The Leaves Forget, page 8
“Liv said she had been trying to talk more to Chloe,” Andrew says. “To befriend her. After Jonathan caught Liv and took her back, perhaps she started trying to get through to Chloe? Maybe get Chloe to talk to Jonathan. Perhaps they teamed up against him somehow. Maybe she tried to suggest that she and Chloe could leave together.” Andrew seems to suddenly realise the implication of his musings. “I’m not suggesting it’s Liv’s fault in any way! But we all know how Liv is, how she helps people. Once she’d seen through Jonathan’s façade, wouldn’t she have tried to save Chloe, too? And maybe the others? Perhaps that forced some brutal decisions on Jonathan’s part. To retain control.”
Dad nods, still staring. “That’s exactly what she’d do.” He sucks in a breath. “So why isn’t it Liv in that hole up there instead of Chloe?”
“I think maybe Jonathan needs Liv more than Chloe.” I hate what that might mean, but I can’t help saying it. “For whatever bullshit stuff they do, I’m guessing there’s a reason.”
“And we’re likely already too late,” Dad says. Then he turns hard eyes to me. “But we don’t quit. We need to find Matt Kirby’s father.”
Andrew reaches through from the back and puts a hand on my dad’s shoulder. “Not now. It’s late, there’s really nothing we can do. But a small town like this? People will know him if he’s a local. Let’s find somewhere to sleep, get something proper to eat. First thing tomorrow we’ll start asking around and we’ll track him down.”
I tap at my phone for a minute. “I saw a sign on the way here for a tourist park. Cabins and shit? Here it is. Strahan Holiday Cabins and Caravans. Hang on.” I tap the number and it rings. And keeps ringing.
Just as I think it must ring out or go to voicemail, a gruff voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hi there. I’m really sorry to ring so late, we only just got into Strahan and we need somewhere to stay. Do you have a cabin for three available?”
“Bloody late to be calling, mate.”
“I know, we should have booked ahead. It’s been . . . It’s been a strange day.”
There must be a tone of desperation or something like it in my voice, as the guy immediately softens. “Yeah, we all have days like that sometimes, don’t we? You’re here now?”
“Just around the corner.”
“All right, I’ll meet you at the main gate.”
We drive around and the guy is waiting right there. Dad winds down the window. “Thanks for this, we appreciate it.”
“No worries. I’m Ken, welcome here.”
“Thanks. Clive.” Dad gestures into the car. “Craig and Andrew.”
“On a road trip?”
“Yeah, of a sort.”
“Just the one night?”
“Please.”
“I’ve got a four-berth cabin, but it only has two bedrooms. I’ve got bigger ones with three or four bedrooms if you need some other arrangement? Plenty of options.”
“Two bedrooms is fine,” Dad says.
Ken tells us the price and holds up one of those little credit card reader devices, his phone in the other hand. Dad taps the payment and Ken hands over a key. “Number eleven, down the end of the first row on the left. Not many here right now, being winter. Should have plenty of peace and quiet.”
Dad takes the key. “Thanks. Say, do you know a local fella, name of Justin Kirby?”
Ken frowns. “Why you asking?”
“Oh, long story, only we’re pals from way back and he used to live here in Strahan. We lost touch and I wondered if he was still around.”
Ken nods, lips pursed. “He’s still here. The Kirby family have something of a reputation around town. Justin is . . .” He pauses, tips his head in thought. “I don’t mean to be cruel or anything,” he continues, then taps one forefinger to his temple. “But Justin’s not all there, you know? A few tinnies short of a six-pack?”
“Where’s he living?”
“No idea, mate. I just see him around from time to time. Supermarket, pub, stuff like that. Ask around though, someone in town’ll know, for sure. Small town like this, you don’t get away without most people knowing your business. I just tend to mind my own, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” Dad says.
“No worries. There’s a laminated sheet on the table in the cabin with all you need to know. Call if you have any problems. You have a pleasant stay now, yeah?”
