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The Water Underneath by Kate Lyons

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By Kate Lyons

A distinct mixture of literary street motion picture and homicide secret. 'They dragged her out of the lake at sunrise. No jaw, one eye socket like a few unusual fish. The water was once ultimate and shutting, the centre clean because the tissue of a scar. Then, in a spot one thousand miles from the sea, they discovered whatever which would were a seashell yet which they knew used to be now not. The lake gave delivery regretfully, washing her up in sluggish burps.' a tender lady and her child pass lacking in an remoted Australian mining city. twenty years later human bones wash up within the neighborhood lake. the one clue is guy using a truck donning a hat did it, in a city the place each guy wears anything on his head. 20 years later, Ruth returns to where the place she used to be born and the place her mom used to be ostracised. Over that point an unexplored territory of to blame secrets and techniques centres on one guy, Uncle Frank, whose silence has safe him yet has additionally inflicted inconsolable wounds. The Water beneath, informed in the course of the eyes of 3 ladies, separated by way of time, dermis color and allegiance, yet united via their love of Frank, is set a few of the conflicts which divide Australians, some time past and to this present day.

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Men like Frank had precise creases in their trousers and a checked shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. When they reached into a pocket for a balled-up handkerchief, they could make rude sounds with it which were somehow allowed. Men like Frank had grizzled noses with large nostrils, sometimes with white hair sprouting out. They had a particular smell, a mixture of tobacco and flannelette and Sunlight soap threaded with something salt and dark. What Von would later recognise as the smell of sex dampened.

He handed over an envelope on which Von recognised the familiar spiky writing from those letters which came every second week. ’ Von decided Mavis’s love must be like the love of God, because it made the Mother go thinner and grimmer and stand up straighter, like she did when it was time to go to Mass. The Mother scrabbled in her smooth black handbag, yellow nails brittle against the clasp. ‘Evonne. Go and fetch the milk. And be quick about it. ’ The Mother’s skin on Von’s palm felt rare, like rice paper and dead people.

He looked like a sick sapling, Mavis thought, like you could just snap him over one knee. Trevor’s hair was fine as Lily’s and standing up like a toilet brush, matted in a sleepy baby clump. But Lil’s was a different colour. Lil’s was pitch-black, not dirty blonde like Trevor’s, not brown-black like Ruthie’s, not even redblack like Von’s. It was that blue-black you saw on some Marconis straight off the boat. The dark colouring was something Mavis could guess at, an old pebble surfacing; in fact she knew more about that particular thing than Trevor and Von combined.

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