Zane Pinner's Blog

FIVE SUBURBAN TEENAGERS. ONE HECTIC SATURDAY.

Jake doesn't go looking for trouble, but still finds it.

Maynard realises that he is attracted to his best mate.

Dylan needs a chance to show everyone he's the real deal.

Stephanie just wants a couple of hours to herself.

But when Brad unwittingly steals cash and weed from the Marauders Motorcycle Club, he sets off a series of violent confrontations that will change the course of all their lives.

Will it be their Last Saturday in Invermay?

Last Saturday in Invermay: Shortlisted for the University of Tasmania Prize

There was a crystal clear moment when Piette and I realised that we were not two bodies sharing the same soul.

The differences were readily apparent. Blood poured from my eyes while tears bled from hers, my hands shook while hers gesticulated bladely, she whirled in anger with her spinning claws while I huddled on the floor trying to hold my face together. Actually, the cuts were superficial, as was her fury, and both healed relatively quickly. She hadn’t moved — the knife had sprung in to her hand from the bench.

That’s the way I remember it. That’s the way I’ll always remember it.

The fire has gone out at home.

As soon as the door closes behind me I can hear Jay crying in the kitchen. There is a plate of leftover spaghetti on the lounge room floor. A cold house, complete with wailing child and odour of stale sauce. The fireplace watches darkly like a blind malign eye, crying soot.

There’s something automatic in the way I hang my jacket on the plasterboard wall, a numbness in my feet as they kick off their loafers. A serious, heavy stride is heading my way from the kitchen. The wailing grows closer, an oncoming steam-train of sorrow. I close my eyes, still facing the wall.

“He wants to go to your mother’s house.” Piette unceremoniously dumps Jay onto the floor and our son latches around my leg, a snuffling, clawless koala. Piette frowns at him, sullen. “He’s had that photo of the three of you all day.”

Jay buries his face into my thigh, presenting me with his full crown of light blond curls.

“He doesn’t understand, Pi.”

“Maybe his father could help him understand. If he was ever home.” Her eyes were flashing, her jaw tight.

“Piette…”

“Do you know who came here today? Do you? My first visitor all week, Parker, do you know who it was?”

I’m not supposed to know the answer of course, but from the way she isn’t blinking some response is obviously required. I feel tired now, so tired, as though all the blood has drained from my body. It’s a feeling I’m used to. Who the hell would have come here?

“Um. Your cousin came down from New Norfolk?”

“Damien wouldn’t drag himself here if I was on fire,” she spat. “The guy from the power company, Parker. The guy who reads the bloody meter. He knocked on the door and I was so excited, so excited that someone had finally dropped by. The fucking meter man.”

Jay squirms at my leg. He’s wiping his nose on my jeans. I don’t like him hearing language like that, not yet.

Piette watches me watching him. Her teeth grind. When I look up she gives the most sarcastic aren’t-you-the-best smile that she can muster, points it straight at my flinch. She knows exactly where to hit. I’m so goddamned tired. Jay squeezes my leg again, gives me the strength to speak.

“So what did he want? The power company guy.”

In a breath, Piette’s face is a serene mask calmer than a hurricane’s eye. It was the wrong question. She kneels down to Jay, arms opening.

“Time for bed, buster.” Her voice is set against the renewed torrent of wailing that greets her words. Jay wraps himself even more tightly around my leg, as though he can somehow meld himself into it. “Come on.”

The sight of her dishpan fingers hooking his woolly blue jumper is strikes me as horrible. I scooped the boy up into my arms. His crying lowers a pitch and Piette curses, hands on hips. She wants to let something fly; there is stark, unrefined anger in her eyes. When Jay is in bed, that anger will be unleashed on me. There’s no getting around it.

Resigned, I draw my sword and take aim.

“Shush honey.” I whisper into the whimpering boy’s ear while locking eyes with Piette over his shoulder. “It’s all right, Daddy’s here now.”

Her eyes crumple at the blow, turning to water and she flees the room. It was too much, of course, it was always too much. I sigh an exhausted, regretful sigh. It’s hard not to mourn the idea of a quiet, comfortable evening at home. It’s hard not to blame her for chasing my relaxation out the door with her piano-wire tension. At least I was getting a moment with the boy, a few brief moments of presence to complement the few we had shared

He pushed himself off my chest and looked into my face. His face was ruddy from tears but he was smiling, again the cherub. The bib covering his soft little chest had a picture of a growling green monster, partially subdued by spaghetti sauce. Small hands grasped my shoulders.

“Daddy,” He was very sure of this much, but it was obvious he was uncertain of the next bit. “Daddy, taken me to Nanny’s? Nanny’s house, daddy, Jay. Goin to Nanny’s house?” He is peering into my eyes, watching for an answer, but I have to steady myself. Breathe. Don’t cry at the boy, he doesn’t understand. I’m glad Piette is out of the room. Nanny was my mother. She died a few months ago. Her house and most of the signs she existed are gone, taken by some filthy bank manager.

Jay reaches out and lays his miniature hand on my cheek, chewing on his lip. His hand is warm and clammy, the tips of his fingers damp. He speaks more carefully.

“Nanny, Daddy?” Suddenly he seems heavier than ever before.

“Nanny doesn’t live in that house anymore, buddy, remember, like we talked?” I can hear Piette in the kitchen, dropping cutlery and crockery with accentuated force, banging empty mugs on the dinner table, letting me know she was waiting for me. “Nanny went away, remember?”

Fresh tears roll across his flushing cheeks. I hug him closer to my chest, but he pushes against me, wailing.

Piette reappears, fists resting smugly on her hips. She watches me set Jay on the carpet, where he collapses, as though his disappointment stops his legs from working. Her eyes seem more relaxed, now that she sees that I can’t stop him asking for Nan either.

For a moment I’m struck dumb; there is something I want to say to her, something I need to say to her, something so palpably obvious that it needs to be pointed out, right now — but I don’t know what it is, and then the moment is over. Her jaw stiffens and she steps forward and scoops the wailing boy off the floor.

“Bed time, Jay. You’re not going anywhere, buster.” Jay is limp in her arms, his cries gradually tapering into sleepy bleats. She glances at me one more time before she carries him out of the room. I wave goodnight, but he doesn’t see it. His bleating pans down the hallway into the small bedroom we all share, sustains momentarily.

