by J. P. Pomare
‘My dad is going to kill me if I am sent home,’ he says, harsh Eastern European notes rising through his voice. ‘He paid for my flights and I’ve only been here for a month.’
‘Bad luck,’ I say.
The man stands as if to run. Rocky bristles.
‘Stay right there.’
Car doors open.
‘How much did you earn for this?’
He looks at me, defeated, then looks away as he answers. ‘Good money.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty screet.’
‘Screet?’
‘It’s a cryptocurrency.’
I roll my eyes. Whoever hired him, they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to conceal their identity. I can feel the hope that this might lead me to Billy slipping between my fingers.
Two police officers enter through the open front door. I see their eyes widen at the trail of blood.
‘So,’ says the closest one, a short woman with black hair. ‘We’ve had an emergency reported.’
I nod towards the man. ‘This guy was trespassing – delivering flowers in the middle of the night.’ I point to the flowers near the cops’ feet.
They turn back and look down.
‘My son went missing today, so it’s not a great time to be delivering flowers.’
AMY
‘PUT THE GUN down!’ The voice comes from behind the door.
Bruce leans the rifle up against the wall before pushing the door closed to unchain it. I step further back into the kitchen, reaching behind me for a weapon. My body feels weak.
Bruce opens the door again and steps aside. ‘She’s over there,’ he says with a tilt of his head.
I step out from behind May into the light. I see a man in a blue uniform with a flat-topped cap. My heart leaps into my throat. A Blue Devil! Standing beside him is a man with a bushy moustache wearing a long grey coat. The vague annoyance slips from their faces when they see me. Their mouths are both slightly open.
‘Crikey,’ the man with the moustache says. ‘Are you alright?’
I slowly step back from the kitchen into the living room, my heart pedalling. I don’t take my eyes off the Blue Devil. Everything I’ve heard about Blue Devils comes rushing to my mind. That if they found us children at the Clearing they would beat us. That they were intent on stopping Adrienne from carrying out her plan. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
‘Put that down,’ the Blue Devil says, his words hard-edged.
I look down at the long steel kitchen knife grasped in my fist.
His hand moves to his side, fingers lingering by his belt as he steps closer.
‘It’s okay,’ the man in the coat tells me. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
They both move towards me. I back up, brandishing the knife. The door is close. I think of what I was taught to do if I should encounter a Blue Devil. Don’t let them touch you; turn and run. If you are cornered, fight back. Always whip the blade out in a teardrop motion so they can’t snatch your wrist.
‘Now, now, sweetheart, you’re safe here,’ the man with the moustache says, his voice soft and soothing. The doorknob to the back door digs into my spine. I reach back and in one deft movement fling it open and hurl myself through. I sprint down the stairs, into the dark sheets of rain. I feel the absence of my journal.
They’re behind me, calling after me, but I keep running. I can’t help but fear them, I can’t help but panic. I skid and fall, hitting the grass hard. The knife slips from my grip. Footsteps thunder towards me, louder than the crack of the storm, the drill of the rain.
‘Stop right now!’ The voice is close. I reach for the knife; it’s my only hope of defence. I rise again and take off at a sprint. They’re still close behind. A hand grips my shoulder. I twist, swiping out blindly. The blade tears through. The sudden suck of breath. That feeling I remember from practising on the animals strung up from the Great Tree in the centre of the Clearing. Steel splitting skin and flesh. It’s the Blue Devil. He’s clutching his left side. Through the rain I see a black flow melting down over its fingers.
‘She cut me!’ He stumbles back, eyes on me.
I look down at the knife. I draw my arm back; this time I will aim for his chest. But the Blue Devil is grabbing something from his belt, aiming it at me. There’s a flat low pop. It hits like a punch to my lower gut. I’m hurled to the ground and my vision blurs as I look up, then down. My brain throbs. The pain sears my hip. I feel numb and hot and I can’t move. The gun is still pointed at me. I’m fading now. I close my eyes.
FREYA
Twelve hours missing
THE POLICE TOOK their time, writing out my statement, taking photos, eventually hauling the man and the flowers away. It’s around 2 am by the time they’ve gone, and I am left with blood-streaked tiles to clean and a sleepless night ahead.
I tidy up, then put the TV on and sit on the couch with the infomercials running. I check social media and the news sites. There are murmurs online. A few news stories about a missing boy somewhere near North Tullawarra National Park but none suggest he was kidnapped. It’s only a matter of time before the media dive deeper and uncover my history. Aspen in the car. And my childhood, who my mother is. Olivia always says no one blames me for my childhood, she says people understand I never chose to grow up in the Clearing, but everyone blamed me for Aspen and now everyone will blame me for Billy’s disappearance. It won’t stop until they find him, until they find Wayne. Even then, there will be the theories and lingering doubts. The trolls.
I can already feel a hangover brewing but I shove it back; I can’t afford to be hungover. I need to stay alert. Dropping to the tiles, I pump out my morning push-ups.
At around five, that pink, pre-dawn hour, I hear traffic on the road, the low groan of a diesel engine. Then, as the first birds are beginning their morning chorus and the sky is glowing at the tree line, I hear the rumble of more cars arriving. I hear voices. The search party.
