to quicken his pace when he heard footsteps on the pavement behind him at night. For the same reason that he would have gone home along the dark beach the night before, where Mia had taken one look and baulked. Kieran didn’t know what had happened to Bronte, but from thirty years of lived experience he knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t coming for him. Mia knew all this too. But she still made him leave Audrey at home.

Kieran looked again at the photo of Bronte. He remembered when a photo of Finn and Toby had been posted in that same spot after the storm, with a similar collection box underneath.

Kieran could still picture the exact image. It had been the one of Finn and Toby with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, an unopened bottle of champagne in hand and the Nautilus Black gleaming behind them as they celebrated the first day of their new diving business. Kieran had been sixteen and standing out of shot on the dock when Brian had taken the picture. It had been a good day, he remembered.

The photo had stayed on the noticeboard for nearly a year before Julian had tactfully, and after consultation with both families, removed it. Kieran wondered how long Bronte from Canberra’s picture would stay up. Probably less than that, he guessed.

Kieran started heading back to Verity, who had come out of the toilets and was talking to another customer by the cash register. The man turned and Kieran recognised him as the bloke with the laptop who had tried and failed to get into the Surf and Turf that morning. The folded newspaper was gone, but the leather computer satchel was once again slung across his chest.

‘Kieran,’ Verity said, beckoning him over. ‘Come and meet G.R. Barlin.’

‘Really?’ Kieran said, the man’s facial features clicking into place as they shook hands. ‘We briefly met this morning actually. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Just George is fine. And don’t worry about it.’ The man waved his hand. ‘Does anyone ever recognise authors?’

Kieran hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

‘They don’t.’

‘Oh.’ But Kieran could see it now. G.R. Barlin’s jaw was rather less chiselled and his gaze not nearly as piercing as the photo in the back of his books would suggest, but he had the sulky far-away look down pat.

‘George has moved here from Sydney,’ Verity said.

‘Right,’ Kieran said. ‘For the summer?’

‘No.’ The man’s tone had the hint of annoyance of someone who had been asked the question a few times. ‘Full-time. I’m renovating Wetherby House.’

‘Ah.’ Ash’s grandmother’s former home. ‘Garden too?’

‘Whole thing. It needed it,’ George added, slightly defensive.

Whether it did or didn’t, Kieran couldn’t say, but at least that went some way to explaining Ash’s unveiled hostility.

Everyone, including possibly Ash himself, had been surprised when Ash announced he was starting his own landscaping business. And no-one, again possibly including Ash, had taken him too seriously at first. But he had rolled up his sleeves and spent the whole spring and summer digging and planting at his gran’s place, turning the generous garden around the sandstone home into a living advertisement. Kieran and Sean had spent the same summer lounging about on the deck of the Nautilus Black, chatting to tourists and dipping into the cool sea, before swinging by Wetherby House to find Ash with his back hunched and sweat running down his face.