by Elle Croft
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, and walked away with her head down, ignoring her mum’s protests.
She hated herself for being so pathetic. After all, it was just a game of beach cricket, for crying out loud, not a bloody state volleyball championship. But that wasn’t the source of her bitterness, and she knew it, even if no one else understood. Her anger was just a symptom of something hidden and malignant, like blood oozing from a wound, dark and full of poison. She could feel it festering inside her, growing and morphing and filling up the dark spaces between her organs. It pushed on her lungs when she breathed, tugged at her heart when she thought she was happy, reminding her of the truth.
She wanted to get rid of it; she desperately wanted to be free from the anger and fear and confusion, but she didn’t know how. She wanted a cure, but maybe there wasn’t one.
And then the small voice in the back of her head, the one that she tried so hard to ignore, spoke the questions she fought never to ask, because she couldn’t bear to know the answers.
What if there is no cure because this is just who you are? it taunted her. What if this darkness is in your blood?
Chapter 6
IMOGEN
Imogen stared at her screen, the words blurring as she tried to make sense of them, her stomach in chaos.
She’d pictured this moment hundreds of times in the past few weeks, and yet, now that it was happening, despair swelled, rushing through her veins and reaching parts of her she didn’t know existed.
Overwhelmed, she sat heavily on her bed, new emotions crashing over her, one after another: confusion, anger, helplessness and, threaded through them all, hope. Gasping for breath, she let herself be battered by these waves, powerless to stop them, or even slow them down. She didn’t know how long she sat there before the world began to come back into focus. Laughter trickled through her window, along with clinking and chatter.
She clenched her fists.
Here she was, being crushed by the weight of their bare, ugly truths, while they were giggling and joking with their friends, completely oblivious. Rage built up inside her, the emotion so strong, she wasn’t sure she could control it, wasn’t sure she could restrain herself. Her overwhelming compulsion was to run outside and let it all out, let them know exactly what she thought of them, let their friends know exactly who they were.
But in the midst of her blinding fury there was a pinprick of logic. If she followed her instincts, there would be consequences. And, worse than that, she would lose control of the situation.
She needed to stay calm so she could manage how this all played out. The last thing she wanted was to relinquish her future to them. They already had her past, and that was all she would allow them to have.
Forcing the anger down, she blinked her tears away and furiously typed a message on the phone that had been resting by her side. She hit send and waited, her heart in her mouth, her hand trembling. Within seconds there was a reply. Despite herself, her mouth stretched into a wobbly smile. At least she didn’t have to go through this alone. There was someone who understood. Who would help her find a way forward.
She typed another message, a reply lighting up her screen almost instantly. Texts flew back and forth between them, and before long she was faced with a single question: Are you sure? If you say yes, you can’t breathe a word of this. To anyone.
Imogen stared at the message, feeling like she was on the edge of a precipice, her toes curled over the rim, staring down into the gaping unknown.
She took a deep breath, giving herself over to her anger again. She needed its intensity to drown out her doubts and fears. She’d known that this might happen, she reminded herself. Since that very first message, there had been a place at the back of her mind that had always suspected this was a possibility. As the weeks went on, the idea had begun to consume her, until it was all she could think about, until she daydreamed that it was true, that this moment would come. But now that it was happening, now that it was real … she couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the hundreds of reasons why she shouldn’t go through with it.
Imogen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, hoping for a bolt of clarity, for a sign that pointed her in the right direction. But she was old enough to know that she wouldn’t get one.
Sighing, she stood and walked to her door, opening it just a crack. If she was going to do this, she’d have to find a way to get past the adults, whose voices still drifted in from the back deck, brash and confident, the sounds of people who weren’t weighed down by things like honesty and integrity. And she couldn’t wake the tangle of kids in the living room or they’d alert their parents. If she couldn’t get away, then maybe that was her answer. Maybe it was as simple and as practical as that. Maybe that would be the universe’s way of saying no.
As she tiptoed down the hallway, a loud whoosh filtered through the air from the kitchen, the sound of the back door sliding open. Two female voices rang through the house, loud and clear.
‘She’s just a nightmare at the moment,’ the first voice said. Imogen thought it might be coming from Jo, the wife of one of her dad’s work friends.
‘Oh yeah, you think that’s bad?’ her mum said dramatically. ‘You should hear what Imogen did on Thursday.’
Imogen stiffened, her jaw clenching in instant indignation.
‘What happened?’
‘She punched someone. Just … just punched her, right in the face. And then wouldn’t tell us why, just refuses to speak to us about it.’
Imogen noticed that her mum’s words were tripping over one another. She was drunk, or at least tipsy, her speech loud and sloppy.
‘Oh my God! That’s awful. That’s not like her, is it? I thought she was a pretty well-behaved kid.’
‘No, that’s Jemima,’ her mum replied, and Imogen’s stomach lurched. ‘Imogen is … well, she’s just more complicated.’
‘Has she done anything like this before?’
‘Well … not exactly,’ her mum said slowly. ‘Nothing like this. But she’s just … All I’m saying is that it didn’t exactly surprise me. It’s who she is.’
