After the Ferry

by C. A. Larmer

  Phil walked around it and inspected every angle, and Tom was about to talk him through the woodwork, explain what he was intending, when Phil leaned closer to the object, his back to his dad.

  “Why did she leave, do you think?”

  Tom’s throat felt like he’d drunk burnt coffee. He swallowed hard. “I don’t know, mate.” He wasn’t talking about Amy now. “But Harry and I got through it and you will too. We survived, and you know what? We came out better, stronger.”

  Phil turned around, his eyes glinting with anger. “How can Mum’s leaving make me stronger? That’s bullshit!”

  The language caught Tom off guard, but he ignored it; it wasn’t the time. Instead, he softened his tone and said, “It teaches you about love, matey, about what’s right and wrong and”—he couldn’t believe he was saying these words—“about fate and destiny. It teaches you that you can survive anything and maybe there’s someone better out there anyway, someone you can trust.”

  “Someone better than Mum?” Again, Phil’s eyes were fiery, and Tom noticed his hands were small fists by his side.

  “I’m not trying to put shit on your mum, mate. I know she’s your mother and you’ll love her your whole life, just like I do.”

  “Hang on. So now you’re saying I’m never going to see her again? My whole life?”

  Tom sighed. Jesus, he was botching this up. “I’m not saying that either, mate. I hope she comes back.” He sighed again. Why give the kid false hope? It had never helped him. “I’m just saying we love her, no matter what happens with your mum, whether she comes back tomorrow or she doesn’t—and we don’t know yet what’s going to happen, right? What we do know—what I know for sure—is that one day you’ll find another great love, like I did, and then you’ll be able to move on. It’ll all be okay.”

  “You found Mum,” Phil said, and he nodded, smiling.

  “Exactly!”

  Phil gave his dad a withering glance. “But look how that turned out.”

  Then he marched across the shed and slammed the door behind him.

  Later that night after Tom had returned inside to find Phil fast asleep, his features now soft, like he wasn’t thinking of his mum, he exhaled sadly and began to wander the house, trying to see it as a stranger might, as the police would tomorrow, but nothing stood out. Nothing gave any indication where Amy might be.

  It seemed strange that Phil had already accepted her disappearance as a fait accompli, and he wondered what else Harry had told him and whether he thought he was helping. Tom knew it took them both many years to get over their own mother’s desertion, and he wasn’t lying to his son when he told him you never really got over it, but you somehow learned to live with it. Wasn’t lying either when he said that meeting someone else—someone like Amy—was the key.

  Amy had brought the light back into his life, the love, the way forward. But Phil was right. Now she was gone. Was the light gone too?

  He glanced at the clock. He knew it was late, but he owed her parents another phone call, so he strode back to the bedroom, across to Amy’s side, and reached for the old address book she kept in a drawer in the bedside table. He flipped until he found his way to M for Malone, then reached for his mobile phone and began tapping Amy’s parents’ number in, noticing a name from the past scribbled in at the bottom of the page that he hadn’t noticed before.

  Monty.

  An old friend of Amy’s and as much her foe. He wondered about Monty Brennan for a moment as he waited for the line to pick up.

  “Hello, this is the Malone residence, Beryl speaking.” Her tone was shrill, echoing the late hour.

  “Beryl, hi, it’s Tom.”

  There was a moment of hesitation—perhaps she had forgotten who Tom was (he rarely phoned her house) or perhaps she was delaying the inevitable—but then she asked about her daughter and he explained that she was still missing and it all turned to crap after that. Beryl’s tone switched from high-pitched polite to rattled anger. She railed at him for many minutes, Ron following soon after, and he just held the phone to his ear and heard them out.

  Back in the early days he’d been their favourite person, the one who’d saved their daughter’s dignity, but they seemed to have forgotten all that. Now they wanted to blame him for stuff they should be blaming Amy for. He guessed it was easier to turn the torch on someone you don’t really love.

