He wore the same kind of baggy cotton pants and singlet as yesterday, and his long hair was tied back from his face in a ponytail. He was coming from the direction of our place. I wondered if he’d walked the few kilometres into town to join the search. After all, the whole of Kelly’s Crossing was there. But the fact that he carried a fishing rod seemed to suggest otherwise.
As he neared the hall he glanced at all the four-wheel drives but kept moving past. He hadn’t seen me on the bench, but as he came level with the tree we suddenly made eye contact.
He didn’t seem surprised to see me, giving me a look of mild curiosity.
‘Hi,’ he said, stopping in front of the bench.
I was staring; I had a habit of doing that – scrutinising people. It was only when they caught me that I’d realise I had been greedily absorbing their every nuance, coveting their facial features and gestures and gathering them up into a memory bank full of fascinating body parts. I don’t know what I was going to do with them, but I liked collecting them all the same.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘You’re Sunny.’
I frowned. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘It’s a small town. Who else would you be?’
‘I could be anyone.’
‘So,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘you’re not Sunny?’
I shrugged. ‘Depends what you’ve heard, I guess.’
‘Okay, so then, girl-who-may-or-may-not-be-Sunny, I’m guessing they still haven’t found Dylan?’ He inclined his head toward the hall.
‘No.’
‘That’s no good. It’s pretty sad.’ He adjusted the fishing rod in his grip.
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘They might find him. They’re organising a search.’ I glanced at the hall, thinking about all the worry compressed into that small room. ‘Are you going to help? The whole town’s here.’
‘Um.’ He looked over to the hall. ‘I’m not sure they’ll want me along.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m pretty new here.’
‘So?’
‘So, this seems like a community sort of thing.’
‘It’s not like a wedding. You don’t need an invitation.’
He nodded. ‘I’m Matt, by the way.’
I looked up at him. ‘Sunny.’
‘Nice to meet you, Sunny.’ He smiled and lifted the rod to his shoulder. ‘Well, I’ll see you ’round, then.’ He walked across the road and headed down the path beside the bridge.
Sometimes you have to get to know someone before you see the little things that make them beautiful, like the way their face creases up when they smile or the way their eyes get soft around the edges when they’re sad. But in Matthew Bright’s case it took me a split second.
In those few moments I had gathered these important facts, as was my skill:
He had long, dark lashes that I bet he got teased about at school.
His voice was deep, soft – nice.
His eyes were dark brown and his skin tanned to the colour of black tea.
There was something slightly feminine about his smooth skin.
Fine black stubble peppered his chin and upper lip.
He was tall and wiry.
‘Beautiful’ is not a word I would usually use to describe a boy, but in this case it was the only word that would do.
I watched him walk away, and was so absorbed that I didn’t notice everyone had come out of the hall.
‘Sunny,’ Kevin called from the doorway where people were gathering in small groups, ‘come here.’
I glanced back at Matthew Bright’s receding figure and had an overwhelming urge to get up and follow him, but Kevin was waving me over, frowning.
‘Why did you leave like that?’ he said as I approached.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, ignoring his question. ‘You didn’t tell me you were with Dylan. You just said he went missing.’
‘Nothing, nothing’s going on,’ he grumbled, striding off toward the car park. ‘Get in the ute. We’re going up to the gorge.’
As we drove away I saw Matt down by the bridge, a lonely fisherman.
‘You’d think he’d help out,’ said Kevin, glancing at Matt as he wrenched the vehicle into a U-turn.
‘He’s probably got his reasons,’ I said.
Kevin manoeuvred the Toyota into second and turned to look at me. ‘You oughta keep away from that one, Sunny.’
I frowned. ‘Why?’
‘He’s not our type.’
I frowned. ‘You don’t even know him.’
‘Neither do you.’
Not our type. What did that even mean? Maybe Kevin had something against this guy or maybe it was something more disturbing, like him trying to be fatherly and protective, but whatever it was, he didn’t realise that Matthew Bright was unequivocally exactly my type.
Constant Creek flowed down from the mountains, carving a spectacular granite gorge. The area drew people in with its giant grey rocks and clear green waterholes. It looked like one of those postcards where you just want to leave wherever it is you are and get on a plane and fly to that piece of paradise. And in real life it was just as picturesque, except in real life there was a silent power coming from the boulders, a sense of ghostliness in the way they lurked like the smooth bones of the earth beneath the brilliant surface. It was a popular spot to swim, despite the drownings.
I’d been to the creek with Mum on the last Easter holidays. The creek wasn’t far inland from the farm, so it was only a twenty-five minute walk through the rainforest to some of the swimming areas. I’d walked with Mum along the forest track until it met up with the tourist path that ran alongside the creek. She’d carried an easel and paintbrushes; she’d been going through her watercolour phase at the time and was completing a series of paintings of the area.
We’d strayed off the main path and walked down to the section of the creek the locals called ‘The waterhole’.
It looked innocent enough – deep, clear, inviting – but the current was strong where the water merged between the granite rocks, sluicing powerfully down the gorge. Over the years, as many as