Breathing fully for the first time since I walked in the door, I can finally kick off my shoes, untuck my shirt and loosen my belt. Home is the only place where I can relax, but even here it’s a matter of timing.

White noise fills the air with a lullaby of presence when I flick on the television. One of the channels is showing a loud, colourful game show, teams of married couples racing through different physical challenges. A young woman on the red team is about to swim twenty metres and change into a French maid outfit before negotiating a network of rope ladders. Her husband is holding up the maid’s outfit with a cheesy grin.

The kitchen sink is in a state of bio-containment, so I bypass my intended glass of water and open the bottle of beer I find in the fridge instead. There is minimal food, mostly Jay’s. I’m not hungry anyway. I rarely am.

While I’m settling on to the couch with a glass of beer, Piette reappears, pulling her hair back from her drawn face. She looks exhausted and frowns at the glass in my hand.

“Is that my Pale Ale? Did you open it?” She sits on the couch, next to me but not touching and I realise that we didn’t kiss hello.

“Sorry if you were saving it. I can go and get more in a little while?”

“You can’t drive if you’re drunk.”

“I’ll walk down, it’s only three blocks.”

“Whatever.” She turns to the television. I can see her jaw wrestling with her words, and after a moment the words win out. “I was saving that bottle, I bought it this morning because I thought that we could have a nice relaxing beer together tonight.” Her eyes have fixed on my face, round, rounder.

I look around for a second glass before I realise that I didn’t bring one in. I would stand up to fetch another but she has me caught in her gaze.

I offer her mine. “Let’s share this.”

There are moments throughout a person’s life that are so thick with feeling that they are deadlocked into memory, that upon being recalled can overcome the body, force it into a useless melancholic disposition unable to move, eat or hurt, able only to feel the small marble of despair throbbing dully in one’s chest.

A clever Frenchman once told of how a man, upon waking, consults the flow of time and the order of heavenly bodies to position himself in the maelstrom of existence. Memories can act as anchors do; they hold thoughts in position at a particular place and time, keeping the mind firmly attached to that moment. Every time a man positions himself in the universe, memories pull him in every direction and he can’t help but be dragged along by the strongest. His consultation will always be influenced by the heaviest anchor.

When the anchor is so heavy that movement away from it is impossible, we struggle hopelessly to arrest the universe instead.

We are grievously wounded by the indifference of time, terrified by the desperate need for it to return to that one single moment, appalled by the knowledge that it never will. We watch the universe slide out of reach while we remain with our memories, wondering where the time, and the light, has gone.

The room was steamy, even though I had opened the bathroom window. I had just emerged from said bathroom, freshly showered and wrapped in a white towel. Our bathroom door opens out into the kitchen and dining room, which itself has a glass door leading to the backyard.

When I came out of the bathroom, Piette was standing flaccidly next to the kitchen bench, a white bag of shopping in one hand, gaping, unblinking, at the backyard. Before I had time to look at whatever she was gaping at, her gaze had flared into fury.

Fury at me.

My white towel was scant cover. I was lost for words; she had been in a fine mood twenty minutes earlier when she had taken towards the shops for post-coital munchies and I had leapt in the shower. Now her eyes were wildfire. I stammered uselessly, cluelessly.

And abruptly she was screaming and flailing, scratch, shit bitch bite, bastard!

I fended her off, stunned, and she fell against the kitchen bench, gasping for breath.

“I saw her, you stupid fuck. You should have been quicker.” It made no sense. None of it made any sense. Her face was twisted with spite. “Don’t you love me?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, choking. It was the worst thing to do.

The knife made its way from bench to hand and she flew at me again. My hands up in self-defence. My wrist caught hers, sending the blade off course, towards my face.

She screamed again, twice as loud, sending me to the floor with blood in my eyes and panic in my ears. There was a terrible moment where I thought the eye was gone, but the timeliest of unconscious nods had set the blade into my eyebrow instead of the soft orb below. Or so I figured.

The fire was out. Blood and ashes.

Piette patched me up quickly and efficiently, crying the entire time, weeping hot onto ruddy red cheeks, her hands the softest and most delicate they had ever been. I still couldn’t think of a thing to say. When the bandage was in place around my temple, we stood and faced each other.

She takes the glass from my hand and sips on it delicately. As she hands it back, there is a young, wet woman in a French maids outfit climbing a rope ladder on the television. As soon as I notice it I make a careful study not to glance again. Piette is watching my face. I’m looking around the room, avoiding the television, and my eye falls on an open book.

“What are you reading?” I ask, white flags high and waving.

For a heartbeat, nothing, then…

“It’s Virginia Andrews. Flowers in the Attic.” She licks her lips.

At times I’ve wept over lives I didn’t lead, patching dreams together from the things I’ve known. Where should I be? Not here, that seems obvious. But where then? The roulette ball settles, rattling into place, and everything begins to make sense; nothing else would fit.

There are seven microphones across the stage. Three of them are mine and the backup singers have two each.

In between each of the massive fold-back speakers are rows of three blazing halogen lights, all pointing at different parts of the stage, different members of the band. Most of them are pointed at the centre of the stage, where the lead singer will stand. Where I will stand.

If I look at the lights for too long, they give me a headache. They are so bright that I can only see a few metres beyond the stage, but I don’t want to see any further. The mass of sweaty orange faces ripples, as though the arena is a massive cruise ship on a rocky sea.

I am the captain and the sea is waiting, watching.

“I haven’t read it,” I tell her. “What’s it about?”

“A young girl. She’s locked away in a room where nobody can see her except for her little brother and sister. She’s raising them, but they hate her. She’s all alone.” Piette takes the glass from my hand and drinks from it.

“Why doesn’t she leave?” I ask. “She shouldn’t look after them if they don’t want her to.”

Piette looks at me over the rim of the glass. “I’m sure she wouldn’t stay if she thought she had the choice.” There is no bitterness in her voice, but she doesn’t blink. Her knuckles are white against the pale amber beer.

“Maybe she finds something worth staying for.”

I’m lying. I read the book years ago, more than once. It doesn’t end like that.

But Piette is smiling at me, a tired, hopeful smile, then she leans into me and presses a kiss into the nape of my neck. Holding her head, I pluck the beer from her hand.

The television is cheering.

