by J. P. Pomare
‘Oh, nothing. I’m just getting a bit of a headache; I thought I had Panadol.’
They’ll find my prints on the pliers. I used them recently to open Billy’s paints. This confirms it. Someone is setting me up.
‘So about the man you caught delivering flowers here last night …’
‘Have you found out who hired him?’
‘The username suggests it was someone called Adam, but we couldn’t trace it back to Henrik Masters.’
‘Who was it then?’ I ask, watching her face.
‘Were you alone here last night? There was no one else with you?’
I frown. Where is she going with this? ‘No, no one else was here.’
‘And you’ve never used Taskie in your life? Never been on the website?’
‘No, I’d never even heard of it before last night.’
McVeigh leans back in her chair, her eyes moving around the room before landing back on me. ‘I’m wondering if you have a password on your wireless router here at home?’
‘You mean my internet modem?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What is this about?’
‘What would you say if I told you that we traced the Taskies account and each login, and that the most recent login came from your IP address? Whoever hired him was logged in at the time the flowers were delivered. They were using your wi-fi. So, who else could have access?’
My mind is hazy with all the possibilities. I think about Wayne, Derek, the couple by the river. How far would my wi-fi reach? Is it possible someone hacked my computer?
‘Your neighbour?’
Computer illiterate Derek? Unlikely. ‘No, not Derek.’
‘We’ll follow up with him just in case, but that doesn’t leave many options.’
‘Someone is setting me up,’ I say. ‘I don’t know who, but someone is doing this to me deliberately.’
‘The only lead we have from the flowers is your IP address.’
‘Am I … am I under arrest?’
‘No,’ she says, letting her breath out.
‘If it is alright, I want to get out with the search party. This isn’t helping to find my son,’ I say, my voice tentative.
‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Freya. The media are all over this now. They know about your childhood. They’re all waiting out there.’
‘So I just have to sit here and wait?’
‘For now,’ McVeigh says.
I take my phone from my pocket and search the news stories to see if she is telling the truth.
‘Do you want me to get some food sent out?’ she says. She’s not going to leave me I realise.
‘I’m fine.’ I open a news site and find three of the top five most read stories are about me and Billy. I read the headlines.
BILLY’S MOTHER’S DEMONIC CULT: FORMER LEADER RELEASED
HOT CAR HORROR: BILLY’S BROTHER ALMOST DIED IN SHOCKING CHILD ABUSE CASE FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
THE SEARCH CONTINUES: BILLY’S LAST DAYS RECOUNTED BY FRIENDS AND TEACHERS
I open the last story. I don’t think I can stomach any of the others. I read through it, noting the tone.
Days before his disappearance, Billy showed up to school with a missing tooth and a black eye to go with a broken arm he suffered in suspicious circumstances last year.
The tooth that was recently found near Freya Heywood’s property appears to be Billy’s and a pair of pliers believed to be Freya Heywood’s were found nearby.
Billy had reported to teachers he had seen a man near the school. Officers have not ruled out the involvement of Freya Heywood’s ex-partner, convict Wayne Phillips, who was spotted in town just days before Billy’s disappearance.
Police are looking closely at Heywood and Phillips as people of interest, although an arrest is yet to be made.
I stop reading and scan down to the comments. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m a masochist. I can’t resist. The first comment has over four hundred likes.
She’s as guilty as sin. She couldn’t escape her childhood and the only fix, I’m afraid to say, is a bullet.
The next comment has a number of replies.
She tried to kill her first child. Then she was abusing her second child and now he’s disappeared. Who thought it would be a good idea to let this woman raise another child?
I look up, staring across my lawn towards the river. I see a searcher down at the back of the property. Except he’s alone. He shouldn’t be alone. He shouldn’t be on my property. I step closer to the window, narrow my eyes. He’s got long tangles of hair and he glances up towards the house. It’s him. It’s the man that was by the river with his girlfriend days ago. It’s the man that was sleeping in the van, the same van that disappeared when Billy disappeared. Are you in the search party or are you just snooping? I read that criminals like to stay close to an investigation, kidnappers often join search parties but he doesn’t look like he’s searching. He has always been close enough to use my wi-fi so he could have hired the Taskie. The more sense it makes, the angrier I become. You know where my son is.