  After twenty minutes he managed to settle them down, to assure them he would find her, to hang up. Then he sat on Amy’s side of the bed for many minutes, trying to gather himself, to dam the tears that were starting to flow. He hated crying. Loathed it in fact. And he hated Amy in that moment for reducing him to this.

  Eventually, slowly, the tears dried up and he looked around. Then he stood up and went in search of the laptop. He wasn’t delusional about the holiday. He knew Amy was heading somewhere; he just couldn’t work out where. There had to be an email about it, an e-ticket, a search history, something…

  As Tom tapped and opened and clicked and swiped, he felt a growing sense of frustration. Why didn’t everybody understand he was the victim here, not Amy?

  She wanted to leave this family; he knew that clear as day. She wanted to walk out on her husband and son and smash everything that was good and dear.

  Tom knew it. Phil clearly knew it too. Now he just had to find the proof.

  SARISI

  The taverna was busier than expected, buzzing with longtime locals enjoying a quiet dinner before the foreigners showed up and acted, as they always did, like they owned the place, and Nicholas barely had time to blink, let alone curse the missing manager who he was sure had got her Athens weeks mixed up.

  He served the guys who ran the paddleboat business and the family who would soon be opening their hat shop, and Joe-Joe the short fat Greek who owned the town’s equivalent of a 7-Eleven, his voluptuous wife Catalina sitting across from him, watching Nico closely.

  Luckily, the supplies weren’t as low as Effie had said (more proof she had got her dates wrong!), and Nico didn’t have to do any runs to Joe-Joe’s on behalf of Pete, the Delfy’s longtime chef. A cheerful sixty-something South African with a passion for food, and craters where the skin cancer had eaten his face, Pete once spent his summers in Greece and his winters in the Swiss Alps, but at some point, despite the skin cancer, the sun won out and he settled on Sarisi, taking up as Effie’s head cook and occasional lover.

  At least that’s what the gossips said, but Nico didn’t want to hear it, kept his ears closed. And he wondered now how much they all knew about him and Catalina and why she kept staring at him like he was on the menu.

  Was she trying to get caught?

  He shuddered at the thought. Not because he was worried about Joe-Joe so much. The guy was the size of a brick shithouse, would topple over at the first left hook, but his shop was like a lifeline on this island, and Nico did not want to have to avoid the place. Perhaps it was time to avoid Catalina instead. Perhaps he should have avoided her from the start. The affair was all his fault, he knew that. But the loneliness had caught up with him after Theo had left to start middle school on the mainland, and he was getting a little long in the tooth for stray backpackers these days.

  His eyes slid to the esplanade where one such backpacker was walking, although the Aussie woman was as far from a backpacker as he was from what he’d call a decent bloke. Millie was holding what looked like souvlaki and picking at it with dainty fingers and a stern expression, a green bag hanging from the crook of one elbow, no doubt full of supplies from Joe-Joe’s.

  “You right for a bit?” he asked Pauly, the town’s teenage postie who also waited tables at night.

  Pauly swore something in Greek as he raced from the kitchen, hands laden with hot dishes, so he took that as a yes and stepped out onto the road.

  “Hey!” he called out and had to call out again before she stopped and looked around.

  “Oh, hi,” Millie called back.

  “Did you manage to catch Ef
fie before she left?”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Across to the mainland.”

  Millie seemed startled by that, then deflated.

  “Sorry, I did tell her you were looking for her. She didn’t seem to know you so…”

  She smiled. It was a ghost of a smile. “No, I guess she doesn’t.” She stepped closer. “Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “She’s usually over there for a few days, stocking up on supplies. I’m Nicholas, by the way. Everyone calls me Nico.”

  He held out his hand, and she switched the lamb stick to her left hand and wiped her right quickly before shaking his. “You sound Australian.”

  “Guilty as charged, but I have lots of family around these parts, all through the Cyclades and on Athens too.”

  “Lucky you,” she said, and he smiled.

  He’d never thought of himself as lucky. “So, I hear you’re trying to find some old convent.” He didn’t ask her why; he felt gossipy enough as it was.

