Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,3
the police would be at the Weavers’ place, not here. We’re not family, as I so heartlessly pointed out to Henry on the night of that storm.
‘Who called this clown?’ Dad mutters. We watch Sergeant Doherty climb out of his vehicle; starched pale blue shirt, navy pants, black boots polished to a high sheen. He clips a small notepad and pen into his breast pocket and moves to greet us as we get out of the car.
‘Apparently there was a ruckus here last night,’ Doherty says. ‘Broken window. Scuffle out here on the driveway. Nobody called us about it.’
Dad rubs a small scratch on the driver’s side door. ‘Wasn’t worth your time.’
‘How ’bout I be the judge of that?’ Doherty rests his hands on his duty belt, elbows at right angles: tough cop stance. It takes all my effort not to roll my eyes. ‘Care to explain what happened?’
Dad shoves his car keys into his pocket. ‘Nup.’
‘Who broke the window?’
‘I did,’ Dad says.
Doherty narrows his eyes at the motel office’s shiny new pane. He’s only a year younger than my father but physically different in every way. While Dad is stocky and bristled, Doherty is lean and clean-shaven. While Dad is square-jawed and lumbering, Doherty is pointy-featured and nimble as a fox. Maybe the opposite of my father is what Mum initially found attractive about The Shallows’ head of police, though I have to wonder if it’s also why their fling only lasted six months.
Doherty stares at my father now, deadpan. ‘That right?’
‘Came out to replace a lightbulb and fumbled with the ladder.’
‘At one in the morning?’
‘When you’re a business owner the work never stops.’
Doherty peers up at the light Dad’s referring to. It’s covered with cobwebs and rusted over. He can’t understand why my father’s lying for Mason Weaver, and I have to admit I’m not sure either.
Luisa appears at the office door in a loose floral blouse and white jeans, her wide smile a welcome distraction from the testosterone-fuelled tension. She holds up the cordless phone and beckons my father over, flapping her other hand in an excited wave when she spots me.
As Dad disappears inside, I move to the back of the ute.
‘Listen,’ Doherty says, following me. He lifts my suitcase out of the tray before I have a chance to reach for it. ‘You’d best have a word to your dad about that Weaver kid. We already know he was plastered and picking fights up at the Criterion last night.’ He swivels the suitcase around and offers me the handle. ‘Kid’s got a destructive streak, and your old man’s not helping anyone by protecting him. So have a word, all right?’
‘Sure thing, Barry.’
Doherty holds my gaze for a beat or two, then shakes his head at the incorrect name. Call me Ben, he told me once, leaning one arm out of his police vehicle, a smug grin slapped across his face. That was when I knew something was going on between him and my mother, because up until that point he’d never given me the time of day.
‘Thanks for stopping by,’ I say, turning and walking towards the office. Can you get in trouble for walking away from a cop while they’re still talking to you? I think of the lie I told Doherty the morning we found out Henry was missing. That would mean real trouble. The kind of trouble I need to keep my dad well away from, for both our sakes.
I hear the scrape of Doherty’s leather boots on the driveway, the dull clunk of his car door opening. There’s a burst of static garble from his police radio before the door thumps shut. I fiddle with the zipper on my suitcase until he finally drives away, then march over to Room Fifteen and hammer my fist against the door.
The striped curtains twitch. Mason has been watching everything from the window. The door swings open and he’s framed in the doorway, a foot taller than me, tanned and freckled with blond hair pillow-flattened on one side. His high cheekbones and sullen mouth remind me of the black and white photos of young soldiers Uncle Bernie keeps in scrapbooks; Mason has the same faraway look in his eyes.
He folds his arms, defiant. His knuckles are purple and swollen. There’s a ring of crusted blood circling one nostril, a puffy tenderness around the bridge of his nose. His grey T-shirt is inside out, blood spatters showing through the fabric around the neckline.
You lost control again,