In the Clearing

by J. P. Pomare

  ‘I’ll keep you up to date as the investigation progresses.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The call ends.

  Wayne, you prick. I tip back the last mouthful of wine then pour myself another glass. Was there any way I could have foreseen what Wayne was planning?

  After a while, I rise, leaving Rocky snoring on his side on the kitchen floor. I don’t take the torch or my phone as I set out across the lawn, using only the moonlight to see by. I make my way towards the river. Shadows move among the trees, but it’s only the breeze. There is nothing to fear, I tell myself, be brave, even as another voice in my head reminds me: Blind bravery comes from ignorance of the real threat. Bravery will not bring Billy home, I need to be smart.

  Through the trees the river’s surface is jewelled with the moon’s light. I just stand and breathe in the darkness, my body tingling with adrenaline. I hear someone or something moving in the trees. Could it be the wind? No, someone is near. I feel it. I turn and rush back to the house. Inside, I turn off all the lights and lock the doors. Alert and bristling, I move to my room. I make myself still, sitting there on the edge of the bed. Who is out there? Could it be Billy? Or one of the searchers?

  I hear a sound close to the house. The crunch of footsteps. A twig cracking. I feel every muscle in my body beat in time with my heart. Someone is in the yard.

  AMY

  I STEP THROUGH the back door of the Burrow and fly across the Clearing like a ghost. I can hear and feel everything so intensely. I climb the back gate and run out into the bush, my heart thumping and legs tight. It is a perfect night to go; the moon is out and it’s cooler than the last few nights, but I am still so scared.

  In some parts of the bush it’s so thick and so black that I have to use my hands to feel my way along. Branches scratch my face and roots trip me at every turn, but I keep going, heading in the direction we took when we found Asha, moving towards the river.

  At times I follow my ears, listening carefully for the trickle of water. I pass the huge rock I’d seen when we were searching for Asha and know I am getting closer. I feel hot and full of energy under my skin. As planned, I have my journal with me, tucked into my waistband.

  I climb a ridge and the trickling grows louder. Then I see it, there across the river. The house.

  I start to work my way down the bank on my hands and knees, gripping the shrubs and stones. But then a rock loosens beneath my fingers and I slip, sliding down the hard rock face and into the water. I’m wet up to my thighs, but fortunately my journal wasn’t submerged. I stand and wade through the water, which is still and cool. I lose one boot, but I don’t stop, I can’t stop now.

  The fear of the dark, of snakes and Blue Devils grabs me like the hand of God and shakes me. I feel sick inside, but I know that I’ve got to keep going. I recall something Adrienne said to me this afternoon and I realise I have nothing to be afraid of now.

  The rain is coming; I can feel it inside. I reach the other bank. The house is close now.

  I walk quickly before my nerves overwhelm me. The building looms larger. I run.

  Something crunches my nose. Black, red. The taste of blood at the back of my throat. The pain is sudden. I’ve run straight into a fence and I think my nose is broken. My eyes water but I don’t stop. I can’t stop now that I am so close. I climb the fence with blood on my tongue.

  I creep in silence towards the house. I knew I would end up here; I knew it from the first time I saw it.

  I think of something Adrienne had once said: Eve stood, stark and beautiful. Her hand paused an inch from the apple, just a heartbeat of hesitation. There was doubt. There was fear, a dark coiling energy in her bowels. But she stared at the rich ruby fruit, then plucked it.

  I am missing a boot and the grass is hard and crackles with each step. There is a gentle breeze pulling through the trees. I climb up the back steps. The house is completely dark. I imagine a family inside a lot like my own. I imagine twelve children. I take my journal from my waistband, holding it in both hands. And … is that a face I see there beyond the glass? Breathe in and breathe out. Keep going, girl.

  I say the words to myself: Protect the Queen. Someone is staring back out at me. And then the door swings open.

