The Ottoman Motel (21 page)

Tarden had seen her, standing in the shade of the marquee regarding the day, the collection of people, with her cool detached gaze. Iris. From above the buzz of a poker game—the good- and bad-natured taunts and provocations of the other fishers, the lazy mental arithmetic of points and betting, the crazy hum of his own mind—there she had been.

He wondered again what illness ate her from the inside, what affliction was removing her from life, piece by piece. Cancer, probably. One of the world's great unfairnesses: the indiscriminate art of death. A concept he was intricately, and forever, entangled with.

He paused his hand in mid-air, steadying it to knock. The back of his hand was a mountain range, kinked with veins and scattered with sunspots, fingers long since buckled into permanent zigzags. He wasn't naive enough to think himself still young: rather, his body still surprised him, the way an empty room surprises someone thinking it full. All those children at the party, all that energy—this would happen to all of them, if they got this far.

He knocked on the door, and the sound was as familiar as
a voice. He always rapped on the same section of wood, just above a dark whorl in the timber that looked like an elephant's eye. He knew other hands knocked on this door; he hoped they knocked lower or higher, that this square inch was his very own. He pictured Iris, inside, touching makeup to her face, getting ready for him. Did every man feel the same way, so protective? Did every man think,
She puts up with the rest, but the one she wants is me
? The others…the others took more from her. Tarden felt that he added something; had the thought, then dismissed it as ridiculous.

‘Come in.'

Her voice from the other side of the door meant something good expanding inside him.

Iris sat on the cushioned seat by the window, knees drawn up to her chin. A small crack in the curtains lent a thin strip of light to her profile. Her face was coated in makeup, her skin shimmering unnaturally in the dim light, purple eyeshadow falling back sadly to her face. She rubbed her thumb against one eyebrow, sending tiny hairs spinning through the shaft of light and back into darkness.

‘Jack,' she said. ‘I'm so tired.' A change in her voice, like an accent, lapped from her lungs.

‘I can come back.' Tarden hung in the doorway, aware of the creases the length of his untucked shirt, the stiffness of new jeans.

‘No. Stay.' She sniffed, shifted something in her lap. She closed it—a book. A photo album.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Just…nostalgia. You know how it is at our age, Jack.' She drew the curtain back and Tarden saw the album more clearly. It was wrapped in thick green leather, embossed with gold.

‘Looks nice.'

She patted the album. ‘I used to…we used to take so many pictures. Karl was the photographer, of course, but I caught the bug. After.'

Iris's dead husband. Tarden did not want to imagine her as she was, her previous life. ‘You didn't stay at the party,' he said. ‘I saw you standing at the house, then you went.'

‘Yes, well, not really my place. Not really my family.'

‘The boy, Gin, disappeared.'

Iris raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Is he—'

‘Turned up soon enough. Just ran off to where Stephanie swam out.'

‘That swim,' she said. ‘Well, as long as he's safe. Is the party still going?'

‘No, everyone's headed home.'

‘But not you.' Iris raised a smile, spreading out her wide mouth. She put the album down. ‘Is today the day, then? Are you finally going to make an old lady very happy?' She slipped her dressing gown off one shoulder, laughed gently.

Their ongoing joke. Tarden unbuckled his belt, leaned his weight on the bed. Beneath the humour, somewhere in her voice, Tarden could tell something was wrong. ‘I guess we'll find out.' He took off his shirt and jeans, climbed beneath the covers.

Iris removed her dressing gown, revealing an ivory camisole. ‘Where's the good lady wife today?'

‘Said I'd meet him at the Ottoman. Said I'd stay and help clean up the party.'

‘So he's not home baking cookies for you?'

Tarden groaned. ‘Can we not do this?' he said quietly. ‘Not today.' As soon as he'd said it he hoped she hadn't heard it.

She sat down on the bed. ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing.'

Iris eased back onto the bed, staying above the covers. ‘Come on, Jack. You know you can't just leave it at that.'