I could scream, but I simply turn to McVeigh with a neutral expression. ‘I might have a shower, if that’s okay?’
She looks up from her phone. ‘Sure. Can we put your dog outside though? I’m not much of a dog person.’
‘I’ll keep him with me,’ I say.
Twenty-nine hours missing
I go into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I point at the bed. ‘Up.’
Rocky jumps up obediently and lies down at the foot of the bed.
Corazzo had said, We’ll find him. Derek had said so too. The search volunteers mouth it like a mantra and yet I know they won’t find him out in the bush. He will be found if someone finds the person who took him. Everyone else has hope, but I know better. I know that soon, in days or weeks, when the entire park has been searched and the river has been trawled, they will give up and Billy will be remembered only on anniversaries of his disappearance, just like Asha. I’ll be behind bars for his likely murder; the evidence is all pointing towards me. I can’t trust the police to listen – I have to take things into my own hands.
Going into the ensuite, I open the shower door, twist the knob then close the door without stepping in. I slip back into my bedroom, walking on the balls of my feet. The bedroom window rises gently, noiselessly. I step through it, out into the mid-afternoon heat.
Adrienne’s voice is in my head: Think, Amy, you stupid little bitch. Think. You shouldn’t be there in your house. Never trust the police. Her voice is telling me what to do now, just as it did all those years ago. But Mum has changed. That woman with the fierce eyes and sharp mind is gone; now she is a mere shell. Finally the world can see her for the fraud she is.
I run from the house towards the cover of trees, and then continue on to the river, hurdling the gate. I can see the volunteers’ tent in Derek’s yard from here. The media up near the road. I keep running, getting closer to the river.
Billy could be with Henrik Masters and this man is probably involved. Or Billy could be rotting beneath a foot of earth. It’s a punch to the gut, this other possibility. I think about the times I hurt Aspen, striking out with my palm, pinching his wrist, flicking his nose. Tricks I learnt at the Clearing to punish children. Wayne called me a bad mother, he told me I was cruel, and he was right. I had no idea what I was doing.
I hear Rocky barking back at the house, but I don’t stop. As I emerge from the trees by the river I almost slam into the man.
It’s him – and he’s alone.
‘Who are you?’ I demand, bringing my face close to his. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Silence. His lips curl a little at the edges. His eyes meet mine. ‘You miss your son?’ His voice is so quiet I wonder if I hear him at all.
‘What did you say?’ I grab his hair in both hands, pulling him close. He’s younger than I thought. He couldn’t be older than twenty. He doesn’t fight back. ‘What the fuck did you just say?�
��
‘You ever wonder what happened to him?’
‘Where is he? Tell me!’
He smiles then, opening his mouth wide like he’s going to laugh. ‘You really don’t know, do you? You have no idea. You never gave a shit about him.’
I swing my fist so hard that when it connects with his jaw my hand explodes with pain. The man stumbles back, cupping his chin. He rights himself. Blood on his lip, covering his teeth as he smiles again.
‘You’re a fucking bitch,’ he says, the grin spreading, but his eyes are wild. ‘You’ve finished killing children now, have you?’
I rush at him, throwing my fists, knees, elbows. The man doesn’t fight back; he covers his head, turns, lifts his knee to protect himself. It’s all fists and flesh, thrown with pure anger. I drag him by his hair and I hold his face beneath the water, pressing as hard as I can. I pull him up, look down at his head turned back to me. In that moment I see the vulnerability in his eyes. I recognise something familiar. He’s just a boy really. I release my grip and he surfaces, gasping for air. I hear voices behind me now.
