Elver, Irene Oakman, Smithy, and Carmel Carmichael who owned the Bowlo and bore the unfortunate burden of a name that few people could easily say. It was nice—the community spirit. All of them out there all week, taking time off work, utilising boats they didn’t often utilise, and meeting at the Wicko for steaks after—sombre and, increasingly, drunk.
‘He’d’ve been out there for us,’ said Smithy. ‘He’d’ve looked till he found any of us. Otherwise—what? We’ll all sit around and say, “Oh, we should’ve looked.” None of that. You either shit or get off the pot. So we look.’ And they all agreed.
The Clarke police didn’t have an opinion on that, but they did seem to have an opinion on Bart, in that Mack saidthat Sergeant Simmons said that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.
First Rosie vanished. And then Bart. ‘And now, Mack,’ said Sergeant Simmons, ‘you can believe in people’s good nature all you want, but this is a small town. What are the odds of two people going missing, exactly one week apart, in a town this small?’
Mack did not know the odds.
‘There’s gotta be a connection,’ said the sergeant.
And, bless his heart, that was the first time the possibility of a connection had occurred to Mack.
‘What, like a serial killer?’ asked Mack.
‘Nah, not a fucken serial killer,’ said Sergeant Simmons, half laughing. ‘But, mate, a connection.’
11
‘Do you think they’re connected?’ I asked George.
‘What is?’
‘Rosie and Bart,’ I said. ‘Them disappearing.’
‘Oh,’ said George, eating her sandwich, ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, eating my sandwich.
I wanted to tell George about the money—and the absence of the money, and the plastic horse—but something made me continue to keep it all to myself. It had occurred to me that morning on the way to school that I’d forgotten all about it. So much had happened, and there was so much else to think about. What with Rosie, and then Bart.
On its own, money in a tree didn’t necessarily mean anything. But the more I thought about what Mum said Mack said Sergeant Simmons said—that there is no such thing as a coincidence—the more I worried.
‘Do you mean like a serial killer?’ asked George.
‘No, God. I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Because they’re totally different. Rosie is so young and cool and all in her room. And Bart was old and on his boat.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘And, I don’t know . . . Bart drowned, didn’t he? Or he had a heart attack and fell in or whatever.’
George put the rest of her sandwich down, like she was no longer hungry. She frowned. I didn’t know what to think. Except that I should go to the clearing later and check if the horse was still in the bag.
‘He did seem to drown,’ I said.
•
Ethan West was my age, a good foot taller than me, and blond and tanned. His nose went a bit red in the sun and he often smeared zinc across it when he swam at the river, his body lean and well-proportioned and admired. When he swung off the big branch that hung over the water, his arms were as long as spears. I admired them, and so did George. Ethan would lope on down with Lucas Karras and we would all drink pilfered beer and swim at the twilight of summer, when it was too cold for the cooler kids to hog the clearing.
In March that year, Ethan had begun his practice of looking at me for longer than was necessary—and then George would elbow me or cough. George never missed a long look, andGeorge never missed an opportunity to make it clear that she never missed a long look. ‘He looks at you,’ she would say. And I would say, ‘Not as much as Lucas looks at you.’
Ethan’s parents had moved themselves and their two sons from a town in Queensland even smaller than Goodwood. Ethan’s little brother Petey was mostly barefoot, even in winter. Ethan’s mum was an avid member of the CWA and presumably didn’t have time to
‘He’d’ve been out there for us,’ said Smithy. ‘He’d’ve looked till he found any of us. Otherwise—what? We’ll all sit around and say, “Oh, we should’ve looked.” None of that. You either shit or get off the pot. So we look.’ And they all agreed.
The Clarke police didn’t have an opinion on that, but they did seem to have an opinion on Bart, in that Mack saidthat Sergeant Simmons said that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.
First Rosie vanished. And then Bart. ‘And now, Mack,’ said Sergeant Simmons, ‘you can believe in people’s good nature all you want, but this is a small town. What are the odds of two people going missing, exactly one week apart, in a town this small?’
Mack did not know the odds.
‘There’s gotta be a connection,’ said the sergeant.
And, bless his heart, that was the first time the possibility of a connection had occurred to Mack.
‘What, like a serial killer?’ asked Mack.
‘Nah, not a fucken serial killer,’ said Sergeant Simmons, half laughing. ‘But, mate, a connection.’
11
‘Do you think they’re connected?’ I asked George.
‘What is?’
‘Rosie and Bart,’ I said. ‘Them disappearing.’
‘Oh,’ said George, eating her sandwich, ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, eating my sandwich.
I wanted to tell George about the money—and the absence of the money, and the plastic horse—but something made me continue to keep it all to myself. It had occurred to me that morning on the way to school that I’d forgotten all about it. So much had happened, and there was so much else to think about. What with Rosie, and then Bart.
On its own, money in a tree didn’t necessarily mean anything. But the more I thought about what Mum said Mack said Sergeant Simmons said—that there is no such thing as a coincidence—the more I worried.
‘Do you mean like a serial killer?’ asked George.
‘No, God. I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Because they’re totally different. Rosie is so young and cool and all in her room. And Bart was old and on his boat.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘And, I don’t know . . . Bart drowned, didn’t he? Or he had a heart attack and fell in or whatever.’
George put the rest of her sandwich down, like she was no longer hungry. She frowned. I didn’t know what to think. Except that I should go to the clearing later and check if the horse was still in the bag.
‘He did seem to drown,’ I said.
•
Ethan West was my age, a good foot taller than me, and blond and tanned. His nose went a bit red in the sun and he often smeared zinc across it when he swam at the river, his body lean and well-proportioned and admired. When he swung off the big branch that hung over the water, his arms were as long as spears. I admired them, and so did George. Ethan would lope on down with Lucas Karras and we would all drink pilfered beer and swim at the twilight of summer, when it was too cold for the cooler kids to hog the clearing.
In March that year, Ethan had begun his practice of looking at me for longer than was necessary—and then George would elbow me or cough. George never missed a long look, andGeorge never missed an opportunity to make it clear that she never missed a long look. ‘He looks at you,’ she would say. And I would say, ‘Not as much as Lucas looks at you.’
Ethan’s parents had moved themselves and their two sons from a town in Queensland even smaller than Goodwood. Ethan’s little brother Petey was mostly barefoot, even in winter. Ethan’s mum was an avid member of the CWA and presumably didn’t have time to
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