“Why was yours?”
“We were never the same after that,” Falk said. “I tried a few times over the years. He probably did too, in his own way. But we couldn’t really fix things. We stopped talking about it, never really mentioned Kiewarra again. Pretended it didn’t exist, none of it had happened. He put up with Melbourne, put up with me, and then he died. And that was it.”
“How dare you!” Aaron’s father’s eyes flared, and there was an unnameable edge to his expression. “Your mother is buried in that town. That farm was built up by your grandparents, for God’s sake. My friends and my life are back there. Don’t you dare throw this on me.”
Aaron felt the blood pumping in his head. His friends. His mother. He had left almost as much behind.
“Then why are we running?” He grabbed his father’s wrist and wrenched it off his shirt. It came free this time. “Why are you making us run with our tails between our legs? It only makes us look guilty.”
“No, that note makes us look guilty.” Erik stared hard at Aaron. “Tell me the truth. Were you really with Luke?”
Aaron made himself meet his father’s eyes. “Yes.”
Erik Falk opened his mouth. Then he shut it. He looked at his son like he’d never seen him before. The atmosphere in the car had morphed into something tangible and putrid. He shook his head once, turned back to the wheel, and started the engine.
They drove the rest of the way without exchanging a single word. Aaron, burning with anger and shame and a thousand other things, stared into the side mirror for the entire journey.
Part of him was disappointed that Mal Deacon never reappeared.
26
By the time Falk had walked back from the Racos’ place he’d felt an urgent need to cleanse himself. The past coated him like a layer of grime. It had been a long day, and the evening felt later than it was. The bar had still been in full swing as he slunk past and up the stairs.
In the shower, his body bore the marks of exposure to the Kiewarra sun. The skin of his forearms, his neck, the V of his collar. What had been pale was now an angry red.
The first thumps on the door were almost inaudible over the running water. Falk shut off the taps and stood naked, listening. Another flurry of knocking sounded, louder this time.
“Falk! Quick!” The muffled voice was accompanied by another round of bangs. “Are you in there?”
He grabbed a towel and nearly skidded on the wet floor. He flung open the door to find a breathless McMurdo with his fist raised to knock again.
“Downstairs.” The barman was panting. “Hurry.” He was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Falk pulled on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers without bothering to dry himself and slammed the door behind him.
The bar was in chaos. Chairs were overturned, and the floor glittered with broken glass. Someone was hunched in a corner, his hands over his nose slick with blood. McMurdo was on his knees trying to pry apart two men grappling on the floor. Around them, a semicircle of drinkers slowly wiped the smirks off their faces and stepped away as Falk took two strides into the center of the room.
The abrupt drop in volume distracted the two men on the floor, and McMurdo was able to get an arm in. He pulled them apart, and they lay sprawled in their respective corners, breathing heavily.
Jamie Sullivan’s eye was already swelling up, distorted into a bulbous shape. His bottom lip had split, and he had scratch marks across his cheek.
Opposite him, Grant Dow grinned, then winced, feeling his jaw tenderly. He seemed to have come off best, and he knew it.
“Right. You and you.” Falk pointed to two of the least drunk onlookers. “Take Sullivan into the bathroom and help him wipe that blood off his face. Then bring him back here. Understand?”
They helped Sullivan up. Falk turned to Dow.
“You. Take a seat over there and wait and—no. Shut it. It’s very much in your own interest that you keep that trap of yours closed for once. You hear?”
Falk turned to McMurdo. “Clean cloth, please, and large glasses of water all round. Plastic cups.”
Falk took the cloth to the man in the corner who was doubled over, clutching his nose.
“Sit up straight, mate,” Falk said. “That’s the way. Here. Hold this.”
The man straightened and took his hands away. Falk blinked as Scott Whitlam’s bloodied face appeared.
“Jesus, how’d you get mixed up in this?”
Whitlam tried to shrug and winced.
“Wrog place, wrog tibe,” he said, pressing the cloth to his nose.
Falk turned and looked pointedly at the onlookers.
“I suggest the rest of you make yourselves pretty bloody scarce,” he said.
Raco forced his way in as the room was emptying. He was wearing the same T-shirt he’d had on at dinner, but his curly hair was sticking up on one side, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“McMurdo rang. I was asleep. We need an ambulance? I’ve got Dr. Leigh on standby.”
Falk looked around. Sullivan was back from the bathroom and glanced up, a concerned expression on his face, at the mention of the doctor. The other two were hunched over in their chairs.
“No. I don’t think so,” he said. “Unless you’re worried about two of them being brain-dead. What’s the story?” He turned to McMurdo.
The barman rolled his eyes. “Our friend Mr. Dow over there seems to believe the only reason he’s in the frame for the Hadlers’ deaths is because Jamie Sullivan doesn’t have the balls to confess. He decided now was an opportunity to encourage him to do so.”
Falk strode over to Dow. “What happened here?”
“Misunderstanding.”
Falk leaned in close, so his mouth was right by Dow’s ear. He could smell the booze several layers deep in his pores.
“If we’re bothering you, Grant, all you need to do is give us a decent reason why she wrote down your name.”
Dow gave a bitter laugh. His breath stank.
“That’s bloody rich, coming from you. You mean, like the decent reason you never gave for that note Ellie left? No.” He shook his head. “I could give you a thousand reasons, mate, and you still wouldn’t go away. You won’t be happy until you pin the Hadlers on me or my uncle.”
Falk pulled back. “Watch yourself. Keep talking like that and you’ll be formally questioned and processed and find yourself in a whole heap of trouble, understand?” Falk held out his hand. “Keys.”
Grant looked up in disbelief. “No chance.”
“You can pick them up at the station tomorrow.”
“It’s over five kilometers to my place,” Grant protested, cradling them in his palm.
“Tough. Enjoy your walk,” Falk said, plucking the keys from Grant’s paw and pocketing them. “Now bugger off.”
He turned his attention to Sullivan and Whitlam, who were being inexpertly tended by McMurdo and Raco.
“You want to tell us what happened, Jamie?” Falk asked.
Sullivan stared at the floor out of his one good eye.
“Like he said. Misunderstanding.”
“I don’t mean tonight.”
There was no reply. Falk let the silence stretch out.
“This is only going to get worse the further you let yourself sink.”