‘Freya!’ It’s McVeigh. A second later, her body crashes into mine and together we go over into the river.
Someone else is there, pulling the man up from the river bank. Watery blood drips from his face.
McVeigh is deceptively strong, so deft and quick that I don’t even realise my hands are cuffed until she takes me by the elbow, guiding me from the water. The cameras are clicking.
My nose is bleeding, but there is no pain. I look up and see them all waiting, the crowd gathering. Volunteers, media, police. Did you all see my mask slip? Did you snap a picture of me holding his head under? Enjoy the show?
‘Get them out of here,’ I say. ‘Clear off, the lot of you. Get the fuck off my land.’
I look up and see the woman who was with the man that day I’d caught them by the river. She brings one hand to her mouth as our eyes meet. Her other hand rests on her navel. There’s a bump, small but unmistakable. She’s pregnant.
Casting one last glance at the man being pulled away by a cop, I feel that jolt of recognition again. Where have I seen you before?
AMY
ADRIENNE SAYS THAT everyone in the world is fake, that they’re all pretending. That means these two men beside the bed. That means Corazzo.
They’re both reeling. I can see it in their eyes. This is the moment they were waiting for. They know about Asha. They know we took her away.
‘We need to move on it tonight, Mike. We need to get her and the other children out.’
‘But—’
‘Use the phone,’ Corazzo says, pointing to the hallway. ‘Speak to Jackson, make sure this doesn’t get to anyone outside of the task force. No one. Not even the guys on the McFetridge case. We can’t take any risks. Then get back out to that house and search for the journal. It could be useful.’
The room is thrumming, it’s all happening so quickly. Just then the lights dim a little, just a flicker. Corazzo looks up. I feel the tears coming again, the fear cooling me from the inside out.
I don’t want to let Adrienne down. I’m so scared, so scared I have done something wrong.
The hard lines and edges of Corazzo’s face soften and he leans forwards. ‘Hey now,’ he says. ‘Don’t cry, Amy. Don’t cry. You don’t know it, you might not realise for some time, but you’ve just saved lives. You’re a hero.’
Mike steps back into the room.
I look at him, then back to Corazzo. ‘He killed her,’ I say. ‘Adam killed her.’
And just like that the smiles disappear.
FREYA
Twenty-nine hours missing
‘GET HIM, NOT me,’ I say, as McVeigh shoves me along the path towards the house. The mask of Freya Heywood is gone. ‘He’s got my kid. He told me. It’s him.’ She pushes me through the gate and across the lawn.
‘Just get inside. He’s not going anywhere.’
For a second, I wonder who is in my shower before remembering that I left it running. Rocky is barking, staring out the window at me.
Inside, McVeigh sits me down on a towel on my couch. What would have happened if she didn’t stop me? I might have drowned him. She holds a warm damp cloth to my nose. I can feel the blood running. Another officer is standing nearby, talking into his radio.
‘What on earth were you thinking?’ McVeigh demands.
‘Can you take these handcuffs off?’ I ask.
‘No. You’ve put me in a really awkward position, Freya. We all want to find Billy. We’re all on the same team. Then you fly off the handle like that. That man has every right to press charges.’
‘He took Billy! He confessed.’
She looks at me sceptically. ‘What did he say?’
‘He asked me if I wondered where my son went. He just did it – I know he did it. You need to start questioning him!’ I stand up, move to the door and look out across the yard, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The lawn shimmers, the heat presses its nose to the glass.
‘I will question him, don’t you worry about that. In the meantime, they’ve called an ambulance for him.’
I turn back to face her. ‘Imagine if someone took your kid and you knew who it was and— ’
‘I get it.’ She raises her eyebrows, gives me a knowing look. ‘Take a seat, Freya. I’m not going to ask you again.’
I sit back down with my hands behind me in the cuffs. ‘What are we waiting for?’
‘We’re waiting for a car to take you to the station.’
The cop with the radio steps outside onto the deck to watch what’s going on by the river.
