She leans over to scratch at the peeling lettering on the side of the houseboat. Kirralee.
She wanted to rename her, but Pop said there were at least five other boats he knew called Kirralee and that was a good thing. Keep it simple, hide in plain sight, and all that.
She would've named her Aria if things weren't the way they are.
As houseboats go, this one is no beauty: a single cabin with a double bed, kitchenette, and couch, some cupboards for storage, and a toilet cubicle. Utilitarian. She floats. The deck is rotting in places, and a section of railing broke away last week, but it has near-new pontoons, and the engine runs like a dream.
The railing needs to be fixed. Noncompliance can draw attention from the water police, particularly during the last days of summer, when the townies are out and about in their speedboats and on their Jet Skis, stirring up mud. In a couple of days, there'll be fewer patrols— she'll be able to relax her vigilance.
Smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, her palm cupped over the glowing tip, Sabine waits until the sun slips away. She doesn't smoke often, and the tobacco is stale, fizzing like a sparkler. Sometimes she has to travel well after sunset to find the right place to moor, which
can be risky. Tonight her timing was just right.
Blue dozes, head nodding, slit -eyed.
Pop's property isn't as secluded as it used to be. His triangle of land, five or so acres with a hundred yards of frontage, has been squeezed by development on either side: two-and three- story mansions, sloping lawns, towering lights that send fragmented beams across the water. Pop's riverfront is a black expanse in the center. No glimpse of the green weatherboard shack from here, apart from the aerial on the roof. He has let the blackberry grow wild to form a wicked hedge, like something from a fairy tale.
Pop likes to point his rifle at the kids who sneak through the fence to pick berries. Wouldn't shoot nobody, he says. The rifle is never loaded. He just gets a kick out of taking aim. Little bastards deserve it— they can read the signs. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. GUARD DOGS ON PREMISES. NO VISITORS. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. GO AHEAD, MAKE MY DAY.
Sabine smiles grimly, worried this might be the time she turns up to find he's incarcerated, or dead in his chair. Three, maybe four times a year she checks in. Although there have been fewer raids over the years, the risk of surveillance is ever present.
The light turns deep blue and quiet falls. There's always a brief hush at this hour, changeover, when the daytime creatures clock off and the nocturnal animals start creeping about. She spots movement— a feral deer drinking at the river's edge— and claps her hands to scare it away before Blue takes off on a chase.
She checks the horizon. Dark enough now.
In the cabin she stuffs a bag with toiletries and a change of clothes; it'll be a luxury to take a bath. She locks the door behind her and disembarks to tie off. Blue hits the bank without getting his paws wet, but Sabine misjudges— her feet sink into the grainy sand and her shoes suck in water.
"Fuck it," she says under her breath.
"Mind your mouth and stay where you are."
Sabine's heart misses a beat before settling. "You gonna shoot at me too, you old bastard? I thought you were deaf."
"Can read your lips all right," Pop mutters, emerging from the murk. "Watch where you step— tiger snake's claimed that spot."
Sabine pulls her foot from the sand with a squelch. "He'll be curled up asleep, probably."
"The devil don't sleep," Pop says. He flicks on a flashlight and plays the beam over the bank to check. Just as quickly, he turns it off. "Come on then."
Blue waits. When Sabine clicks her fingers, he follows at her heels. Pop leads the way. After seventy years on the same patch, he finds the path easily, even in the dark. The shack is on Crown land, and his is a life- tenure lease, but at seventy-two his life is running out. No Kelly in recent memory has lived past seventy-five. Sabine knows that's the thing bugging him lately: he's got nothing to leave her, apart from meager belongings and an ugly boat, and even if he did own the land, she wouldn't be able to claim it.
"Can't croak. Those vultures are waiting," he said once, narrowing his eyes at her. "Can't die peaceful-like until you get your shit together."
For Pop, getting her shit together would mean to properly disappear— obliterate her name, find a real man to take care of her, never come back here again. To Sabine, it means something else entirely. She has managed just fine for twelve years. Why stick your head up when you have everything you need in the hole? For now, she's just happy Pop's mean old heart is still beating.
