The Blue, page 29
Kitty takes over. “Afterwards I went to check on Denny—to try and calm things down. We talked and talked, right through the night. Eventually we must have crashed out. That was it, Lana. Nothing happened.”
Even after all the hours Lana has spent picturing that morning, replaying the way Kitty’s arm was draped over Denny, the guilty expression sliding across his face as he woke, Lana can tell that this is the truth. Now she understands why, at the time, Kitty couldn’t explain what she was doing in Denny’s room—not without explaining about Joseph.
Lana can’t stop herself from asking, “What about later?”
“Later?” Kitty repeats.
“The eight months you’ve spent on the same yacht.”
“Nothing went on—not that night, or any night.”
Slowly, Lana nods. She believes her.
“I’m so sorry for not being honest with you about Joseph,” Denny says. “For not being honest with everyone. I felt like I couldn’t tell you—or the authorities—because if Aaron lost The Blue, he’d have lost everything. It doesn’t mean I think it was the right decision—it wasn’t. Believe me, I know it wasn’t.”
But Lana doesn’t blame Denny—the whole crew were responsible for what happened on board. Aaron might have provoked Joseph, Denny might have thrown him across the deck, and Kitty and Heinrich might have kept quiet about what they’d seen—but Lana and Shell were on that yacht, too, and neither of them told the authorities. All six of them have to live with that. “You never meant to kill him,” Lana tells Denny. “You were protecting your brother.”
But even as the words leave her mouth, she thinks, Will Joseph’s sister see it like that?
She glances out of the waiting room window and across the tarmac towards her car. Aimee Melina is still standing there, arms at her side, staring towards the building.
Lana takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She needs to tell them that Joseph had a sister—and that she’s here at the Maritime Rescue Centre, waiting to find out what’s happened to him.
39
now
Lana walks across the port with Aimee Melina at her shoulder. The sky is darkening, and there is no break in the clouds now. Neither of them speaks. Their feet move in rhythm towards the group of people standing together at the port edge.
When Lana told Aimee Melina that she and the crew needed to talk to her about Joseph, she stared at Lana with a cool, assessing gaze. “It is not good news, is it?”
“No. No, I’m afraid it isn’t.”
Now Lana looks towards the group gathered at the water’s edge, and feels the space at the center of the group where Aaron should be. Denny stands silently with his hands at his sides, his gaze directed at the water. Shell—who, like Lana, has only today learned the truth about Joseph’s death—has positioned herself slightly back from the others. Her gaze keeps traveling to Heinrich, and she stares at him with her head angled to one side, as if she no longer recognizes him. Even after everything that has happened, Heinrich still protested that they didn’t need to tell Aimee Melina a thing.
Denny shook his head, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious? She’s his sister! She has a right to know what’s happened to him.”
But Heinrich remained resolute. “What do you think Aaron would want?”
Denny looked sickened by the question. “Aaron was only ever trying to protect The Blue. If he’d known Joseph had a sister, he would’ve made a very different decision. We all would.”
“I’m just worried about what’ll happen to us if we tell her,” Heinrich had said.
“No,” Shell had cut in bitterly. “You’re worried about yourself.”
Heinrich looked chastened by the remark and after that he said nothing more.
Now, as Lana and Aimee Melina approach the group, Aimee slips her hand into her coat pocket, and Lana imagines that her fingers are pressing against Joseph’s letter, the weight of his words resting beneath her palm.
The crew hear them approach and turn. Lana watches Denny’s expression as his gaze settles on Aimee.
He crosses the group towards her, stopping a couple of paces in front of her. He introduces himself and tells her, “I met Joseph in the Philippines when he was backpacking there.” He holds her gaze as he says, “There’s something important we need to talk to you about.”
• • •
Joseph’s sister stands poker-straight, chin lifted, her pale hands stuffed into her coat pockets. She listens silently to Denny, her dark eyes never leaving his face, as if she needs not only to hear—but to see—every word he speaks.
Denny’s voice is level as he retells the story of Joseph’s time on The Blue. With a simple clarity he talks to her of finding Joseph sleeping rough on a remote beach, of his spectacular dive from the cliffs, of his dancing around the fire with Kitty, of the long evenings he spent at the bow with his notebook filled with apologies.
The rest of the crew listen just as closely, anxiety settling into their expressions as all of them now know what comes next.
Lana understands that Denny holds himself responsible for Joseph’s death—but what he won’t be responsible for is Aimee Melina spending a lifetime wondering what happened to her brother. She needs to hear the truth—and Denny needs to tell it.
For all these months, he has kept the secret of what happened to Joseph. It hasn’t been to protect himself, but to protect his brother: The Blue was everything to Aaron—and Denny couldn’t watch him lose that. But now things are different: Aaron is dead and the yacht has sunk. Denny is free to tell the truth.