“Thank you, we’ll try.”
Dad drives up to the cabin and parks and we pile in. It’s utilitarian in a way, bare bulbs and Formica everywhere, but it’s clean and well-appointed.
“It’s after seven o’clock,” Andrew says. “You think the pub is still serving food?”
Another quick explore on my phone shows the pub serves food until nine every night.
“We can walk there from here easily enough,” I say.
“Good.” Dad puts his car keys on the table and pockets the key to the cabin. “Let’s go and get a good feed and a few beers. I reckon we’ve earned them. And we can ask about Justin Kirby while we’re there.”
“What if he’s there too?” Andrew asks.
“Then we’ll be having a conversation with the man.”
Dad strides out of the cabin. Andrew and I share a quick glance, then follow.
24
HAMER’S HOTEL IN STRAHAN’S main street is a classic colonial building, two-storey with a veranda above and wooden columns across the front. The dark red and cream painted exterior is inviting and just so gods damned normal, I find myself getting angry. How can life go on like this while Liv is missing? While we know how some people can be so cruel, so manipulative?
The small harbour is directly across the road from the pub, salt and seaweed smell and the soft slap of water against wooden pilings drifting over to us. A few people are on the streets, wrapped up against the cold. My nose is running and my fingers are numb as we push open the door, and over-compensating heat swells out. Inside there’s polished wood and dark brick and more of the red and cream painted colour scheme on display. The bar area is well-populated, the smell of beer and hot chips and steaks prevalent. Dad strides between tables of people eating and drinking directly to the bar and picks up a menu.
“I’m bloody starving,” he says, almost apologetically.
I am too, we haven’t done more than pick at snacks all day.
“On me,” Dad says. “Order whatever you want.”
I put a hand on Andrew’s forearm. “Order me steak, with salad and chips. I’ll get a round of beers in.”
He knows how I like my steak and nods. I order three schooners of a local pale ale while Dad and Andrew order the food. We’ve all opted for steaks. Maybe there’s a need to consume red meat, for the strength we feel like it might give us. Some primal urge at work.
They give us a little number on a stand and we pick a table, sit down. The beer is good and we make short work of them, so Andrew goes back for another round. The food arrives quicker than I would have expected and there’s not a word spoken while we all eat and drink until nothing but stains remain on the white crockery. I feel immeasurably better for the sustenance, and two beers have started removing the edges of my anxiety. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but I’ll take it. Anything to help me relax, I feel like I’ve been pulled taut as piano wire since the night before.
“You okay, Clive?” Andrew asks.
Dad huffs a humourless laugh. “Not really. I’m an old bastard these days and this is more than I’ve done in months.”
“You’re not old, Dad!”
He turns a wry expression to me. “I’m not a young man any more, son.”
“You’re sixty-four. That’s not old.”
“It’s not young, either. That’s the point.” He raises one palm to forestall more protest from me. “I’m not planning on keeling over any time soon or anything like that. I’m still in okay shape. But a body this age has its limits, that’s all. I can’t run around like I used to, even ten years ago.”
We fall quiet again for a little while. Exhaustion begins to drag at me. Another beer and I’ll be ready to collapse and sleep for a week. Not that I have that luxury. Not even close.
“Time for another beer,” Dad says. “And to see if the barman knows where our mate Justin can be found.”
We all go up to the bar and Dad orders another round. When the barman returns with the drinks, Dad says, “I’m from out of town but hoping to look up an old mate while I’m here. You wouldn’t happen to know if Justin Kirby still lives in Strahan, would you?”
The barman’s eyes narrow. “What do you want with Justin?”
“You know him? I just want to say hello. I haven’t been around this way for decades, but it would be good to see that old bastard again if he’s still around.”
“He’s still here. Been Kirbys here for generations.”
“Oh, great! Where’s he living?”
“How about I let him know you’re in town?”
Dad smiles, the act convincing. “I was hoping to surprise him.”
“Justin isn’t the sort of person who likes surprises.”
