The Gaps

by Leanne Hall

  I check the bus timetable. I don’t think the 3.50 p.m. is coming, so I decide to walk to the next bus stop. I’m hauling my second-hand Maths, International Studies and Biology textbooks home and my bag straps cut heavily into my right shoulder. Once I’m far enough up the street, I slip my backpack on properly, both straps, a proper dork.

  I realised two days into my new school that no one uses the green Balmoral backpacks; they all use the green duffel bag instead. There is no way I can use anything other than this perfectly good new backpack that Mum bought, though. When I got the scholarship it felt like a free ride, but it turned out that there were plenty of extras apart from the fees. Summer uniform, winter uniform, sports uniform. Straw hat, school swimsuit, textbooks, excursions.

  The air is thick with exhaust fumes at the next intersection. Cars fly by; one driver wolf whistles. I have no idea why school uniforms do this to men, they’re literally an advertisement that I’m underage.

  A new billboard looms above the crossroads. A pale girl in a silky cream slip lying on the ground, her sleeping face surrounded with a bright red blot of hair. Her legs cross at the ankles, her wrists turn soft side up. Her skin is dirty and scratched.

  She might be selling perfume or shoes, but that can’t be right.

  The girl looks damaged, and sexy. Something crawls deep in my gut.

  Around the fallen girl everything is dark and foreboding: the thin silhouettes of trees, a shadowy, indistinct figure hiding behind one of them. The half-seen figure is bulky and powerful; the girl so beautiful and bare. The photographer has managed the lighting perfectly, illuminating the crumpled figure of the girl and then letting patches of darkness take over.

  I think of the police and rescue service workers walking methodically through the parklands next to school, and imagine them finding a discarded body in the creek. Should an assaulted girl look this sexy and glamorous? I flash back to mum saying that the community cares more about some women than others. What is wrong with people?

  I squint at the text in the bottom corner.

  Who Killed Emily Blake?

  Much later that night, during the late news, I figure out what it was that Natalia and Ally were watching at the bus stop.

  The police have released CCTV footage of Yin from a convenience store close to her house. They don’t say what day it was taken, only that it was in the week before the attack. The footage is grainy, but you can still tell that the short girl with black hair is her.

  Yin walks into the store and disappears from view. A guy in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap follows her, then stops to look at the sunglasses stand. Yin, wearing the pyjama pants Ally was griping about, comes into shot again, holding a bottle of milk. While she rummages in her pocket for money, the guy in the flannel turns to look at her. She has her back to him, so wouldn’t have noticed. A few moments after Yin leaves the store, the guy in the flannel exits too.

  The police are stressing that the man isn’t a suspect, merely a ‘person of interest’ they want to talk to.

  Even though Mum is at work and it’s not a good idea to spook myself while she’s out, I watch the footage again and again, until it plays behind my eyelids as I’m trying to go to sleep.

  Close to midnight I give up on sleep and search for articles about the abduction on my phone. I find one that includes a list of other recent missing or murder cases in Melbourne. I read through the list and wonder if any of the things Mum talked about has made a difference in the way that they were investigated or reported.

  An economics student from China who hasn’t been seen in three months. A trans woman who was beaten to death on the way to her work as a chef. A fourteen-year-old who ran away from home with her boyfriend but has since gone missing. A Gunditjmara mother of three who was found dead next to train tracks and I don’t remember there being a manhunt or media frenzy about it.

  All these girls or women from different circumstances, all missing or dead. There’s a burning in my chest about the unfairness of it all. It could happen to any of us.

  Yesterday Ms Nouri showed us a documentary where eight famous artists spoke about their careers. They all had very different approaches to their work, but the one thing they all said was that you needed to be passionate, to make art about what you believe in, what you feel most strongly about, what you’re obsessed with.

  I wonder if I can turn this burning feeling into anything good, anything meaningful. It seems impossible, I’m not even a proper artist. Still, I flip open my sketchbook, find a blank page and start writing.