The audience is screaming as I step up to my microphone and wrap a slow hand tightly around it. A tumbling pattern of joints and cigarettes lands at my feet, flung from the crowd. When I pick up one of the joints and spark it, the sea boils.

The lead guitarist, a needle fingered virtuoso with dozens of faces, picks the first sweet notes. These leather pants feel good to move in. The scent of sweat and salt floats crisply from the sticky mass of audience and steams up the spotlights. A bouncer sprays water from a small hose. Those who see him do it gasp and throw their jaws wide, desperate for any few, precious drops. Behind me, the drummer strokes the rim of his crash, ever so slightly. The ringing guitar notes compress in the air above the crowd, vibrating faster, louder, more guttural than sweet. The snare pops loudly like a rib bone, once, twice, faster, and the audience begins to bounce.

The ball bounced, twice, thrice, then rolled across our backyard.

Surreal. My forehead throbbed. We watched it in silence, the too-jolly beach ball butting against our rosemary bush. Piette and I had lived here for five years and no balls of any kind had ever come over our back fence.

For a moment I thought that Piette’s knife had wounded me much deeper than either of us had suspected, that the bandage on my temple was a laughable cover over some invisible spurting gash in my brain. But Piette’s ruddy cheeks were slack in surprise; she could see the beach ball too.

And the next shock; following the ball over the fence came a nubile teenage girl clad in the afterthought of a bikini. Her bare feet landed in the dirt of our back yard with a practised thud and she looked straight up into our kitchen.

I didn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Piette took a single step backwards.

It was obvious from the girl’s sudden dismay that she could see us.

“I’m just getting our ball,” she called out anxiously. “It came over the fence.”

“No shit,” I said to myself, to the universe.

Piette flapped a hand at the girl, who took her cue and scrambled for the ball. A near naked girl in our backyard, trotting covertly through our backyard.

I saw her you stupid fuck.

All at once I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe. The drummer finishes his roll on the snare and the indistinguishable super guitarist booms out his first real chord, just one, a short, sharp melodic shout. Reverberation kernels into existence, a teardrop swelling into a monsoon.

The audience knows the song. A wave sways from left to right as thousands of them inhale as one in the carefully measured moment of silence. It is barely a second, a beat of two by the drummer’s air sticks, but it is rich, dripping with tension, bloated with expectation. More than any other moment tonight, this is what the audience has come for. The audience is enraptured.

The band is technically perfect in their silence, but in a heartbeat they will land with the weight of a jumbo jet in perfect tune and dynamic and power.

It will be my first note, bursting from my stomach and cleansed through my throat, carrying my soul unwaveringly into thousands of waiting ears. The microphone is sweaty in my hand. I still can’t breathe. A drumstick begins its descent and the audience gasps a solitary, arena wide breath as the last moment of silence stretches out like a chain brought to breaking point.

Oh shit.

Something cold and tight is around my neck, threading down my spine, pushing through my nerves like ice. Piette’s eyes have glassed over.

We watch her, stunned.

A voice calls from over the fence, but the bikini girl doesn’t answer it, opting instead to throw the ball back in a hurry.

At my feet was a blood stained towel. It had been white only minutes earlier. I had an incredible urge to take it out to the girl, show it to her.

There was a patch of dirt on her pert bikini-bubbled butt as she climbed back over the fence.

Piette stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist. She was crying again, sobbing into my chest, she was sorry, she was so, so, sorry. The heater in the bathroom was still on.

After a moment, she took me by the arm and looked into my face.

I didn’t know what to say.

She follows my gaze to the woman on the television, the wet wife in the French maid’s outfit laughing and sliding as she climbs the ladder.

Piette frowns and pulls away from me.

I lift the beer to my lips, hoping beyond hope that the camera angle will change. It doesn’t.

Piette is very still. Anger already radiates from her.

A line of beer trickles to my chin.

“Good view? You like that?” She says it quietly, her lips gleaming with beer, her eyes poisonous. “Can’t help yourself, can you. Fucking pervert.” She seizes my face with her fingernails, her teeth gnashing.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to sing.

The audience has stopped jumping. The sea of faces is motionless. All eyes are on me.

The band keeps playing the chorus since they can’t very well stop, but they’re all looking at me too.

Every single person in the thousands that are watching knows that I should be singing, that the song has started without me, that I have missed my cue.

My mind is blank. Fingers start to point. I’m the only person here who can’t remember the words. The chorus rounds off and starts again but still they don’t come.

The audience starts to boo. The wunderkind guitarist stops playing, shaking his head at me in disgust. One by one, the rest of the band follows him. The audience is shouting again but this time it’s furious. Bottles and cans pepper around me in greater numbers.

My hand has turned to stone around the microphone.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to say.

[image error]

January 1928

“Listen,” said Mr. Mastricoli, pausing halfway up the wooden staircase. He pushed his hat back a little and Violet could see the sweat beading underneath its brim. “I don’t know what your husband told you about this place, but it’s better if you let me talk to them. You understand?”

I’ll speak when I speak, old man.

Anger simmered beneath Violet’s skin, but she held her tongue for now. Samuel had told her nothing of this place and even less about the debt they apparently owed. If her husband hadn’t left for Beaconsfield this morning, only an hour before Mastricoli came knocking, she would probably still be none the wiser.

Violet peered up into the hallway, at the candlelit red walls, at the polished oak beams, the ostentatious candelabra. Fury washed over her again.

A whorehouse. Damn you for a misbegotten fool, Samuel.

She wondered how often he had been coming to this place instead of working on their new home in Beaconsfield. Her sweet, loving, hard-working husband was quick to laugh, eager to please and — apparently — helplessly randy.

Photo by Gil Ribeiro on Unsplash

“Do you understand?” Mr. Mastricoli insisted. “I’m risking quite a lot in bringing you here, girl. The club has a reputation to uphold. As do I.”

“I don’t care about your stupid club,” she muttered, almost too low to hear.

His lips pressed into a thin line and his hands squeezed into fists, as though he wanted to seize her shoulders but didn’t quite dare. A droplet of sweat dripped down his temple.

“This stupid club owns your husband, girl. Which means they own you. If you can’t even show me respect, then I’ll need to reconsider my association with…”

“I apologise, Mr. Mastricoli. I will follow your lead.” She ducked her head with a submission that belied her fury.