  FREYA

  Eleven hours missing

  IN THE KITCHEN, I press and hold the panic button for the police then reach beneath the sink for my toolbox. No one should be lurking around my house at this time of night.

  I find the largest spanner. I go to the back door, steady my breathing to relax my heart. I’ll get you, you bastard. Rocky follows me, his ears pricked. This is what we trained for.

  I stare out across the lawn into the darkness. I blink hard, squinting to make out the shape. I see a pale figure. I won’t hit the lights until the bastard is close, close enough for Rocky to catch. My heart stops as something slides across the bleached grass. I can’t turn away, I can’t blink – I’m entranced. The apparition drifts closer, like smoke. Maybe it is smoke. I sniff the air, shielding my eyes to get a better look. The apparition fades. It was nothing but an illusion. Just shadows, a trick of the moonlight, my breath fogging the glass. Then, before me in the darkness of night, I see the shape again, a girl so young and fearless. She is so real, so tangible, but I have seen this before … so many times before. Like the child I thought I saw at the river, I know she is not there. Time collapses. I’m not looking at a ghost but a memory. I’m looking at myself. The moment I escaped and met the world …

  PART FIVE

  THE ESCAPED, THE TAKEN

  Then the Lord God said to the woman, ‘What is this you have done?’ And the woman said, ‘The serpent deceived me, and I ate.’

  Genesis 3:13

  AMY

  BEADS OF SWEAT leap out all over my skin. A man is looking through the window. Bright light leaps into the night. I block it with my hand and, before I can think, the door swings out, sending me stumbling back.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ I begin to weep. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I will go home. I will be good.’

  A hand tightens around my arm and a face hovers above me. Small dark eyes blinking rapidly. I can’t form words. My journal tumbles to the ground.

  The man is dragging me inside. He puts something in my hand. A glass of water. I am shaking so hard that it knocks against my teeth when I try to drink.

  As my eyes adjust to the light I take in a man with a grizzled beard and torn t-shirt. He turns away from my gaze and walks up a hall into the darkness of the house. ‘May,’ he calls. ‘May. Wake up, May.’

  I look around. Bare bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting light upon the brown walls. I move closer, tilting my head to get a better look.

  ‘May,’ the man says again. ‘Get out here now.’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ a woman’s voice responds.

  The world outside blinks bright white; less than a second later I hear the crack of thunder. My heart is racing.

  ‘Looks like we finally got rain,’ she says as her heavy steps come up the hall.

  ‘May, someone’s turned up,’ says the man.

  A woman steps into the light, pushing a pair of glasses up her nose.

  I look outside. I could run, I think. Be brave.

  Her nose crinkles as she stares at me. ‘Who is it then, Bruce?’

  ‘I don’t know. She turned up all bloody in the backyard there.’

  I touch my nose, feel the stickiness.

  I can see a knife block, pots and pans hanging down from the ceiling.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ I ask. ‘Please, just let me go.’

  ‘She’s missing a toe,’ says the woman.

  Bruce frowns; he looks worried. He rakes his brow with his sleeve.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ I say.

  The man shakes his head like a dog snapping the neck of the idea. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you.’

  Rain is
drilling down now.

  ‘Better make a call,’ he says to the woman.

  I block them out, pressing my fingertips into my eyes. I can feel the room closing in. I feel like something foreign, trapped in a damp lung as it compresses. The woman touches my shoulder gently, pressing something to my nose: a damp cloth to soak up the blood.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

  I clear my throat and stare into May’s eyes. ‘Amy.’

  ‘Amy?’ She says it like a question. ‘You know, someone could have sent her in here,’ May says to Bruce. ‘They could have sent her to case the house.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Bruce sits down at the table.

  ‘How far off are they?’ May says.

  He looks over to her. ‘I don’t know. I’ve only called them five minutes ago.’ He takes another draw of smoke and turns his gaze to me.