Tarden felt guilt burning in his forehead. He had never liked unloading his problems.; it felt like cheating yourself of your own responsibilities. Enough people had told him to
open up
though. The psychologist, once a week in his tiny metal office, a soundtrack of barbells and shoe-squeaks coming through the thin walls; the skinny girl, drunk and stoned, as they sat and smoked on the roof of the first hostel he'd lived at; his own mother, sitting in the courtroom with her blue hat, her only good dress.

But Iris, she was the only person he could come close to
sharing
with. Not even Robbie, who…well that, he supposed, was the problem.

‘He's…gone further.' Tarden rubbed his face. He couldn't even begin to explain it. ‘I feel he's…drifting away from who I know.'

Iris reached out and stroked his hair. ‘He's changing?'

‘He's not the same. I keep feeling like I'm waiting for him to change back into the person I knew, but—'

‘But you love him.'

‘Of course. I mean, that's not the problem.'

‘Well,' said Iris, ‘what if it is?'

‘I don't—' He let her fingers stroke his head, feeling their electric paths.

‘I mean, what if love is the problem? What if your feelings are getting in the way of seeing what's really going on?'

Tarden thought of Robbie's hands wrapped around his throat in the storeroom, how easily and instantly he could have broken the grip, knocked Robbie to the ground. He felt anger rising. He felt stupid that Iris could see through him so easily. ‘That doesn't come into it,' he said. All the times he'd stood up for Robbie. All the times he'd forgiven him. He rolled over, removed himself from Iris's reach. A deep shame burned its way into him. He said, ‘Is it cancer?'

Tarden felt her body turn still. There was a long silence.

She sighed. ‘Look at me, Jack.'

Tarden didn't move.

‘Turn your damn body over and bloody look at me!' Her voice was loud, the crack of shattered confidence.

Tarden rolled over. Blood thundered through his ears. He saw, before anything else, that Iris was crying, her hands held rigid at her sides. Her breath turned to a single, short laugh. ‘Do you think what I do is right?'

‘What do you mean?' Tarden's voice came out wavering, weak.

‘This, Jack. Being a whore.' She raised her knees, stretched
one foot in the air.

‘Iris, I—'

‘No, Jack. I asked you a question.'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I don't know what you want me to say.'

‘For Pete's sake, it's simple enough.' She held up her other foot. Her camisole rucked up her thighs. Tiny veins were there, a secret blue like spider's legs.

Tarden reached out a hand, but she brushed it away.

‘It's smoke and mirrors,' she said. ‘All concealment and polish. I just don't know—' she let her legs fall back to the bed. ‘Underneath all this,' she gestured down her body. ‘Whatever I am,' she said, ‘is not real. And it doesn't inspire me that the only people who think they know me are a few fishermen killing time between the ocean and the pub.'

Tarden winced. Men he drank with, joked with, talked with. They never discussed Iris, but he knew. ‘Your family,' he said.

She nodded. She had closed her eyes, cheeks slick with tears.

Tarden felt a wave of affection. ‘Come here.' He propped up so she could move in next to him and closed his arms around her. Held her as she shook with sadness. ‘I just wanted to see my daughter,' she said. ‘I wanted to show her I'd changed.'

Yes. A thought he'd buried as fanciful, as impossible. ‘You're not sick are you?'

Iris buried her face deeper in Tarden's shirt. She said, ‘I couldn't think of any other way.'

Tarden yanked his arm out from under her. ‘So you made these poor people come all this way,' he said, ‘you caused all this…trouble? For what?'

‘Jack, I didn't mean for it to be like this.'

‘How did you mean it, then?'

‘I had—a month ago, I caught that cough. You remember?'

Tarden exhaled. ‘You had a cough.'

‘It was pneumonia. And I was fine, but there was a day when I couldn't breathe properly. And I thought, what happens when I do die? What if I never get to see my family? I had to try.'

