The rip, p.1
The Rip, page 1
PRAISE FOR HOLLY CRAIG
‘An exhilarating and accomplished action-packed thriller, The Shallows will have you gripped right from the start.’
—B. A. Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors
‘The Shallows is a gripping thriller about survival and the murky depths we can go to for wealth and prestige. Relentlessly fast-paced and packed full of tension, it’s the definition of a page-turner.’
—John Marrs, author of Keep It in the Family
‘A stunning thriller . . . Glamorous, tense, gripping and twisty . . . What a ride!’
—Shalini Boland, author of The Silent Bride
‘This one is fast, fun and twisty – A great read!’
—Sarah Bailey, author of the Detective Woodstock series
‘Immersive, compulsive storytelling . . . The Shallows will hook you and keep you reading long into the night.’
—G. R. Halliday, author of the Monica Kennedy series
‘Packed with twists and turns, this is a rollercoaster of a thriller that will leave you guessing – and your adrenaline spiked! I read it in a weekend.’
—Ali Lowe, author of The Trivia Night
‘The author we’ve all been waiting on . . . Her talent does NOT disappoint!’
—Paula Johnston, author of The Lies She Told
‘A dark and murky read that is ultimately filled with epic, strong women. Desperate Housewives meets Dead Calm.’
—Susi Holliday, author of The Hike
‘The Shallows is a brilliantly written observation into how well we know those closest to us, both physically and emotionally. Superbly rich in setting, fantastically tense in atmosphere. I flew through it.’
—L. V. Matthews, author of The Twins
‘A relentlessly gripping thriller with unguessable twists.’
—K. L. Slater, author of The Girlfriend
ALSO BY HOLLY CRAIG
The Shallows
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2024 by Holly Craig
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662508189
eISBN: 9781662508196
Cover design by Will Speed
Cover image: © Trevor Payne / Arcangel; © bmphotographer © Rocksweeper / Shutterstock
For Mum. Our sun-bleached island holidays have attached lifelong memories in the girls’ hearts and now a story in mine. Thanks for always listening, loving, laughing with me over rosé wine, over white sand, over balcony sunsets over Rottnest.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE – SATURDAY
Eloise, 7.40 p.m.
FRIDAY
Penny, 11.03 a.m.
Eloise, 2.02 p.m.
Penny, 2.03 p.m.
Eloise, 2.10 p.m.
Penny, 2.40 p.m.
Eloise, 2.45 p.m.
Eloise, 4.14 p.m.
Penny, 4.16 p.m.
Eloise, 4.30 p.m.
Penny, 5 p.m.
Penny, 5.31 p.m.
Eloise, 6.20 p.m.
Eloise, 6.45 p.m.
Penny, 7 p.m.
Eloise, 7.28 p.m.
Penny, 7.32 p.m.
Eloise, 7.33 p.m.
Penny, 7.58 p.m.
Eloise, 8.15 p.m.
Eloise, 8.20 p.m.
Penny, 10.15 p.m.
Eloise, 11.58 p.m.
SATURDAY
Penny, 6.17 a.m.
Eloise, 7.11 a.m.
Eloise, 8.01 a.m.
Penny, 8.45 a.m.
Eloise, 9.11 a.m.
Eloise, 2.45 p.m.
Penny, 3.03 p.m.
Eloise, 3.20 p.m.
Penny, 4.05 p.m.
Eloise, 4.05 p.m.
Penny, 6.45 p.m.
Penny, 7.05 p.m.
Penny, 7.10 p.m.
Eloise, 7.13 p.m.
Penny, 7.18 p.m.
Penny, 7.52 p.m.
Eloise, 7.55 p.m.
Penny, 8.05 p.m.
Eloise, 8.45 p.m.
Penny, 9.03 p.m.
Eloise, 9.13 p.m.
Eloise, 9.23 p.m.
Penny, 9.24 p.m.
Eloise, 10.27 p.m.
Penny, 10.27 p.m.
Eloise, 10.39 p.m.
Penny, 11.01 p.m.
