by Perry, Kyle
Eliza let the nurse tie the headscarf around her head with a large bow by her temple. It covered everything neatly.
Monica and Eliza walked out through the long corridors of the hospital, Monica clutching Eliza’s arm as though worried she would fall over.
All the while, Eliza’s mind kept returning to the trail.
When they stepped outside, the sounds of Launceston rushed through the air around them. The rain hadn’t stopped overnight but a pair of hopeful journalists was loitering outside, waiting for her release, and Monica cursed them out loudly as they pushed past to her car.
‘Just a quick word! How are you feeling, Eliza?’ shouted one. ‘Do you know what happened?’
Eliza grimaced, silent as she climbed into the car, holding back all the apologies she wanted to make.
Then they were on their way back. Back to Limestone Creek.
Eliza watched the clouds as they faded and thinned, the storm finally easing. Monica held her hand, rubbing the back of it with her thumb.
I’m so selfish, she thought suddenly. ‘How’s Tom?’
Monica’s husband had been on the hike too. He would likely feel as responsible as Eliza did, even though he and Jack’d had all the other girls to take care of at the time.
‘He’s waiting at home. He was going to help with the search, but he had to look after Wren while I came and got you.’
More guilt. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you dare say sorry, Eliza,’ said Monica firmly. ‘Not after what you’ve been through.’
Eliza felt like she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She felt herself slowly retreating back into herself and cut it short. No. You will feel every shred of this. You don’t get the easy way out.
The tears formed. Soon she was sobbing hysterically.
‘Shhh . . . it’s okay, Eliza . . .’
The foggy line of the Great Western Tiers was cutting in and out of view as the rain started and stopped. They left the highway and soon drove through the winding roads of the Meander Valley, bordered by clumps of pine trees, sodden paddocks, lonely convict-era graveyards. An hour after they left Launceston, they pulled up at Monica and Tom’s house, on the outskirts of Limestone Creek, bordered at the back by paddocks and poplar trees.
The house was double-storey, federation architecture of red brick, with a verandah, a big rambling cottage garden of wattle trees and rose bushes and lavender, and two vehicles in the gravel driveway: Eliza’s Corolla and Tom’s Landcruiser.
Eliza, now all cried out, walked up the gravel footpath to the front door – it wasn’t locked – and went inside. Family photos hung in the entryway. Eliza looked instantly at Denni’s portrait; she did it every time.
Tom came rushing out of the kitchen to meet them, bumping into the walls as he did. He hugged Monica first, then swept Eliza up into his crushing, muscular arms. He wore a singlet and track pants. He smelled of whisky. ‘I’m so sorry, Eliza. I —’
Eliza put her finger on his lips and he went quiet, but he didn’t let go of her. ‘I’m not hearing another apology from anyone today,’ she said croakily. She pressed harder on his lips, the stubble on his cleft chin scratchy against her finger. He released her, but didn’t pull away from her finger, so she pulled it away herself.
‘The police called. They’re going to come around later to ask some more questions,’ he said.
‘What have they told you? What’s happened? Tom, I haven’t seen you since yesterday . . .’
‘Aunty Leesey!’ said seven-year-old Wren, running up to her. She had cornflower-blue eyes like Tom but honey-blonde hair like Monica and Eliza, plus a mouth full of missing teeth.
Eliza swept Wren up into a fierce hug. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said into her hair. She felt love and tenderness rush through her. She didn’t want to let go.
‘I told the police what I could,’ said Tom. ‘They had a million questions about the four girls, about the others on the trip, the timing of things, whether the girls had seemed strange yesterday . . . whether you had seemed strange.’
‘Me?’ said Eliza, putting the squirming Wren down. ‘What did they want to know?’
‘I’ll make some lunch,’ said Monica hurriedly.
Tom raised a hand. ‘I’ve already started making sandwiches. You ladies go sit down.’ Monica hesitated, but Tom grabbed her shoulders and steered her towards the big lounge room, where a charcoal-grey couch swept around the corner, facing a huge TV. ‘Please.’ He planted a kiss on all three of their cheeks – Monica, Wren, Eliza – and walked back to the kitchen.