I let my breath out. ‘Can I at least make myself a cup of tea?’ It will mean removing the cuffs.
She’s standing with her hands on her hips, staring out the kitchen window up the driveway, as if willing the car to appear. She turns back to me. ‘Where’s the tea then?’
‘In the cupboard above the sink.’
She’s a little taciturn. Follows instructions. McVeigh would have made a good little Blackmarsher, I think. She’s the right age to be one of my siblings but she never would have appealed to Adrienne with her coffee brown hair and dark features. I know others have since changed their appearance after Blackmarsh, dying their hair dark, letting it grow wild as a final act of defiance to Adrienne.
When I searched for my brothers and sisters online I found suicides, lives spent institutionalised, some were in and out of rehab and perpetually medicated. One of the children went on to have a relatively successful career as a lawyer before one night she ran a hose from her car exhaust to the driver’s window. The past, I realised, was a parasite. It could lie dormant inside for years and eventually flare up and kill you. They all must have resented me and Jonas – especially me. Well adjusted, normal.
Andrew was placed in foster care and grew up as ‘Liam Stein’. At the Clearing he had the first signs of facial hair, a kind of blond down that shone in the sun, but in the newspaper photo he was hairless, heavily tattooed and wore silver reading glasses. He gazed into the camera lens with a melancholy expression. The article was about the children he hurt. It mentioned his time in the cult as a sort of excuse. Stein was raised in the Blackmarsh cult, where he himself was abused as a child. Andrew had sharpened his toothbrush on the concrete of his cell as he waited for the trial and in the night he pulped his wrists. I know what he was thinking. He was thinking that everything is inevitable. He was thinking you never leave Blackmarsh.
•
‘Chamomile, turmeric, sleep tea or rooibos?’ McVeigh is searching through my pantry for the teabags.
‘Chamomile,’ I say. ‘That would be fine. Can you take the cuffs off? I need to change out of these wet clothes.’
She turns and gives me a long, hard look. ‘You need to stay away from that man for your own good. I’ll release you, but I don’t want you leaving my sight.’
She flicks the kettle on and walks over to unlock the cuffs. She lets me take a shower, w
atching me walk in and then standing outside the bathroom door. Afterwards I pull on clean clothes and brush my teeth. Rocky stays in my room as I walk back into the lounge. McVeigh pours me a cup of chamomile tea and places it on the table.
‘So what happens now?’ I ask.
She’s about to answer when her phone rings on her belt. She raises a finger to tell me to wait, then steps out onto the back deck to take the call. I stalk her with my eyes. She glances back at me, her phone pressed to her ear, brow furrowed. Something is wrong.
She places her phone back on her belt and steps inside. ‘Take a seat, Freya.’
‘Why?’
‘Trust me, you’ll want to be sitting for this.’
I shake my head, my body gripped by an invisible fist. ‘No,’ I say, a whimper in my voice. ‘No, no, no. Don’t tell me, don’t say it.’
‘It’s not Billy, Freya. It’s Masters.’
Now I do sit. ‘What? What’s happened?’
‘Masters is under surveillance. He is not allowed to leave his place of residence. However, between 1:00 and 2:00 pm this afternoon, after his doctor checked in on him, he left his property in breach of the terms of his parole.’
I catch my breath. It’s not so bad. Well, it’s bad, but I’d been preparing myself for much worse news.
‘Sometimes these things happen when people have recently got out of prison. In this case he managed to shed his electronic monitoring device.’
I lean back in the chair. Okay, this is bad.
‘There’s more. That man you beat half to death is hardly a man at all. He’s a seventeen-year-old runaway.’
My stomach hits the floor. ‘No,’ I say. You ever wonder what happened to him?
‘He was removed from an unsafe family environment when he was a child and lived with his father subsequently. His mother was prohibited from having any contact with him.’
‘It can’t be him. It’s not him. You’re lying.’ But I know she’s not. I saw something in his eyes.