Nobody owns my family, you greasy coward. She would tell them herself soon enough.

He grimaced. “Then keep your eyes low. And your mouth shut. Come.”

The opulent hallway was straight and long. Enormous oil paintings, darkly lavish and uneasy on the eye, hung in heavy gilded frames. A plush red carpet matched the colour of the walls. Two tall men waited at the far end, their huge shoulders packed into spotless grey suits, their eyes sharp above identical scarlet neckties.

Without breaking his stride Mr. Mastricoli removed his hat and nodded to the enormous men. One nodded back, his expression never changing, and they stepped aside. Violet kept her back straight and her eyes forward as she passed beneath their gazes.

There was another set of stairs leading up to a plain wooden door. At the bottom step, Mr. Mastricoli paused again, studying Violet. The old man licked his thumb and, without warning, reached out to clean her cheek with it.

“Get off me!” Violet shoved his hand away, disgusted. “I’m not one of your… girls!”

He shrugged nervously. The two giant men were watching them.

“Listen to me Violet, you mustn’t…”

Violet pushed past him and stomped up the wooden stairs, shoving open the door.

A dozen unfamiliar faces turned Violet’s way as she swept into the room. Her steps faltered.

The men — they were mostly men, older men — were dressed in fine black and charcoal suits. Their collars were white and crisp, their faces grey and nondescript. There were two women in the room, elegantly poised in expensive dresses with long glittering necklaces that draped almost to their knees.

They were gathered around low round tables, sitting in black armchairs or standing with drinks raised. The walls were dressed in rich red curtains that hung from floor to ceiling. At one end of the room, a bar was being tended by a short, dreadfully thin man who wore an ill-fitting red vest. At the other end was a wooden stage bracketed by three short steps on either side. On the front of the stage, a small key hung from a nail.

One of the women wore a tight cloche hat of woven gold sequins that glimmered in the dull light. She was smiling at Violet, a tight, approving smile, as she stood and approached with her hands spreading wide in welcome. A gold ring topped with a smooth black opal gleamed as she reached for Violet’s hand.

“Ah. The builder’s wife.” Her eyes cut to Mr. Mastricoli, who had quietly slipped the door closed and was heading towards the bar, his work apparently done. “Violet, I believe?”

Violet frowned at the woman’s hands, wrapped warmly around her own. “Do I know you, madam?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure.” There was a titter from the shadows.

Violet pulled her hand away. “It’s a pleasure I’d be most pleased to deny myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

There was another titter, but the woman’s smile faltered a little. “You are educated.”

Presumptuous sow. “Educated enough.”

The woman laughed, a dry and calculated sound. “Educated and proud. The simple builder’s housewife, not so simple after all.” She tilted her head, waiting, openly appraising.

Violet tried not to scowl. That cloche would be worth more than my entire wardrobe. She resisted the urge to cross her arms in front of her body.

“My Aunts taught me to read,” she muttered.

“Good. Education separates us from the beasts.”

“Not all of us.”

The woman stiffened. “Indeed,” she said, her voice quieter. “And your husband, Samuel? Perhaps not as refined as yourself, might I suggest? Not quite as well-read? Perhaps more… of a beast?”

There was another dry chuckle from elsewhere in the room. All eyes were on them.

“My husband is a good man,” Violet said, her chin raised. “And even good men can be led astray.”

“Indeed,” the woman said again, disinterested. She plucked a brandy balloon half-filled with amber fluid from the bartender’s wooden tray, then leaned over and spoke in the gaunt servant’s ear, too low for Violet to hear. Then she sipped her drink and smiled . “A good man. A very good man, one of our favourites in fact.”

There was nodding around the room. Violet glanced around nervously. Some of the men were smirking. The other woman chewed her bottom lip, her eyes shining with barely contained excitement. Only the bartender wasn’t looking Violet’s way.

“And it is always difficult when a very good man, when a very good friend, does a very bad thing.”

Violet narrowed her eyes. “I had no idea my husband had such distinguished very good friends.”

“Well, he doesn’t, actually. Not anymore. Now… now he has creditors.”

A small door opened behind the bar. A young woman emerged — a girl, really — dressed in a diaphanous blue robe that clung to her slim figure and left little to the imagination. The girl closed the door and walked slowly through the room, ignoring them. She drifted aimlessly over the plush red carpet, not meeting anyone’s gaze.

Violet felt her spine stiffen and her head swim. You knew it was a brothel.

You knew it was other women, what else could it have been? But she was a prospector’s daughter and a woman of the world. She had seen the working girls at the tin mines in Derby and the brothels by the docks at Georgetown. She would not be manipulated by this harlot.

“My husband has the same weaknesses as any man. Especially when plied with fancy drink and fancy words. If he has unsettled accounts, then I…”

“He certainly did develop a taste for the… fancier things.” The woman’s grin was a leer now. “In fact, I believe he would be enjoying a taste of something rather fancy even as we speak.”

Violet shivered. “What do you mean?”

“You see, builder’s wife, your builder has apparently convinced one of my finest girls to abandon her trade and leave this fine establishment of ours.”

“And why would he do that?”

This time it was more than a titter — one of the shadows actually laughed, low and mean.

The woman shook her head. “Oh Violet. You see… some men will do almost anything for love.”

“What?” Violet’s voice was a rasp. “Nonsense.”

“I’m afraid not. After several… visits… he became quite taken with the girl. Decided to make an honest woman out of her, I believe. Sweet, really.”

Eyes downcast, the girl drifted past them, her blue robe shimmering. The woman in the gold cloche surreptitiously cleared her throat and the girl stiffened, then turned towards the stage. Some of the men watched her approach it with blooming smiles.

“Not my husband. Not Samuel. He never did.”

“Oh but he did.”

“You’re wrong. My husband is a good man. A married man. He would never… never…”

He would never do that to me. She couldn’t say it. She felt like throwing up.

“A good man. A good man. A man of such… such… girth.”

There was more laughter.

The girl had climbed onto the stage, her sapphire-clad skin shifting in the dim light. Some of the other men were standing up now. Raising her arms to either side, she turned a slow practiced circle, her face raised to the roof, the planes of her shimmering figure reflecting the chandelier’s glow. When she had finished, she simply stood and waited, her head down, her feet apart.

