The Ottoman Motel (6 page)

The night had come into Simon's room. Not from the outside, from the black cavity of nature beyond the window, but from within: dark vacant shapes that grew like living things from tiny cracks and overlaps. Dark creatures had crawled, with their rich shadow flesh, along and up the walls. Drawing closer to Simon with each breath he took. They'd entered his eyes—ink stains leaching outwards and in—and when he closed them, they were inside him. His familiar dream demons shrouded themselves in dim cloaks, growing impossibly large, filling every space with fresh edgeless fear.

Somehow, these shards of sleep propelled Simon into a new day. He cowered in one corner of the enormous bed, sheets and quilt pushed back away from one another. His first moment was a sharp intake of breath. The light coming in the window was wrong: a weak light like a failing afternoon, nothing like what a morning was. Then he remembered the room, the house. His body was itchy without movement. He got off the bed and moved to the seat at the window. He looked out at a beach, sunken down behind sand dunes covered with a spiky grass.

Tall trees poked up too, stringy eucalypts and whippet-thin firs. Directly below, Simon saw a green splash of garden surrounded by a fence. Spidery salt crystals had hatched in each corner of the window. He felt the wind rattle the frame intermittently. He hugged himself in his strange woollen jumper, bending his knees up to his chin. The window seat was large and surprisingly comfortable, and he settled back in its softness. He sat for some time watching the morning mist shift between the trees, revealing colours and shapes and lines he would not normally have seen.

There was a sudden clunk, almost as if a rock or something just as heavy had been thrown against his door. He sprang off the seat and walked cautiously across the room. He put his ear to the door but heard nothing. Maybe someone else staying in the house had gone into the wrong room. Maybe someone had found his parents.

Maybe it
was
his parents.

Simon turned the doorknob slowly. It creaked in protest and Simon thought perhaps it was locked. He tried again, harder, and still it resisted. There was no sign of a lock or latch. He put both hands on the doorknob and tugged and the door flew open with sudden ease, sending him staggering back into the room. Before he could regain his balance he felt something hard fly into his stomach, knocking him to the floor, his left leg crumpling under him painfully. He glimpsed a flash of the ceiling as his body was lifted and crashed against the floorboards and a dull wedge jammed itself into his back. His body sang with bone-folding pain.

‘Don't move,' said a croaky voice near Simon's ear.

It was a person, pinning him down, knee in his back. A set of bony brown fingers dug into his right shoulder. A rubber sole squeaked.

‘What are you doing in here?' said the voice. It sounded old, but Simon could tell it belonged to someone young.

‘I was…staying the night,' was all Simon could think to say with his cheek pressed against the floor.

‘You can't stay on this floor,' said the voice. ‘You can't stay in this room.'

‘But Ned let me stay. He gave me some clothes.' Simon felt the pressure increase on his back. ‘I'm only staying for…a bit.'

‘What?' said the voice. ‘This is Ned's jumper.' Fingers felt at Simon's sleeves. ‘And those are
my
trousers.' The voice's owner leapt off Simon's back. Simon unsprung his body and sat up, aching. A thin boy who looked only a few years older than
him was crouched over the pile of clothes. He was pulling out different items and sorting them into piles. A pair of khaki
trousers was draped over his shoulder, identical to the pair he was wearing.

‘Unbelievable,' said the boy. ‘Unbelievable.' His voice was strange; it rattled and rasped as he talked, like coins shaken in a tin. The tone of his speech was split in two, one a high echo of the other. He turned his face towards Simon. ‘Where did you get these from?' he said, holding up the trousers.

‘I told you—Ned gave them to me.' Simon rubbed his sore shoulder.

The boy's face turned into a sneer. His whole body was brown but Simon thought he wasn't a
black
person, just tanned. And dirty. Grime had made a home in his lines and creases, giving him wrinkles like an old person. He was scarily skinny too, his body bent at strange angles. His bones pointed out from his skin as if they had been fired from some painful internal machine. ‘How do you know Ned?' the boy asked.

Simon's head began to spin. ‘He let me stay here. Madaline and him let me stay. I lost my parents, okay?'

The boy's sneer fell away. ‘You lost your parents? How did you do that?' He dropped the pile of clothes and sat cross-legged on the floor.

‘I didn't mean to,' said Simon, then realised this was a stupid answer. ‘They went for a drive to the lake. And they haven't come back.'

