The Survivors, стр. 29
‘Do you know what happened yet?’ Kieran said as Pendlebury accepted a coffee mug.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ She took a sip. ‘Did you know Bronte well?’
‘I didn’t know her at all,’ he said. ‘Mia and I met her for the first time yesterday.’ He hesitated. ‘She drowned?’
‘We believe Bronte was drowned.’ Pendlebury was calm in making the distinction. ‘She had some bruising injuries that indicate she was held under the water.’
Audrey whimpered and Mia shushed her. Verity very carefully wiped a spot of milk off the coffee table.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said quietly.
‘She shouldn’t have been out on the beach alone.’ Brian’s voice rose suddenly from his armchair in the corner. They all turned and he blinked, surprised by the attention.
‘I’m sorry?’ Pendlebury said.
‘I told her she shouldn’t have been out there. Not with the storm warning.’
Kieran heard Verity exhale with a sharp shake of her head.
‘He’s talking about someone else,’ she said quickly to Pendlebury who, after a beat, dragged her steady gaze back. ‘We were hit by a big storm here. Years ago. He’s thinking of that. Sorry. He’s not well. Ignore him.’
Pendlebury nodded slowly. She glanced at her notes. ‘I hear Bronte spent a few days here. Helping you clean, was it?’ Her eyes wandered over the boxes lining the walls.
‘Clearing the shed,’ Verity said. ‘She was collecting a few bits and pieces for a sculpture she was working on. We had a lot of junk. I said she could help herself.’
‘What did she take?’
‘Some wire, I think. Some sheeting from when we fixed the back decking a few years ago.’ Verity shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. It really was junk.’
‘And did you talk at all –? Sorry –’ Pendlebury’s phone vibrated silently against the coffee table. A photo flashed on the screen of her smiling alongside a grey-haired man and a girl and boy in their twenties who looked a bit like both of them. She pressed a button and turned the phone facedown. ‘Sorry. Yes, Bronte. Did she talk to you about her life here? Boys? Work? Her impressions of the town?’
‘She was very keen on her artwork. I know that,’ Verity said. ‘And her grandmother in Canberra has dementia. She talked a little about her and what that had been like. Bronte said they’d been close, you know, before.’
Pendlebury looked over at Brian, still watching from his armchair, then back to Verity.
‘Did Bronte show you any of the pieces she was working on?’ Pendlebury said. She sounded genuinely curious to hear what Verity had to say. Kieran couldn’t tell if her interest was authentic or professionally honed, but either way it was smart, he thought. Pendlebury projected the kind of natural openness that made him want to pull up a chair and tell her things. Kieran crossed his arms and sat back.
‘She showed me a few drawings she’d done of places around here,’ Verity said. ‘They were lovely. Or I thought so, anyway. She was a good artist.’
‘She wasn’t an artist.’ Brian was frowning. ‘She was still at school.’
‘Brian, no. We’re talking about Bronte now.’ Verity’s words were clipped, and she turned back to Pendlebury. ‘Sorry. It’s been a bit difficult.’
Pendlebury’s eyes stayed on Brian. ‘Who does he think we’re talking about?’
‘No-one,’ Verity said, at the same time as Kieran said: ‘Gabby Birch.’
They exchanged a glance.
‘As in, Olivia Birch?’ Pendlebury said, frowning at her notebook as they nodded. She looked up again. ‘I’m sorry, so who is Gabby?’
Who was Gabby? Gabby Birch was Olivia’s younger sister and Mia’s best friend and pretty much everything Kieran knew about her came from them. She was four years younger than him and shy to the point that he wasn’t even sure he knew what her voice had sounded like.
On warm late evenings when Gabby was sent by her mother to fetch Olivia home from the beach or the Surf and Turf or wherever she was hanging out with her friends, Gabby would skulk up alone to deliver the message, inaudible and flush-faced.
Gabby was a girl who by rights would have slipped through her teenage years completely unnoticed, except for the fact that at age twelve she developed over one rapid summer into the spitting image of her older sister. Her face lost its babyish curves and instead became one that attracted second and third glances. She grew tall and gently rounded and, clad in their wetsuits with their long curly hair tied up, it was hard to tell Olivia and Gabby apart.
She was very easy on the eye, as Ash had pointed out in much blunter terms once when Gabby was taking off her wetsuit on the beach. Olivia, who had been within earshot, had punched him on the shoulder hard enough that Kieran could see it had hurt. She’s thirteen, don’t be disgusting. But Ash had been right.
Kieran had never bothered to talk to Gabby, but he knew a couple of blokes who had tried, occasionally after being rebuffed by Olivia. They were wasting their time, though. Gabby would shrink into herself as though trying to vanish and would shuffle off flustered to find Mia, her best and only friend. The pair would hole up every lunchtime in the corner of the library, where they would whisper and read and draw pencil sketches of horses.
Gabby Birch was a girl who had died in the storm. But before that, for three days, she was a girl who was missing. And before that, for fourteen years, she was a girl who was loved by her family, but did her very best to disappear around pretty much everyone else.
Kieran looked at Pendlebury and her notebook.
‘Gabby was Olivia’s sister,’ he said. ‘But she died twelve years ago.’
‘How?’
‘She drowned.’
‘Really?’ Pendlebury’s eyebrow moved a fraction.
‘It was during the storm.’ Verity frowned as Pendlebury’s pen began to scratch against her notebook. ‘It was a freak weather event. No-one was