by Kylie Ladd
‘Matt?’ Richo said. ‘Are you listening? I asked you what number you wanted me to write down. Is there a police line?’
Matt noticed that his hands were shaking. He jammed them in his pockets before they gave him away. ‘There is, but they wouldn’t thank me for using it. They don’t advise offering a reward.’ He mimicked the clipped tones of the CIB officer he’d spoken to; all badge, no heart.
‘Are you serious? Why on earth not?’
‘They say it brings out the cranks and the crazies.’ Matt paused. ‘But you’d have to be pretty crazy to steal a kid, wouldn’t you, so bring it on. Use my mobile: 0417 …’
Before he could finish an alert sounded over the station speakers. Reported Structure Fire: Kitchen Fire. All crew.
‘I’ll check the location,’ Richo said, turning immediately towards the door. ‘You grab your gear. He looked back over his shoulder when Matt didn’t reply. ‘Come on, we’ve gotta go. We can do this later.’
Matt felt the anger rise again, coursing through his veins, making his fingers twitch. Later? How could finding his daughter wait for later? Fuck that. Fuck whatever it was that was on fire. He hoped it burned to the ground. He swept up the flyers that Richo had jettisoned. Maybe Dobbsy was right. Maybe he should take leave.
The lock rattled. Charlie sat up, immediately awake, and pushed her hair from her face. What time was it? She squinted at her watch, but the stable was gloomy and her eyes were fogged with sleep. She slept so much, it seemed, but what else was there to do? No Tic Tac, no school, nobody to talk to. Sleep was the only thing she had left.
‘Come on, girly, rise and shine.’
Nobody to talk to, except him. Charlie lay back down and pulled the blanket around her. Girly. She hated being called that. Why had he made such a big deal about finding out her name if he was going to keep calling her girly? He’d told her his name too—Col—but she couldn’t have cared less. Now he pushed the door open and entered, smiling. Charlie rolled over so she didn’t have to look at him, but he jerked the blanket off her and pulled her to her feet. ‘Rise and shine, girly, rise and shine.’
He did that a lot, she thought, repeated himself, or spoke in short, choppy sentences, almost as if he wasn’t used to speaking at all. She held her arms up as he wound the rope around her waist so as to avoid him touching her again. Up close his clothes were filthy and his breath smelled dreadful. Hers probably did too, but at least she had an excuse.
The dog capered around the man as he led Charlie out of the stable and tied the other end of the rope looped around her waist to a tree.
‘Get out of it, Blue,’ Col said, sending a half-hearted kick in the animal’s direction, then went back into the stable. Charlie settled herself on the grass below the tree. By now she knew the drill. The man would get her up and take her outside, then empty her bucket and carefully shake and fold the blanket before returning to the house to fetch her something to eat. He’d sit with her while she did and either talk to her or just stroke her hair. Neither was pleasant, but she preferred the former. After a while he’d lead her back into the stable like a donkey, unfasten the rope, then lock the door again. Some days he returned and repeated the whole procedure in the afternoons; on others he just pushed a sandwich or some cereal at her and left her alone until the next morning. The first time he’d tied her to the tree, Charlie had tried to escape, but the more she struggled with the rope, the more it bit into her skin. When the man had finished tidying the stable he had noticed the rope’s tighter coils and promptly knotted her hands together too. She hadn’t been able to pick up her food to eat and had had to watch while the dog wolfed it down instead. After that she hadn’t attempted it again: she was hungry enough without missing any more meals, and the man never left her alone for more than a few minutes, anyway.
There was a chill in the air and Charlie shivered, wrapping her arms around her and wishing for about the thousandth time that she hadn’t left her jacket behind when she and Ivy set off from the pony club. She watched the man standing in the doorway of the stable, picking bits of straw off the blanket and flicking them to the ground. How could he be so fastidious with an old tartan rug when he never cleaned his own fingernails? Still, she was grateful to have it, and the torch too, both items tossed in at her on the night she’d finally cracked and told him her name. She wondered if he’d give her another one if she asked, maybe a pillow too, but she didn’t want to ask him for anything. He caught her looking at him and a lopsided grin spread across his face.
‘You hungry, eh? I got your breakfast inside.’