Soon people are moving at the fringes of my property, walking in a line down near the river’s edge. Shortly, I’ll go out there to help. It’s useless, but it’s expected of me. My phone rings.
‘Jennifer McVeigh from Victoria Police. Is that you, Ms Heywood?’
‘Yes, hello.’
‘Good morning,’ she says.
I eye the clock; it’s just after six. ‘I guess it is morning. Not a good one though.’
‘No. I understand there was an incident last night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll be speaking with the arresting officers shortly. For now, a search party is out there and we’re reviewing CCTV footage from the surrounding areas. We will also be conducting a number of interviews with people who are local to the area.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’d like you to come in to the station to confirm a few details about your statement, and we want to discuss last night’s incident with you. We are also thinking it would be best if you prepared a statement for the media; we have a media liaison officer who can help with— ’
‘No,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘No. I don’t want to talk to the media.’
‘A personal plea can help mobilise members of the public.’
‘I don’t think I can face it,’ I say.
‘Right, well, we can discuss that further when you arrive. I’ll have someone come by soon to collect you.’
•
It’s around seven when a car arrives for me. A bald man with wide-set eyes and huge shoulders is driving. He looks a little like a young Corazzo. Which reminds me – I should call Corazzo.
The cop hardly talks on the trip to the police station. It’s back near the city and it takes almost an hour to get there.
At the station, I sit with my phone in my hands, waiting. Nine am comes and goes before I hear the click-clack of low, no-nonsense heels. A woman with a black bob appears, coffee in hand, neat white blouse.
‘Ms Heywood, I’m Jennifer McVeigh.’ She extends her hand and gives mine
a firm shake.
‘Hi, Mrs Mc— ’
‘ Jennifer is fine. Thanks for coming down. I know this is a distressing time.’ She leads me down the hall to an interview room. Beige walls. Steel table with plastic cups and a bottle of water. ‘And I’m sorry about the wait. I wanted to make sure I had a handle on the situation before speaking to you.’
She is a quick talker and I’m too tired to keep up, but I nod along, catching the yawn building in my throat before it comes out. There’s a triangular device at the centre of the table that I quickly realise is a recorder and a conspicuous camera aims down at me from one corner.
A second cop enters the room, taking the seat beside McVeigh. It’s Trioli. He hands McVeigh a file which she places on the table between us.
‘We are going to record this conversation,’ she tells me. ‘It’s just for our records, so we can refer back to it as part of the investigation. Is that okay?’
I eye her for a moment. ‘Sure,’ I say.
Trioli reaches forwards and switches on the recording device on the table. ‘Today’s date is Sunday, the first of March 2020, the time is 9:16 am. Ms Heywood, could you please confirm that you are here under your own volition and you have waived your right to legal representation for the duration of this interview.’
I study his face. It is expressionless.
‘Just procedure,’ McVeigh assures me, but I know it’s not. I know they’re suspicious of me. By now, they would surely know about Aspen, and my time at the Clearing.
‘Ms Heywood?’ Trioli prompts.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘This interview is being conducted by Victoria Police as part of our ongoing investigation into the disappearance of your son, William Heywood.’
I take the cup of water set before me and sip. My hand is dead still. I want them to see that I’m not rattled. I offer a weak smile.
‘I’m happy to help in any way I can.’
McVeigh takes over. ‘Perhaps you could run us through the events of the day leading up to the disappearance of your son.’
‘I’ve already given a statement,’ I object.
‘I know, this is just so I can confirm the details.’ Or see if my story changes.
I run them through my day, being sure all the details are consistent with the statement I gave the day before. The swim, coming back and drinking my kombucha, putting the news on then falling asleep. Occasionally they interrupt to ask me to elaborate, picking up on any contradictions.
‘When we first spoke to you, you said the back door was left open. Now you are saying you closed it?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘And at no point did you leave the property before 12:15 pm?’
‘No, I was asleep.’
‘Your neighbour believes he heard a car leaving your property prior to 12 pm. You didn’t have any visitors?’
I tilt my head. ‘No.’
McVeigh powers on. ‘How often do you sleep during the day?’
‘Never. It was a one-off. I was tired.’
‘Not sleeping well?’
‘No.’
‘Working late, too hot, a lot on your mind?’
‘I just haven’t been sleeping well. Henrik Masters is being released from jail and I’ve been thinking about that.’
‘You’re worried about Henrik Masters?’ They don’t ask who Henrik Masters is, I note.
‘I’m sure you know all about my childhood by now,’ I say. Then I change tack, ask a question of my own. ‘Can you tell me what happened with the man this morning?’
McVeigh and Trioli exchange glances, then McVeigh speaks. ‘I’ve spoken to the arresting officer. I’ve read the statement and it all checks out. Taskie offers an on-demand freelancer service that requires almost no identification on the part of the user. Our cyber team are working with the Danish-owned company to find out who was behind the job listing, but these things don’t happen quickly, unfortunately. Still, we are hoping to have some insights into the user who booked the job asap.’