Imogen whirled around and tiptoe-ran back down the hallway, back into her bedroom, and resisted the urge to slam her door, closing it carefully, quietly, instead. The tears came when there was a solid barrier between her and the traitorous woman in the kitchen.
She picked up her phone again and stared at the message that had turned her world upside down just minutes earlier. There it was: proof. As the words sank in again, betrayal and resentment settled over her, heavy; an anchor that focused her thoughts until they honed in on the only thing that mattered.
Then she let her fingers type the message she’d been too scared to send before: Yes.
She tapped the send button. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t need to. Her mum thought she knew who Imogen was, but she had no idea. If that’s what she thought of her, that was fine. That worked perfectly, in fact.
It was time to show her mum who she really, truly was.
Chapter 7
KAT
The sun is climbing, higher and brighter by the minute, the birds are warbling outside, and the other side of the bed is empty. I roll over and groan, letting my body adjust to being awake.
Last night’s barbecue went on much later than we’d anticipated. A few people trickled away in the afternoon, and the rest came back to our place after a few hours at the beach to continue the revelry on our back patio. I don’t know how many bottles of wine we got through, but judging by the pounding behind my eyes, it must have been a few.
I squint at the clock, blink in disbelief and shoot upright. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late on a Sunday. Imogen rarely surfaces before midday unless she’s dragged from her bed, but Dylan and Jemima are usually up; Dylan rising early to blend spinach and protein powder into a green sludge, the noise never failing to haul me out of bed, grumbling, while Jemima slouches on the sofa and watches cartoons. But this morning the ho
use is eerily quiet.
Stepping out of bed, I cautiously test my body for more signs of a hangover. As well as my throbbing head, my mouth feels like I’ve been sucking on towels all night, and my stomach is ropey. I throw on a robe and make my way groggily towards the kitchen in search of coffee and toast.
There’s a hastily written note on the kitchen table from Dylan.
Thought you might need a sleep-in, his childlike scrawl reads. So I took Jems for breakfast.
I smile at the attempt to sound fatherly, when I’m pretty sure he’s doing it for purely selfish reasons: he wants bacon. And hash browns. My mouth waters at the thought.
I send him a text asking him to bring something greasy home for me – toast suddenly seems completely unappealing. He replies with a winking emoji.
Smiling, I turn on the coffee machine and stare at it blankly while it heats up. I steam the milk and pour myself an extra shot of espresso to make the strongest cappuccino I can stomach. Adding extra chocolate sprinkles, I sip it as I sit at the kitchen table, half-heartedly spooning the passion fruit off a chunk of leftover pavlova and nibbling tentatively at the seeds.
My stomach turns as the fruit hits my tender stomach, and I groan. I’m far too old to drink like that, and I should know better. I do know better. It’s never worth it the next day; it hasn’t been since my twenties.
As I slowly regain some strength, I try to gather my thoughts and plan for the day ahead. Hangover or not, I need to get on with things. Imogen’s volleyball practice isn’t going to be magically cancelled because I’d like to nurse a headache in peace. I get up, brushing meringue crumbs from my satin robe and swig the dregs of my coffee.
With a burst of energy – thank goodness for caffeine – I go back to my room and take a shower, the steam filling my lungs and making me feel vaguely human again. I step out and sit on the edge of the bed, sending texts to Linda, seeking comfort in knowing I’m not the only one feeling wretched today. She asks if I can look after her kids later while she meets an old friend for dinner. The last thing I want to deal with today is extra kids, but as I owe her way more than one babysitting favour, I agree, then get dressed and dry my hair, listening for any indication that Imogen is up.
The house is still silent. I have to wake her, get her ready and drop her at volleyball practice across town. Then I need to drop Jemima at Carly’s birthday party, stop at the butcher’s to get lamb chops for tonight, collect Imogen, collect Jemima and bring everyone home in time for Linda to drop her kids off for the evening.
Standing outside Imogen’s door, I take a deep breath to prepare myself and then knock softly. Whatever she decides to throw at me today, I’m too fragile to face it head-on. I cross my fingers that she’ll be in a good mood.
‘Imogen? Are you awake? It’s eleven … we need to leave in forty-five minutes if you’re going to get to practice in time.’
I wait. There’s no sound. She must have stayed up late if my knock hasn’t woken her, but that’s no surprise. I don’t recall her going to bed, although I certainly wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing once we got back from the beach. We weren’t making an effort to be quiet, though, and her window is right next to the back deck, so if she was trying to sleep, we probably kept her up pretty late. I almost feel guilty, but then I let the feeling slide. Keeping her up past her bedtime really is the least of my parenting failures.
‘Imogen?’
I knock again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Frustrated, I turn the handle. She’ll be mad at me for intruding, but if she doesn’t wake up soon she won’t get to practice in time, and she’s bound to blame me if she’s late. Her coach takes their practice seriously, which is understandable, given that it’s the state under-eighteens squad and not some social league. I open the door to rouse my daughter, to get her going.
‘Imogen, we really don’t have time for this,’ I’m saying as the door swings open. ‘You’re going to be late, and you know how Coach Cresswell feels about that. It’s after—’ I stop, mid-sentence, my eyes struggling to register what I’m seeing, what it means.
