Confluence

By Gemma Chilton

“There’s his boat. Upside down on the sand. Like something ancient, something returned to nature long ago.”
Confluence is a heart-wrenching page turner, full of suspense and tension, set on Australia's beautiful east coast.
Twenty years ago, 10-year-old Liam's father left to go fishing in the early morning dark and never came home.
Now Liam is living an unhappy life in Sydney, having an affair with the married woman upstairs, haunted by the ghosts of his childhood.
When he gets a call about his mother's health, he quits his dead-end job and returns to his childhood home near the ocean - ostensibly to help her, but really to wrestle with his own memories and his demons.
Weaving between the past and present, Confluence is a gritty and raw contemporary mystery about time, memory, love, loss and intergenerational trauma, through the lens of one family’s tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Chilton
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005150259

Gemma Chilton

Gemma Chilton is an Australian journalist and editor born in Sydney, NSW, and based in Huonville, Tasmania. Her writing has appeared in numerous magazines including Australian Geographic, AG Adventure, 4X4 Australia and Tracks.

Book preview

1.

Out here, the air is heavy with quiet.

The noises, which come and go, somehow can’t compete with that quietness, which is overlaid on them. More like an entity than an absence.

The rumble of a car as it rolls to a stop, and switches off. The tinkle of the engine as it cools. The sigh of a breeze, rustling leaves like a passing caress. The muffled sound of children’s voices, playing in the distance. The metallic sound of a car door opening and closing, high heels tapping against concrete – click clack click clack click clack.

It’s beautiful, actually – the quiet that permeates it all, running between all those living sounds like clear water.

Not that they realise that, in there. Inside their frantic minds is a clamorous noise. Like the feedback from a speaker when the microphone gets too close, or dropping an armful of pots and pans on tiles. Like screaming at the top of your lungs.

They’re oblivious to the quiet out here. To the pad of a lizard’s feet as it ambles its silver body across crisp dry grass. To the scratch of clawed feet on silvery, skin-like bark; a bird of prey landing on the highest branch of the tallest tree where it settles, watchful.

It’s so peaceful – if only they could find peace, in there. Through swinging doors, down long corridors, where nurses stride with intention, doctors linger over clipboards and children shuffle nervously at their grandparents’ bedsides.

Through another door into a room that’s so silent it shatters their hearts like snap-frozen roses into a million red pieces.

Hello baby. Hello my little Annie.

That familiar voice. She looks down on delicate eyelids that will never part to reveal a new witness. Lips that will never let forth that ancient song of a newborn cry they so long to hear.

Standing at the bedside, he gently strokes the wisp of black hair with the tips of his calloused fingers. He’s so gentle, as if he’s afraid to touch at all. And he is silent, doesn’t say a word. The name is on his lips, Anne. But he can’t bring himself to utter it aloud. Can’t hear a thing over the screaming in his ears, so loud it drowns out everything and he’s afraid it’ll never go away.

Too soon, a nurse appears and quietly takes that tiny, perfect, lifeless form away. And there they are, left behind, silently screaming alone in their own frantic minds.

But outside, it’s still quiet. The wind caresses the trees, the bird of prey with its knowing eyes alights from the branch and with a single movement of its enormous wings, it soars.

It’s beautiful out here, if only they could see it. Hear it.

2.

Barely taller than his father’s waist, Liam reached gingerly into the plastic container slung at his hip and selected a fat orange yabby from a briny, writhing orgy of them. Holding it delicately at his fingertips, he pinched off the mutant oversized nipper—which unclasped in his fingers easily—then, positioning the fishing rod between his knees, he reached out carefully to grab at the swinging hook, and thread it through the body. As his father taught him, he started under the tail, then guided the sharp point through the body and into to its head. The remaining, smaller nipper reached around blindly, seemingly in a panic. His stomach lurched but he kept at it, steadied his hands, tried not to apologise aloud.

Remember how I showed you, his father said, reeling in his own baited hook to repeat the process, then casting with the practiced hands of a violinist.

He released the line, held in place with a forefinger. Swing forwards, then back—and cast.

The yabby slapped the water as if exacting punishment, disintegrating on impact. The line hummed as he reeled in again.

Sorry.

Give it another go mate.

From the muddy shoreline they’re silhouettes on a silver mirror. An osprey circles above them, then dives steeply, hitting the water with a shocking splash, before heaving off again with a glint of silver in its talons.