Sarge, Tom’s Boxer-cross-Rottweiler, came out of the corridor, claws clacking on the tiles. Speckled with dry mud, he rested up against Eliza’s side, looking up at her lovingly.
‘Come watch Piebald Rangers with me,’ said Wren, tugging at Eliza’s hand.
‘No, sweetheart,’ said Monica, ‘we need to keep an eye on the news.’ She turned to Eliza. ‘Sunrise are doing a special with live coverage from the search, all day. Remember when they did that for the miners at Beaconsfield?’
‘I think Piebald Rangers is exactly what I need right now.’ Eliza patted Sarge’s head and then let Wren lead her into the lounge and onto the couch beside her. ‘I don’t think I can handle hearing about the teacher who lost four girls on a school hike.’
‘Nobody is saying that!’ said Monica. She settled on Wren’s other side, holding her hand in her lap, clutching tighter when Wren tried to pull away. ‘Mummy is a bit sad this morning. Can I hold your hand?’ Wren, grumbling, acquiesced.
Sarge jumped up beside Eliza, resting his head in her lap and pressing his weight against her. He was snoring before long.
Together, they watched the cartoon heroes on their talking horses save the town from an earthquake. The bright TV and the flashing animations hurt Eliza’s eyes. The doctor had said this might happen – the effects of her concussion. If the symptoms grew worse, she was supposed to go back in for observation, but there was no way that was going to happen. She would stay right here, with her family. She closed her eyes and enjoyed their presence.
After a while, Tom joined them, carrying four plates of cut ham-and-lettuce sandwiches. ‘Wren, we need to put the news on, sweetheart,’ he began, seeing the cartoon credits on the screen.
‘Not yet,’ said Eliza, before Wren could even protest. ‘Can we watch another episode?’
Tom snuggled in behind Wren, holding her in his lap and coaxing her to eat her sandwich. Eliza felt his leg pressing hard against hers.
Sarge snuffled, woke up, yawned, and climbed down, heading for his doggy-door into the backyard.
Eliza listened blissfully as the Piebald Rangers successfully navigated the conflicts of friendship, and then another episode was over. Without another word – just a glance in Eliza’s direction – Tom let the next episode auto-play. The four of them finished their meal and sat, silent, watching the Piebald Rangers yet again save the town. Eliza’s mind was far, far away.
The doorbell rang and Sarge came sprinting through from outside, straight to the door.
‘It’s alright, it’s just Tom’s mum,’ said Monica. ‘I asked her to come take Wren for a while . . . if the police are coming, I . . .’ She broke off into sniffles.
‘No, no, get down, you stupid mongrel,’ came the voice of Mrs North in the hallway. ‘Good boy.’ She bustled into the lounge room. ‘Eliza, you poor thing!’
Eliza rose and let Tom’s mum hug her.
‘How are you? Are you okay? How dreadful. Anything you need. Anything at all.’
Wren, not understanding the sudden emotion, began crying. Mrs North quickly scooped the girl up into her arms. ‘Don’t you worry, baby. It’s fine. You’re okay. Quick, say goodbye to Mummy and Daddy and Aunt Leesey.’ Mrs North let them all kiss Wren, before she took the screaming girl away.
‘Can I . . .?’ said Monica, teary, reaching for the remote.
Eliza nodded.
Immediately footage of Cierra, Jasmine and Georg
ia filled the screen. It was from the morning of the hike, on the school bus. It must have been footage from Madison’s YouTube channel. No Bree. She wasn’t in the girls’ self-dubbed ‘Fab Four’.
Eliza watched the footage, wiping her tears away, annoyed. Jasmine, slight but so fierce. Cierra, looking nervous in her blue wig. Georgia and her intelligent eyes.
Tom made them each a whisky and Coke, pressing one into each woman’s hands. He settled in between them again, pulling them both tight. Eliza pulled away. Sarge tried to climb up, but Tom pointed towards the door and said, ‘Outside.’ The dog obeyed, tail wagging feebly.
Tom looked back to the TV.