‘You're lucky,' said the boy. ‘What's your name?'

‘What do you mean I'm lucky?'

‘My name's Pony.'

‘Pony? Like a horse?'

A rolled-up sock hit Simon on the forehead. Pony's voice dropped. ‘Don't make fun of my name or next time it'll be a rock.'

Simon scrunched the sock in his fist. ‘My name's Simon Sawyer,' he said, sitting cross-legged as well.

‘Well my name's just Pony.' He stood up. ‘My parents died, so you're lucky you just lost yours.'

‘I'm sorry for your loss.' Simon had heard his mother say this sometimes.

Pony made a dismissive sound with his mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking the air with thick boots covered in gaffer tape. ‘Simon the Pie Man,' he wheezed. ‘Simple Simon.'

Simon didn't like Pony at all. He was like all bullies: never content to let anything lie.

‘Where's Ned?' said Simon.

‘Making breakfast. What's up with your leg?'

Simon's face burned. He pulled the jumper down to cover his shins. His scars began to itch. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘What's up with your voice?'

This was how Simon always got into trouble—standing up for himself at exactly the wrong moment. He tensed for retaliation, but instead of striking out Pony just laughed, a dry sound like a prize draw on an old game show, like a thousand envelopes rolling in a barrel.

Pony kicked his heels against the bed. All he said was, ‘Welcome aboard, Simon Sawyer.'

Madaline swung the steering wheel harder than she needed to, pulling up just shy of the pavement. Lost in her thoughts, she had found the main street nearly past her when she realised where she was. Her tyres made a short squeal, but the only witnesses were other cars, seemingly rusted onto the road exactly where they were always parked. The town that never changed. She shut off the ignition and took a deep breath. The rain had lent a plastic sheen to the pavements, and bubbles of dirty water welled in the seam of the car's window.

Her hands seemed browner against the sky-blue of her shirtcuffs: her winter uniform, retrieved from her cupboard that morning, still sealed in its dry-cleaner's bag. The unfamiliar weight of a heavy belt at her hips. She had tried, earlier, to think of the last time she'd worn her full uniform. Even when the District Commander visited every few weeks she was not compelled to wear it. Tommy's personal rules of ‘country policing' included a relaxed dress code, and he held enough clout in the district to have this pass unquestioned. She fingered the coarse weave of her navy trousers, a heavier fabric for winter. Her hat sat next to her on the seat, smelling of dry-cleaner's chemicals, hiding beneath its plastic rain cover. Shower caps, they'd called them once. She had even changed into police-issue shoes, hiking boots with metres of laces, instead of her usual black sneakers.

She stepped from the car, the breeze teasing her bare neck where she'd gathered up her hair into a short, unsuccessful ponytail. The glare off the street pierced her sleep-clogged eyes. She felt a sort of unbalanced sickness as she stepped over the large puddle she had unerringly parked in and up onto the footpath, avoiding a loose slab of concrete that had slipped out of place, its lip mounting the kerb. Bitumen spit—the remnants of the last half-hearted council works—lined a lamp post. She stepped into the shade of an awning, refocusing on a wagon-train of ants cautiously circling the rim of a public bin.

She walked the few metres to the Ottoman, clearing her throat as she pushed open the door. Inside, the air was full with frypan haze. She sensed the same things as always: the smell of brine and the sour edges of old beer leaching from the bar next door, the fat squeak of bacon cooking. There was always something about the cafe, a layer of something that hadn't quite been cleaned. The always-present group of fishers had dragged three tables together to sit against the back wall. There seemed more of them than usual, crowded together like a single mass.

Madaline took a seat at the main counter. She could see the top of her head in the reflection of a Peter Jackson ad. Someone had scrubbed out the brand name, but she knew it was there. Megan was behind the counter, squeezing chocolate syrup into a tall glass. ‘Morning,' said Madaline, in what she hoped was a friendly way. Megan always seemed pissed off about something.

‘Hi,' she said, not bothering to look up. Her hair hung in front of her eyes: black-tipped blonde strands.

‘How's things?'

Megan shrugged. She bent down to get milk from the fridge and Madaline glimpsed the tattoo at the base of her spine: blackbirds.

‘Is Nat in?'

‘Cooking.' She motioned a hand to the door that led to the kitchen.

‘Can you get him for me?'