‘Oh my God,' Tarden held his head, thoughts unravelling.

Iris stared at him. ‘Why do you care so much? It's not your family, it's hardly your business at all.'

‘The boy, though. Your grandson, you've completely fucked his life up. You—' Tarden reached for his shirt on the ground but couldn't find it. He was sure he had put it on the floor.

‘Right,' said Iris, ‘yes. Well actually I am sick. I'm sick in the same way you're a fisherman, Jack.'

Tarden leapt from the bed. ‘What is that supposed to mean?' His thoughts were turning red. Where was his goddamned
shirt?

‘Your friends,' she said. ‘The
real
fishermen, the ones who actually come here to fuck me, they tell me about you. About how you hold yourself so high and mighty, last of the true craftsmen, when in fact you haven't sold a catch in years. The ones you catch aren't nearly good enough to sell.'

She was sitting up in bed now, bedclothes gathered around her, her back straight. All the rage in Tarden's head screamed at him to hit her, to keep hitting her until she shut up. Strike her until the shame went away, and she felt for herself what it was like. His breath came white-hot from his nostrils as he fought desperately to quell his anger.

Think it out. Think it out. Think about what comes after. The repetition, as he was taught. His mantra. He saw his shirt draped over the back of a chair. She had folded it up.

She kept rubbing her arms, as if trying to warm them up. ‘Jack,' she said, ‘I didn't mean that.'

Tarden picked up his shirt. ‘I have to go,' was all he could let himself say.

‘Jack, no. I—'

He strode across the room, pulling on his shirt, slamming the door behind him.

Of course. Of course it would be the bluff. The hulking black shape cast a permanent shadow in her mind.

Madaline shivered as the wind went through her. The dress had been an awful idea; the wind made it cling to the side of her body like something attacking her. The three children sat together on the old shipwreck. Madaline had not been back to this place in years. In her mind, this portion of landscape was a static tableau, it almost hurt her physically to see it as a living, moving thing. Gin was safe: that was what was important. She had feared the worst.

She remembered Gin on the day after Stephanie vanished. Younger, smaller, still the same face, the wide eyes the colour of rich soil. Playing on a plastic trike in the living room of Ned's house, wearing down the carpet as he swivelled the tiny wheels back and forth. Back and forth, watching the window, sunlight streaming across him. Waiting for his mother to come home.

They reached the children, and Gin ran out to hug his father's legs. ‘Hi, Dad,' he said.

Ned hugged Gin back. ‘You're okay,' he said. ‘You had us worried, mate.'

‘I just came here—' Gin looked guiltily up at Madaline.

‘I know,' said Ned.

‘I thought maybe she could hear me,' Gin buried his face in Ned's jacket, ‘if I came here.'

‘That's okay, Gin.' Ned's voice caught in his throat. ‘We can come here any time you want. You just have to let me know where you are. All the time. That's our agreement.'

‘I know,' said Gin's muffled voice. ‘I just…I wanted to tell her about my bike.'

Audrey wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. ‘I knew he'd be here,' she said. ‘I'll always know.'

Madaline felt intensely warm, even in the cold. Shame, she thought, or maybe just the heat of memory. Audrey stood and put her arm around her brother. Side by side, Madaline could see their similarities. Ned, too, with a softer face, drawing his children in, protecting them. The three Gales standing close together, the wind buffeting them, ruffling their clothes.

‘And Simon,' said Audrey. ‘He helped me.'

Simon blushed and shifted his weight on his shipwreck seat.

‘Did he?' said Ned. ‘He's a good friend, isn't he.' He released his grip on his children. He looked down at Gin. ‘Julian,' he said. ‘Are you okay to go back to the party? We can have it another time if you want. We can just have the day to ourselves.' Gin shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘I want to go back.' He was smiling, his face shining from tears no one had seen him shed. ‘I want cake.'