Liam cast again. This time, the bait whooshed then plonked perfectly, and they waited in silence for a bite.

Soon, sharp, fine rain set in. They tossed the remaining yabbies into the water and watched them disperse in a milky cloud around their knees, then began to wade back to shore, rods and empty buckets raised above the endless, creeping tide.

3.

Liam switched off his alarm with such speed that when he properly awoke fifteen minutes later, he wasn’t sure it had gone off at all.

He buried his face in the safe warmth of his pillow and tried to give in to denial. He told himself he had longer, he did not have to get up yet to face the day. But as his body and brain slowly awoke he was forced to conclude that it wasn’t true—he had to get up or he would miss the bus. He threw off his covers and lay on the surface of his bed naked, staring at the ceiling for another moment, then he got up.

An hour later, Liam squeezed his way past other disgruntled commuters in the narrow aisle of the bus, and hopped off the raised platform onto the footpath at his usual stop, into the ebb and flow of the stormy-coloured sea of workers. The tapping of high heels like the start of rain.

Before he let this tide of the city carry him, as it usually did, to another day at work, Liam spotted a man on the street corner on the other side of the intersection. The man sat cross-legged on the corner and workers flowed around him, unaffected.

He thought he knew all the homeless in this part of the city. They had their usual spots, their familiar characteristics—the shirtless, pale-blonde, pock-marked ice addict at the train station; the overweight bearded man with long, yellow fingernails who slept in Hyde Park. This man had a bushy beard, and long, matted hair. His head was bowed slightly so Liam couldn’t quite see his face, just the curve of his shoulders, one knee sticking through a hole in rust-stained, torn jeans.

The pedestrian light flashed green and Liam crossed the road toward the homeless man, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket as he walked. The man was barefoot, heels cracked and mustard yellow. Sensing Liam was close, he looked up and they locked eyes—the man had dark-brown eyes, like Liam’s. Like—but no. Definitely not. But he couldn’t help it. It was an old habit.

He dropped a pink five-dollar note on the man’s upturned hat. The man said nothing and Liam let the crowd carry him away.

He wondered how much money he’d given to the city’s homeless in the past few years. That was good, at least. That was worthy.

Arriving at work, Liam switched on his computer and headed to the kitchen. He flicked on the recently boiled kettle and pulled down a mug from the shelf.

Staring at the wall, Liam clinked around in his mug with a teaspoon. Took a burning slurp. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out. Mum. Not now.

Liam returned to his desk, put on his oversized headphones with his usual relaxation soundtrack and delved into his emails.

The melody of water over rocks in his ears was interrupted by a bleep from instant messenger. Liam clicked the pop-up box.

How’s the report going? It was his manager, Ross.

Oh, fuck off. Good, he typed. Getting there. Send.

The white box flashed persistently.

Think you could get it to me by tomorrow? I’ve got the client on my back.

Oh, fuck you. Should be ok. Send.

Great, thanks.

It was after six by the time Liam swiped out, descending the lift alone, a headache thrumming behind his eyes.

He was standing on an over-stuffed bus, another screen-lit face wedged between commuters, when his phone buzzed. He answered self-consciously, his voice breaking the tired silence on the bus.

Hi Mum.

Hello, darling. You home? Can you talk?

Not really, I’m on the bus, he said. He looked out on the harbour he was traversing. The dregs of sunset fading to grey, the water blackening to ink, rippled with city lights.

It’s late. You give them too much of yourself, Liam.

He pressed his forehead against the cold metal pole he was clinging to. He sensed angst in her voice.

It’s ok. Big report due tomorrow. Can I call you back later?

He hung up, tried to repress the ever-present underlying guilt of an only child to an only parent. He’d call back later, when he had more energy.

Arriving at his apartment door, Liam lingered for a moment, keys raised, then he turned away and ascended the last flight of stairs.

Hannah answered after one knock and he entered with a strange sense of relief into her apartment’s familiar smell of Air Wick and weed.

Beer?

She was wearing a short, apricot-coloured satin nightdress. He perched on the back of the couch which divided the kitchen and living room and watched her at the fridge. She stood tip-toe on the loose lino tiles, a little white tag peeking like a tongue between her shoulder blades. Her calves were tanned and lined with faint, spidery veins as if a child had got to them with a pen.

They sat side by side on the couch and Hannah passed Liam his beer, then she placed a hand at the top of his thigh.

I thought you’d come.