  “Oh, I found the convent. It’s the nuns that have gone missing. I’m trying to find a woman called Sister Agnetha. You don’t happen to know anything about her?”

  He shook his head and saw her lips droop, watched as she leaned down to retrieve the bag she’d dropped at her feet, looking as though she were about to walk away.

  “But I know someone who might.”

  She looked up.

  “You should speak to Zoe, on Mikro. She knows everyone and everything. Nothing gets past Zoe.”

  “Mikro?”

  “It’s the tiny island just off the coast, on the other side of Coso Point. You can walk across in low tide but better to go by boat. I can ask some lads inside if you like. Maybe one of them can take you across in the morning. Doesn’t take long.”

  She nodded, reaching for her things again. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” She stopped, turned back to him. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

  He blinked. “Sorry. I wasn’t aware I was.”

  ***

  From the courtyard a man was watching their conversation and frowning. There was something familiar about the woman Nico was yakking with, something about her face that made him stop and look twice.

  She had dark hair, long and wavy, but she didn’t seem Greek. Definitely foreign but oddly familiar…

  That’s when it hit him like a runaway ferry. He had a sudden flashback—to a dark night, a wet beach, a body bloody and battered. Then he remembered the screams and accusations, the pitchforks and police.

  He grappled for his wallet, flung some Euro on the table, and slipped quietly out.

  EVE

  Monty had forgotten how diminutive Lizzie was. How petite and almost pretty! And she tried to keep that in mind as she loomed over Gerry’s PA and begged to see the publisher.

  For her part, Lizzie looked up at Monty like she was a flea on a rat. No, worse than that. What was the line? An amoeba on a flea on a rat.

  “You’re five minutes late. Gerry’s completely booked out again. I told you yesterday that you needed to be here on time.”

  Monty grimaced. It was just after midday on Thursday, but she’d been ready for this meeting for hours. She’d arrived early, in fact—a quick glance at Amelia’s office, another plunging heart—but then she got busy designing the final spreads and then sidetracked adjudicating a row between Alex and the fashion editor. Fleur was insisting that Amelia would adore the swimsuit shot she’d chosen for the style section’s opening spread even though, as Alex pointed out, you could barely see a bikini thanks to the bright flash of light making everything look dark and hazy.

  “That’s the look Andres was going for,” Fleur had replied.

  “What? Crap and out of focus?”

  “It’s art, Monty! And Amelia loves that look. She also loves Andres and she’d want that as the opening shot.”

  “Do I look like Amelia to you?”

  As Fleur’s scowling eyes swept across the deputy’s frizzy hair and down her ill-fitting suit, Monty had to jump in lest she said something she’d later regret and was now trying to explain all this to Lizzie who wasn’t scowling so much as looking completely disinterested.

  “We’ll reschedule,” Lizzie announced. She turned to her desk diary and began gliding one finger downwards. “Now, let me see…”

  She flipped the page over, then back again, and eventually stopped at an empty line towards the lower half of the page. She tapped it several times.

  “I can pop you in this afternoon. Teeny window before Gerry has his conference call with London but only if you get here by 5:50. On the dot.” She selected a pencil from a cup in front of her and looked up at Monty. “And I’m going to need a few more details. What exactly is this regarding?” She arched an eyebrow. “I’m guessing the prodigal editor has not returned?”

  “No, and that’s why I need to speak to Gerry. I think he might hold the key, and he may not realise it.” She was still fixated on that 2:00 p.m. meeting, but she wasn’t about to tell Lizzie that. “I promise, it’ll be a quick chat.”

  “Dear.” Lizzie tilted her face and eyeballed Monty above her spectacles. “Gerry doesn’t have time for chats.” She dropped the pencil back into the cup. “If he had any idea where Amelia was, he’d be shouting it from the rooftop. Her absence may have lost us the Revlon account, and if she doesn’t front up to that Global Solutions soiree this evening, we can kiss another $50,000 account goodbye.” Her phone began to ring. “Get in touch when you hear from Amelia,” she said, reaching for it. “Gerry Henderson’s office, Lizzie Soda speaking.”