‘Are you sure?' said Ned. ‘I can make another cake on another day.'

Gin frowned. ‘You can't have a birthday cake not on your birthday. It doesn't taste the same.'

‘Well,' said Ned, ‘that's true.'

‘Can Audrey take me back?' said Gin, taking his sister's hand. ‘And Simon?'

‘If they want to,' said Ned.

‘Of course we do,' said Audrey. ‘Don't we, Simon.'

Simon stood up, nodding.

‘Okay,' Madaline said, rubbing her hands together. ‘Let's go and find that cake, shall we?'

‘No,' said Gin seriously. ‘We have to walk back by ourselves. We're growing up now.'

‘Fair enough,' said Ned. ‘I guess we'll just wait here, Madaline. Give the grown-ups a head start.'

The three children departed, and Madaline felt the chill return. She tried to push back thoughts of what would happen to them, walking off alone. ‘Will they be all right?' she said. ‘They know the way back, don't they?'

Ned smiled. ‘Of course. They used to come down all the time with their mum. They haven't been in a while, but—'

Madaline followed Ned's gaze to the edge of the ocean where a white-top burned for an instant like a camera flash.

‘I used to worry,' he said. ‘When I first came here. The danger of the unknown, all that. It was all just too—' He gestured at the expanse of water. ‘Too much like one big question. I was a city boy, wasn't I?' He chuckled. ‘You'd be used to it, cane fields and train tracks. All that.'

‘I guess. But Reception—' she swallowed a slivered flame
of indigestion, cast an eye up to the bluff. ‘Do you ever get the feeling this place is something all of its own? Feels like those dreams where you're running as fast as you can, but you're going nowhere. Like a…slowing down.' She sat down next to Ned. Her weight shifted the wood like a see-saw, lowering then lifting. ‘It's stupid.'

‘No,' said Ned, sinking his hands into his pockets. ‘It's not stupid. I—' He stopped himself, as if turning over words in his head. ‘When Julian was born, it was different. Audrey was excitement, our first child, and the town was still
vibrant
I suppose. Industry still going, tourism taking off. But Julian—little Gin…It really felt like a change of generations. Stephanie's parents had passed away, only a few months apart, and they were true locals, born and bred. It was like our little world was growing, but also getting smaller.'

Madaline saw police tape. The tiny section of beach glaring with sunlight, crawling with people. A marquee, borrowed from Ned himself, the search centre. Her idea, of course. Her notion of what a missing-persons case looked like.

‘He came four weeks early,' Ned went on, ‘this tiny thing, a little pink animal. All you can think about is how he's not ready for the world. How you think he'll never be ready for the world.' Ned fixed his eyes to the ground.

Madaline focused on the patch of skin they'd shaved on his head. The red and black stitched flesh.

‘And I couldn't even hold him for a week, I just had to watch him through plastic. When all I wanted to do was protect him, keep him safe.'

Madaline wanted to reach out then, to run her hands through Ned's hair. To trace her finger down the stitches.

‘His eyes,' said Ned. ‘Like…like thumbprints, sunken right down. And I kept thinking
he's sleeping
, even when I knew he was awake. I never thought—it's horrible—but I never thought he'd get this far. His fifth birthday, I mean—' Ned scrunched up his mouth, wiped at his eyes. ‘It's just, you just think,
I'm all they've got
. And that's the scariest thing you can ever think. In a way, I can understand those people—' He coughed. ‘Sorry. You don't want to hear all this.'

‘It's okay,' said Madaline. ‘Don't apologise. You've—' She wanted to say
you've been through a lot
, some trite phrase that ought to mean something. She wanted to place her hand on his, feel his skin against hers. She wanted to say she loved him, that she was sorry, that she wished they'd never met.

‘Well,' he said after a time, ‘I just…I just wanted to tell you that things get easier.'

Madaline stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘We'd better get some of that cake before it's gone,' she said, smiling as if any sentiment could rescue her.