Raco nodded back across the wide expanse of grass to the caravan in the distance. The door was still open, and the warm glow spilling out from the windows looked brighter in the growing dark. The lanterns in the tree rocked gently as the branches caught the evening breeze.
“I’m not sure if you saw her here last year, but you guys met once in Melbourne a while back, that time when I was—” Raco yawned widely, his palm over his mouth. “God, bloody baby brain. What was I there for again? A court case or something.”
“You were stuck late on that one-day course.”
“That’s right.” Raco turned and lifted the rope guarding the exit. “Yeah. Anyway. So you remember. Well, that’s her.”
“Yeah.” Falk looked back as he ducked under the rope and stepped onto the reservoir track. The light in the caravan windows dimmed a fraction, then glowed bright again. Movement within. Someone was definitely there this time. “I remember.”
6
It had been sixteen months earlier, Falk could have told Raco if he’d wanted to. Back on one of those dark Melbourne evenings that was still technically autumn but felt a whole lot like winter. The rain had come and gone in sharp bursts all day, leaving the pavements slick and shining with reflections of the city at night.
Rita had been five months pregnant up in Kiewarra. Baby Henry was still to be born, still to have his first christening celebration arranged, let alone canceled. Falk had yet to ever hear of Kim Gillespie, had not yet set foot in the Marralee Valley. He’d recently got a call from Raco, though, who was going to be in Melbourne briefly for a one-day professional development course. They’d arranged to meet for drinks afterward.
The day had rolled around and it was late afternoon in the AFP offices when Falk’s phone had buzzed from the top of a thick stack of battered files threatening to take over his desk. Falk welcomed the interruption as an excuse to stand up and get away from them. Grabbing his phone, he moved over to the window. It had started raining again, and he watched a tram come to a stop down below, waiting as passengers shook umbrellas and brushed off their jackets before stepping on. They were all dressed differently—jeans, uniforms, one pair of scrubs—but from the body language Falk guessed at least a few had already finished work for the day. He’d felt a faint pang of envy, then turned his phone over in his hand and opened Raco’s message.
A friend from SA’s here for a conference, the text read. She might swing by tonight to say hello.
Raco had followed it almost immediately with another message: That okay?
Honestly, it wasn’t ideal. Falk leaned against the glass and watched the tram close its doors and pull away. He’d been looking forward to catching up with Raco, but—he glanced back at his desk; the files hadn’t gone anywhere, unfortunately—he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make small talk with a stranger. He swiped his thumb over his phone and wondered if he could simply say that. He probably could, to Raco. On the other hand, it wasn’t Raco’s fault he had friends other than Falk.
Falk had stood there for as long as it took for another tram to pull up, then texted back: No worries. He’d watched until the tram moved away, then made himself turn from the window and walk back to his desk.
So that was how Falk had come to find himself crammed into a busy bar that overlooked the Yarra River a few hours later, waiting for Raco. They’d arranged to meet at Southbank, which had been convenient but possibly a mistake, on reflection. The Friday night post-work rush was even busier thanks to footy fans stopping for a quick drink on their walk to the ground. To the east, Falk could see the MCG blazing with light ahead of the night’s game.
He’d fought his way into the bar and carved out a spot near the door to wait, closer than he liked to a table where three women were sharing a bottle of wine. One of them flicked her eyes up, mildly irritated by his presence in a way that reminded him abstractly of his most recent relationship. He shifted his angle against the wall. He could still feel the woman’s eyes on him and fixed his own gaze through the window to the river outside.
This woman in the bar wasn’t his ex, obviously—she was still in Sydney as far as he knew, which was probably best all around. They’d met at a mutual colleague’s wedding, and for eighteen months it had been good without being great for either of them. His colleague Carmen had swung between frustration and disappointment when she heard they’d split up. You two had so much in common, she kept saying, and she’d been right.
Plenty in common, like how they were both with the AFP based out of Melbourne. And how they both had individual workloads that didn’t leave much time or space for anything else. There had been other factors as well, though. Like the fact she was at her happiest when they visited her family on the peninsula, where she would swim and play with her nieces and help out for hours in her brother-in-law’s bookshop, and have long lazy dinners on the back deck with the scent of jasmine heavy in the evening air. An old high school boyfriend, now a friendly divorced single dad, seemed to be around often enough to make everyone but the pair of them a little uncomfortable. At night, she’d whisper to Falk across the bedsheets in her sister’s spare room. It’s so parochial, she’d say, in a tone that made it sound both like a joke and something else completely.
But there was no denying she was different there—lighter and softer, her eyes and mouth taking on a new shape. Just as she was always different again on their return to Melbourne and to work. Brittle and brisk for a week as her hard professional edge slowly resurfaced, sharp and painful.
“You’re different, too,” she’d thrown back at Falk the one and only time he’d raised it.
When she’d been offered a transfer and promotion in Sydney, it had come as something of a relief for both of them. She’d accepted the opportunity almost defiantly, this new role based right in the urban heart of a different state, a long way from her little nieces and the peninsula swims and the independent bookshop. She’d made the arrangements as if daring Falk to challenge her decision. He’d thought about it—seriously and carefully—and then hadn’t, and was very aware that she felt let down by that. So she’d gone, leaving some gaps in his social life and a few more in his living room—why did losing a girlfriend always involve losing furniture? he wondered—and then quickly, very quickly in fact, the gaps had closed over as though they’d never been there. For the past year, whenever Raco or Rita had asked what he’d been up to, Falk always gave the same honest answer: work, mainly.
A gust of cold air blew in straight off the Yarra as the bar’s door opened and then closed, and Falk checked the time. Raco was late—unusually for him—and Falk finally, reluctantly, surrendered his spot and fought his way to the counter. He was scrolling through his emails and half-heartedly attempting to get served when his phone buzzed in his hand.
A text from Raco. Bloody stuck here, will try to call …
A young bartender suddenly materialized in front of Falk, saw him looking at his phone, and turned immediately to the woman at the bar next to him, with a snapped: “Yep?”
“Ah, I’ll…” The woman paused, also distracted as her own screen lit up in her hand. The bartender didn’t attempt to suppress his eye roll. She looked up and caught him at it.