He left the blanket over the stable door to air and hurried off to the house. The dog watched him go, then padded a few steps towards her.
‘Blue,’ she called softly. ‘Come here, boy.’
The dog wagged his tail but stayed where he was, regarding her with liquid brown eyes.
‘Blue’, she called again, slightly louder this time. The dog moved closer, but then ran to Col as he returned. The man placed a bowl of cornflakes on the ground and sat down next to her, then stood up again.
‘Forgot my smokes.’
Charlie waited until he was a few paces away before picking up a cornflake and throwing it to the dog. Blue gobbled it up and looked at her expectantly. She threw another, a bit closer this time, and the dog moved forward and ate that one too. By the time Col came back he was almost at her feet.
‘He likes you,’ said Col, settling himself with his back against the tree she was tied to. He smiled shyly. ‘We both do.’
Charlie stared at her lap. ‘Can I pat him?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ said Col. He opened his pack of cigarettes and shook one into his palm.
Charlie let the dog sniff her hand, as her dad had taught her, then gently fondled his silky ears. ‘Hey, Blue,’ she whispered. ‘Good dog. Good boy.’ Beside her, as if in imitation, the man reached out and began stroking her hair. Charlie tried not to flinch. He took the food away when she made him cross. Blue settled down between them, his head on Charlie’s lap. She covertly fed him another cornflake, then put a handful in her own mouth.
‘Do you like cornflakes?’ Col asked. ‘I like cornflakes. I like rice bubbles, too.’ He pulled out his lighter and flicked its switch, sending up a tiny golden flame. Charlie stared at it, mesmerised as he lit his cigarette.
‘Do you?’ he asked again.
‘They’re OK,’ she mumbled, forcing herself to take another mouthful. She didn’t really like the cornflakes Col had given her—they were scratchy and cheap-tasting—but she guessed he wasn’t going to cook her bacon and eggs if she told him.
‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Roast lamb,’ she answered. Her dad did an amazing roast lamb, with potatoes that had been cooked in the same pan and came out just the way she loved them, a bit crispy and a bit soggy and tasting of the meat.
Col frowned. ‘I can’t cook roast lamb.’
Charlie looked up. ‘I like chocolate too. Caramello, or Maltesers.’
‘Huh,’ Col said. ‘Do you? I could get some next time I go to the shops.’ He looked relieved.
‘And chips,’ Charlie said. ‘I like all sorts of chips. Salt and vinegar, sour cream and onion, sweet chilli. Even just the plain ones.’
‘I gave you some, didn’t I?’ Col was practically beaming. ‘I’m doing a good job.’
‘It’s getting cold at night,’ Charlie went on, seizing the moment. ‘If you’re going to the shops, maybe you could get me a jumper, or another blanket. And a water bottle, and some toilet paper. You could write a list.’
The stroking stopped. ‘I’m not very good with writing,’ Col said.
‘That’s OK. I could write it.’
Col sucked at his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. ‘I’m not very good with reading either.’
Just my luck, Charlie thought. She buried her hands in Blue’s fur. It was good to be outside, but the morning sunlight was patchy and weak, and she appreciated the warmth of the dog�
�s body. After a while Col started up his stroking again, caressing and fondling her hair.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ he asked.
‘Just a brother,’ Charlie said.
‘Is he older or younger than you?’
‘Older.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter.’ The lie gave her a brief glow. Why should she tell him Dan’s name? She owed him nothing. Less than nothing.
‘What about a boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?’
The hand on her hair abruptly felt sinister. Charlie fought the urge to shake it off, to kick out at the man, to run for her life. She squirmed, and the rope chafed at her side as if reminding her it was there.
‘No,’ she muttered. How could she, when she was here? Her anger and frustration gave her the courage to blurt out a question. ‘When are you going to let me go?’
The man started. ‘I’m not,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘I like having you here.’
Charlie let out a sob. Blue jumped up, sensing the shift in her emotions, and licked at her face as if in consolation. She didn’t try to push him away. Let him lick, let him slobber all over her face, let him devour her. Better that than remaining here, imprisoned by a tree, by a stable, by a stinking old retard.
