Hunting BLind: It's Every Family's Deepest Fear

by Richardson, Paddy

  He wasn’t with Lisa. They didn’t leave together.

  He could have taken Gemma because she would have gone with him. She trusted him. She trusted everybody.

  Did he get rid of the clothes he was wearing? What happened? What happened?

  The rocks, the stretch of sky, the faint trace of thyme tell her she’s home. Not long to go and she’ll see the lake.

  Every day of her life there it was, gleaming and flawless. But after that day, after Gemma, it was as if something dark and murky and disgusting had appeared on the surface, something thick and choking that spread and spread strangling every inch of it. The blue, silver, gold, all ruined, all dead.

  There are tears streaming down her face.

  24.

  She stayed the night at a backpackers in Haast. Walked the beach eating fish and fat, salty chips. The sand was steel-coloured and gritty, the sea rough and booming. She sat up near the sand-hills for a while though the wind was chilling, watched the waves smash down, yanking sand and grit with them as they heaved their way back.

  She slept well, better than she’d have thought on a top bunk with a couple of Aussie trampers in the room with her. But she was exhausted. All the driving. All the thinking.

  But she feels calm as she drives onto the road. She has no idea of where she’s going other than heading towards Westport. She has no set plans after that, no conviction that she’ll find him – and what will she do if she does? But she has this sense of resolve. It’s what you have to do.

  It’s a long drive. When she was quite young the family drove up the West Coast for a holiday in Golden Bay. It took about a week to get there. Dave wanted to take it slowly, see the Coast. They stayed along the way in motels. Everywhere they went there were dense, never-ending torrents of rain that soaked you through the minute you left shelter. Dave made lame jokes; Minna barely uttered a word, just stared blankly out through the windows. When they finally drove over the hills into Golden Bay the sun came out and it was blisteringly hot for the whole two weeks they were there. Minna cheered up instantly. She played and swam with them and at night in the rented cottage Stephanie would fall to sleep hearing Dave and Minna talking and laughing together softly from the veranda. They weren’t always unhappy. Not always.

  The road’s tricky, winding up and over the hills, breathtakingly steep in parts, occasionally frighteningly narrow. Sometimes it seems that the car could quite easily topple over the side, flip down the gully over rocks into the emerald zigzag of the river below her.

  Still, despite the occasional stab of anxiety she’s enjoying this drive. Like the day before there’s not much traffic on the road and once she’s down on the flat the beech forests spread out on both sides of the road and mountains gleam in the distance. Through Fox. Through Franz Josef. She stops from time to time, gets out of the car and stretches, drinks out of her water bottle. Around midday she pulls off the road near one of the tracks signposted on the main highway. She eats the sandwich she picked up at Haast before she left and reads the sign. Hooper’s Falls. Twenty-five minute walk. She hesitates, looking down the track. She’s got a fair distance ahead of her before she makes it to Westport. But she can take it slowly, after all. If she doesn’t make it today it won’t matter. She has six months, another day won’t make any difference.

  There’s no sound other than the trill of birdsong. The bush smells rich and dank, her footsteps are muffled by the thick mass of rotting leaves underneath her feet. She tips her head back to gaze upwards at the canopy of dark foliage, the light filtering through. At the end of the track there’s a shallow stream and the waterfall. She crouches close, cups her hands and pours water over her face. It’s like ice, feels good against her hot skin. She could curl up here on the sand and sleep in the warmth. She climbs up onto the rocks edging the stream, watches the ripples of water spreading across the dark stones, slants her face up to the sun.

  She starts off back along the track. Just as she comes to the curve leading into the long stretch back towards the road she hears the muffled footsteps. It’s a man, head down, his parka hood low over his face, looming up, coming at her.

  She’s trying not to run. Someone on the track. It’s just someone else walking the track. Except she felt in that instant before he passed her how alone she is, how vulnerable now she’s stepped away from the security of the life she’d assembled around her. What in hell are you doing? She could be attacked, could die here and who would even know she was missing? Anything could happen.

