Shutterspeed by A. J. Betts Page A

her. Here, all roads lead to the river. He hears her going uphill into Turton Street and he pursues her, lured by the sound.
    Harvest Road leads him to a dead end, and to Terri Pavish.
    At the bottom of the cul-de-sac he steps off his bike. He smells the sharpness of fuel and notices the yellow Ducati, half-hidden against the limestone cliff face. Beyond the thick jumble of tea-trees is a clearing to the Swan River.
    He catches only a flash of white skin as her body slips from the rocks and into the water without a splash. She surfaces metres away, hair flattened against her head.
    This swimming spot — loud with the splashing of families during summer holidays — is calm right now. The river is wide here and dark, all the way across to the rows of house lights along the southern shore of East Fremantle. Terri Pavish is alone in it, floating on her back, looking up at the heavy cloudiness of sky. She’s out at a distance and he wonders what she’s thinking. He wants to see the look on her face, to know. That’s when he feels the camera at the bottom of his bag dig into his back.
    And so he watches her, close up. And when he takes the first photo, he rests the camera on his knee so he can get a four-second shutter speed with no flash. He doesn’t know how it’ll turn out, but it feels like it could be right. Taking another shot, he remembers other things Mrs Blackler has told him:
Some moments are too important to let slide. Some
people deserve to be remembered.
The frame counter rolls on.
    Leaning against a tree at the base of the cliff, he watches as Terri Pavish’s face floats on liquid darkness. He’s reminded of the way faces materialise in a darkroom — features drifting up from the black, materialising into something real. He watches her float, and he sinks into the earth, grounded and immobile.
    When she eventually turns and breaststrokes for shore, he takes his cue to leave. He moves slowly along the cliff, through the enclosure of tea-trees, and back out into Harvest Road. Zipping the camera into his backpack, he mounts his bike. But he gets only halfway up the road before he hears the sound of the Ducati engine, struggling. It’s trying to kick over, but falters. It tries again, and dies. Then nothing.
    He waits in the gutter, the options ticking in his head.
    Should he? Shouldn’t he?
    Should he rescue her?
    Does he have a choice?
    He lets his brake off, turns the Avanti 180 degrees, and lets the pull of gravity lead him back down to the cul-de-sac. Once more he leans his mountain bike beside the cliff, where he hears her swearing.
    â€˜Come on, you fucker.’
    He could fix it, he thinks.
    It’d be wrong to leave her stranded here, with a borrowed bike and ten minutes to closing time. She’d have to explain where she’d been, and how could she justify this to a motorbike salesman?
    â€˜Don’t do this to me now!’
    But that would mean speaking to her. Could he?
    â€˜Come on!’
    His pulse races as he treads the leafy track to where she is, deeper in the enclosure this time. It’s too dark to see her face clearly, but he can tell that her hair’s wet and slick with river water. Her clothes are damp.
    Should he?
    He must.
    â€˜Hi,’ he says.
    She freezes.
    He’s thankful for the anonymity of night. He’s grateful to be standing so close to her, uncluttered by daylight and the crap that goes with it. Night is for instinct.
    â€˜Who is it?’
    â€˜I can help you.’
    â€˜Help what?’ She sounds defensive, afraid.
    â€˜It sounds like the starter motor … I can fix it.’
    â€˜Were you watching me?’ She can feel her dark eyes upon him.
    â€˜I live there,’ he motions, ‘in the first house on the corner. I heard the engine and thought it might be kids.’
    And with that, she sighs and gives in. ‘It’s broken.’
    â€˜I can help.’ He crouches beside the 750 and