“I don’t believe you. You’re a liar and I don’t believe any of this. ” Violet’s breathing was under control. Barely. I need to get out of here. “I would know if he was… he was… Samuel would tell me. He’s a hopeless liar and he’s no creeping coward.”

“No. Samuel is a good man. He seems intent on doing well by her.” The woman leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I believe he mentioned a little cottage in Beaconsfield. A white cottage, with a plum tree in the front yard.”

“What?” Violet’s stomach churned.

“Yes, that’s right. She’s been bragging about her new claw-foot bathtub, the one that’s right next to the fireplace… she’s been going on about it quite a bit. Tedious, really.”

That’s my bathtub. I chose that bathtub. A tear spilled over her cheek, unnoticed.

“Oh Violet,” the woman said, opening her arms, apparently offering to comfort her. Violet stepped back quickly, glaring at her, glaring around the room.

“I’m leaving. Whatever debt you think my husband owes you, you can take up with him. After I’m done with him.”

The woman cleared her throat. “My dear, Samuel is in Beaconsfield, isn’t he? Left this morning?”

Violet stared at her.

“He’s not coming back, and why would he? He’s watching that lovely young lady soak herself in her claw-foot tub right now, I don’t doubt. He’ll be polishing his drill, hammering away with his hammer, all those kinds of things.”

One of the men had joined the girl on the stage and was peeling off his expensive jacket. Violet’s breath caught as the man picked something up from the back of the stage — an iron chain with a manacle cuff. She looked away horrified as he closed the manacle around the girl’s bruised, slender ankle.

At the other end of the room, the bartender was busy filling glasses with ice and sharp liquor.

“As to his unfortunate debt… I’m afraid he took something that I owned. Something that belonged to me.”

“He rescued her.” It felt like the floor was falling away from beneath her feet, but she was steady. Sweet, foolish Samuel. “He saved her from you.”

The woman cocked her head, surprised, and when she laughed it was with genuine humour. “Rescued her? He bought her. He knew the price, knew it well, and paid it without complaint.”

Violet tried to swallow again. “He paid it? Paid it how?”

The woman grinned. “My dearest, sweetest Violet.”

Thank you for reading the prologue of Encore by Zane Pinner! Comment below, or c lick here to get the complete novella

Robin loves his job. Living at The Majestic Cinema, his uncle’s movie theatre in the heart of Launceston, means endless free movies and a lifelong career. Even the quiet, lonely nights seem to be over when he meets a budding actress, the vivaciously romantic Evelyn.

But the Majestic has a secret, sordid past that refuses to be forgotten. On one terrifying night, Robin and his friends discover a debt must be paid — a reprisal of blood, fire and death.

A night at the movies — who will survive?

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“Check out those floaties,“ I nudged Jimmy, pointing. The floaties — bright yellow inflatable arm sleeves designed to stop toddlers from drowning — hung on the back wall of the kiosk. On the dangling price tag was a photo of a standard toddler, a blonde kid in a suburban paddle pool barely a foot deep. But the kid wasn’t smiling. “The kid in that picture’s freakin out.”

Jimmy sniggered. “Smile kid, or we’ll drown ya.”

Everyone in the little kiosk could hear him. There were more kids in the line behind us, waiting their turn to order hot chips or cold ice cream or tepid sandwiches, towels draped over their shoulders, swimsuits dripping onto the floor. At the back of the line towards the kiosk door waited Vanessa Bayer, Golden Goddess of the Cataract Gorge, with some of her gossiping friends.

The Cataract Gorge, Launceston, Tasmania

“Somebody oughta drown both of you two,” Micky muttered, not looking at either of us. He was tucking a strand of chin-length blonde hair behind his ear and eyeing off the kiosk attendant. She would have been eight or nine years younger than him, at least. “What are you even talkin about?”

“Danny reckons you need those floaties,” Jimmy laughed, unwrapping his Golden Gaytime. “He said he’ll buy em for ya.”

“Is that right, Danny boy?” Micky glared up at me. He was at least a foot shorter than me, but he was a lot older and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. “Goes scuba-diving twice and thinks he invented swimming. Daddy didn’t buy you a brain to match that four wheel drive?”

That pissed me off. “Better get two pairs of floaties,” I heard myself say, wondering if Vanessa Bayer was listening. “He’ll need them for his little legs too.”

Jimmy laughed. Micky didn’t.

Great. Micky had been friendly enough the few times I’d met him, but I thought I saw a pretty bad temper underneath those earnest smiles and laboured jokes. I didn’t want him pissed at me, so I punched Jimmy in the arm, half hoping he would drop the ice cream. He didn’t.

“Can we have some vasoline too for that sick burn,” Jimmy whispered to the girl behind the counter, again loud enough for everybody in line to hear.

The girl behind the counter rolled her eyes. “Will that be all?” Her tone made it clear that it would be all, so they gave her thank you grins of and walked out of the little kiosk. I tried to catch the eye of the Goddess but she had her head down, counting the coins in her damp white palm.

The day was bright and hot and loud. We strutted our way down the cement path from the kiosk to the softly grassed picnic area.

The picnic area was large enough to hold over a thousand people and had once been used for concerts and recitals, but today it was dotted with groups — families, friends, tourists and teenagers. Kids ran through the sunshine down to the shallow side of the public swimming pool, whilst their parents cooked sausages on the barbeques dotted around the side of the lawn. Grandparents and couples on their first date basked together in the shade of the huge central oak tree. Some swimmers followed the pebbled paths down the river where they would jump of rocks into the cold, clean, deep waters of the First Basin.

The First Basin, a natural waterhole one hundred and fifty metres wide and supposedly bottomless, was teeming with swimmers. They emerged from the scrub around the water’s edge, or from under the high swinging bridge on the Western side, or from the boulders lining the strip of lawn between the river and the pool. Laughter and splashed screams drifted through the summer heat.

We walked back over to the group we’d been sitting with since we arrived, just after lunchtime. Skaters, guitarists, stoners and artists, some folk we knew from college, others we had met here on the lawns.

“Legends,” nodded Paddy as we sat down. Paddy was the best skater in town and he liked Jimmy, who had gone to high school with Jade, Paddy’s girlfriend. “Any you boys got a smoke?”

Micky gave him one and pulled another for himself. They shared Micky’s lighter, Paddy taking a deep drag then passing the cigarette to Jade.