  And what if she does find him? What then? If she can’t pass a tramper alone on a track without freaking herself out how can she possibly think she can confront a murderer?

  She opens the car door, almost falls into the seat, locks the doors and starts the engine. Her heart is beating way too fast, thudding, thudding, and she’s unutterably relieved as the car starts and moves easily onto the highway. You’re on your own, what if the car won’t start?

  She slots in a CD. Turns up the volume. The Jews Brothers Band. Cheery, quirky too much talent, you’ve got too much talent to be famous much too much. Her heartbeat begins to slow. Crazy to be afraid like this, what’s she frightened of? There’s nothing. Just keep going, it’s a flat easy drive now, nothing to be scared about. But she’s shaken.

  You’re walking along a track; you’re in your home; you’re beside a lake. Everything is as it should be, utterly recognisable, and in an instant it happens and you can never find your way back.

  Drive. It will be okay. Just keep going. Keep going. She watches the road, sings softly along with the music. A few miles along her head begins to clear. She picks up a coffee and muffin in Hokitika keep going, keep going eats and sips from the carton as she drives. As she passes through Greymouth there’s a sudden spurt of rain which pours over the windscreen. Fat raindrops bounce off the dry road and then, as suddenly, it clears. She stops at Punakaiki. Not far now. But she’s tired, needs a break. The last twist of narrow road and she’s on the outskirts of town. Westport.

  The sky’s greying; late afternoon. She stops in the main street, looks around her. On both sides there’s a row of cafés and shops and pubs. The shop windows nearest to her are crammed with wood carvings, merino scarves, gloves, wraps, jerseys. For the tourists, she supposes. She feels almost faint with tiredness as she wanders along looking around for the Visitor’s Centre. She has a guidebook but probably the people at the centre will be able to tell her the best place to go, the best budget place.

  She has to queue. The woman who at last serves her has Wendy in red slanted print pinned to her pink blouse. ‘Come far today?’

  ‘Yes. I want a backpackers. Clean. Quiet as possible.’

  ‘They’re all clean. We wouldn’t recommend anything that wasn’t clean.’ Wendy is bristling up at her.

  ‘Sorry. I’m just. What do you recommend?’

  ‘There’s The Inn out at Carter’s Beach. A bit pricier but it’s quite nice really.’

  ‘What else do you have?’

  ‘Merv’s. That’s right in town, just down the road. And there’s Serenity Cottage about a mile or so up the way north. There’s vacancies at both. Your choice.’

  She takes Merv’s. She’s so tired all she wants is to put her head down on a pillow so the closest place seems the best option. It’s only a few hundred metres along the street and there’s a parking space. She takes her bag, climbs the steps, pushes open the door labelled reception. Merv’s Retreat it says over the counter.

  There’s a bored-looking woman speaking into the phone don’t do the chops yet they’ll dry right out, make sure you peel the spuds properly yeah well I’ll be home soon as I can. She stares up at Stephanie as she looks at the prices on the wall above the desk. She has to have her own room, it’s more expensive but she can’t bear the idea of sharing tonight.

  ‘I’d like a single please.’

  ‘How long you staying?’

  She can’t think. How long do I need, how long will this take? ‘I don’t—
I’m not sure.’

  She taps with her pen on the desk. ‘How long’ll I put you down for then?’

  ‘Maybe until Wednesday? If I want to stay longer I’ll tell you then.’

  ‘No guarantees. Sheets?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You want sheets? It’s an extra ten dollars.’

  She could sleep in her sleeping bag. But, God, she does need sheets, she longs for a cool, clean, properly made bed. ‘I’ll take them.’

  Jesus. Is this the celebrated West Coast hospitality? She puts her bag in the room. A narrow single bed covered in a faded pink chenille spread. She’s almost too tired to eat but she goes out into the street, finds a Chinese and sits at a table beside the window. There’s hardly anybody on the street and it’s cold, turning dark. She pushes her food around the plate: greasy chicken, great lumps of stringy cabbage.

