The Survivors(38)

Had it been Sean, or even possibly Kieran, stuck doing grunt work in his gran’s garden in the heat, they probably would have copped a bit of shit for it. But Ash simply didn’t care. He did what he liked and defended it to nobody. And the property had looked great by the end. Ash’s gran had baked him a cake as a thank you for his months of labour and he, Kieran and Sean had celebrated by getting steaming drunk by the beach.

The garden had been beautiful for three whole weeks, then the storm had hit. Ash’s work was destroyed, with plantings ripped apart and uprooted bushes and trees leaving deep trenches of exposed soil. But Ash had been back out there the very next day, hunched and sweating again to restore the chaos. He had succeeded, Kieran had thought, but apparently not to a high enough standard for G.R. Barlin.

Kieran looked at the author now. Up close, he was younger than Kieran would have guessed, given his body of work. Early forties at the most. He was wearing a chunky knit cardigan, which had the worn-in rustic look of something that could only be expensive. Kieran wondered if he’d bought it especially for his move to the Tasmanian coast. It was the kind of thing he thought a writer might envisage himself wearing down here, searching out to sea for his muse while the brisk salty air chapped his face. And George Barlin wouldn’t be the first creative type to have come to Evelyn Bay seeking some sort of elusive inspiration.

‘What made you choose here?’ Kieran said, and George shrugged.

‘Nostalgia, really. My parents brought me on holiday a few times when I was younger, and I visited again myself on and off over the years. Always liked it. And it seemed like as good a place to work from as any.’

‘You’re writing something new?’ Kieran asked.

‘Yep.’ George tapped his laptop bag with an overstated eye roll. ‘Always on the treadmill. But I prefer not to talk about my work too much, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all.’ Kieran suppressed a smile. He had once gone with Mia to see G.R. Barlin appear at a literary event in Sydney. The writer had been on a panel with two women authors and spoken for easily half the time. ‘Well, my partner will be sorry she missed you,’ Kieran said. ‘She’s a big fan.’

That was true, and Kieran himself liked the books too. They were the kind of thrillers people bought in the airport, stayed glued to beside the pool and then left in their hotel room to save on luggage weight. They sold by the shedload.

Lyn bustled back to swipe George’s credit card and caught the last comment.

‘I’m surprised Mia has any time for books, with that beautiful baby at home,’ she said. ‘I know I wouldn’t.’

‘Not a big reader?’ Kieran said.

Lyn scrunched up her face. ‘I did read a book once. Wasn’t for me.’

‘You should try one of George’s,’ Verity said. ‘They’re good.’

‘So I’ve heard. Only the early ones, though.’ Lyn flashed an affable grin at the writer, as though expecting confirmation. ‘Don’t bother with the rest. That’s what Fiona reckons, anyway.’

‘Fiona?’ George’s voice was completely, determinedly, neutral. Lyn didn’t notice.

‘From the plant nursery? You know, she cuts those hedges into the shape of animals.’

‘Right. Yes.’ George returned his credit card to his wallet and closed it with a firm snap. ‘Well, it’s a shame she feels that way. And I’ve always thought so highly of her creative talents.’

Lyn frowned slightly, sensing something a little off behind George’s smile. She was distracted by one of the police officers signalling for a water refill and bustled away.

‘And yet if I were to stop by the nursery to tell Fiona her hedge animals are unrecognisable, I’m the arsehole,’ George murmured as he adjusted his laptop bag. ‘Anyway, nice to meet you.’ He shook Kieran’s hand. ‘Give my best to your partner. Was that her you were with this morning?’

‘Yes.’

George nodded, and looked past Kieran to the makeshift memorial to Bronte on the noticeboard. Kieran remembered seeing Bronte bring the writer a glass of wine the night before, managing to raise a smile from him as he’d glowered at his laptop.

‘What a dreadful business that is,’ George said. ‘Poor Bronte. Unbelievable.’

‘Did you know her well?’ Verity said.

‘Only from in here,’ George said. ‘But I’m in here quite a lot. Did you ever see any of her drawings?’

‘A couple. And she showed me a little wire sculpture creature she was working on. She seemed very good.’

‘I thought so too. Serious about it as well, which you don’t always get in the more creative fields. She was focused. Had a professional approach to it all.’ George’s mouth was a hard downturned line. ‘I would never have expected something like that to happen around here.’

‘It wouldn’t have, a few years ago,’ Verity said. ‘I suppose that’s the risk with the tourists. You never know who’s in town now, with so many people coming through.’

There weren’t that many people, though, Kieran thought. A couple of weeks earlier in the summer maybe, when two out of every three people on the street was a stranger. But not at this time of year, with its empty tables and closed shops and vacant parking spots.