Eloise, 11.01 p.m.
Penny, 11.20 p.m.
Eloise, 11.20 p.m.
Eloise, 11.44 p.m.
Eloise, 11.54 p.m.
Penny, 11.59 p.m.
SUNDAY
Penny, 12.08 a.m.
Eloise, 12.08 a.m.
Penny, 1.13 a.m.
Eloise, 2003
Penny, 1.20 a.m.
Eloise, 2003
Penny, 2006
Eloise, 1.20 a.m.
Penny, 1.37 a.m.
Eloise, 1.40 a.m.
Eloise, 1.50 a.m.
Penny, 2.31 a.m.
Eloise, 2.45 a.m.
Penny, 3 a.m.
Eloise, 3.10 a.m.
Eloise, 6.30 a.m.
Penny, 6.45 a.m.
Eloise, 7.15 a.m.
Penny, 9.38 a.m.
Eloise, 12.18 p.m.
Penny, 2006
Eloise, 3.13 p.m.
Penny, 6.36 p.m.
Eloise, 8.11 p.m.
Penny, 9.44 p.m.
MONDAY
Eloise, 12.33 a.m.
Penny, 1.43 a.m.
Eloise, 1.44 a.m.
Eloise, 2.29 a.m.
Eloise, 3.09 a.m.
Eloise, 3.31 a.m.
Eloise, 3.52 a.m.
Penny, 4.13 a.m.
Eloise, 10.42 a.m.
Penny, 10.50 a.m.
ONE YEAR LATER
Penny
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Follow the Author on Amazon
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wish to acknowledge the traditional custodians of Wadjemup, the Whadjuk people of the Noongar nation and their Elders past and present. I acknowledge and respect Wadjemup, meaning ‘the land across the sea where spirits are’, and I respect the Whadjuk people’s deep, personal and significant connection to this land and island.
As a frequent visitor to Wadjemup – Rottnest Island – I am aware that some of the facts, names and settings within this story are fictitious and have been altered or written to fit the narrative.
PROLOGUE – SATURDAY
Eloise, 7.40 p.m.
They say nothing bad ever happens on the island. Only twenty minutes by ferry from the mainland, this popular chunk of limestone, sand and reef has a way of transporting visitors back in time, reminding many of their idyllic childhoods spent here, burning all day in the sun with the freedom to roam until dusk. They say they’ve never seen a bad thing happen here. I say they’re wrong.
The balcony groans with too many adults, a trestle table overflowing with stale crisps, empty glasses, an opened bottle of rosé and a lone peanut slowly drowning in the hummus.
We’re all buzzing because it’s that kind of vibe. Holiday sunsets, endless villas strewn along the ocean crammed with loving families, comfortably drunk adults and frying seafood.
Someone inside starts singing Whitney Houston and a group of Penny’s friends are gathering like they do, shoulder to shoulder, blasting out the song, getting the words all wrong. I’d hate to clean this villa in the morning with a hangover.
I’m leaning over the railing, wondering how many more kilogrammes it would take before this balcony collapses beneath us all, into the sand. I don’t want to join the singing, or the conversation about boats and fuel prices. My vision is blurred, hazy, and for the first time since I arrived, I finally feel less paranoid. I’m warm, even in my slip dress and bare feet. Taking another sip of tepid wine, I then stop.
On the beach, under a mauve sky, some of our party have formed a teenage-type bonfire circle, with beers, towels and scattered snacks. They haven’t left their clique since the sun set thirty minutes ago. Their voices echo over the still water.
And Penny is there. With my husband, Scott.
She’s standing and storming off as though she’s annoyed with him. And he’s scrambling to his feet to chase her. Chase her. I can’t hear what she’s saying, because she’s whispering, and I can’t hear my husband either, but then someone bumps my shoulder. It’s Penny’s brother, Brett, and he doesn’t look good. He sways, holds in a burp, then speaks with beer breath, saying, ‘How many kids are supposed to be in the villa next door?’