“Look at these fuckin guys,” Micky nodded, trying to hide his need to cough. We followed his gaze to a trio of men in black leather jackets and jeans, surveying the scene like soldiers in the shade of the big oak tree. One of them turned momentarily to look back up the hill towards the car park, and we saw the big bright patch on his back. “Bikers.”

“They’re lookin for someone,” Paddy said quietly.

“Pervin on all the girls, more like,” said Jade.

“Not pervin on you,” Jimmy shrugged and she slapped him in the arm. Jimmy got that a lot.

“I reckon they’re keepin an eye on the cave,” Micky said. “Makin sure nobody’s pokin around in there.”

“What cave?” Jimmy asked.

“The underwater cave.”

“See?” said Jade, shaking Paddy’s arm. A couple of the others looked over. “There is a cave!”

“Yep,” Micky grinned at Jade, that earnest, friendly grin that looked rehearsed.

“What underwater cave?” Jimmy and I asked at the same time.

Jade giggled, but Micky rolled his eyes. “Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber. Haven’t you heard about the cave? Just near Hogg’s Bottom?”

Hogg’s Bottom was a high ledge that kids jumped off into the river, a flat rock with the remains of an old timber diving board strewn around it. But there was no underwater cave and I said as much.

“But there is,” Micky insisted. “There’s like an opening and it leads into a little cave, like an air pocket. They stash shit in there because they know nobody knows about it.”

“You know about it,” Paddy pointed out.

“Yeah, but I know people who run with the bikers mate,” Micky puffed out his chest. “And Jade knows about it, don’t you?”

“We were talkin about it just before, weren’t we?” She said to the girl on her other side.

“Yeah but that’s not what you said about it Tammy,” Paddy said to the other girl. “What did you say again? That there are bones?”

“That’s what I was told.” Tammy said, eyeing Jimmy and I coolly. “In the seventies these two men trapped a girl down there.”

“They left her in the dark?” Jimmy asked, eyes wide.

“Yep. Bought her food and kept her high… and when they were sick of her, they killed her.”

“No bullshit?” Micky said, tapping his cigarette. “Bloody hell.

“What about the rest?” Paddy had a sly grin. “The bones? Taaaammy?”

Tammy smirked at him, an involuntary pull of the lips. All the girls liked Paddy. “Yeah, well. It’s bullshit obviously. But my cousin told me that once a year, on the day she died, the girl’s bones float up to the surface.”

We all laughed, except Tammy who kept shrugging and telling us that her cousin was a lawyer now.

“This place does feel haunted sometimes,” Jimmy shielded his eyes and looked over the river, as if he might see the girl’s bones there and then.

“Maybe her ghost’s guarding all the bikie heroin,” Paddy laughed.

“If the cave’s there, then they’ve gotta be using it,” Micky insisted.

“My arse,” Paddy shook his head and Jade tittered. “There’s no cave, It’s bull…. shit.”’

“Why do we all know about it then?”

“Because we’ve got nothin better to do than to make this shit up.”

“Nup.” Micky looked back over at the bikies. “It’s brilliant. Why wouldn’t you use it as a stash? It’s not at anyone’s house, accessible whenever, safe as because nobody could find it.”

“Accessible,” I laughed.

Micky scowled at me. “What, you’re King Doggy Paddle aren’t you? It’s not gonna be that hard to swim down and into a cave, is it. Not if you know where it is.”

“And if you had the right gear,” said Paddy.

“Wait,” Jimmy was looking at me and my stomach sank. I knew exactly what he was about to say. “Your new rig would do it, wouldn’t it Danny?”

“What new rig?” Micky asked, frowning.

I didn’t like where this was leading and I would have shaken my head at Jimmy, but Paddy and Jade and even Tammy and the others were all listening.

“He got a diving rig for his birthday a couple of weeks back, a little oxygen tank and a mask, proper light and everything. Right Danny?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Have you got it here?” Micky’s eyes were bright. I could see that he was imagining himself rolling around in a pile of bikie coke and hundred-dollar bills.

“No,” I shook my head. “It’s back at…”

“It’s in his car!” Jimmy announced. I could have throttled him on the spot. “I was checkin out the flippers before we drove up.”

“No shit!” Micky was grinning.

Paddy snorted derisively, but Jade leaned forward, her big eyes on me. “Are you gonna try and find the cave?”

“I…”

“Yeah fuckin oath!” Micky said. “Go and grab your gear!”

“Are you gonna swim down and look for it?” Paddy asked Micky, who crossed his arms defensively.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll do it if he’s too much of a pussy.” He nodded at me. “What size are your flippers? Can I use the oxy?”

I shook my head. “No, it all has to be properly fitted.”

“So only you can use it.” His voice was flat, but I could see he was relieved. “Go and grab it anyway.”

“I…”

“Look, they’re leavin,” Micky pointed at the bikers across the lawn. They were making their way up the steep path towards the carpark. “Perfect timing.”

“There’s no bloody cave down there,” I muttered.

“Prove it then,” Micky sneered. They were all looking at me now. “Or didn’t Daddy buy you any balls either?”

“Listen, why don’t you…” … go fuck yourself, is what I meant to say, but before I could I noticed somebody else walking across the grass; Vanessa and her friends, walking towards the path down to Hog’s Bottom, towels slung over their pretty shoulders. “Why don’t you meet us down there.”

“You’re gonna do it?” Jade asked, a grin blooming on her features.

“Might as well have a look,” I mumbled.

“Come on,” Jimmy sprung to his feet. “I’ll walk up to the car with you.”

I trudged up the hill behind Jimmy, who was nattering away as he weaved amongst the foot traffic, dodging tourists and their wayward kids with a vacant gracefulness. On the way up, he said the cave definitely didn’t exist (Micky’s full of shit). By the time we pulled the gear off of my car’s back seat, he had figured out how we would sell a metric ton of cocaine (Tony at the skate park). By the time we came back to the lawn and the path down to Hogg’s Bottom, Jimmy had divvied up the takings from their haul and was deciding which suburb to buy his mansion in (Blackstone Heights or St Leonards).

The concrete path led through dense scrub until it reached a dilapidated stone and cement shelter that reeked of piss and boasted fifty years worth of graffiti. The path and scrub both ended here and we scrambled across the dull boulders that framed the water’s reedy edge, climbing up the short embankment to the field-sized plateau of rock that overlooked the river.

