Cover

TANK WATER

‘An absolute page-turner.’

Rosalie Ham, bestselling author of The Dressmaker

‘The parochial under-belly of rural Australia is laid bare in this raw and powerful story that delves into the emotional toll and tragic consequences of gay-hate crime.’

Nicole Alexander, bestselling author of The Cedar Tree

‘Clear-eyed and suspenseful, Tank Water exposes more than one taboo of Australian life away from the big cities. An unforgettable ride.’

Nigel Featherstone, author of Bodies of Men

‘Written in a matter-of-fact way, Mike’s confrontational first novel made me think about life, death and sexuality in the country, because Burge has the rural lineage to make it real.’

Margo Kingston, author and journalist

‘It’s time to move beyond a city perspective on rural gay Australians – so often imbued with pity, condescension and silly stereotypes – to hear our own voices on our own terms. Michael Burge is one of our most compelling, nuanced and enjoyable voices.’

Rodney Croome AM, LGBTIQ equality advocate

‘The writing had me there; right inside the story. Tank Water is such a poignant insight into the dynamics of an extended rural family with all the secrets, contradictions and prejudices that family members inevitably confront.’

Mary Moody, author and broadcaster

Title Page

Dedication

For Pat Burge

Prologue 2005

PROLOGUE
2005

Daniel listened to his son’s idiotic answering machine for the fourth or fifth time, waited for the beep, cleared his throat and went to say everything; but when the right words still wouldn’t come, he threw the receiver down and went for another drink.

Bottles rattled in the fridge door as he yanked it open. He twisted the top off one and threw his head back for the first gulp. From that angle the leftover sausages on the top shelf looked like his best option for tea, but their yellowed skin reminded him of his nephew’s bloated body inside the freezer at the police station.

Even after shutting his fridge the smell was there. It’d been hanging around for days, like there was mortuary fluid on his shoes. Whenever he noticed that sickly blend of chemicals, Daniel couldn’t help but picture the photographs of Tony’s remains before they’d removed him from the river below the Kippen Bridge.

He turned to the sink and washed his hands again, but the mossy scent coming down the pipes from the tank didn’t help. What water did to a corpse — filling it with more death than it seemed to have room for — was the very worst thing he’d seen in twenty-five years of police work. The head, shoulders and most of the torso had been submerged, swelling the guts. The legs were broken and lying at awkward angles, entirely concealed by reeds and the thicket of poplars.