‘Four,’ I tell him, turning back to the beach where Penny and my husband have disappeared, probably up the side steps. And someone on the beach laughs as a dinghy drones by. And Whitney Houston stops singing. And then Brett calls out to everyone around me, ‘The party has to stop.’ He’s been to check on the kids next door. Next door, where they watch movies with bleary eyes, high on sugar, the oldest looking after the youngest. It’s the safest island, they said. Nothing bad ever happens. And then Brett tells us one of
FRIDAY
Penny, 11.03 a.m.
There are dangers on Rottnest Island, but we don’t tell the kids that.
Our villa overlooks the bay with a balcony hanging over sharp spinifex grass that detaches in the sea breeze. Their needles are covered in the sand, ready to prick your bare soles. You have to pull them out and limp quickly away, especially in October when the dugite snakes start mating and hide shyly in the bushes.
Bluebottle jellyfish wash up on the shores, their pearly cobalt crowns able to pop then smother a toe with a stinging rash. Sharks have been spotted haunting the reef off the beach at Thomson Bay. Rays glide under dinghies, matching their girth. The meeting of currents, the swirling offshore rips, suck the unwary out to sea.
If the kids knew about this, knew about the dangers, they’d never leave us alone.
‘There’s nowhere else in the world you can leave your kids unsupervised,’ Mum and Dad used to say. This was code for, we can drink all the wine we want, neglect the kids and no one will bat an eyelid. It’s simply island tradition. Kids cycle off exploring and parents gift them five dollars to buy all the sugar they need to keep them quiet, entertained, while the parents grow louder, entertaining themselves.
Our villa is the most sought-after accommodation on the island. In the afternoons, the sun blasts half the balcony, so you can choose whether to toast your legs or cool them off in the shade. The balcony faces the ferry jetty. Every so often, the ferry arrives, disgorging hordes of noisy tourists and regular visitors who ride around the island like they own the place.
There’s a certain possessiveness that arouses visitors here. A sense of ownership over the island.
If you’ve spent your childhood here as the privileged offspring of ‘boaties’, then you’ve earned bragging rights over those who haven’t. They are less than you.
You see this superior attitude all the time. In the zigzagged riding around the island without a helmet. People bare-footed with a few stubbed toes. In the order of Pimm’s at the pub, the rebellious dragging of chairs on to the sand, away from the rest of the crowd.
Children of ‘boaties’ are entitled on this island, separate and proud to be. As adults, they stroll around the village with the newspaper stuck under their arm, knowing exactly which meat pie to buy, where to order the best coffee. You often hear them reminiscing about their days spent here as kids, when they’d cycle around the island until dusk. When they became too hungry to keep playing, craving a sausage in a floppy bun.
I guess you could say I’m one of them, the child of a ‘boatie’, knowing the island like the creases on my hand. I’ve got scars from falling off my bike and painted freckles from my childhood spent unprotected by sun cream. I’m comfortable with the stench of rotting salty seaweed and boat diesel, the wafting fat of hot chips and powdery seagull poo.
Our villa is the best because I wouldn’t have it any other way. If you book the ones behind us, then you may as well not come.
This prime spot allows me to gaze at the guys flinging their fishing lines from their boats and the sunbathers flipping like seals on the sand. I can predict the weather from here, identify when the wind is about to switch, chopping the sea into sharp waves. From the balcony vantage point I get to be in control over the island, the comings and goings of everyone.
Holidaying on the island comes with a sexual obligation, a silent contract most couples ignore. I don’t ignore it.
The salty air resembles sweat, while stiffened hair prickles against receptive skin. Everything feels bare and sun-kissed, heated and hot. It just makes me feel youthful again. Makes me want to fuck him. Kav. My husband on the beach with the awesome arms.
Other, regular couples can invent excuses to dismiss intimacy. The heat’s giving them a headache, they’ve exhausted their limbs from swimming, the bike-riding has chaffed their inner thighs. But not me. When I’m here, I’m thirsty for it.