There’s a sudden tension. For whatever reason, this barman seems like he wants to protect Justin. What does he suspect us of? What has Justin been up to that would make an unannounced visit suspicious? A sudden weight of potential histories weighs down on us.
“Maybe you could drop him a note from me then?” Dad says. “Tell him an old pal is in town and I’ll be here again at lunchtime tomorrow. Maybe he could come down and say hello?”
“Say hello to who? What name shall I give?”
“Tell him it’s Dave, from the old days. He’ll know what that means.”
The barman nods once. “All right. I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks!”
We take our beers and go back to our table.
“That was singularly fucking weird,” Andrew says.
“And maybe it’s given away we’re looking for him?” I say. “That might not be good.”
Dad nods. “Yeah, had to think on my feet there. But if he hears that we’ll be here at lunchtime, that gives us the morning to surprise him still.”
“If we can find him,” Andrew says.
“We’ll have to ask around elsewhere, perhaps. Supermarket, maybe? Where else might he go regularly?”
We sip our beers quietly in thought for a while. An old man gets up from the table between ours and the bar and heads for the door. As he passes us, he trips, nearly crashes right into our table, just managing to stop himself with one palm between our drinks. My dad and I both jump up, grab an arm each instinctively to stop him falling.
“Shit, sorry!” he says, grinning, embarrassed. “Shoulda stopped a couple of schooners back, eh?”
“You okay?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, yeah, all good. Just making a bloody fool of myself. Sorry again!”
He extricates himself from our grip and hurries for the door, staggering a little as he goes. Dad and I watch him, poor old bugger. Another long and complicated story we’ll never know. But he seems fine beyond the embarrassment.
As we sit down again, Andrew points to the table, shifting his chair slightly to put himself between us and the bar. There’s a scrap of paper, a betting slip it looks like, with something scrawled on the back in biro. Dad turns it slightly so we can more easily read it.
Justin is nuts lives at 1141 Gabardine St
We all look up from the table and the old drunk is surreptitiously peeking back in through the front window. He sees us and nods once, then scurries away.
“Well, well,” Dad says. “We have a plan for the morning.”
25
WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THE CABIN, we all hit the hay and slept like the dead. But despite the exhaustion and the beers, we’re all up early. Andrew and I wake just before six, restless. When we go into the cabin’s main room, Dad is already there, drinking coffee. He gives us a wry smile and a nod. We help ourselves to coffee and sit around the small table, silent, sipping.
Eventually, Andrew says, “When are we going?”
“How far is it?” Dad asks.
I looked it up last night. “Only five minutes in the car. A bit out of town, into the bush a little.”
“How early can we go and not be entirely antisocial?” Dad says.
Andrew gets up, checks our supplies. “Let’s eat and get dressed and see how the time’s going when we’re ready to leave.”
The discomfort among us is undeniable. I wonder if they’re thinking like me. I can only see two possibilities. Either this Justin guy gives us another clue to follow or Liv is gone forever. What do we do if we don’t get any joy this morning? Is it over?
We manage to drag things out getting ready until eight-thirty a.m., then Dad makes a noise of annoyance and strides for the door. “Come on.”
The drive is a little more than five minutes and we find ourselves on a narrow road through dense bush, moving slowly as we look for the driveway. There’s a metal farm gate hanging open and a little crooked off a weathered wooden post with the house number painted on it in red. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, like so many places around here. A dirt driveway snakes between the trees. A low mist curls between the dark trunks, like dragon’s breath. The morning is cold and sharp.
The driveway bends slowly, then a brick house comes into view. Old in design, single-storey, silvered aluminium windows. The tiled roof is covered with thick moss and lichen. I feel like maybe this place, nestled deep in the bush like it is, never sees much direct sunlight. It’s a big property. A massive, corrugated metal barn stands a little back from the house, the wide-open space on the other side littered with old cars and trucks and a rusted-out tractor. A car in slightly better condition, though still patched with rust, stands right outside the house with a trailer hooked to it. The trailer is filled with chopped firewood. Smoke drifts up lazily from a metal chimney in the roof of the house. There’s a light on in the front room to the right of the door, but no signs of movement.