There were people dotted around the entire plateau, making their way to and from the walkway that curled around the cliffs or sitting on towels on the lower boulders that eased into the water. There were only so many spots where it was easy to access the water, and they were all occupied.

Hogg’s Bottom itself jutted out at the Eastern end of the plateau, a high point maybe four metres above the water. On the tip of the boulder was an ancient cement block with rust-stained bolt holes in the top; decades ago there had been a diving board installed here, but it was long gone. Now kids just jumped off the block itself into the deep, cool river water, where there were several convenient places to climb out, scramble back up the rocky path and jump off again.

“Look who’s come over,” Jimmy whispered, elbowing me. I didn’t look, but I knew who he was talking about.

Vanessa and her friends were sitting on some of the boulders near Hogg’s, laughing and putting on sunscreen. All of Paddy and Jade’s crew had come over from the lawn as well and Tammy was talking to one of Vanessa’s friends. Everyone knows everyone in Launceston.

“Let’s fuckin go!” Micky clapped his hands as Jimmy and I stood on Hogg’s. Paddy came over and stood next to us, peering down into the water.

“Where’s it supposed to be?” I said, fiddling with my gear to hide my nervousness. The little oxy tank attached directly to a mask that strapped over my face. When it was full, it held about twenty minutes worth of oxygen.

“It doesn’t exist,” Paddy scoffed, but he kept looking.

“It must be a few metres down at least,” Micky called out. He had stepped onto one of the larger boulders so that everyone could see him. “Otherwise everyone would know about it.“

“Hey Paddy!” It was Tammy. She waved when we all looked over and the girl she had been talking to called out to us.

“Are you gonna look for the cave?”

Micky whooped and punched the air. Jade and Paddy were laughing and spinning out.

“No shit, you’ve heard of it too?” Jimmy asked the girl, who nodded. “Christ. Maybe there is a cave.”

“What do you know about it?” I asked her. “Can people swim into it?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “My aunty told me that the Aborigines had an underwater cave up here. They used it as a burial place.”

Jimmy’s mouth was hanging wide open while Micky scoffed and shook his head.

“There are caves up here everywhere,” Jade pointed out.

“But not underwater ones,” Tammy said.

“How would you even get a body down there?” Jimmy said.

“Bikies, bones or burials,” Paddy said, almost to himself. “Got a real positive vibe, this cave.”

“Come on, you goin in or what?” Micky was clearly enjoying himself.

Vanessa hadn’t looked over, but she and her friends must have been able to hear him. I looked at Jimmy, who was grinning his dumb grin. He shrugged.

“Finder’s keepers, arsehole.” I muttered. His grin slipped a little.

Paddy was still looking over the edge of Hogg’s. I handed him the mask and stepped onto the concrete block.

“Drop this down to me?”

He nodded and took it. I held the oxy tank and the underwater torch against my chest to brace against the impact of the water.

“Danny,” Paddy’s voice was low, too low for the rest to hear. “Don’t do it man.”

I smirked at him, waiting for a punchline. None came.

“He won’t go,” Micky scoffed. “He hasn’t got the balls.”

Vanessa and her friends were looking now. They all were. Jade and Tammy, all their crew.

“If there’s gold down there,” I told Paddy, “I’ll buy you a new skateboard.” My grin felt weak.

“Go Danny boy, go!” Micky was clapping and capering. “Get that loot!”

Squeezing the oxygen tank against my armpit, I nodded at Paddy and Jimmy. Vanessa was talking to the girl next to her, no longer looking my way. Damn.

I turned and looked off Hogg’s. From there I could see all the way across the basin; there were kids swimming under the swinging bridge, some metalheads resting on the submerged rocks near the walkway. A group of teenagers had pulled a driftwood log out into the middle of the river and were wrestling to see who could stand on it the longest.

I had jumped from this spot dozens of times, but never with an oxy tank or a torch. The sun was in my eyes. Jimmy and Jade were clapping and hooting encouragingly while Micky cheered with glee. I took a deep breath and jumped.

A rushing drop through the sunshine then cold, cold, water engulfed me. The shock was only momentary — the river was always cold — and it dissipated completely when I broke the surface, shaking water from my eyes and hair. The sun was warm on my face, glaring in my eyes. I squinted up at Paddy, high above me on the rock.

“Yep.” I waved my hand and the mask fell into the water right next to me. Kicking my flippers slowly kept me upright in the water easily while I pulled on the mask and attached the little oxygen bottle.

“Look out, frogman!” Jimmy called from above. He had stripped off his t-shirt and was standing on the concrete block.

I pushed backwards through the water and watched him leap into the air, pulling his knees to his chest, splashing down a few feet in front of me. The resulting wave almost made me drop the torch, so I wrapped it’s strap around my wrist and swore at him.

Paddy followed him a moment later, then Jade gracefully pin-dropped in as well. Micky was gingerly making his way to the edge of the boulder, still a decent jump but a good four feet lower than the concrete block.

“You gotta be kiddin,” I snorted.

Jimmy followed my gaze and whooped laughter. “He’s gonna do the kid’s one! You fuckin pussy Micky!”

“Piss off,” Micky muttered.

Jimmy chortled scornfully and duck-dived below the surface. Paddy and Jade were smiling into each other’s shoulders. I turned away, adjusting my mask, as Micky splashed into the river.

The mask had a rubber mouthpiece that you could bite down on to control the flow of air. I had only used it a couple of times before but it was simple and intuitive. The torch flicked on and off easily enough. I was ready to go, so I gave Paddy the thumbs up and as I put my head down to duck dive, I saw Jimmy and Paddy do the same.

It was a different world underwater. The river was cool and clean, but it’s edges were murky with weed and moss and slime, all stirred up by dozens of kicking feet. Beyond the first few feet below the surface it was nearly impossible to see anything, even with the goggles.

I flicked on the torch and the river edges sprung to life in sudden clarity. I could see the boulders rising up out of the water and continuing down into the darkness below, weeds that clung to every rock waving from side to side, chunks of moss and twig and mud drifting through the torchbeam, even the black flick of a freshwater eel darting away from the light. Gross.