  DAY 11

  I think they’re joking when they remind us about compulsory house cross-country at morning assembly, but they’re not. I’m forced to put on a musty sports bra and crumpled PE top from the bottom of my locker.

  The serious runners paint house colours on their cheeks and jostle to get close to the start line. I tug on the awful purple house jersey over my PE shirt and dawdle at the rear. A biting wind whips across the grounds.

  The gun goes off; the girls at the front leap forward. Their feet pound the mushy oval, throwing up chunks of mud that hit the runners behind them.

  The course circles the oval, then climbs between the tennis courts. At the end of the first hill the runners have stretched out to a thin thread. I think about walking, but by the time I cross the main driveway it feels good to stretch my legs, even though it’s not as much fun without Arnold by my side.

  At the bottom of the hill we cut through a large pine plantation, an abandoned part of Balmoral that looks at least fifty years older than the rest. I pass a disused portable classroom and head into the thickest section of trees.

  The fallen pine needles are soft to run on, swallowing up every footfall. I’ve left the last group of runners out of sight and the next girl is way ahead. The only sign that I’m not in the middle of a Grimm’s fairytale are the yellow course flags tied around the trees.

  My head flashes with images. Young girls running through the forest, red-cloaked with wicker baskets. Gold rings. Spinning wheels. Tower prisons. Maidens asleep under trees. Girls with black hair and snow-white skin, lying on the pine needles with a school blazer for a blanket. Eyes shut, but not sleeping. Taken. Not a fairytale at all.

  I trip on a half-buried tree root and lose my rhythm. I pick up my pace, striving to get out of the shadowy copse.

  I bolt full speed into the long, torturous climb back to the oval, where everyone has to do a final lap before collapsing across the finish line. I’m not too tired so I push my legs a little bit harder, passing the trickle of struggling runners one by one.

  By the top of the hill I’m regretting everything.

  Ms Hammond, one of the PE teachers, stands at the side of the oval, directing the runners onto the track. When I draw close she frowns and consults her clipboard. If I had any puff left I’d laugh at the confused look on her face. With only a few hundred metres to go I decide to stick it to the PE teachers and the man and hungry wolves in forests, and I put in a final burst of speed. I pass one staggering girl, then another.

  At the top of the straight, the purple house captains jump up and down as I take two more runners. My legs are rapidly turning to jelly, but I manage to keep my dignity to the finish line. I swerve to avoid Sarah, who is doubled over ahead of me.

  Mrs Wang hands me a piece of cardboard with the number 4 on it and claps my gross sweaty back. Your choice, lady. I’m going to die.

  ‘What’s this?’ I gasp. Then I’m leapt on by two screaming girls in purple wigs.

  I wash and change as quicky as I can after the race and rush towards the main building, trying to balance my PE bag and Art folio. There’s barely time to eat my sandwich before fifth period. I want to write down the ideas I had while running, before they float away.

  Fairytales. Tangled hair. Blue lips. Beauty.

  ‘Chloe Cardell!’

  Ms Hammond chases after me, sans clipboard but sporting her trademark whistle around her neck. Once she reaches me she
gets straight to the point.

  ‘I want to talk to you about joining the cross-country squad. We train three times a week, starting at 7.30 a.m.’

  I shake my head straight away, but Ms Hammond either doesn’t notice, or chooses to ignore it.

  ‘Every year we go away for a training camp to Swansea, it’s a lot of fun. It’s not all training. We go whale watching and cook big dinners together. It would be a good way to make some friends—some more friends—’

  It’s clear she thinks I’m a social pariah in desperate need of help.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I’m pretty sure Sarah is on the team, and she’s not the kind of friend I’m looking to make. Also, I don’t see any way to add ‘runner’ to ‘mediocre artist’ and ‘person who gets As in Maths’. There’s nothing that Balmoral won’t turn into a cut-throat competition.

  ‘I’m pretty busy with schoolwork actually.’