Dad pulls up behind the firewood trailer and kills the engine. “Let’s go.”
He’s out before we have a chance to answer, so Andrew and I follow, our breath immediately clouding in the frigid air. Dad goes up to the door and looks for a bell or a knocker, but nothing is apparent so he raps lightly with his knuckles.
Nothing happens. He raps a little harder. Still nothing. He makes a noise of annoyance.
“Maybe no one’s home,” Andrew says quietly, but we all saw the light and the chimney smoke.
Dad turns his fist sideways and bangs on the door, makes it shudder a little in the frame. Then something ice cold presses into the back of my neck and a gravelly voice says, “No sudden moves, fuckers.”
My gut is as icy as the air outside. Dad and Andrew turn quickly, I follow a little more slowly. A man is standing behind us with a shotgun levelled at my face, its double barrels staring like two giant eyes. The man is tall and skinny, rough-shaven under a mop of sandy hair. He wears stained jeans and a denim jacket, work boots on his feet. His face is thin to the point of being gaunt, cheekbones standing out, eyes sunken and dark underneath. I can smell sweat and cigarettes drifting off him. The hand supporting the shotgun barrels is rough and gnarled, the fingertips stained a dirty yellow-brown.
“All right, let’s calm down here,” Dad says. “We just want to talk, that’s all.”
“What about?”
“Can you please lower the gun?”
“Eli said some city fucken weirdoes were looking for me. You them? What do you want?”
“Eli is the barman at Hamer’s Hotel?”
“What do you want!” the man yells and we all flinch.
Dad holds up both hands, palms out. “Please, my daughter is missing and we’re trying to find her, that’s all.”
“I don’t know shit about any missing daughters. Why would I? Now fuck off!” He gestures with the shotgun, indicating our car.
“Please, we just want—”
“I said fuck off!”
My dad snarls and moves faster than I thought possible. In his yelling, the man has shifted the gun so it’s pointing between us instead of at me and Dad grabs the barrels with one hand, driving them up into the air, and lashes out with his other hand, clenched tight into a fist. The shotgun booms, deafening at such close quarters, but Dad’s fist connects with the man’s chin and his eyes glaze and he staggers backwards.
Dad twists the gun from his grasp and throws it away from us as the man staggers, stiff-kneed like he’s drunk, but refuses to go down.
“Dad!” I shout, but my father’s face is set in grim determination.
He takes three long steps to bring him up to the man and grabs him by his grubby jacket and hauls him back to standing. He slaps the man’s cheek once, hard. “Point a fucking gun at us, will you?” he yells, spittle flying from his lips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father this angry, this rage-fuelled.
Then Andrew is beside them and he grabs the thin man’s arm and puts it up behind his back and guides him away from Dad over to a large tree stump beside the house. A rusty log-splitter leans against it, wood chips and broken bark scattered all around. Clearly this is where the man chops his firewood. Andrew throws the heavy splitter aside, sits the man down on the stump and steps back, puts himself between Dad and the source of all his fury.
“Are you Justin Kirby?” Andrew says.
“The fuck are you lot about?” the man slurs, his eyes still not quite settled. Dad gave him quite the knock. I’m secretly a little proud of my old man.
“Are you Justin Kirby?” Andrew yells it this time and the man flinches.
“Yes! What the fuck do you want?” He tries to stand and Andrew pushes him back down.
My dad is standing still, head lowered like he’s ready to fight more. He’s breathing hard, in and out through his nose as his teeth are clenched. I put a hand on his arm, say quietly, “Dad, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
We all wait a moment, let the adrenaline begin to subside. Justin looks from one of us to the next, fear in his eyes, but the dazedness is clearly passing. He doesn’t try to stand up again. “What do you want?” he says once more, plaintive this time more than angry.