The torchlight pushed against the murky water but couldn’t penetrate far — just enough for me to notice Jimmy and Paddy’s legs kicking back up towards the surface. They wouldn’t get anywhere near as deep as I could with the flippers and oxygen, so I watched them go, then swam deeper.

I followed the uneven wall of boulders below directly below Hogg’s, swimming down away from the sunlight, following the edge of the biggest rocks. There were small ledges and crevices, but my torch showed most of them to be shallow breaks in the mossy rock. I went deeper, scanning from side to side. The underwater terrain appeared seamless.

The light was being suffocated by the increasingly silty water, so I pulled myself closer to the boulders and focused on what was right in front of me. I was looking for a needle in a haystack and I started to feel relieved; if there was a cave I would never find it but I could surface with a clear conscious, having looked for it in earnest.

So I prodded at the edges of the boulders, pushing aside some weeds here, scraping some mud there. At my knees was a big, smooth boulders, almost perfectly round and apparently the size of a small car. I gripped it as best as I could with one hand and pushed myself down along it’s smooth surface. I figured I was between five and six metres deep. Almost deep enough to call it done.

There was an enormous crashing sound directly above me, loud enough that I was startled and slipped down the boulder a little. I saw something far above me in the murk — a pair of white feet, kicking frantically like startled fish, gone in a flash. Somebody had jumped off Hogg’s, right on top of me. Jimmy, probably.

I gripped onto the boulder and pushed at it with my feet. At least I would have, but my feet found no purchase. The smooth boulder wasn’t as big as I thought apparently and must have had a space beneath it.

A space?

I pushed back off the boulder into the open water, kicking my feet to spin around, then swam down to the bottom of the boulder I’d been scaling. There was a gap underneath it and when I shone my torch into it my stomach flipped.

The gap receded into the rocks, making an opening about three feet wide. The torchlight was disappearing into the opening, which meant there was nothing for it to hit — there was an even bigger gap behind the opening.

I had found the cave.

Heart thudding with excitement, I swam closer to the opening, shining my torchlight into it. It still didn’t hit anything else, not until I had gripped onto the rocks and pulled my face right up to the gap in the rocks. When I reached into opening with my torch hand, I could see more weeds and more silt — the water behind the boulders was even murkier than in the river.

But I still couldn’t see the far side or a ceiling. The cave was big, the size of a room at least. With my head and shoulders still in the opening, I debated going back to the surface to gloat. I had found the cave, after all. That was enough.

But it wouldn’t be enough. And I had been down here almost ten minutes already so there wouldn’t be enough oxygen for a return trip. And… I don’t think I would want to come back down here again, bikie treasure or no. This was a once off deal. It was now or never.

So I pulled myself into the cave, gripping my torch in one fist and using it to grapple along. The water felt dirtier in here. If there was an air pocket at the top with an actual cave, it would be a dank mess.

They left her in the dark? Jimmy’s words came back to me with a shiver and I pushed them away. I was almost completely in the cave when my left flipper caught on the opening, pinching my foot painfully and throwing me off balance. I bit down on the rubber mouthpiece in place of cursing. The flipper was stuck.

I pulled at it, fighting down the sharp panic blooming in my spine. For a moment the rubber wouldn’t give, so I put my other foot on another boulder nearby. To my relief, the flipper tore free and I pushed back off the rocks, the pain in my foot immediately numb in the cold water.

It was time to go, treasure be damned. I reached down, turning upside down, and felt my way along the rocks, looking for the entrance.

It wasn’t there. My hands were met with solid rock in every direction. When I pushed back to free my flipper I must have become disoriented. I was sure I knew where the entrance was, but my hands disagreed with me.

I backed up, swinging the torch from side to side, but the water had become so thick with disturbed silt that I could barely see a foot in front of my face.

Panic returned and this time it was much harder to contain. My heart thudded and my breathing was fast and out of control. The torchlight showed me unbroken rock and weed through thick clouds of freezing, muddy water. I wondered how much oxygen I had left. I tried to stay calm. I felt my way along the rocks, looking for the entrance. It had to be here.

It had to be here.

But it wasn’t.

I pushed aside rocks in desperation, looking for any kind of gap, wondering how long it would be before Jimmy and Paddy and Jade came down looking for me. Before help came. Because I needed help, needed help now.

My oxygen was running out. The sweet, clean air I was sucking through the mouthpiece grew thinner with every breath and I was panicking, hyperventilating, scrabbling at the rocks and weeds and mud with numb hands. The boulders were unyielding. I was trapped. I shone the torch. There was no opening.

The air pocket. It was my only chance. I could stay there until the searchers came, until the divers found the cave. I had found it, they would find it. I repeated the thought over and over as I pushed off the bottom of the cave and kicked up towards where I hope — where I prayed — the air pocket might be. If there was a cave, they would find me. My oxygen was out.

I swam upwards, hoping it was upwards, my torch weaving through brown floating much and darkness, I kicked, kicked again, praying that my hands would break the surface, praying that the cave was real, that the air pocket was real, that I would…

My torch hand thumped into something soft and something else brushed my shoulder and drifted towards my face.

It was a hand.

I screamed. The last of my air bubbled away into the dark. I swung the torch, sucking uselessly at the mouthpiece, wanting to scream, needing to scream and finding no air to scream with.

There was a body floating in front of me, skeletal and mossy, its scraps of white flesh coated in brown silt. It might have been woman once.

I pushed away from it, lungs burning, legs kicking, reaching for the surface… but my hands crashed into hard rock, painful and unyielding. Air. I need air. I don’t want to die here.

There are other bodies, other white scraps drifting through the cold. I can see pieces of them — a ripped and emaciated torso, an arm and a shoulder in the distance, a pair of slowly spinning feet below. A child’s feet.

The cave’s ceiling is just as slippery and mossy as the floor. It might be the floor for all I know. I’m waving the torch from side to side, looking for a darker patch, looking for the surface, knowing that there is no surface.

I don’t want to die down here. There is no air. The torchlight is fading.

They’re drifting all around me, rotting in the dark. They don’t need floaties. I don’t need floaties.

Jimmy will find me. They’re coming.

The bodies turn in the water, floating towards me, twisting in the silt.

I wish I could breathe again. Just one more time.

The torchlight fades to smothered black and they take me in their cold, cold arms.

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Encore: The show must go on

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