Aimee’s expression changes very little as she listens to the details of the night Joseph went overboard. Denny could have told any version of the events, saying that Joseph had too much to drink and slipped overboard and no one else was involved, but instead, he recounts the evening detail by detail in the exact way it unfolded. He explains about discovering Joseph stowed away and the growing tension between Joseph and Aaron; he explains that it was the anniversary of Aaron’s wife’s death—and the awful relevance this held; he explains how hard everyone had been drinking and how, in the thick of the darkness, he heard an argument break out between Joseph and Aaron; he explains about the knife Joseph thrust into Aaron’s shoulder, and how he himself flung Joseph across the cockpit, Joseph’s body sliding beneath the lifeline; he explains about searching with Kitty and Heinrich, the bad weather coming in, the acceptance that Joseph was dead.
Finally, Denny explains their decision not to inform the authorities. “Because Joseph stowed away, he wasn’t on the crew list. No one knew he’d left the Philippines on The Blue. He’d told us he had no family—so we believed that no one would be searching for him.” His voice breaks off for a moment, and he squeezes his thumb and forefinger into the sockets of his eyes.
When he has composed himself, he looks at Aimee Melina and says, “I’m so sorry—had we known about you, everything would have been different.”
And there it is, the truth finally released.
Aimee remains very still, her face sheet white. Lana can feel the tension radiating from each of the group, the air thickening between them. There are no sounds except for the light wash of water against the edge of the port and the distant cawing of gulls.
Aimee lifts her hands as if about to brush away a strand of hair, but instead of reaching towards her hairline, she covers her face to stifle the terrible wail of grief that ruptures the silence.
• • •
The crew watches, horrified. Aimee is hunched forwards, her long coat pulling tight across her shoulders, wisps of hair blown around her face.
Lana tastes bile at the back of her throat: they have done this to her, all of them.
Denny steps forwards, his face ashen. He moves as if to place his hands on Aimee’s upper arms, but she raises her head, lifting her chin and facing him.
“No.”
Denny pulls back, his hands rising as if in surrender.
Aimee does not wipe away the tears that run down her face. They leave glimmering trails against her clear skin as she asks, “He’s really gone?”
“Yes, I’m so—”
She shakes her head. “Do you believe,” she says, struggling to gain control of her voice, “do you believe in your heart that Joseph would have killed your brother?”
Denny looks at her for a long moment. Shadows pass over his face as if he is back there on the yacht. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes, I believe that Joseph would have killed him.”
Aimee allows these words to settle. Then slowly, she says, “You were protecting your brother. But you see,” she says, her mouth tightening, “now you’ve taken mine.”
Denny swallows hard, his eyes closing.
“For all these months I have not known my own brother was dead—so I travel halfway around the world to find him. To tell him that I would like to begin to try to forgive him. But I am too late. You have taken that chance from me, yes? All of you.”
There are tears in Denny’s eyes and he struggles with his voice as he says, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Aimee says nothing; instead, she takes out a cigarette and places it between her lips. She flicks the lighter and draws the flame to the tip of the cigarette, which burns bright. She drops the lighter back into her pocket, glances at the crew a final time, then turns and walks away, a trail of smoke lingering behind her.
40
now
The crew have no possessions to take home with them—no backpacks or bags, no clothes except for the ones on their backs, no passports or wallets or cameras—not even a single picture of The Blue. Everything they once owned is now at the bottom of the sea rolling beneath the waves.
There are no big good-byes: Shell disappears with her parents; Heinrich calls home to Germany and his parents arrange a hotel for him for the evening; Kitty waits in Lana’s car. The only plan that is made between any of them is that they will stay in New Zealand for Aaron’s funeral.
Funeral. The word feels too new, too final. Lana is barely able to comprehend that Aaron is gone. The only thing she knows is that somehow it feels right that The Blue has gone, too, as if one couldn’t exist without the other. She pictures the great hulk of the yacht resting on the seabed, seawater working through the timber, pulsing through the bunks, filling every crevice and nook. Over the weeks and months and years, she imagines that a carpet of seaweed will begin growing around its anchor chain, fish will make a home of its cabins, rich corals will grow up through the deck—and she likes to imagine that it would please Aaron to know that The Blue won’t be ending its days on a mooring somewhere, but will become a habitat for sea life.
It is only Lana and Denny who stand together now. The wind is at her back, Denny in front of her. Dark shadows circle his eyes, and she sees the strain the day has taken on him.
Lana wonders where Aimee Melina is right now. Is she riding in the back of a taxi, ringing a friend in France, someone with a legal background perhaps, and seeking their advice? Or is she, in fact, sitting in a hotel bar, a glass of wine untouched in front of her, relieved to finally know the truth? Lana can only guess at Aimee’s thoughts, or at what she’ll do, but the one thing Lana knows for certain is that she’s pleased that Joseph’s memory won’t be forgotten.
“Denny,” she says, “whatever happens next, I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” he says with meaning.
A few moments later he steps towards Lana, leaving only inches between them. “I know everything is a mess right now, but I want to tell you something. When you left the yacht in Palau, I came looking for you.” His words take her by surprise. “I took the dinghy to shore and searched the beach for you, then the main village. I went everywhere I could think of—the taxi station, hotels, restaurants, bars—and asked anyone I came across whether they’d seen you . . . but it was like you’d vanished.”