  Then she offered Monty a stiff smile and glanced away.

  Monty knew a defeat when she saw one and tried very hard not to curse aloud as she headed for the exit. Poor Amelia, she thought now, having to smash through that Berlin wall every time she wanted a quick chat with Gerry. If Alex thought Fleur was hard work, perhaps she should go a few rounds with Lizzie.

  Out in the corridor, she headed for the elevators where she was quickly joined by the rake-thin editor of the country’s leading design magazine, House & Feather.

  “Monty darling, you look fabulous as always,” Willow said, jabbing at the Down button even though it was alight. “Been in to see his royal highness have we?”

  She nodded, feeling weary suddenly.

  “I’ve been wrestling with the blasted advertising director who seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to mess with my cover. Honestly, that’s a surefire way to lose sales!” As she spoke she pulled at the ends of her glossy black bob and patted her thick fringe down, and Monty realised she was checking out her reflection in the closed elevator doors. “Would you buy an interiors magazine with flat-pack furniture on the front?”

  She pretended to shudder, then turned to face Monty. “Are you worried about your missing editor or the move across? If it’s the latter, please don’t be, sweetie. We’re all very excited to have you aboard.”

  Monty looked back at her. “Sorry?”

  “At House.”

  When Monty continued to stare at her blankly, Willow’s meticulously sculpted eyebrows crinkled together. “Gerry did just tell you, didn’t he?”

  “Couldn’t get past his itty-bitty bouncer.”

  “Oh, I see!” Willow bit her lower lip. “Oh blast it! I didn’t just put my foot in it again did I? My team say I’m famous for it. Absolutely hopeless!”

  “What’s going on, Willow?”

  She sighed. Lowered her voice. “Sorry darling, I assumed you knew. Hell, I assumed this is what you wanted.”

  Monty’s eyes narrowed. “Still not making any sense.”

  Another dramatic sigh. “Darling, you’re our new art director! I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. Or Amelia even more so! You’re moving across. Next month.”

  “I am?”

  “I hope so! I thought you must have asked for this. It’s a massive promotion. Your wings are totally clipped at Eve; everybody knows that. We’re getting you out of
Amelia’s shadow and helping you soar! Speaking of Amelia, where is she, darling? The whole place is abuzz with gossip! I’m thinking, some fabulous promotion overseas, but I’m afraid to say, most of my staff have their money on rehab.”

  “Rehab? What! No, look, sorry, can we back up a bit, Willow? I know nothing about any move to House.”

  “Oh dear, how very awkward.”

  The elevator pinged and the doors swept open. Seeing her escape, Willow all but leapt in.

  “Go back and speak to Gerry, darling. I’m sure it’ll all make perfect sense!”

  And then she stabbed at the Close button and was swiftly swept away, her look of relief not lost on Monty, whose stunned expression was now being reflected back at her.

  She swivelled around and charged back to Gerry’s office.

  TOM

  He knew they were coming, had expected their knock, but it still sounded like gunfire at dawn. Tom raced to the door before Phil could get to it, and let the officers in, his expression blank but his thoughts bitter, not helped by too many long necks last night.

  Geoff had rustled up some extra help from a neighbouring station, and there were six officers in all, each one going through her stuff. Their stuff. He wasn’t sure what it was they expected to find, but he knew they’d find nothing, or at least nothing that would satiate their darkest thoughts. Because he knew what they were all thinking, the cops, his brother, that wife of his who was now watching openly from across the yard, a baby on one hip, another two kids at her feet.

  “We’re checking all avenues, you know that,” Geoff told him, and he nodded. Yeah, he knew. “We might find something you missed. Some sign of what happened or where she headed off to.”

  He met the police chief’s eyes and held them for a moment. He suspected Geoff didn’t believe she’d gone anywhere, at least not of her own free will.

  He swallowed the thought down, the lump catching in his throat, and he said a silent prayer to his wife.

  Please help me get through this, baby. You know I don’t deserve this. Please give them a sign, some proof, something.