Her low, smokers’ voice made her sound older than she really was; still a few years older than Liam.

Did you? I know it’s late. Sorry. It’s been a shit day.

Hey, at least someone pays you the big bucks for your shit days, she said and shrugged.

She took another swig of beer. How was your day? Liam asked, and he knew he did so with a tinge of cruelty—although he could convince himself otherwise. They both knew how little her days actually entailed. She smoked weed and watched TV and did meaningless chores around the house, waiting for her husband to return. Sometimes Liam would arrive at her door and she’d look wilted from lack of sunlight. How desperate she must have been to have reached out to me, he thought. Feelings of compassion and pity mingled in him and emerged as a kind of careless affection.

He asked her because it seemed like a simple, polite question, but he used it to wound her, just slightly.

You know, she said. I went to the shops this morning… I saw an old friend but pretended not to. I think we both realised. Do you ever do that?

Liam smiled and shrugged, took a sip of beer. On the coffee table in front of them, his phone buzzed—he picked it up, it was his mother again. He turned it face down.

You can answer it, Hannah said.

I’ll call her later.

Hannah shrugged again, and reached over to extract the can from his grip, placed it on the coffee table in front of them, next to his still-vibrating phone.

Is this why you’re here? she said as she straddled him, her knees spread wide either side of him. Liam’s penis flickered.

Hannah—

But she leaned in and kissed him, and although he felt a sudden guilty urge to recoil from her breath, the sudden closeness of her, instead he leaned in, the heels of his palms guiding her by her hips, sidelong on the couch, onto her back. Fumbling with his belt and fly, he shifted his boxers halfway down his thighs—stiff leather work shoes still on his feet—and entered her easily, with an urgency he hadn’t realised existed moments earlier.

Hannah wrapped her legs around his waist, used them to pull herself up against him. Too soon he collapsed on top of her, panting, dust and chip crumbs gritty against his cheek. She grabbed his hand and guided it between her legs. Eventually she let out a drawn-out sigh, but whether of pleasure or resignation Liam couldn't quite tell. She pushed him up by his chest and padded away to the bathroom, leaving a small dark circle on the seat.

Liam zipped his fly and immediately craved a shower, but knew he should stay longer. He took a swig of beer, still fridge-cold. He avoided looking at the photo next to the TV, the slab of tattooed arm draped around her shoulders (putting in his mind, suddenly, an image of a python placed on the tiny back of a giddy child at a wildlife park).

The flush crescendoed as Hannah reappeared and neatly laid a faded tea-towel over the patch they’d made. Perhaps it was the afterglow, but that small act alone warmed him to her more than he’d felt a minute ago when he was inside her. He felt guilt well up in him again and reached out to brush her thigh with the back of his hand; watched the little blonde hairs stand up as if reaching out to him against her will. She tossed a foil bag of chips down on the table, sat beside him and squeezed his knee a little brusquely in return.

She switched on the television and arched over a bong fashioned from an old juice bottle and a stump of garden hose, the bumps of her spine visible through apricot satin.

Liam took a fistful of crunchy salt and vinegar as a sweet, heady cloud billowed around them.

He’s back tomorrow, she said, whilst holding the smoke inside her. She offered him the bong which he habitually refused. She exhaled and coughed. Back from his latest business trip, wherever that was. Whatever he did. Liam was careful not to ask too many questions—denial was easier that way.

Better hang low then, hey? She nodded without looking up, the contents of the tannin-stained bottle again bubbling at her lips.

After a long while spent bathed in the blue glow of the TV, Hannah laid her head on Liam's lap and was soon breathing deeply in sleep. He realised he had no idea what they’d been watching; it started as an American forensics show, but changed to something with subtitles, it sounded French. He manoeuvred her head from his lap and onto the couch, where she automatically folded a bony arm, fragile as a bird’s wing, beneath her cheek—clipped, Liam thought.

He exited quietly and descended the single flight of stairs home, relieved to finally kick off his work shoes inside the front door. He had three missed calls on his phone.

He looked at the photo he’d attached to his mother’s contact in his phone. A photo of an old print he’d found and taken on one of his visits home in the past few years. It was the three of them, probably in the early nineties.

There he was, a scruffy, skinny kid with a bowl haircut, loose-fitting sluggos and dirt-stained knees. They were perched on a bench on the grass by the river. He could almost feel the peeling paint against the back of his bare thighs, the sting of salt and vinegar on sunburnt lips.