‘How do you know the guy who delivered the flowers wasn’t involved himself? How do you know he isn’t working with Wayne or Henrik?’
The police officer draws a breath, drums the table with her fingers as if entertaining the idea for the first time. ‘We can’t fully discount the notion, but the man who was at your house last night has an alibi; he was on another job, which was tracked via the GPS on his mobile phone, when Billy went missing. He also made a complaint against you, Freya. We’re not taking it seriously, but he has puncture wounds and lacerations from the dog bite, and if he found himself a decent lawyer, he might have a case for false imprisonment.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
Why are we talking about false imprisonment? Why aren’t they interrogating him? I draw a breath, let my eyes roam the room. I’m growing restless; I need to focus. ‘What about Wayne? What are you doing to find him and Billy?’
‘We are following up every lead,’ begins McVeigh. ‘We’ve still had no contact with Mr Phillips and his mobile phone has been inactive since last night. Nor have we found any trace of his car. But it’s only a matter of time until we track him down. We’ve run his photo on the news and will continue to do so.’ She pauses, breathes out. ‘It’s been almost twenty-four hours since the last confirmed sighting and we have determined certain risk factors that would elevate this case.’ Certain risk factors, I presume, is a tidy euphemism for You’re a mess, your ex is an overprotective psycho and your family started a cult. ‘Getting you out there in the media and raising awareness of the missing child will enhance— ’
‘No,’ I say, pre-empting where this conversation is going. I see disappointment sweep over her face. I glance down at the recorder. ‘I don’t think I will be able to keep it together in front of a camera,’ I lie.
‘If I may be frank, Ms Heywood, the story is already running on the morning news bulletins with no specifics except for Wayne’s mugshot and a description of Billy. The media will release details about you. You can’t control that after it all comes out. If you get there first, it will help. Trust me.’
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘I’m not ready.’ If I draw attention to myself, everyone will look in the wrong direction while Wayne slips away. ‘A girl went missing a week ago.’
‘Yes, that was in New South Wales. It’s highly unlikely that the two incidents are connected.’
‘I saw on the news that they still haven’t found her.’ I remember seeing a flash of skin at the river; I know it was only an echo of a memory of Asha.
‘There is nothing to suggest that the two incidents are connected,’ she repeats with the authority of someone already on her second coffee and with years of experience assuring worried parents, husbands, wives, sons and daughters that the police are doing everything they can. ‘Part of my job is also to obtain a history of recent family dynamics. Has Billy ever run away before?’ Recent family dynamics; she’s well versed in cop speak, this one. I know precisely what they are doing, but do they know I know?
‘Why are you asking about him running away? Like I said, he’s seven years old. I know he wouldn’t just run away. He’s not that kind of kid.’
‘Sometimes kids run away if they are having trouble at home.’
‘Trouble at home?’
‘Have you ever hurt him, for instance?’
‘Me? Wait, what is this? Why are you asking me that?’ The idea is ridiculous, and I let them know. ‘No, I have never deliberately hurt my child. Of course not – I’m his mother.’ But according to court records, I have a history of abusing children.
Trioli gives his sly smile; he’s still hardly spoken but it’s clear he is enjoying this.
McVeigh continues. ‘When a child turns up to school with signs of abuse, it’s common practice for teachers to make a record of it.’
‘I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Now Trioli opens up his notepad, flipping back a couple of pages. ‘A black ey
e this week. Bruises on his wrists. Last year he had a broken arm.’
‘He was knocked over by the dog!’
‘Alright, Ms Heywood, we’re not accusing you of anything – we’re just exploring every avenue. If we knew he had cause to run away, that would help with the investigation. We can’t rule anything out.’
‘I understand,’ I say, swallowing the growing anger. I paste a sad smile onto my face. ‘He wasn’t upset the day before yesterday; he was happy. He had no reason to run away.’
When the interview has concluded, the same officer drives me back home.
There is something about the police, the way they are talking to me, that triggers my impulse to flee. A black eye … a broken arm … They think there’s more to these stories. It’s as though they know something I don’t.
Twenty-three hours missing
A gazebo has been set up in Derek’s yard. Beneath it sits a table arranged with plastic cups and trays of party pies, with a half a dozen people milling around. As we approach my driveway, I see the media, swarming like flies. Two vans with satellites bolted to their roofs, photographers standing idly, reporters holding microphones. I see them before they see me sitting in the back of a police car. Other police are already there, standing at the top of the driveway, their cars half blocking the road. I see a tall figure in among the media, speaking with the cops. Corazzo. They part as we pull in. Corazzo strides through them, following the car down the driveway while the cops keep the media out.
‘How are you holding up?’ he says when I climb out of the back seat.
He puts his arm around my shoulders, propels me towards the house. He looks ridiculous in his gumboots, shorts and woollen sweater.
‘Not great,’ I say.
‘I can imagine.’
I glance up at the media. ‘They want me to talk to them.’
‘You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to. Just ignore them.’
I don’t want the police outside my house, but I can’t kick them out. I don’t want them coming back with a warrant and a chip on their shoulder. I know they’ve already fixed a target to my back.