‘Don’t cry, girly,’ the man said anxiously. ‘I’ll get you another blanket. I’ll get you some chips. I’ll go and get some paper for a list.’ He scrambled to his feet, cigarette still between his lips, and hastened towards the house. Blue ran after him, tail wagging. Charlie lay down and curled herself around the tree, face against the dirt, weeping for everything she had lost. For her brother, who was called Dan, not Peter, and who was kind and played songs for her when she asked him to; for the chickens, who ate grated cheese straight out of her hand and squatted down so she could pat them; for her nan, trapped like her, but in a different way; for her dad’s lamb roast; for the sleep game her mum had played with her at night not all that long ago, when she’d lie on the bed next to Charlie with the light off and pretend they were somewhere magical—on a coral reef under the sea, or a carpet of pine needles deep in the forest, or sleeping out under the stars on a dune in the desert. She cried for Britta and for Tic Tac and finally for Liam, who had pushed a lock of hair behind her ear at Ivy’s party, then gently leant in and kissed her. She had never told anyone that, not even Britta, because it was too special, too fragile. She’d even tried not to think about it too much, scared that she would wear the memory out, but she thought about it now, she recalled every little thing, and as she did she cried and she cried and she cried. The sun climbed higher in the sky, but no one returned.
Some days Rachael prayed for bones. It was hideous, the not-knowing; it was inhumane. Better a body, almost, than this—the long hours of anxiety and speculation, of having to breathe and eat and exist while somewhere Charlie was either being held captive or, as her mother would say, dead in a ditch. For the first time ever Rachael envied her mother. If she had to be alive, better to be like her: insentient, uncaring. She and Matt hadn’t even told her that Charlie was missing—not to spare her their unceasing agony, but because it simply wouldn’t register.
Rachael, in contrast, could think of nothing else. Charlie haunted her every moment, clung to her like a shadow. Charlie was always there, hovering, whether she was talking to the police or dealing with a call from work or taking a shower. Not that there were many calls—her colleagues, horrified but helpless, had retreated into their own lives and jobs. Somebody was no doubt doing hers, and while the idea would have appalled her just a few months ago, now she found she couldn’t care less. Let them do it. She had no resources for caring about anything other than where Charlie was. She felt as if she was perpetually holding her breath. She stumbled through her days, light-headed and unseeing, unable to exhale.
At times she wondered how other mothers stood it. It had been six weeks for her. Other parents had endured months, years, decades. The Beaumont children, snatched before Rachael was even born, yet their mother might well still be alive half a century later. How did you survive that? How could you keep getting up each morning? What would be the purpose? Daniel Morcombe, Karmein Chan—at least their parents had had some closure, even if it took years and came in the form of a corpse, but Kate and Gerry McCann—how could they bear it? How the fuck could they bear it?
Just say it was forever? Just say Charlie was never found, that Rachael never discovered what happened to her? The idea made her crazy, made her bargain with God. Or maybe not God—she had never believed—but Buddha, Mohammed, Spider-Man, whatever; anyone who would listen. Bring her back. If you bring her back I’ll do anything you want: go to church every week, give all my money to the poor. She was not a superstitious woman, but when the bargaining yielded nothing she turned to ritual instead: if I hang the clothes out by colour, Terry will ring and say that he has her; if the porch light stays on she’s still alive; if I hear a kookaburra laughing it means that she’s safe. But the clothes were pegged chromatically, the light burned on and the kookaburra laughed and still no phone call came.
Matt, she saw dimly, was handling it differently. While she sleepwalked through her days, he barrelled through his. He was always occupied, always doing something: out searching, or dropping flyers or on the phone or at work, forever furiously busy, as if his energy alone could save Charlie. And Dan—actually, she had no idea how Dan was coping. Hopefully he talked to Matt. He talked to her, too, sometimes, but the words would slide around in her brain and fall back out of her ears without being absorbed. She had become separated from her husband and son, almost as separated as she was from her daughter. Matt and Dan existed in a parallel orbit: she could see them, but not interact with them. It was as if there were thick glass between them. She had become one of her own exhibits.
