The Way Back

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘Are you OK, Rach?’ he’d asked, taking her arm.

  She shook him off. ‘It’s gone out,’ she’d said, still gazing at the light.

  ‘Yeah,’ he’d replied, making a show of glancing at it as it seemed so important to her. ‘The bulb must have gone. I’ll replace it later.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rachael had muttered, dropping her head. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ Then she’d spun on her heel and stalked down the steps and across the lawn to the car.

  Rachael adjusted the microphone and took a sip of water from the glass in front of her, her hand trembling slightly. Matt felt a pang of sympathy for her, and of regret that Charlie wasn’t here with them. She had been closer to Ava than all of them. She should have been giving the eulogy. Beside him, Dan leant forward in his seat and Matt noticed Hannah sitting next to him. It was nice of her to come, he thought vaguely, then wondered how she had known about the funeral. Rachael gave a small cough and began to speak.

  ‘My mother, Ava Menzies, was one of a kind as a musician, a teacher and a parent. As many of you know, for some time she was a successful, even world-renowned, concert pianist, performing for audiences in London, Warsaw, Paris and Vienna, as well as here in Australia, of course. She retired from the stage before I was born so I never saw her play professionally, but I have been able to listen to some of her old recordings and the magnitude of her talent never failed to astonish me.’ The words were heartfelt, Matt knew—he’d watched Rachael agonise over them in the week since Ava died—but she was reading them mechanically, without feeling, barely pausing for breath or looking up. Dan caught his eye. He’d noticed it too. ‘My mother’s rendering of Prokofiev’s works was particularly highly regarded, with one major critic rating her interpretation of his third concerto accompanied by the Berlin Philharmonic as definitive.’ Rachael shuddered slightly, gripped the sides of the lectern, and took another sip of water. ‘My mother began playing the piano when she was only four years old. She was introduced to the instrument by her uncle, who—’ She stopped abruptly, finally lifting her eyes from her notes, and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m going to have to let Reverend Nichols finish,’ then retreated to her seat in the front row.

  ‘What happened?’ Matt hissed as she sat down. ‘Are you OK?’ But Rachael didn’t reply, turning her full attention to the unsuspecting Reverend Nichols, who was now stuttering his way through her eulogy. She remained unreachable for the rest of the service, her hand lying limply in his when he took it, before slipping it away, her eyes resolutely trained on her order of service. When the final blessing had been said she followed the coffin out, back straight, but as soon as it had been loaded into the hearse she pulled him aside, ignoring the many people forming a loose queue behind her to express their condolences.

  ‘It’s just come to me,’ she said. ‘In church. We need to have a service for Charlie. A memorial service. And then maybe put a stone up, next to my mother’s.’

  ‘What?’ Matt exclaimed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘But she’s not dead! We don’t know—’

  ‘She is dead. I’m sure of it. There are signs. The porch light’s gone out. I left it on for her and now it’s out. She’s not coming home.’ Rachael laid a hand on his arm, preternaturally calm. ‘Don’t you see? There’s no point kidding ourselves.’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ he screamed. ‘Charlie isn’t dead!’

  Heads turned towards them. Out of the corner of his eye Matt saw the hearse drive away; saw Dan holding hands with Hannah. Rachael was crying now, mascara-inked tears sliding down her face.

  ‘She is dead,’ she cried back at him. ‘She is! She has to be! I can’t take it anymore. I can’t keep hoping when she’s probably rotting somewhere out in the bush.’ She grabbed at his shirt, fists balling the fabric. ‘It’s been too long. Don’t you see? I’m going to go crazy if I don’t give up.’

  Matt wrenched himself free from her grasp, the cotton tearing. ‘You can give up, but I never will. She’s not dead! Charlie’s not dead! I’ll find her, you’ll see. I’ll find her now!’ He sprinted to the car, not caring who was watching, fingers shaking so violently it took him a few tries to get the keys into the ignition. Then he hit the accelerator and squealed away from the church, not sure where he was going, barely noticing when he overtook the hearse at the first corner.

  Charlie didn’t know how long he’d left her like that: broken. Dirtied. Used. Discarded. She must have passed out when he’d finished, or even before, from the pain, from the shame, from a fundamental longing to simply disappear. When she awoke it was dark and cold and she needed to pee. She urinated where she lay, her lower half still uncovered, gasping at the sting of it, then gingerly pulled her jodhpurs back up. The night air was freezing. She wanted the blanket. Where was the blanket? Charlie hoisted herself onto one elbow to look for it, but the red throb that rocketed through her jaw as she did so almost wiped her out again, made bright specks of light dance before her eyes. She lay down, defeated, and counted forwards by threes until the numbers were too long to remember and the first fingers of morning had crept inside the stable.