Kav’s talking to my brother, Brett, and beside them – stuck in the sand – the champagne bottle has developed tears. Over here, too much wine gets sploshed around. Hot glasses are dotted with sand from kids’ kicking feet. Wine makes you boozy and light and free enough to rip your bikini top off and run into the waves, frothing and foaming around your nipples.
I dive under the relaxed wave, a wave that’s too lazy to develop into anything forceful and rumbling. It collects my hair up into its current and I kick like a frog under the turquoise water, opening my eyes, and surface laughing. Even the water is on holiday here.
‘Come in,’ I call to Kav, falling back into the water’s embrace. The men keep talking. Brett’s sipping on Moët with the cheese platter beside him as my son, Edmund, builds sandcastles. And Kav’s been mentioning how he wants to go surfing before the others arrive. But this is my first swim and I want to feel it. The foam feels like Kav’s flicking tongue.
The sun’s out and high, whitening the beach, and we’ve only just begun. This is the way all beach holidays begin. Happy, laughing, cheese, Moët, tanning skin.
Paradise island.
Eloise, 2.02 p.m.
She owns the island. That’s why she chose this place. With her long salty hair under a hat, Penny can weave in and out and around and over the hills, people, trees and bays like only she has the right to be here.
But that’s not the reason I didn’t want to come. We’ve only visited the island once before, when Penny and Kav weren’t here, so for a slice of time we could pretend the island was ours. And only because Scott, my husband, begged me. I remember relaxing at the beach bar, ordering cocktails and hot chips, and beer for Scott, with our legs propped on the low wall and our eyes on the cool bay. We were silent while Levi played on the sand for hours, dipping in and out of the sea and dripping water over the plate of pizza.
But I could never relax, not fully. The whole trip, I found myself squinting over my shoulder, checking faces, feeling triggered by the memories of this place. And then I never wanted to come back again. If I couldn’t relax then, how will I relax now?
This is the city’s island, the holiday island every family boasts about visiting. Why can’t we go back? This is what Scott used to ask me. I just hate the island, I’d say.
Scott wonders why and I can never tell him. So, I lie instead and say I hate islands, being trapped and isolated away from hospitals and police stations and shopping centres. And he says nothing bad ever happens here, but he doesn’t remember what I remember.
Now, we’re in a queue, about to disembark the ferry. And as for all queues, time stops when I seriously need to pee. Nerves have this effect on me. Thank God I didn’t get seasick on the way over, but my bladder is pressing against my toddler, Coco’s, knee.
‘We should get the bikes first,’ I tell Scott as he collects Coco on his back with one arm. Like a pro. He doesn’t speak to me, so I do what I normally do when I’m feeling rejected, pull out my phone. Get ready to take pictures of the milky water. If I focus on my photos and Instagram account, I’ll focus less on faces, people noticing me.
Also, I’m going to try and think positively, use this setting and holiday to reconnect with Scott. I’m staring at the back of his hat while Levi bumps into me, gazing down at his phone. My son’s neck is unusually lumped at the back with poor posture. It’s a problem I have to keep reminding him about. ‘You’re only eleven now but come fifty and you’ll be the Hunchback of Notre Dame.’
The water is cloudy, like the inside of an oyster shell. Trust Penny to get the good weather for the weekend. I don’t know why I hoped it’d be shitty weather today, rain or even wind. Not to spoil things for Kav, just to spoil the atmosphere for Penny. She gets everything the way she wants it – the villa, the dates everyone can make, the pale sea. How she even scored The Bay Restaurant and Grill during wedding season is beyond me.
Behind me, a smelly English woman is perspiring heavily, her muggy breath dampening my shoulder blades. She’s almost treading on my sandals. I step closer to Scott, finding myself wrapping my arm around his waist. A deep yearning to be held like he’s holding Coco has me leaning my forehead into his spine. But I feel his stomach muscles tense, so I step back.
If anything, I’m trying to be upbeat and pretend this holiday will do us both good. We need a break and this is a forced one. But Scott pulls away, readjusting Coco on his hip and gifting her blonde curls a quick kiss.
