Page 24 of Serenity Falls

‘Buddy?’

‘Yeah. That’s it. Apparently, the hat was the first thing anyone spotted, floating on the water.’ Jules suddenly straightens and flushes. ‘Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about all this right now.’

‘No. I mean, it’s fine.’

She thinks about the leaflet still in her shorts pocket. Yellow T-shirt. Cowboy hat. Bright smile.

She clears her throat. ‘D’you remember the name of the kid that drowned?’

Jules scratches his head. ‘It was a long time ago. Maybe Danny—’ And then he catches himself: ‘No. Davey. That’s it. Davey Junior.’

Cash

When did I notice the accidents? Well, I guess it would have been the summer of 2011, just before I had my accident. That’s irony for you, right? Or is it? I never did understand that one. Guess now I never will.

I often think if I hadn’t noticed, if I hadn’t been thinking about them when Garth asked me to mark up the log and, the biggie, if I hadn’t spoken to Garth about it, then I’d still be delivering mail to this day.

Still, ‘Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve is about as much use as farting the alphabet.’ Something my dad used to say. Didn’t make much sense but used to make me laugh. Dad may have been a mean, drunken bastard, but sometimes he made me giggle so hard snot came out of my nose.

Where was I? Oh yeah. The accidents. Summer of 2011. It was a beautiful summer that year. Not as hot and muggy as some. Cool breezes. Blue skies and fluffy clouds most days. Perfect. But then, in Serenity Falls, I guess most days seemed perfect.

Bad things didn’t happen here. Sure, there was the odd mishap. Fender benders. A cat that got run over. Occasionally, a few teens drinking a few illicit beers. And yeah, the odd accident. Because accidents happen, right? You can put good people together and you can keep your neighbourhoods clean and crime-free, but you can’t protect people from fate. From those goddamn random events that are in the hands of God (if you believe in the big fella).

Take my neighbours, the Dawsons. Nice couple, lived about three or four doors up the street from me, until one day poor Mike Dawson was up a ladder fixing the Halloween lights, and I guess he can’t have grounded them properly, or a wire came loose or some sorts, but the poor man was electrocuted. That didn’t kill him, but the fall from the roof broke his damn neck. Freak accident, everyone said. And that stuck in my head. Freak accident.

Even then I wouldn’t have given it much thought if I hadn’t known the Dawsons. We weren’t next-door neighbours, but we’d stop and pass time if we met on the street, and they always waved when I rode past. I knew that Mr Dawson worked for the council and Mrs Dawson worked at an accountant’s. From delivering their mail, I could tell you who provided the Dawsons with their electricity, who insured their home and cars, where they banked. I could tell you they always paid their bills on time because I never saw a red letter, but then in Serenity you wouldn’t expect to. Only one place ever got those.

’Course, that’s not really knowing someone. Like I said, we all put on a face, a front. We do stuff to make ourselves look better to other people. We want to be liked, and we like to impress. Ask any man or woman who’s bought something they can’t afford because the snotty sales assistant looked at ’em like they were dirt.

One thing I did know was that the Dawsons were a very ‘proper’ couple. Everything about them was organized, neat and methodical. They didn’t have any kids and, both being in their fifties, weren’t likely to have any. They only had themselves and their house, and it was the nicest on our street. The garden was always beautifully kept, and the paintwork was always pristine. I’d often see Mr Dawson up a ladder doing some DIY. One day, I even remarked to Mrs Dawson that he should be careful up there, and she said: ‘Oh, don’t worry. “Careful” is Mike’s middle name.’

I’m a little ashamed to say that the first thing I thought when I heard about the accident was: Guess Mike should’ve changed his middle name.

I went to the funeral – most of the street did. When I saw Mrs Dawson arrive with the coffin, it looked like that woman had aged two decades in two weeks. She’d always been slender, but now the muscle had shrivelled on her bones. Her sandy-blonde hair was showing grey, and her face just drooped with grief.

I didn’t really want to speak to her. I’m not good with emotional stuff, but as my turn came to pay my respects, I cleared my throat and said: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

She gripped my hand. ‘Thank you, Cash.’

I nodded and tried to move my hand away, but she held on, real tight. And then she drew me towards her and whispered: ‘He was always careful, Cash. Always.’

I confess, after the funeral, I tried to put what Mrs Dawson said out of my mind. I didn’t see her around, but I guessed she was grieving, and some people need time alone. But a few weeks later I noticed that the blinds were still pulled, and her little red Toyota wasn’t parked on the drive like it usually was.

The real kicker came when I went to deliver the mail and I could see it was starting to stack up inside. That was when I decided to speak with Garth. He checked with the Conservators and came back and told me that Mrs Dawson had gone.

‘Gone where?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. She decided it was too hard to live in the house where she lost her husband, and she left.’

‘But I didn’t see a removals van or anything.’

‘Well, between us, I think she had some sort of breakdown. She won’t be coming back.’

And that was that. Except, it didn’t seem right. It didn’t fit. Mrs Dawson didn’t seem the sort of woman to do a moonlight flit. She was steady, conscientious and, even if she was grieving, I couldn’t see her just upping and leaving the house she and Mr Dawson had loved so much.

But what else could have happened to her? And why would the Conservators lie?

I’m not a big thinker. My dad was sure fond of telling me that – ‘You ain’t even got shit for brains, boy. Cos shit is more useful.’ But I love my job. It’s important to me. I take pride in being a good mailman. I like to make sure everyone gets the right mail right on time. And I care about my customers – the people I deliver to.