That was before his dad’s boat had washed in, empty and upturned on the beach.

4.

Heels dug into the sand, Liam twisted back and forth like a dance. But there was no music, just the rush of wind in their ears and the stinging whip of sand against their legs.

His foot hit something hard and sharp. A bark of laughter. Got one! He started digging frantically, falling to his knees, sand sprayed out behind him, he laughed as naturally as breathing.

Reaching into the wet sand he pulled out a smooth, purple-grey pipi shell, held in his open palm; the pale pink muscle retracted inside like a tongue, bubbling and fizzing. It clattered in the bucket fast filling up with them.

Good one mate. Keep digging. Plenty more where he came from.

Liam searched the shimmering shoreline for more tell-tale bubbles, a smile lingering at the edges of his lips like an echo.

5.

Good catch?

Had better. It was too quiet out there, mate. Nothing biting.

I can feel my hand engulfed in his bigger, rougher one, but it’s too bright to see anything. I’m looking up, squinting into whiteness, trying to catch glimpses of him.

Dad? Dad!

Then I’m running as fast as I can. Mum’s there too, I realise, but she can’t keep up. Her sobs fill the air like wind. I can hear my feet slapping the wet sand.

There’s his boat. Upside down on the sand. Like something ancient, something returned to nature long ago.

Liam jolted upright, pulse racing. He looked at his bedside clock, it was just past five in the morning. He realised he was soaked with sweat and decided to go for a swim before work.

He thought of Hannah asleep alone in the apartment above his as he descended the dark timber stair-well of the old Federation-era apartment block that had seemed romantic when he’d moved in a year before.

No, it wasn’t quite romance he’d found there, in any sense.

The apartment itself was damp and cold in winter, and home to an inextinguishable army of cockroaches, hell-bent on waging a war of attrition. He remembered once feeling a tickly itch on his chest in bed at night and slapping at it reflexively with an open palm. To his horror, he'd heard and felt a wet crunch and switched on the lamp to find a big black cockroach obliterated on him, blood the colour of red wine, spiky black legs tangled in his chest hairs. It had brought on a sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake for days.

And then there was Hannah, whatever that was. A kind of denial, on both of their parts.

Liam walked the streets past rows of jacarandas and fig trees to the nearest harbour beach—he loved swimming. Not only did it help his sanity before a day in the office, but it helped keep his dodgy knee in shape, and it was the best way to avoid that same fog that could occasionally settle over him, especially on nights alone. When his chest would constrict slightly, and everything around him would appear to move in slow motion, as if the air had thickened.

Down at the harbour, a Vietnamese bloke was already fishing off the beach next to the netted-off swimming area. A slick black cormorant ducked in and out of the water and an empty Coke bottle suspended on grey-speckled foam butted up against the shore.

Liam dived into the shallows and made his way out past the reeds to swim lengths, parallel to the shore. When he opened his eyes he couldn’t see as far as his hand stretched in front of him, but the cool, murky water felt good on his skin. He sucked in the humid salty air between strokes, opened his chest and lungs to it.

The sun inched higher in the east, setting the distant city skyline alight like a golden mirage.

Standing under the cold public shower, Liam watched the Vietnamese bloke’s rod flex as he reeled in a fish. Looked like a good-sized flathead. The fisherman extracted the hook and flopped the fish into a bucket unceremoniously, threaded another defrosted prawn.

Liam called his mother at home, eating cereal at the kitchen sink, watching a man inexplicably hose his driveway next door.

She answered with Liam, you called.

Sorry mum, I was out with a friend last night. What’s up?

Are you coming to visit soon?

He cringed. It had been a couple of summers since he’d made the drive home. His mum usually stayed with him at Christmas. She acted like it was a treat to see the big city, but she was overwhelmed by it all, and seeing her in his apartment was just as strange to Liam. He should have gone back, but couldn’t always bring himself to. He supposed it was time.

I could try and get some leave, after this project is up. Maybe come down for a long weekend.

I’d love to have you here. And also, it’s just—well, I guess I have some news. Some bad news.

The hiss of the hose switched off outside and caused a sudden silence, into which Liam said, What news?

Oh Liam, you’re old mum’s got cancer. Breast cancer. Just like my mum and my sister. I should have seen it coming.

Oh shit mum. No, Liam felt the stupid inadequacy of his words as his mind raced. That word, cancer, he saw it like