She was perpetually exhausted; she began to believe that she would never sleep again. For the first few days sleep wasn’t a consideration, but then the adrenalin ran out and now she longed for it almost as much as she longed for Charlie—to lie down and close her eyes and be taken away from everything, from the fear and the guilt and the pain. Only death could offer a similar release. She has thought about death, but then thought again. If Charlie came back she would need her mother. Not if—when, when. So she tried to sleep instead, pursuing it like a hunter. At first she took Crush, Charlie’s favourite soft toy, to bed with her too, hoping it would soothe her; then, when that failed, she swapped beds altogether, climbing into Charlie’s each night for the fleeting hit of her scent still lingering on the pillow. The first time she had done so Matt had tried to talk her out, back into their room, but she wouldn’t be budged and they hadn’t slept together now for over a month. It didn’t matter. She still couldn’t sleep in Charlie’s bed, but she could toss and turn without worrying she was disturbing him, she could watch the light fade and then reappear again hours later, as relentless as grief. She remembered being there with Charlie and the game they used to play each night before Rachael had stopped it, deciding that Charlie was too old. Why had she thought that? Charlie had still enjoyed it. Their doctor had prescribed her sleeping tablets, but the only time she took one she was seized with an unshakeable fear that Terry would call the moment she fell asleep, that she wouldn’t be awake when Charlie was found. She had gone into the bathroom and made herself throw it up, then pushed the rest to the back of the medicine cabinet. Why should she sleep, anyway? Not sleeping was her penance for being careless enough to lose her daughter. She would stay awake until Charlie was home. And failing that, she would pray for bones.
‘Heels down, remember,’ Hannah called. Dan bit his lip. He was trying to keep them down, but anytime his horse went faster than a trot his toes slipped straight through the stirrups and pointed towards the earth. He grabbed a handful of mane and tried to shift himself back into the saddle. How the hell were you even supposed to stay on if your heels were down, like Hannah kept telling him? It didn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for t
he stirrup iron tight around his boot he’d be on the ground in no time.
‘Grip with your legs, not your feet,’ Hannah said, as if she’d read his mind. Then she smiled at him. ‘You’re doing really well, you know. You’re a natural, like Charlie.’
Dan flushed. Natural, my arse, he thought, but a small thrill of pleasure ran through him.
‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ he admitted. ‘Whenever we canter I’m like a sack of potatoes, jolting all over the place. I’m probably going to break Rocky’s back.’ He patted the horse’s neck in commiseration, then quickly returned his grip to the reins.
‘Oh, Rocky’s had worse, believe me,’ Hannah said. ‘You should see some of the junior group on him. One of the girls turned round and pulled his tail once when she wanted him to stop.’ Dan laughed, a strange, disused sound. ‘But just sit deep,’ Hannah continued. ‘Really push yourself into the saddle, and hold on with your knees. If you keep your heels down you sort of have to, anyway, and then you just go with the horse. Keep looking forward too. Head up, heels down. It’s the first thing Gia teaches us, and she never stops drumming it in.’
‘Do you like her?’ Dan asked, tentatively steering Rocky around a fallen tree.
‘She’s good. That’s probably not what Charlie says, but she knows her stuff, and she only yells at you if you deserve it.’ Dan didn’t comment. He couldn’t remember Charlie saying anything about Gia. Maybe she had, but he hadn’t been listening. He’d tuned her out. He’d done that a lot, and he hated himself for it now. ‘Besides, she let you have Rocky,’ Hannah went on. ‘She’d normally never do that for someone who wasn’t a member of the pony club, and had hardly ever ridden.’ She paused. ‘Given the circumstances …’ Her voice trailed away.
The circumstances, yeah, Dan thought as he followed Hannah’s horse off the fire track and into the bush. Most Saturdays were pretty uneventful. He spent them in his room with the door closed, either doing his homework or fiddling with his guitar. Instead, today he was here, trying to balance atop Rocky while he and Hannah scoured the countryside once more. And he wished he didn’t have to search, he wished he was anywhere but here. Despite that, he was enjoying it too. The late autumn air was crisp in his nostrils, Rocky felt warm and sturdy beneath him, and then there was Hannah. Hannah, riding ahead, back straight, her dark brown plait swinging against her jacket, Hannah turning around to smile and give him tips and ask him questions. The sun was warm on his shoulders, the bellbirds chimed in the trees. He would never wish for such circumstances, to be hunting, desperately, for his only sister, but was it wrong to be enjoying them now that he was here?