  She’ll have to organise herself better. She can’t afford to keep buying food at cafés and takeaways. Tomorrow she’ll go to a supermarket, get herself sorted out. She walks back and washes quickly in the communal bathroom. Averts her eyes from the brown stain on the hand basin.

  There are car stereos boom-booming, engines revving, brakes squealing. The room she’s in is so close to the street she can hear footsteps, snatches of conversation. Occasional yells from the pub further up the road. She’s desperate for sleep but every time her eyes close she’s jolted awake by the noise. She shifts around trying to find a comfortable position this inhospitable place she’s ended up in; the lumpy mattress, the harsh sheets, her skin is itching.

  Around two she falls into a deep sleep, wakes much later. Sun trickling through the gap in the thin curtains. She feels rested, checks the time on her mobile. Already past ten o‘clock.

  She’ll give herself a day off to look around and buy food. There’s nobody in the bathroom so she can shower for as long as she wants and she stands beneath the hot steaming water with her eyes tightly closed, the water streaming down over her face, over her body.

  She finds the supermarket, buys juice, kiwifruit, yoghurt, cheese, apples, dense, dark bread and takes Visitor Centre Wendy’s recommendation and drives out to Carter’s Beach. And it is nice out there, beautiful in fact, the sand fine, the wind whipping up soft, foamy waves. She walks along the edge of the water, takes off her shoes.

  Did Beth come here? Did they come here together as a family? Mum and Dad and the girls. Gracie toddling towards the shallow waves clutching Beth’s hand mind her now, Beth. Watch Gracie.

  She lies back on the sand, closes her eyes.

  Steph, mind Gemma? Just a few minutes, okay?

  25.

  She’s up early on Monday and at the Westport News office by nine. She looked it up on the internet. Indexed Copies of Westport Newspapers dating from 1901 are stored in our newspaper archives room and available for viewing on Monday. She tells the receptionist she’d like access to the archives.

  ‘We’ve got no one here to supervise archives today. So you can‘t—’

  She shows her ID. ‘I’m Dr Stephanie Anderson.’

  The woman looks impressed. ‘Uh. What are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m researching the culture of education in South Island tertiary institutions.’

  She stares up at her, frowning, then nods. ‘It should be okay. I’ll show you where to go.’

  Stephanie follows her down a corridor. She opens a door, gestures towards the shelves. ‘Lotta papers eh? Goes right back to when the paper first started. What year were you looking for?’

  ‘I’d like to look over newspapers from the 1990s.’

  ‘The 1990s. Righty-ho. I’m Karen, by the way.’

  ‘Hi Karen.’

  ‘This section here’s what you need. You okay to look through on your own?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  She looks curious. ‘Like, what’s this for? You writing a book?’

  ‘In time, maybe.’

  ‘Wow. Really? You at the university?’

  ‘Mmm. This is where it is? Thanks for your help, Karen.’

  ‘You can use the desk if you like. I can photocopy anything.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  She’s hovering beside the door. Stephanie turns and stares up at the shelves.

  ‘Righty-ho then. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Stephanie reaches up, takes down the file marked November 1996, carries it back to the desk and starts to leaf through the great wad of newspapers. Here it is filling the front page. November 30. Child Missing. There’s a photo. A little girl with dark, wispy hair, eyes creased up in a smile. Grace. Grace Annabel Clark.

  Tracker dogs, police, boats, search parties, helicopters. More photos. The parents. They’re close to a stand of bush; a police man in uniform turns towards them. Andy Clark’s a big man and his wife, Ellie, looks frail, almost child-like beside him. She has her right hand up to her mouth and her head is down. Andy holds her other hand. His facial expression is of emotions held tightly under control.

  During the first week the search takes pre-eminence. There are headlines on the front page, news of the search parties, comments from the police. Local women are not only involved in the search, they’re providing soup, home-made pies, sandwiches and muffins to the searchers. There are stories about the Clark family well-known family, involved in the community, Mr Clark prominent in the local tourism industry. There are comments from friends, neighbours, the supervisor of the Playcentre Gracie attended twice a week, lovely little girl, lovely family, can’t believe this could happen.