  ‘But you ran so well today, Chloe. You looked great out there, your form was perfect. With the right training you could improve astronomically.’

  I force myself to be brighter and bubblier than usual, to soften any possible offence. ‘Oh, thanks for asking, Ms Hammond, but I don’t think I have the time for it.’

  I clutch my folio tight to my chest, like armour, and hurry away.

  DAY 12

  Mum does a pretty good job of parking Ron and Pearl’s car, even though she’s only driven it once before. The Barina hatchback is a dung beetle in a school car park full of four-wheel drives and shiny gold sedans.

  We get out and put our jackets on.

  ‘You sure?’ I’m probably asking myself this question as much as I’m asking Mum. ‘You never wanted to come to another school thing ever again.’

  ‘This is different.’

  Mum was short with me the whole way here, which means she’s nervous. I spent the drive catching her up on the week’s events at school. Mostly that there were a suspicious number of substitute teachers in rotation, but that only male teachers were missing class. Petra also told me at morning recess that she’d seen a group of four detectives after orchestra practice. And there were the police searching the creek next door, of course.

  We join the stream of parents flowing through the main doors and into the Great Hall. There are a few students loitering in the foyer, mostly Year Sevens and Eights with violin and cello cases in hand.

  It’s petty, but I note that Mum is younger and prettier than the other mothers. She’s got on her good jeans, heeled winter boots that boost her several inches, dangly gold earrings and a silky shirt. I’m the slobby giant next to her, as usual.

  ‘You look nice,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’ll try not to embarrass you, baby.’ She lets her eyeballs roll and flops her tongue out. I’m not sure we should be joking, but I smile.

  There are a lot of parents already in the hall as we file in, rows and rows of navy jackets and cashmere jumpers, bald spots and helmet-bobs. No students, even though the letter didn’t say anything about students not being welcome.

  After a brief moment of panic I notice a handful of girls sitting right at the back, in the dark corner where the spare chairs are stored.

  I point in that direction and Mum continues into the centre of the hall. I feel guilty for putting her through this.

  ‘Hi,’ I nod to the small group of girls. I climb over a few rows of fold-up chairs and perch up high, to see better. I spot Mum’s dead-straight black hair in the audience.

  There are at least four people sitting in a row on the stage, but I’m too far away to figure out who they are. The velvet curtains are drawn behind them, there’s a lectern and plain lights. I can at least recognise Mrs Christie by the puff of grey hair worn extra high. She steps up to the mike.

  ‘Thank you for coming this evening. This has been a difficult couple of weeks for everyone in the school community…’

  My attention drifts as Mrs Christie introduces the people on stage. The metal bars of the chair are already digging into my bum. I realise the majority of the girls are international students from my year, most of them boarders. Some have their homework with them, others play with their phones.

  Bochen from Art class waves and comes to sit with me.

  ‘I thought there would be police here.’ She holds up her phone, with the recorder running. ‘I promised my father there would be police. I told him we have security guards on all the school doors.’

  Bochen is chattier than some of her friends, maybe because she’s spent time in the States and is more confident with her English, maybe because that’s just the way she is. If I could pick who will win the art prize, it would be her. Give Bochen a pencil and a piece of paper and she can turn out photorealistic portraits.

  ‘It’s even in the Chinese media, so everyone is scared for us,’ adds Cherry, then zips it, returning to her notebook. The page fills with tiny characters written in mechanical pencil.

  Despite Cherry’s words, none of the international students look that worried. Maybe, like me, they feel one step removed from what’s happening.

  Bochen picks up a strand of my hair, and I try not to jump from her familiarity. ‘Where are you from, Chloe? You’re mixed, yes?’

  ‘Mum’s from Singapore. She’s here tonight.’ I point her out in the crowd, and Bochen rubbernecks majorly. I don’t mind her curiosity.

  ‘Chinese?’ she says, after finding her.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ It’s a bit more complicated than that, but it will do. Mum has tried more than once to explain Singaporean race politics to me but I never pay enough attention to fully get it. ‘Dad’s Anglo-Australian. I was born here. Like Yin.’