  I know what I’ve got to do. I know why I am here. ‘He hurt her,’ I say. ‘He held her head under. He hurts us all.’

  The man looks at me like I’ve slapped him. ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘Adam … he held her under. He will come for me.’

  He looks out into the yard, squinting. He thumbs his bottom lip. I can see him thinking, two stones clashing together making sparks in his mind.

  ‘Get the rifle,’ May says.

  ‘Quiet!’

  ‘I won’t stand here waiting,’ the woman says. She leaves the room. Lightning flashes, illuminating the yard, followed by the drum of thunder a second later.

  I try to stand but Bruce rises, blocking my path to the door.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  There’s a sharp-knuckled knock at the door.

  The man looks at me then at the door. May returns, carrying a rifle. My heart leaps. This isn’t going to plan, I should run now. Bruce takes the gun and points it at the floor.

  Three more knocks.

  I see his finger near the trigger. I’m trembling now, watching as he reaches for the doorhandle. It could be anyone behind the door.

  He turns the handle. I cower behind May. The door swings in and catches on the chain. Bruce aims the gun outside into the darkness.

  FREYA

  Eleven hours missing

  THE GIRL WHO escaped, that’s what the newspapers called me. The miracle child. The photos of me in hospital were all over the newspapers. The first year on the outside I grew twelve centimetres and my body took shape, like something long compressed rapidly expanding. I was fostered out for three years, until I was eighteen, then I moved out on my own.

  When people learn about my past, they look at me differently. How can a child growing up in that environment be normal? The police, the lawyers, youth workers, family services … Adrienne always told me about the woman, Freya, who lived in the woods. She was alone but not lonely. The solitude, the distance – I always liked the idea of it. So that’s who I became. Not many children get to start from scratch, choose their own name, choose who they want to be.

  I didn’t know how to ride a bike, how to open a bank account or even how to cross a road. I didn’t know how to have a normal conversation, so I had to learn what most people take for granted. I learnt to be normal, I learnt how others acted and learnt to wear this mask and be like them. I knew I would always be burdened with the past and Adrienne would always have control over me.

  I’ve seen the statistics. I’ve read the studies about the way violence cascades from one generation to the next. I have it in me; violence and obedience is all I knew. I act because I don’t want anyone to know where I come from and what I’ve done.

  I hear another sound outside. I squeeze the spanner in my hand, scanning the backyard for movement. Rocky unleashes a volley of loud warning barks, but he is not looking out into the yard; he is looking at the front door.

  I turn and march towards it. It could be Billy for all I know. I throw the door open and a gust of hot night air rushes in. No one is there. Rocky pushes himself out between my left leg and the door. He sniffs.

  Another bouquet lies on my doormat. Yellow wattle again, identical to the last two. Rocky is baying, growling. I can remember every time in my life I have been truly spontaneous, every moment I have done something without careful consideration. Now is one of those moments. I say one word. ‘Attack.’

  Rocky looks up, alert, as if he has misheard.

  ‘Attack!’

  In a flash of black and brown, he flies into the darkness. I hear someone say, ‘Shit! What the fuck?’ I hear slow steps become sprinting steps. I don’t hear barking, just the growl then snap of Rocky latching on. I hear a man scream. Calmly, I walk out into the night.

  ‘Rocky, stop!’ I call. Rocky steps back, his mass still pointed close to the man dragging himself away across the gravel. ‘Stay right there,’ I say. ‘If you run, I won’t stop him.’

  ‘He attacked me.’ The man’s voice wavers. I think I detect an accent.

  ‘Get up,’ I say. The adrenaline is surging in my limbs.

  The man lifts himself slowly.

  ‘Walk towards the house.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I demand, squeezing the spanner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. Are there tears in his voice?

  ‘Do you know where my son is?’ I ask, my voice calm and steady.

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  He stumbles towards the house without taking his eyes from Rocky. I follow. Rocky growls, matching me step for step.

  ‘Your dog bit me.’