“I went straight to the airport,” she explains. “Flew here.”
“Why New Zealand?”
This time she knows the answer. “I couldn’t let it go. None of it. The crew. What happened.” She pauses, looking directly at him. “You.”
He reaches out and takes Lana’s hand. A shock of desire pulses through her: it is still there after all this time. She feels the damp heat of his palm against hers and squeezes his fingers tighter.
“I wish,” he says, his hand wrapped around hers, “that we could go back to when we first met. Do you remember? When we sat on those rocks on that first day? Or that night swim when we lay on our backs looking up at the stars.”
“I know,” she says, moving a fraction closer so that their hips are touching. A bolt of heat shoots through her and she closes her eyes, imagining she is on the yacht with the smell of sunshine and coconut oil in the air. She wants to dive backwards, sink deep into those lost moments of swimming together in a moonstruck sea, of drinking cold beers on the deck as the sun went down, of riding together on a moped with their bodies pressed close. “But so much has happened since then . . .” Lana says. “It’s impossible to go back.”
Denny swallows hard, his expression filling with regret.
“But do you remember what you once told me?” Lana says. “We’d just started the passage to Palau and were standing together at the bow. I was looking out across the empty horizon, worrying about what’d come next—after The Blue. You said to me, ‘That’s the thing, Lana. You don’t go back. You go forwards.’ ”
Denny stares at her for a long moment—and then his lips begin to edge into a smile. He leans in close, his forehead resting lightly against hers, and whispers, “Forwards, then.”
• • •
It is late by the time they pull up outside Lana’s apartment. Lana slips the key from the ignition, then reaches over and gently squeezes Kitty’s arm, rousing her from sleep. “Here we are, Kit.”
Kitty yawns, rubbing a hand over her eyes as she sits up. She looks at the row of illuminated shop fronts. “You live above one of these?”
Lana nods. “That one,” she says, pointing towards a tiny wooden doorway painted duck-egg blue.
“Taronga Gallery and Café,” Kitty reads aloud. Then she turns, facing her. “You live above a gallery?”
Lana smiles as she says, “I like to keep a close eye on my artwork.”
Kitty’s eyes widen. “Your artwork is in there?”
“Just a handful. And they’re on a tiny wall. Right at the back.”
“Lana, that’s incredible!”
She shakes her head, saying, “Not really. I’ve been working in the gallery for a few months, and I think the owner eventually took pity on me and agreed to put up some of my work.”
“Have you sold any?”
“A few.” She’s sold seven sketches and five paintings in the past month, and used the money to buy new paints and canvases, as well as a set of expensive brushes she was hankering after.
“Can we go inside so I can see them?”
“Sure.” They get out of the car and walk towards the gallery. Lana unlocks the door and flicks on the lights, illuminating a small space with a tired wooden floor and crisp white walls. There is a single counter, from where they serve coffees and a variety of homemade cakes that the owner, Jacqueline, bakes herself. It’s an informal gallery, mostly selling the work of local artists, but it has a loyal clientele and does a good trade.
Kitty wanders slowly around the space until she reaches the back of the gallery, where a small rectangular wall is filled with Lana’s work.
Kitty stops. Her fingers move to her mouth as she stares at the great expanse of sea, of empty bays guarded by thick forests, of limestone cliffs that fall away into sheer lagoons.
Then her gaze trails to a series of sketches of two girls. She stands completely still, looking at each of them in turn: two girls sitting at the bow of a yacht, tanned legs dangling towards the sea; two girls laughing with their heads bent towards each other; two girls lying in the shade of a palm tree, sand dusting their knees. “I haven’t seen any of these. I didn’t know . . .”
“I did them later. Here, in New Zealand.”
Kitty looks at the final painting at the edge of the wall, with a NOT FOR SALE sticker pinned to a corner. The image is of a glassy azure sea with a hint of coral visible beneath, and drifting on the surface is a yacht with a dark blue hull, the silhouettes of seven people lounging on deck.
Kitty shakes her head. “It’s so beautiful.”
Lana feels herself bloom with the compliment. “Thank you.”
They are both quiet for a moment. Then Kitty turns to Lana, asking, “Did you miss it?”
“The Blue?”
Kitty nods.
Lana thinks for a moment. “Yes. I did,” she says, understanding what Kitty has lost today. The Blue drew them far from the routines and patterns of normal life, gave them a chance to see the world, to be whoever they wished to be within the small stretch of that boat. Aboard The Blue, expectations weren’t heaped on them, questions of earnings or careers were barely talked about, families didn’t have to define them, there was no treadmill. “The thing is, Kit,” she says, finally understanding, “The Blue was never a boat. Not really. The Blue is a mind-set. A place within yourself.”
Slowly, Kitty smiles. “I like that.”
When Lana looks down, she notices flecks of something clinging to her bare ankle, just near her tattoo. She leans forwards, running a fingertip over her ankle, realizing they are specks of hardened paint. Remembering the dropped paintbrush and the unfinished canvas upstairs, she picks off the paint and holds it up to the light. Blue, the color of the hull. Her palette is always blue.
