Lucy Clarke - A Single Breath

She locates Shoal Bay in the south-east corner of the island. While she doesn’t know Saul’s address, with a population of only 500 permanent residents, someone must know which house is his.

The crossing only takes twenty-five minutes, but by the time the ferry docks, Eva feels as if she’s arriving at the edge of the world. The small throng of passengers return to their cars. Engines are started and cars nose forward as the boat ramp is lowered.

Just beyond the dock a hand-painted sign reads: PLEASE REMOVE WATCHES AND MOBILE PHONE BATTERIES. YOU’RE ON WATTLEBOON NOW!

The road is quiet – just the occasional motorhome or truck passes in the other direction, surfboards and bikes strapped to roofs. She drives with the windows down, absorbing the smell of sun-warmed grass and the salt breeze drifting in. She sees two hikers standing before a shallow lagoon with binoculars hanging around their necks, a flock of black swans drifting beyond them.

When she gets to the general store, Eva pulls in. It’s a simple building with a cork bulletin board tacked to an exterior wall, which is filled with handwritten signs about boat trailers for sale, holiday cottages to rent, and two Kelpie pups that need a home.

The door is propped open by a faded ice-cream sign, and inside, a stocky woman with a wedge of yellow hair plants her hands on the counter and smiles. ‘G’day. How’s it goin’?’

‘I was wondering if you could help. I’m looking for Saul Bowe’s place on Shoal Bay.’

‘Well, that’s easy,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s the only house in the bay. You keep on this road heading south for about five minutes. You’ll pass a berry farm on your right and you wanna take the track straight after that. Leads you right down to the bay.’

‘That’s great –’

‘But he won’t be there now. Saw him launching the boat ’bout couple of hours ago.’ The woman comes around from behind the counter and crosses to the open shop door, from which she peers out. ‘His truck’s still there,’ she says, nodding towards a group of vehicles parked beside a long wooden jetty. ‘Might wanna wait for him there. Tide’s just turned, so he’ll be in soon.’ The woman glances sideways at Eva. ‘Known Saul long, have ya?’

Eva guesses that this is a shop where gossip is traded along with the groceries. ‘I knew his brother.’

‘Brother?’ the woman repeats, eyebrows lifting. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Never even knew Saul had one.’

*

The jetty is built on thick wooden stilts, and a few fishing boats are moored to its side. She sits in the car for several minutes, but even with the windows down, it’s too hot to stay in for long.

Climbing out, she crosses the car park onto a white sand beach that is peppered with dried shreds of seaweed. The afternoon is clear and still, the smell of fish hanging in the warm air. She slips off her flip-flops and wades into the water. It’s deliciously cool around her ankles and she stays there, lolling in the shallows for some time.

Looking down at the sea around her feet, she tries not to think about the body washed up in Plymouth that is now lying in an autopsy lab waiting to be identified.

Now and then boats drift up to the jetty and people get out to unload their catch, but none of the men seem young enough to be Saul.

She remembers lying beside Jackson one morning, tracing the weave of his chest hair with a fingertip as she’d asked, ‘Tell me about your brother.’

She’d caught the change in rhythm of Jackson’s breathing as he’d answered, ‘Nothing to tell.’

His eyes had darkened and he’d rolled away from her, climbing from the bed.

‘Jackson?’

He’d paused, his posture rigid. When he spoke there was a grave edge to his tone. ‘You can’t trust him. He’s a liar. That’s all you need to know.’

There were other conversations about Saul, including one where she finally managed to get him to tell her why they’d not spoken a word for four years. But after a time, she stopped mentioning Saul’s name, hating to see the way Jackson’s face clouded with hurt.

Feeling light headed from either the heat or the lingering residue of jet lag, Eva pads through the warm sand in search of shade. Her phone rings in her pocket and she slips it out, squinting at the screen in the sunlight. Seeing her mother’s name, Eva freezes. She’ll be calling with news of Jackson’s body.

She stands there, blinking at the phone, heart racing. Eva’s not sure that she wants this news, wants to live with the absolute finality of it.

Finally she answers, pressing the phone close to her ear. ‘Is it him?’

She hears her mother draw a breath. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. It wasn’t Jackson. It’s not his body.’

She blinks.

Her mother says something about the results coming in last night and that she only just saw the light flashing on the answering machine when she woke.

Eva remains silent, trying to absorb what she’s being told.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything before we knew for certain. I just didn’t want you hearing about it on the news, or something dreadful like that.’

‘Whose was it?’

‘What?’

‘The body. Whose was it?’

‘Oh. Yes. It was a man from Worthing. A 45-year-old. Married. He jumped from a bridge six weeks ago.’

Eva swallows. She wonders how his wife must feel right now. Would there be some sense of closure now that there was a body to bury? Perhaps that’s how she herself might have felt. Or maybe what Dirk had said was right: Jackson’s body is better left in the sea.

‘Eva? Are you still there?’

The sun beats down on her head and she feels exhausted, buffeted by her emotions. Her mouth is dry and she can’t remember drinking anything today. She moistens her lips, tries to swallow.

‘Sweetheart? Talk to me, please.’

‘I’m here,’ she says weakly, a feeling of nausea rising up through her stomach. She lifts her gaze to try and focus on something. A blue boat is drifting towards the jetty.

She stares at it unblinking. Then a strangled sound escapes her lips.

There is a man on board who looks so much like Jackson that, for a moment, Eva lets herself believe it is him.

*

‘Eva? Eva?’ her mother repeats with rising panic.

But Eva isn’t listening. She is stepping forward, narrowing her gaze.

The way he stands, one hand slung in his pocket, his shoulders loose, is exactly like Jackson. Dark hair curls down over his ears and he wears a grey T-shirt with shorts, and sunglasses that hide his eyes.

Saul, she thinks. It must be.

There is a second man on the boat, bare-chested and wiry, who leaps onto the jetty and jogs along it towards the parked vehicles. He jumps into a truck and reverses the attached boat trailer down the ramp.

‘Eva? Are you still there?’ her mother is saying. ‘Please, Evie, you’re scaring me.’

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

Once the boat is dragged from the water, Eva watches Saul push his sunglasses onto his head and shake hands with the other man. Then he hauls a large cool-box from the boat and walks down the beach in her direction. He stops at the fish-gutting station and sets down the box. He can only be 20 feet from her.

She doesn’t move; her legs feel weak and she tries to steady her breathing, which is coming too fast.

From the cool-box he grabs two silver fish by their tails and lays them on the bench. He takes a knife from his pocket and slices through their pale bellies, then scoops out their guts with his fingers. He works through three more fish and a couple of squid. Eva is used to the sight of blood, yet the dispassionate movement of his hands through the guts makes her uncomfortable.