  The man came back a few hours later. There were no kicks this time, no threats or admonitions. She heard him standing over her, breathing in and out, for what seemed like an eternity before he finally bent down and placed his hand to her face. She screamed; she couldn’t help it, and he jumped back, feet scuffling in the straw.

  ‘I was just checking you. There’s so much blood. It’s all in your lovely hair.’

  Charlie closed her eyes. Her hair was the last thing she cared about. She hated it now, anyway, despised it for bringing her to his attention in the first place. ‘It’s so dirty,’ he said, stroking it, fingers tangling in the matted clumps. ‘It’s all ruined. I ruined it.’ Something fell onto her cheek and she opened her eyes, looking at him. He was crying. The man was crying.

  ‘I’m sorry, girly,’ he sobbed, not meeting her gaze. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll make it all better.’ He pulled at her arm, trying to get her to stand, but she moaned and coughed as a wave of nausea swept through her. He tried again and she pushed him away, weakly, ineffectually, so instead he simply scooped her up and carried her out of the stable and over to his house.

  Once inside he set her down in the hallway while he ran her a bath. Blue nosed over to her, wagging his tail, but Charlie ignored him. She didn’t want anything touching her ever again. The dog regarded her sadly, then padded back towards the kitchen. The man reappeared, wiping his hands on a towel.

  ‘It’s ready,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you get undressed.’

  ‘NO!’ Charlie cried, the first words she had spoken to him since he had assaulted her. He backed off, chastened, like Blue.

  ‘Alright. If you say so. I’ll be here if you need any help.’

  She watched until he had retreated down the hallway, then slowly pulled herself up by the door frame and hobbled into the bathroom. Removing her clothes made her wince, but it was nothing compared with the sensation of lowering herself into the over-scented water. She clawed at the edges of the tub, trying to ignore the searing pain between her legs. He’d made her a bubble-bath. Or tried to, anyway, as there weren’t many bubbles—he’d probably just dumped a whole container of shampoo in the water and hoped for the best. She gritted her teeth, acutely aware of every internal laceration. Fuck him. Fuck him. Was this a way of making amends, of saying he was sorry, as if any amount of perfumed products could wash away what he had done to her? He may as well have filled the bath with acid. She pulled the plug and got out again, hair still dry. She was glad it was filthy. Maybe it would keep him away from her.

  The man tapped on the door. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked. ‘That was quick. I got you some clothes.’ The handle turned, but she shrieked at him again and it stopped. ‘OK, OK, I’ll leave them here. Come out when you’re done. I’m making breakfast.’

  Charlie waited a full five minutes before retrieving the clothes in case he wa
s lurking outside for a glimpse of her, but the hallway was empty. She shut the door and shook them out, puzzled. A flowered dress, clean but faded, and clearly too big for her. A pilled jumper, also far too large. Woollen socks. She could use those at least, but what was this final item? She gingerly unfolded the fraying garment, then dropped it to the floor. Underpants. Saggy white underpants gone grey with washing, and clearly intended for a woman at least twice her size. Who did they belong to? Had the man been married? Maybe he was a widower. She felt a flicker of sympathy, but extinguished it immediately and retrieved her own dirty jodhpurs and shirt. At the last minute she added the jumper because she was cold, careful not to catch her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and, devoid of any other ideas, shuffled to the kitchen as she had been instructed.

  After breakfast the man had invited her to stay in the house, offering his own bedroom for her to sleep in, but she had asked to be brought back to the stable. Charlie lay on the straw, staring up at the roof, each nail hole and rust blemish so familiar to her now. Who would have thought she’d have begged to be here, locked once more in her prison cell? But the alternative was unthinkable. She couldn’t even look at the man now, couldn’t bear to be near him. Oh, he had apologised again when he’d presented her with breakfast, he’d given her more blankets, a pillow, told her how well he was going to look after her, but she didn’t believe him. Maybe he meant it, but his mood changed so quickly. She’d seen it before; she’d watched it happen just an hour ago when she’d been unable to eat the lumpy pancakes he’d placed in front of her, anger darkening his features like a storm front sweeping across the national park. But how could she? Her jaw throbbed, pounded, vibrated with pain. Every movement sent a new spasm through it; tears leapt to her eyes if she tried to talk or swallow. She didn’t want his stupid pancakes, anyway. All she wanted was something to stop it hurting, and to be left alone. She had croaked out a request for some tablets, aspirin, anything, and he had got up from the table to have a look. That was when she took his lighter.

  Her hand went to it now, secured beneath the waistband of her jodhpurs. She pulled it out and turned it over in her fingers, inspecting it, then steeled herself to flick the switch. An orange flame sprung up immediately, vibrant and unwavering. Charlie gazed at it, mesmerised. At the time she couldn’t have said why she had stolen the lighter, other than that it was there, and that the loss of it would annoy him, a small revenge. Now, though, an idea flickered in her mind. Maybe it had been there all along. She thrust it away—too dangerous—and tried to count, but the numbers kept bumping into each other, becoming tangled.