They watched footage of the search efforts, the reporters under umbrellas informing the viewers it was now over twenty-four hours since the girls first went missing. The broadcast changed to aerial shots of the Tiers, zooming in on the cliffs and the impenetrable summits.
Tom muted the TV. ‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I should’ve been back there with them.’
‘Neither of you is to blame,’ said Monica. ‘Don’t be stupid . . .’
‘But if I had been back there . . .’ began Tom. He breathed heavily, staring at Eliza, putting his hand on her thigh.
Even now? He was insatiable. He’d never made a secret of his attraction to Eliza, not even in front of Monica, admitting that the idea of twins excited him. She couldn’t believe that he would try to make a move right now, with all that was going on, and after she had rejected his forthright advances so many times. She supposed maybe the trauma was messing with him just like it was messing with her.
She stood up and excused herself. Monica sent her a look of sympathy, but Eliza couldn’t look at her in that moment – she went to the bathroom and locked the door. Monica had no right to show pity. Eliza loved her, would always love her, but she had to take responsibility eventually. When Tom had expressed a desire to sleep with her, not that long after Wren was born, Monica had given him permission: she always let Tom have what he wanted.
When Eliza had refused him, he was disappointed, but took it in his stride. It wasn’t long before he turned his eyes to the older girls at school. He was not so confident that he flirted with them right in front of Eliza, but it was clear enough what was going on. She knew she should intervene – she understood that it was the right thing to do, and her obligation as a teacher – but she was too protective of Monica, of Wren. She didn’t feel good about it, but it was a moral compromise. Staying silent was selfish, but she had experienced the suffering a broken family could cause and, for Wren’s sake, she could not bring herself to do anything that might jeopardise Tom’s job or reputation.
Of course, Tom paid particular attention to girls who returned his interest. As Denni had.
Locked in Monica’s bathroom, her mind was back there, now. That first day, the winter of two years ago. Their oldest sister, Kiera, had shown up at Eliza’s house in one of her rare moments of sobriety. She’d had Denni in tow and begged Eliza to take care of her daughter. Kiera loved Denni, but she knew she was a bad mother to her – it was because she loved her that she wanted Eliza to raise her. Denni had stomped past Eliza and into the spare room, which in time would become her room, swearing and screaming at Kiera.
Eliza couldn’t refuse. Poor Kiera had suffered the most from their parents’ neglect and abuse. She was a bad mother. And Eliza . . . to be a mother was all she’d ever wanted.
She spent the time with Denni. Slowly, gently, calming her. Comforting her. Listening to her, validating her, giving her permission to be strong, to be kind, to be present. Eliza read all the books, wanting to learn all the ways a daughter should be treated in order to grow up strong. Something that Eliza and Monica and Kiera’s parents had never been able to do. But Eliza and Monica had always had each other, while Kiera had borne the full brunt.
Kiera. Now she was somewhere on the mainland, shacked up with a drug dealer, numb and oblivious to the world outside her own addiction, trying to bury the pain of her daughter’s suicide. It’d been months since Eliza had heard from her, although that wasn’t unusual. She and Monica had both resigned themselves to the fact it was only a matter of time before they got a call, from the cops or a hospital, saying Kiera was dead.
But back in the memory, months after Denni’s arrival, the edgy and rebellious but only half-healed teenager had begun reeling in Tom. Little comments and touches and looks full of meaning. And Tom, horny and hungry as always, had responded.
Eliza had tried everything to make Denni stop, to make Tom stop, but nothing had worked – reasoning, threatening to report Tom to the school, bribing Denni with gifts. Once she’d given her the ultimatum that, if they didn’t stop, Eliza would move the two of them to another town entirely. That hadn’t worked – Denni just said she’d move in with Tom and Monica instead.
Monica . . . sweet, infatuated Monica, with all of her own childhood trauma and fear of abandonment, had never stood up to Tom. Even now, Eliza could hardly bring herself to look at him, even though they shared a house. He was big, strong – scary when angry. He was a man’s man, in a man’s world, in a country town where men were still the ruling class.
But, just like that, his relationship with Denni stopped. Eliza could never explain it; after all she had done, it seemed almost overnight Denni called it all off herself.
