Black Water by David Metzenthen

pleased to be giving it to Isla although it weighed him down. Now, as well as the stories of the birds, it held the story of the last day of his old life, the last day when he had felt safe in the world. He hoped that she wouldn’t detect it was such a big heavy thing, and only see the pictures and the writing.
    He stopped at the door, the heat pressing outwards, the smell of smoke smoothed by steam. Isla sat at the glassless window looking out at the estuary, her stick in the copper with the boiling sheets as if she was a neglectful witch bored with her brew. Farren wondered how the world might seem to her.
    How different would it be, he thought, when you couldn’t hear? Would it be like watching a play? Or being in a country where all the people spoke some special silent language? And wouldn’t you always be worried that someone might be about to grab you from behind? Or be calling you, but you couldn’t hear?
    Farren wondered if Isla could hear, like, really loud sounds. Perhaps thunder or a cannon? Or inside sounds, like her ownbreathing, or her heart. Or the voice that told you your thoughts.
    Watching her, Farren decided that perhaps he and Isla saw the world in a similar way; that, like now, they looked at the same things out of the same window, alone. Well, they were more alone and more the same than other people, anyway. He went in, truly glad that he had bought the book, because it was a good idea to give Isla something. And although it was not the same book it had been, it was still the book that he’d bought for her.
    Isla began to cry and Farren didn’t know what to do. The heat of the wash-house rose like flooding water. He began to sweat.
    ‘It’s orright.’ He came up with a smile that he hoped might persuade her that everything was fine. It was only a book, not much of a present really. It didn’t cost much. It wasn’t even wrapped in proper paper. Hesitantly he touched Isla’s wrist, her sleeve dark and damp. ‘Don’t worry, Isla. Don’t cry.’ He hoped that she would understand. ‘It’s only a book.’
    Isla’s eyes, brimming silver-blue and bright, sparkled.
    ‘Fah- renn .’ She sniffed loudly, smiled sharply, and pressed the book to her front. ‘ Than’ you.’ She hugged the book as if it was a baby.
    Relief rose in Farren like the steam from the boiling copper.
    ‘They’d be down there, too.’ He pointed towards the glassless window. ‘Some of them birds in the pictures. Not all of ’em, but some of ’em. Some’d be down there.’
    Isla opened the book and tapped at an illustration in a general kind of a way. It was a tall white wading bird, Farren saw. Probably a heron, he reckoned.
    ‘I see some.’ Isla smiled, Farren seeing the tip of her tonguetucked up behind her front teeth. She touched Farren’s hand as she’d touched the illustration. ‘On na wa-tah.’
    Farren laughed, as happy as she was, because sometimes he felt she might be quite unhappy – which was why, probably, that he’d wanted to give her a present in the first place. It wasn’t because he was in love with her. He liked her. And maybe he did love her, but he didn’t mind that she was keen on old Derri, because she was a lot older – and apart from everything, he just wanted her to be happy.
    Isla stepped forward, kissing him so quickly on the lips he couldn’t have avoided her, even if he’d wanted to.
    ‘ Than ’ you.’ She patted the book. ‘ Vair much.’
    Behind them Farren heard the clatter of a tin bucket hitting concrete. He turned, catching sight of Charlotte ducking away, the contents of the bucket on the path like a puddle of vomit. Dread plummeted as embarrassment soared.
    ‘Bloody Charlotte.’ Farren felt his face flush. ‘I bet she got the wrong idea. She always does.’ He doubted Isla understood, but he figured that didn’t matter half as much as making sure that Charlotte did. ‘I’d better go sort it out.’

SEVENTEEN
    Farren didn’t have to see Brig Briggingham to