  ‘He’ll do it again if you don’t do exactly what I say. Go on, inside.’ Stepping over the bouquet, the man walks through the open door and into the light. I can see him properly now. Blood drips from his fingers. He is thin, wiry. Younger than I thought.

  ‘Turn around.’

  The man turns to me. I study his face. Acne scars on his cheeks, a wispy beard, deep pouched eyes, cracked lips. His greasy hair hangs down over his ears. I don’t recognise him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Can I sit?’

  I nod towards the table. The man pulls out a chair and sits down. Rocky is still growling. The man’s chest rises and falls in quick huffs.

  ‘Don’t look him in the eye.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My dog. Don’t look at him.’

  He drags his eyes away, watching Rocky without looking at him, his jaw clenched.

  ‘So, who are you? Why have you been leaving those flowers on my mat?’

  ‘I’m just doing a job.’

  ‘A job? You mean your job is to deliver flowers in the middle of the night?’

  I think about the wattle blooming in a yellow haze about the Clearing.

  ‘Would you mind tying your dog up?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I step closer. ‘Not until you answer my question.’ He just sucks his lips.

  ‘Oh well, you can tell it to the police. They shouldn’t be far off.’

  ‘You called the police?’ His eyes grow wide. ‘I’ve got to leave.’ He stands. I step between the man and the door. I raise the spanner as if to hit him. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Sit down.’

  He lowers himself into the chair. He is gaunt beneath his sweat-stained t-shirt.

  ‘Please, I have to go. Someone wanted to send you flowers and I delivered them. That’s all. I won’t complain about the bite. I need to leave.’ It’s only when he mentions the bite that I notice how much blood is seeping out between the fingers gripping his forearm. I imagine a jagged flap of skin beneath.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. This can’t be a coincidence. Could Henrik be sending these flowers from prison? Or is Wayne taunting me? ‘Do you know where my son is? If you tell me, maybe I’ll send the police away.’

  ‘I don’t, I promise. I’m just a Taskie. This job was paying well. I’m not supposed to be working over he
re. Please, if you report me to the police I will lose my visa.’

  ‘What the fuck is a Taskie?’

  ‘Taskie is a website. People list jobs and offer a price. I saw this listed and it sounded easy.’

  ‘What were the instructions?’

  ‘To place a bunch of flowers on your doorstep between eleven and one am. That’s all. Someone dropped the flowers off at my hostel.’

  ‘How many times have you done it?’

  ‘Taskies?’

  ‘Delivered the flowers.’

  ‘Just once. This is the first time.’

  I run my palm down my face, letting my breath out. I sense he is lying. The police should be able to trace the jobs he’s done through the website and work it out.

  ‘Who hired you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Users are anonymous. They just have usernames.’ ‘What is the username?’

  When he takes his hand away from the bite to retrieve his phone from his pocket, I see the blood pulsing. It’s dripping all over the floor tiles. Rocky got him a lot worse than I thought. I fetch a tea towel while the man stares down at his phone. He shies away when I step close to him.

  ‘Don’t move an inch,’ I warn. I wrap the tea towel around his arm and tie it off tight. It’s the best I can do. A dark ring of blood rises through it immediately. I use masking tape to compress it.

  I can hear the police pulling into the driveway.

  ‘Here,’ he says, holding up the screen of the phone to show me.

  VDVM (LAST LOGGED IN: ONLINE NOW)

  MARK TASK AS COMPLETE?

  ‘Mark it as complete,’ I say. Whoever it is, I don’t want them to know I caught their guy. The man touches the screen of his phone.

  ‘Done,’ he says. ‘Now, please, will you let me go?’ Surely immigration would not deport him for this … he must be worried about something else. Maybe he has a criminal record. Maybe this is all an elaborate ruse and he really is involved in Billy’s disappearance.

  ‘No,’ I say. I can’t risk it. ‘You’re staying.’