Imogen’s room is in perfect order: no dirty clothes on the floor, no schoolbooks strewn across her desk, no backpack explosion in the corner. That’s not so unusual, but my eyes have settled on her bed, and confusion leaves me momentarily paralysed.
Imogen’s bed is made, the covers pulled tightly, the gold patterned cushions we got her for Christmas artfully arranged at the top. But my daughter isn’t in it.
She’s not here. Imogen is gone.
Chapter 8
SALLY
I miss him.
I like to remind people of this when they suggest that I’m a psychopath. Psychopaths, you see, don’t feel emotions in the same way that you and I do. Oh, I can see you shrinking away as you consider me throwing us in the same category together, as though we could never be considered equals. Perhaps we’re not the same in terms of the way we think, or how we choose to raise a family, but in terms of brain chemistry, you and I, we feel things. We feel remorse. Pain. Regret. Love.
You probably don’t believe me; probably don’t see how it’s possible that I could have done all of the things that they say I did if I could feel love. But it shouldn’t surprise you. Some of the worst things in this world have been committed in the name of love. Love of another person, love of a nation, love of a god, love of an ideal, love of power.
People throw around platitudes like love conquers all as though all doesn’t really mean all. As though its meaning is selective, encompassing nothing but hardship and obstacles and doubt, and leaving out goodness and innocence and justice. No, love really does conquer all. It’s a powerful weapon. Believe me.
So, yes, I feel love. I know because I love Tim. He’s my soulmate, was the one for me ever since I first clapped eyes on him. In my trial, my lawyer tried to claim that he’d forced me to do the things I was being tried for, that he manipulated and groomed me. Coercive control, he called it. But my lawyer didn’t understand, won’t ever understand. Neither would the jury members, or the witnesses, or the judge.
Because, you see, Tim saved me. He rescued me from an impossible situation, a home so unbearable that no human should have to endure it, let alone a young girl. Mum wasn’t around, then. When I was just ten years old, Dad told me that she had run away, abandoned me, and for the longest time I believed him. But then there was the rose bush out the back, the one he lovingly tended while everything else around us went to hell. The backyard was a barren scrap heap, apart from that one flourishing rose bush; buttery yellow blooms of Sweet Memories. And on the rare occasion when he was in that precarious drunken state, still able to stand but not aware enough of his surroundings to have his guard up, he’d be out there, talking to that bush, calling it Pat. Mum’s name.
So I don’t know what really happened – never will, I suspect – but either way, she wasn’t around to see what was going on. Wasn’t there to stop it. No one could stop it. I was totally helpless, at the mercy of a monster.
And then Tim walked in the front door one Friday afternoon. He was new, not one of the regulars Dad brought around night after night to, as he described it, ‘blow off some steam’. I never understood what drove him to do it, that first time. What tipped him over the edge from neglectful and angry to downright abusive. Maybe he was desperate to get his workmates to like him. Maybe he needed the money. Maybe he just hated me. Me, and Pat.
Tim wasn’t like all of the others. I knew that the first time I met him. He was gentle with me. He asked questions. And he always brought me a treat: a piece of bubblegum, sometimes. Or a chocolate bar. Once, a set of sparkly pink hair clips that made me beam from ear to ear until Dad took them away and told me they made me look like a common whore. But to Tim, I was special. He saw me. He loved me. And, eventually, he rescued me.
The day he took me away from that place was the happiest day of my life. It was a Sunday, a bright and clear April afternoon with fluffy white c
louds hovering above the horizon, like they were taken straight from a picture book.
As we drove away, Dad standing in the driveway with a wad of cash in his hand, I looked back expectantly. I don’t know what I was hoping for. A wave, maybe. A smile. A remorseful tear sliding down his face.
But he wasn’t looking. His head was down, his focus directed at the pile of blue notes resting on his palm. He was too busy counting his profits to bid farewell to his only child, the only family he had left in this world.
Years later, I found out the truth about what was in his hand, what was so important that he didn’t care to offer me a parting gesture. Two hundred dollars.
It’s what he sold his thirteen-year-old daughter for.
It wouldn’t have lasted him a week.
Chapter 9
KAT
Don’t panic, I tell myself, as fear rises.
‘Imogen?’ I call out, walking quickly from her room and down the hallway. She’s probably just having breakfast, or watching TV, or any number of activities that mean she’s fine and definitely not missing. ‘IMOGEN!’
I dart between rooms, my chest tightening as every door I open reveals nothing but an empty space. She’s not here. She’s not in the house. I wrench the back door open and check every corner of the garden, knowing even as I do that she won’t be here. Why would she be? I run back inside, through the kitchen and the living room, and swing open the front door. She’s not out here, either.
Forcing the panic down, I try to think clearly. Did she tell me she was going out somewhere before volleyball today? Did she leave before I woke up?
I stride back to the kitchen to check the family calendar on the fridge. In the square that marks today’s date, my small handwriting reads Volleyball 12:30, J at Carly’s, 2–5 p.m. I double-check Dylan’s note on the table, but he definitely only mentioned taking Jemima out for breakfast.
