‘You draw,’ I said. ‘That’s cool.’
‘Yeah. You want to have a look? I’ve nearly finished this.’
‘Sure.’ As he opened the sketchpad and passed it to me, I studied his wrist, the leather strand tied around it, his tanned skin, the thin elegance of his hands. More fascinating body parts to add to my collection.
The page was covered with pencil drawings of oddly shaped trees and strange old-fashioned machinery, giant cogs, people with triangular bodies, headless trunks and bodiless heads; a chaotic mixture of rural and urban. I could clearly make out the boulders surrounding the waterhole, with faces twisting and flowing as part of the water that gushed through the rocks in a swollen flood. The drawings were intricately realised: detailed and refined. I thought it might be surrealism or something like that, but I dared not let him know of my complete ignorance concerning art.
‘Wow, it’s …’ I started.
‘Creepy?’
‘No, no, it’s really beautiful. I’m still at prep level myself, you know – stick figures with triangles for dresses? This is deeply impressive.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, maybe a little bit creepy … the faces.’ I looked down at the lined faces in the water, twisted and long, mouths open, eyes staring.
‘That’s the ghosts,’ he said, ‘of the ones who drowned here.’
‘Yeah. I’ve heard the stories. Do you really believe that? About their souls getting trapped in the tunnels under the rocks?’
‘I like to keep an open mind,’ he said. ‘I sort of imagine them caught and stretching down the creek.’
‘Right,’ I nodded, and a sudden chill went through me as I remembered why I had to go to the waterhole that day. ‘It’s funny.’
‘Funny?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean the drawing. It’s just that my mum drew this place too. Painted it, actually.’
‘She painted?’
‘Yeah, and lots of other things. She had many … interests.’
‘Right.’ He nodded and stared gently.
‘It is weird how so many people have drowned here,’ I said.
‘Yeah. I guess.’
I looked down at the picture again, careful not to smudge the edges where my fingers held the sketchbook. There was so much detail to take in I could have looked at it for hours. ‘All that water,’ I said.
‘It’s flooding, see here.’ He reached across and pointed to the drawing. ‘I reckon when the creek floods, they might try to escape, you know, use the flow of the water, somehow, to help them. But they never get out. They can only stretch down the creek like this.’ His arm reached across me as he pointed to the bodies entwined with the water. I felt the warm brush of his arm against mine and I am here to tell you, during that fleeting touch of skin, I was not thinking about the picture at all. ‘Apparently this place is amazing in the wet season. Have you seen it?’ he said, withdrawing his arm.
‘Er, no.’ I looked up at him. ‘No, not really. I’ve only been up here a few times.’
‘Yeah, I haven’t actually seen it either, but this is kind of what I imagine. You know, artistic licence.’
I handed him back the sketchpad. ‘Well. It’s really good. I could never draw like that.’
‘You’d be surprised at what you could do. You know, if someone showed you how.’
I couldn’t bring myself to look right at him, frightened he’d be able to read me like a book titled I’m Really into You and its sequel, Take Me, I’m Yours.
He took the pad from me and shoved it into his bag. ‘The SES went somewhere else to look for Dylan, I guess,’ he said.
‘You saw them here?’
‘Yeah, yesterday afternoon, but they were packing up to leave. I guess you didn’t find any sign of Dylan in the search then?’
‘No. Nothing. I feel like they’ve given up on him already.’
Matt shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s not ready to be found.’
My eyes went to his, wondering what I’d see. Something detached, arrogant or superior? But no – I saw a glint of sadness, the slight furrowing of his brow. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s what I thought too.’
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m heading back home. You shouldn’t stay here alone, you know, sick and everything. Let me give you a lift.’
‘You drove here?’
‘Yeah, Mum lets me use the van when she doesn’t need it.’ He stood up and offered his hand. ‘Come on. Can you make it to the car park?’
His van was exactly what you’d expect. He even had a dreamcatcher hanging from the rear-vision mirror. We’d had one once. Mum hung it over my bed when I was little; supposedly it would catch my bad dreams in the net and let my good ones slide down the feathers into my head. I’d liked the idea of that, but given I didn’t usually dream I always assumed mine must have slipped away completely. I hadn’t seen that dreamcatcher for years; it must have been lost when we moved.
Matt cleared a spot for me on the front passenger seat and opened the door from the inside. I noted the L sticker on the floor.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘It’s Mum, not me.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, slamming the door. ‘Where are your P plates?’
‘I don’t have them yet.’
‘Oh. Well, how come you’re driving then?’
‘It’s okay. I’ve been driving for years. And now that we’ve moved here, Mum lets me drive on the back roads without her.’
‘It’s still illegal.’
‘I know.’ He turned the key and the van’s motor whined and caught. ‘It’ll be fine. It’s only a kilometre or so. I can handle it.’
‘Alright, but don’t expect me to visit you in prison.’
‘Well, that would be level jumping,’ he laughed, ‘since we’ve only just met.’
I lied. I’d visit him at the prison with a file baked into a cake and a getaway vehicle idling in the car park.
Kevin drove in at dusk. Mervie barked and I sat up on my bed where I was reading The Catcher in the