  By the second week the story has been relegated to the back pages. The sleepwalking theory has obviously taken hold because on the second Friday after Grace was lost the paper runs a feature article on how a child in Australia had stepped off a second-floor balcony and how children in other parts of the world had fallen down stairs, climbed ladders and been discovered doing odd and dangerous things while sleepwalking. On Monday there’s a follow-up article featuring an interview with an Auckland paediatrician regarding sleep disorders in young children. The search is called off on the Wednesday, two weeks after Gracie was lost.

  On the Thursday the story again reaches the front page. There’s a large photo, almost filling the page, of searchers returning to hear the news that the search has been abandoned. The faces are despondent. One or two interviewed say they will continue to look anyway. They say that the little girl must be found and brought home, that the parents must be allowed to know what happened and to grieve.

  At first she can’t work out where the noise is coming from and she runs through the living room the kitchen the bedrooms she opens the bathroom door and sees her. Minna on the floor. Bent over on the floor.

  They’re not going to look any more. Where is she where’s my baby where is she where is she? Oh God oh God please bring her back.

  She feels a hot rush of tears as she stares down at the photograph, stares almost unseeing at the faces. She bends closer. There at the back. Partially obscured by the woman in front. He’s wearing a parka, the hood up, partially covering the face. But she can make out fair hair, the shape of the face, the height. Taller than the others around him.

  Is it him?

  He might have had an affair with Minna. He might also have been involved with Ellie Clark. He was in both places when the girls went missing and if it’s him there among this search party, he looked for both of them.

  But why would he do that? Who would take a child then pretend to look for her?

  Though there’s answers to that question. Several answers in fact. To create an alibi, for starters. If you’re blending in with a crowd of searchers it’s less likely anyone will start pointing the finger at you. Then there are other reasons she’d rather not think about. The pleasure generated by observing distress. The euphoric feeling of power gained from instigating suffering.

  Gracie’s little face and fragile body.

  She closes the file, replaces it on the shelves. She has to stop the tears, stop the shaking,
has to walk down the passage, thank Karen and go back out into the street.

  She finds a café, orders coffee and sits by the window. She’s breathing more easily. The sun has come out, there are people on the street, mothers pushing infants in buggies, flowers in baskets outside the shops. The café is warm, smells of cinnamon. Here in this ordinary, everyday world her suspicions seem absurd. What if she’s wrong? What if it’s not him at all? What if it’s some strange coincidence?

  In the afternoon she drives out to Beth’s family home. She has the address on the front seat beside her, Beth’s voice in her head follow the main road north about five k‘s. The house is on the main highway but down off the road a bit, grey, cream facings, the lodge is beside it, there’s a sign, you can’t miss it.

  There it is. Andy’s. She turns off, heads down a drive, pulls into the car park. It’s as she imagined, the house and lodge in among a dense tangle of bush with the sea just below.

  Beth had explained that her father was generally around in the afternoons. She finds him beside the lodge hacking at a vine that’s climbing beyond the veranda up into the eaves. He looks up as she walks towards him, puts down the clippers.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure if you remember me but I’m Stephanie Anderson. I’m staying in the area and Beth said I should—’

  He’s grasping her hand, shaking it warmly. ‘Beth told me you were coming. She thought you might not call in, though. I’m glad you did. I met you just the once in the hospital. You’re Beth’s shrink, aren’t you?’

  He grins widely at her and she smiles back. ‘Well. I was, as you say, Beth’s shrink. But I think she’s doing fine without me now.’

  ‘From what Beth tells me that’s mainly owing to you.’

  ‘Not at all. She did it herself. She’s a strong girl.’

  ‘I saw her when she got sick. As far as I’m concerned you’re a bloody miracle worker. Look, let’s go into the house. I’ll get you a coffee? Or tea? We’ve got all these fancy herb teas for the lodge, just tell me what you like.’