  ‘You got a good nose,’ Bochen says. ‘Lucky.’

  We’re quiet, because on stage Mrs Christie is running through advice from the police. It’s all very obvious and in no way resembles the advice in the chain email that I haven’t bothered to forward to anyone. Mrs Christie keeps repeating that there’s no reason for the ‘Balmoral community’ to take any greater care than the general public.

  I crane my neck and wonder how Mum is going.

  The Head of the School Board gets up and starts fielding questions from the parents.

  ‘Sarah’s father,’ Bochen whispers.

  No, he doesn’t know how many calls the police hotline have taken about the case.

  No, there hasn’t been a ransom request.

  Yes, he has seen the CCTV footage, it would be hard not to have seen it the last few days, but he has nothing more to say.

  The rumbling in the audience grows.

  Sarah’s dad looks and talks like a bulldog politician, so it’s no wonder Mrs Christie has left question time to him. Not that Mrs Christie is a pushover, but these parents are plain intimidating. They’ve decided that they should stand up to ask their questions, which each of them do in turn.

  He has no opinion on whether this is a serial offender. That is a matter for the police.

  This causes one dad to yell out, ‘Do you think we’re all fools?’ Bochen raises her eyebrows at me and presses ‘stop’ on her recording.

  Yes, it’s true that there are similarities between Karolina and Yin’s abductions, but he’s no expert.

  No, there is no truth to the story that school computers have been seized. Cherry clicks her tongue when he says this, so maybe the boarders have seen something the day girls haven’t.

  A woman in a patterned shift dress stands up. ‘I would like to know what the school is doing to ensure my child’s emotional and mental health?’ She stabs the air with her finger every couple of words. ‘I’ve got a little girl at home who is scared, and not sleeping. She can’t get offline and she won’t eat. What are you doing for her?’

  Mrs Christie steps up to answer this question, trotting out the types of support services offered by the school. The questioning continues, as if this were a political debate for the federal election.

  Sarah’s dad can’t comment on whether teachers are being interviewed. That is
a matter for the police.

  The police will be looking at every angle, including all employees of the school.

  Yes, that will include gardeners and grounds staff. Yes, he expects that he himself will be looked at, as one would hope, if the police are doing a thorough job.

  Yes, it’s possible that some parents will be contacted by the police taskforce, and yes, we expect you to show them your full cooperation.

  It gets so boring and repetitive that we start talking among ourselves.

  ‘How is your major project going, Chloe?’ Bochen doesn’t need to mention that she’s talking about Art.

  ‘Stressing me out,’ I admit. I still think my ideas from cross-country yesterday are interesting, but I haven’t had much of a chance yet to think any further. ‘How about you? Have you started?’

  She scoots closer, takes out her phone and scrolls. ‘I’m drawing my friend Mercury. In ink, nothing complicated, but very big.’ She stretches her arms out to indicate the scale of her piece. ‘Here.’

  I look at her screen. Bochen has drawn a light graphite map of Mercury’s face, but I can already tell she’s playing with perspective and distortion in interesting ways.

  ‘It looks great,’ I say. ‘What are your themes going to be?’

  ‘No idea!’ Bochen says. ‘Sometimes a drawing is just a drawing, you know?’

  I wait until we’re halfway home before I empty out my spinning brain.

  ‘Mum?’

  Mum turns her head only a fraction. She’s a careful driver. The passing streetlights glance over the planes of her face.

  ‘Will Dad’s record come up? I mean, will the detectives know about that?’

  She flicks the indicator on, shifts lanes to merge onto the freeway. It’s a few seconds before she speaks. The freeway lights give her the pearly complexion of a sixteenth century Flemish painting. I try to mentally record the way she looks, the way the light hits her. Imagine being able to recreate that in paint or on film. She looks as young as me from where I’m sitting. I want to erase every part of Dad and be one hundred per cent like her. I don’t want his nose.