Megan stood there, stirring the milk and syrup together until it turned a dull brown, regarded Madaline with her different-coloured eyes.

‘Can you get him?' Madaline repeated. ‘It's important.'

Megan skulked off and Nat appeared moments later. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, as it often seemed to be. He wiped his brow with the arm of his shirt. ‘Dressed up for us, Mads.'

Madaline smiled grimly. She hated that contraction of her name. ‘Something like that.'

‘Some rain, ay.'

She nodded.

‘You hear bout those people? The kid's parents?'

‘Yeah. Need the key for the room they stayed in last night.'

‘Gave em to Tommy X-ray. Swans in here first thing, full uniform, same as you.' Nat chuckled.

Madaline blew out her cheeks. It was like he went out of his way to infuriate her. ‘Tommy's been in already?'

‘Yeah, said he was heading down to Magpie. Should be back through any time.'

‘Right.' Madaline took off her hat and placed it on the counter. ‘Guess I'll wait.'

‘You want something to eat?'

‘Thanks.'

Nat headed out the back again and Madaline settled onto the stool.
Tommy X-ray
. That ridiculous nickname. A legacy from the hostage case that made him a hero in his first posting. Happened years ago, in Coffs Harbour, but everyone in Reception knew the story like it was their own. She picked up a newspaper someone had left on the counter, but it was one of the Sydney tabloids, already a week old. It was hard keeping up with things here: newspapers only got dropped at the servo every few days in the off-season, and heaven help you if you wanted a TV signal for the nightly news.

Madaline sensed a quick silence cut through the cafe. She swung around to meet the inevitable staring eyes of the fishers who dropped their gaze quickly to their drinks. Except Jack Tarden, who shot two nervous glances at her. She grinned briskly in his direction, knowing it would throw him. She already guessed he had told them all about the disappearance. Probably worked out the mistakes she'd already made.

Nat came back, carrying a bowl of muesli and yoghurt, and a mug trailing steam. His wide brown fingers nearly dwarfed the bowl. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I would've put some fruit in, but I've been bought out this morning.' He nodded his head at the back wall. ‘Hardly any fry-ups. Whole town's on a health kick now, apparently.' He put down the bowl and the mug.

‘Doesn't matter,' said Madaline. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the sting of plain boiling water transfer to her skin. ‘You're good enough to me as it is.'

‘Don't you forget it.' Nat took out a lemon from somewhere behind the counter and cut it in half with a small knife. ‘Bon appetite.'

Madaline picked up the lemon half and squeezed it into the mug, watching as it blossomed milky clouds in the water. She sipped it and could already feel her head beginning to clear.

‘Morning,
Senior Constable
McKinley,' said a quiet voice.

Madaline felt someone sit on the stool next to her. She turned around. ‘Morning,
Robert James Kuiper
.'

Kuiper mock-winced. ‘Okay.
Madaline
. How's…everything?'

Madaline took a mouthful of muesli, swallowed it too soon. ‘I'm fine, Robbie,' she said. ‘How're they biting?'

‘Biting?'

Madaline threw out an imaginary line.

‘Ah, the fishing, yes.' Kuiper smoothed down the front of his pressed shirt. He wore a peaked tweed cap, which was certainly odd, but Madaline knew him well enough not to comment on it. ‘Well,' he said with his clipped South African vowels, ‘there are plenty in the sea, if that's what you mean.' He smiled at her. His teeth were like little bones buried in his gums.

Madaline could already feel the patronising heat rising. She decided to wrong-foot him. ‘I was actually hoping to get your help this morning. With the search.'

‘Oh yes?' Kuiper drummed his fingers on the table. Knuckles tanned a deep brown.

‘I assume you've heard about this disappearance?'

‘Who hasn't?'

‘I wanted you and Jack to help with the search this morning. I know Jack's an SES volunteer.'

‘As am I.'

‘Really?' Madaline couldn't help but smile.

‘Why so shocked?'

‘Just can't see you in an orange jumpsuit. Well, actually I can.'

Kuiper's face darkened. ‘That's very droll.'

‘You think you and Jack could get some people together? We need as much help as we can get.'

‘I thought Tommy would be taking care of all this.' Kuiper's accent made his consonants bite.

Madaline's fingers tightened on her spoon. ‘Well, Tommy isn't here, so
I'm
asking you.'