But it seemed as though no time at all passed before Eliza realised he held affection for another girl at school. Cierra Mason. She thought for a while that maybe that’s what had made Denni give up her relationship with Tom, but it seemed to be a new development; she would have noticed earlier otherwise. Just one look between Tom and Cierra told her everything she needed to know. She knew that glimmer in his eye all too well – she had been its object before, as had Denni.
If Eliza knew about Tom and Cierra, it was only a matter of time before Madison found out. And after all, she knew Tom wouldn’t settle for just one of the Mason twins. She couldn’t let that happen – Madison would tell the whole world. Wren couldn’t lose her father to the law – or worse. Eliza simply couldn’t allow it, not after she’d already lost one niece. She needed forgiveness, she needed something. She had been her Denni, the most valuable thing in her whole world – and she had killed herself, on Eliza’s watch.
Eliza had a plan to end Cierra and Tom’s relationship, but now Cierra was missing – if it came out now that Tom had been sleeping with her, he would be lynched in the street. And poor, sweet Wren would be . . .
Eliza had grown up without a father. She’d hated it, she still felt broken hearted whenever she thought of it. She wanted Wren to grow up healthy and happy. Not just with a father, but a father she could respect.
It had felt like she’d had to choose: Wren or Cierra.
It always came back to Eliza, somehow. Everything was always her responsibility. Or her fault.
No. That’s an old tool, she told herself. That’s your deadbeat mother talking. Nothing is your fault. It’s not your fault Tom takes whatever he wants. It’s not your fault he went after Cierra.
Eliza rubbed her forehead. She thought of her nieces. Both Wren and Denni. You have permission to be strong.
She walked into the shower, ripping off the bandages and dressings on her head.
I, Eliza Ellis, give you permission to be strong . . .
. . . even if this is all your fault.
Right?
Strangely, unbidden, the rhyme came into her head.
Up in the hills, he hides and kills.
Down in the caves, he hides and waits.
She gently tapped her forehead against the shower tiles, trying to force it out of her brain, but all she did was beat it staccato into her consciousness. A half-memory of footsteps . . . footsteps in the scrub . . .
I won’t walk alone by the mountain trees,
or the Hungry Man will come for me.
CHAPTER 10
MURPHY
Murphy dreamed he was falling down the si
de of a cliff.
The ground rushed towards him, rocks and jagged edges. Wind ripped through his clothes, pressing against his face, eucalypt and fresh, loud in his ears.
I can’t die! I have to find Jasmine!
And then he hit the ground. And woke. He found himself on the couch at home, beer cans scattered around him, and wind blowing through the open window.
It was late morning. The girls had been missing for twenty-four hours.
Half an hour later, Murphy sat at his dining-room table, a breakfast can of beer in his hand, eyes on the open window and the heavy rain beyond. Sweet weed smoke from Butch’s joint hung in the air.
Murphy’s chest ached. He wanted nothing more than to go join the search in the mountains, which had resumed at daybreak. But Dave had texted him to say the SES had sought a restraining order against Murphy’s participation.
I shouldn’t have broken that bloke’s finger . . .
Butch hadn’t stopped speaking since Murphy woke up: complaining about the SES, the school, the teachers, the police, the media, the search, how cold the night had been, how they weren’t doing enough, the search-and-rescue horses that had been spooked by the thunder and bucked their riders, the bloody helicopters that should just brave the bloody rain and get up into the bloody sky and start bloody helping, or else get their bloody drones to get some useful bloody pictures, where was the infrared, what the hell were they even doing?
Murphy put the beer can to his forehead and closed his eyes, trying to block Butch out. The live coverage was playing on the TV. He should be up there. Fuck the restraining order – he’d risk the jail time.
But Dave had also said that if he was a suspect, to be seen up there would cast even more suspicion on him. The restraining order made things so much more complicated. And if he ended up in custody, what help would he be to Jasmine?
Yeah, and what help am I right now?
He decided he’d give it until noon, then he was going to join the search, whether they wanted him there or not. They’d have to chain him to the ground to keep him from scouring that mountain range, all alone if he had to.
