Peter Corris - Wet Graves

I was too nervous to have any idea of the time. “How long’s he been down?”

Milo held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “About this much of his tank. Don’t worry about him. We just gotta watch for trouble up here.”

The red light fascinated me. I located it in Kirribilli, where the prime minister and the governor-general sometimes live. I wondered if they were there tonight, perhaps together, toasting the revolution. Probably not, on all scores.

“Need any help there?”

The voice, amplified through cupped hands, came from a man sitting in a dinghy a few feet away from our boat. He’d shipped one of his oars and was using the other to keep the dinghy more or less stationary. On closer inspection, the boat was something more than a dinghy. It was wider and flatter-looking and had provision for a sail and a couple of large lockers built into the structure. Milo shone a torch on him, and he lifted a dark-gloved hand to block out the beam. He was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers and a long peaked cap that kept his face shadowed. He wasn’t young.

“We’re fine,” I said. “How about you?”

“Just rowing about. Habit of mine. Don’t see too many people around here at night. Would you think me too rude if I asked what you’re doing? Free to refuse to answer, of course.”

His voice was that of a man habituated to politeness, but it didn’t cut any ice with Milo. I hadn’t thought nerves were part of his makeup but he showed I was wrong. “We’re minding our own business, mate,” he growled. “Why don’t you do the same?”

The rower slipped his oar into the rowlock and pulled away expertly without responding.

“Bit rude, Milo,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

“Bloody nutter. I dunno. This place gives me the creeps.”

It was getting to me, too; I realised for the first time that the bridge was blocking the light from a low-lying half-moon, leaving us in a deep, inky shadow. “Where do you reckon Ray is now?” I said.

Milo shrugged. “What would you have told that old joker?”

“I was just starting to think. Probably would have told him I was a private detective hired to find something that’d been dropped overboard from a Balmain ferry.”

“Fuck me,” Milo said. “What a bullshit artist.”

We were saved from falling out even further by a noise in the water. Ray sur-faced about twenty metres away and swam towards us. Milo started the engine. I helped Ray climb aboard, and we were moving away as soon as he was properly over the side. He gave Milo a nod, slipped the light from his belt and unhooked the camera. I was unfamiliar with the apparatus, and clumsy, but I helped him to shuck off the tank. When he pulled off the mask his face was unnaturally white and his lips were drawn back in a tight, jaw-locked grin.

“You okay?” I said.

He gulped and nodded. “There’s some brandy down in the cabin. I could do with a belt.”

I went down and got the bottle of Tolley’s brandy. I uncapped it and Ray took a big swig. I did the same and held it out towards Milo. He shook his head.

“Not while he’s driving,” Ray said.

We were skipping across the water, passing Kirribilli where the red light was still blinking. Ray had another drink.

“Well?” I said.

Ray towelled himself off and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. “Three of them. Could be more. But three was enough for me. Short chains to plugs of some kind. They’re all wrapped in canvas. I touched one. Squishy. Pretty close together. More or less in the dead set middle under the bridge. Jesus, Cliff, you should’ve seen them. In the light. Sort of… half-floating, half-hanging there.”

I started to say something about being sorry to put him through it, but he didn’t listen. He looked out at the water and the land and drew in several deep breaths, as if trying to cleanse his insides. Then he shivered and went below to get changed.

Milo had another cigarette going and I was tempted to ask him for one. I resisted. I hadn’t earned the right to the weakness. It wasn’t me who’d seen the canvas shrouds. That led me to think of the camera. I picked it up and then heard Milo clicking his fingers. I handed the camera to him.

“You get what you wanted?” he said.

“Worse than I expected, apparently.”

“Must be, to shake Ray up. He’s a tough bastard.”

“I know. That’s why I…”

He held the wheel with one hand and examined the camera. When he was satisfied he set it down at his feet. “He got a few shots for you. Could be they’ll come out OK.”

“I want to thank you for your help,” I said. “I felt pretty edgy out there.”

“That’s all right. Sorry I got shitty. I felt as if the fuckin’ bridge was going to fall down on us.”

We were well out in the channel, in choppy water, making for Bradleys Head. I passed the brandy bottle to Milo. “Have a drink,” I said. “I’m sure you know your way back from here.”

The brandy bottle travelled back and forth a few times on the passage to Middle Harbour. Ray changed his clothes and had one of Milo’s cigarettes. He was pretty shaken and I was sorry I’d put him through it.

“What was Paul talking about just before I came in?” he asked.

“He was telling your mother and me how things were when they built the bridge.”

“How were they?”

“Bloody hard, and dangerous.”

Ray rubbed a towel over his head but oil and grease from the harbour water remained. He looked at the towel. “Harbour’s filthy. Weird, isn’t it? The water was probably very clean back then but they treated workers like shit. Now the workers get a fair go and the environment’s a great big toilet.”

I agreed that it was weird.

“What happened to those blokes? I suppose they were blokes?”

The question hadn’t occurred to me: were the daughters of the bridge builders also under threat? I was too tired and stressed to give Ray a full answer. I just told him that the bodies were those of missing people and that there was some connection with the bridge. “I can count on you to keep quiet about this, Ray, can’t I?”

“Absolutely. Milo too. And don’t insult me by offering me money.”

“What about Milo?”

“He won’t be insulted.”

I gave Milo fifty bucks and thanked him for his help. “Sure,” Milo said. “What’s next? Do we climb Centrepoint?”

“Don’t laugh, Cliff,” Ray said. “He could do it.”

We stowed the gear and Ray shut and locked the hatches and doors on the boat. Milo said goodnight, jumped up onto the dock and walked off. I heard a car engine start and tyres gripping gravel. Ray said he’d have a shower in his parents’ house and go home. “Paul’ll wake up no matter how quiet I am,” he said. “Want to see him?”

I considered. “I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

Ray stepped onto the dock and juggled the camera as he helped me up. “No problem. He sleeps so light you wouldn’t believe it. He’d be happy to say good-night, or good morning, or whatever the hell it is.”

We walked through the semi-tropical garden the Guthries had growing between their house and the water. It wasn’t nearly as cold here as out on the harbour and I pulled off the woollen cap and the parka. Ray was still rubbing grease from his head when we went into the house. He went away to shower and I hung the parka on a peg by the back door. Almost as soon as the water started to run, Paul Guthrie appeared in the hallway.

“What’s the time?” he said.

“I don’t know. About four.”

“Find what you were looking for?”

I nodded.

“You want some tea?”

“I never drink tea, Paul. I’ll have some coffee if you’re making. How come you wake up so easily?”