‘We're keeping it local, then?'

‘For the time being, I suppose.'

‘Well I'm sure we'd be more than—' Kuiper trailed off as
Jack Tarden's hand landed on his shoulder.

‘Morning Madaline,' Tarden said. ‘Any news?'

‘Not really,' she said. ‘Just talking to Robbie here about organising a search party.'

‘For sure. Long as the roads are okay. Fair bit of water when I went down the wharf earlier on.'

Kuiper arched his back, and Tarden removed his hand.

‘We'll have to see,' said Madaline. ‘I'm just waiting for Tommy, then we can get moving.'

‘No, well we'd be happy to help,' said Tarden. ‘That poor kid.'

Madaline's chest tightened. ‘I'm going up to see him soon.'

Tarden propped his hands behind his overalls. ‘Sure they haven't got far.'

‘Well, that's what we all hope. You guys right to get some searchers together?'

Kuiper yawned. ‘Don't worry about us,' he said. ‘We're well versed in this particular scenario.'

‘Right,' said Madaline, her voice thinning out. ‘Yes.'

‘Well,' said Kuiper, getting off the stool. ‘Guess we'll see you out there.'

The two men walked back to their table. Madaline stared at her unfinished breakfast. A keyhole burn of indigestion flamed at her throat. She sipped at her lemon water and flicked through the newspaper, waiting for the unlikely moment her appetite returned.

There was a familiar phlegmy cough behind her: Tommy Parker, in a new uniform, fixing her with a sour squint. Whatever Tommy wore looked like it had seen better days. His navy trousers shone with strain; he'd pulled them halfway up his gut, exposing his non-issue white circulation socks and moulding his crotch into an unpleasant wedge. Lit from behind, the sparse stalks of his hair seemed to be alight. He hauled himself onto a stool.

‘Morning,' said Madaline, folding up the paper.

Tommy slumped onto his elbows. ‘Went down there earlier,' he said.

Conversations with Tommy always seemed to start halfway through, and end around the same point. Madaline often wondered how his wife put up with him. Perhaps she was just used to it.

‘Went down where?'

‘The lake. Took the four-wheel-drive down to have a look. Check the roads were okay.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘No car for one thing.'

‘No car?'

‘Roads were driveable at least.'

‘There was no car at the lake?'

‘Tea please love.' Tommy raised his hand at Megan, who raised a hand back.

‘Tommy?'

‘Hmm?'

‘At the lake. The Sawyers' car wasn't there?'

‘Like I say.'

Madaline blew out a long breath. ‘You don't think they went out there?'

‘I think they
went
there, but I don't think they
stayed
there.'

‘Why's that?'

Tommy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. ‘Found it at the carpark.' He threw it onto the counter.

Madaline picked up the bag. It held a set of keys attached to a wooden keyring. She upturned the bag to see it better. ‘A turtle.'

Megan came over with Tommy's coffee. He had his own
mug they kept behind the counter, a big white one with the words
#
1 DAD
printed on in red. His daughter—who had kids herself now, who had long ago fled Reception for a suburban city life—had given it to him before she left.

‘Ta,' he said. He took a long sip, slurping it in.

‘Hey,' said Megan. ‘That's one of ours.' She reached over and took the evidence bag.

Madaline was about to protest before she understood. ‘Is this a
room
key?'

‘Yeah. They all have a different animal. This is…room eight.'

Tommy put down his mug. ‘Room eight,' he said, nodding.

‘That was their room, wasn't it,' said Madaline. ‘The Sawyers.'

‘Yeah,' said Megan, handing back the bag. ‘Fucking hell.'

Tommy shot her a glare.

‘Sorry,' she said, ‘but
fucking hell
.'

‘We're going to have to check the room,' said Madaline. She took out her wallet.

Tommy put up a hand. ‘Can you let an old man finish his coffee first? An old man who's
already
done an hour's honest work.'

‘Jesus, Tommy.' Madaline eyed Megan, who took the hint and began to walk to the other end of the counter. ‘Jesus,' she repeated. ‘This could be important.'

Tommy wiped his mouth, the white bristles at the corner of his lips. ‘Settle down,
Senior Constable
. I chased up the rego and called it in.'

‘But that doesn't—'

‘Ten dollars says they're picked up by the afternoon. These parents—dopeheads, probably—they're already halfway home.'