  For an hour, two, she lay almost motionless, clutching the lighter to her chest. Could she do it? No. She hated fire. The very thought terrified her. But what was the alternative? To rot away here? To spend the rest of her life without sunshine, without company? To remain the man’s prisoner, or worse, his plaything? Her time in the stable, she now saw, had been dreadful but somehow bearable. Bearable, that is, until the rape. Bearable until he had held her down, forced her legs apart, torn at her clothes. A sob rose in her throat, a convulsion. She couldn’t live through that again. He might come back tomorrow, this evening, this afternoon. She couldn’t risk it happening.

  Galvanised, Charlie sat up and threw the blankets off her, then tugged on her boots. Her jaw ached, but she ignored it. It didn’t matter now. Nothing did, except making sure that the man could never touch her again, one way or another. She heaped the straw she’d been lying on into a pile, then pushed it towards the rear of the stable, right up against the old wooden walls. The lighter seemed to grow warmer in her palm, to pulse. She took a deep breath and held it out to the straw. Mum, she thought, Dad. Dan. Britta. Tic Tac. For a moment the flame spluttered, dwindled, and she had to force herself to creep in even closer, to keep it steady—but then it caught, racing along one dry stalk before leaping to a second, a third. She dropped the lighter and scurried back to sit by the door. At the other end of the stable the mound of straw flickered, flickered—and then caught, suddenly, irrevocably ablaze. She started screaming then, real screams, though with an odd sort of jubilation rather than fear. This was it. This would decide things. No more cold. No more cornflakes. The stable walls had begun to burn, smouldering in places, licked with reds and yellows along their base. It was smoky and she coughed between her screams. Fire! she called, Help! Fire! She didn’t want to die, she knew that, but it was OK, it was OK. The flames were moving towards her now, fuelled by the straw she’d missed, an army alight, advancing in ranks of gold. Charlie battered at the door. No one was coming. She gulped at the smoke, remembering something she’d read during History at school, that it would be quicker this way, less painful than burning to death. But school was so long ago, was a part of her other life, and that life was gone, had been extinguished the moment the man had first tried to touch her hair. Her skin was hot. The smoke was so thick now she could barely see through it. Charlie closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Soon. Soon. It would all be over soon. Outside, Blue began to bark.

  Footsteps. She could hear footsteps hurrying towards her, then the man swearing and fumbling with his keys. Charlie edged away from the doorway into the corner of the stable, crouching in the darkness. The hinges rattled, and finally the man pushed the door open and stood there calling her name before plunging into the billowing smoke. As quickly as she could, Charlie sprang from her position and sprinted out the door, slamming it behind her and clicking the padlock shut. Blue barked again and started to come after her, but the roar of the man from inside the stable drew him back. Charlie glanced once over her shoulder, then raced into the bush, chest heaving, taking great gulps of air. She ran and ran and ran, no idea where she was going, every step sending a fresh shot of pain through her jaw. She cradled it with one hand but kept loping through the scrub, the trees, along an old creek bed and out onto an overgrown path. It was getting late now, the sun sliding down the sky, and her lungs were screaming, but still she kept running, afraid to stop, afraid he might catch up, running and running and running, straight into the legs of a horse.

  AFTER

  Matt went straight from the funeral to the national park. Where else would he go? He’d returned there again and again since that sunny Saturday afternoon in March; he felt as if he knew every tree, every rock, every valley—but of course he didn’t, the place was too vast to ever develop that level of familiarity. He’d searched every week, daily to begin with. He’d searched with Dan, with Rachael, with Hannah and Terry and the SES. He’d searched in groups or all alone, and every single time he’d told himself that this would be it, this would be the day he’d find her.

  Matt manoeuvred his car along a rutted fire trail, then stopped and got out as it dwindled into bush. He was in the south-west corner of the park. As far as he knew, Charlie and Ivy hadn’t ridden through here, but that was no reason not to search it again. What else could he do? Close the door on his daughter? Plan her memorial? Damn Rachael for even suggesting it. Damn her for giving up. Matt clenched his fist and slammed it into the trunk of the tree. The pain felt good. Fuck her, and fuck her memorial. Matt had never pegged her as a quitter. Rachael did things, that was how she’d got as far as she had. She didn’t sit around moaning; she rolled her sleeves up and set to work. Or she used to, anyway. Where was all that drive now, when Charlie needed them the most?

  He hollered his daughter’s name to the leaden sky, but there was no answer. Undeterred, he pushed on, checking under fallen branches, peering into hollow logs. Rain began to fall, the first drops spattering onto the backs of his hands, warm and wet. Matt realised he was crying, and swiped angrily at his face. Crying wasn’t going to help Charlie. If it had she would be home by now, borne back to them on a river of their tears. He stepped up his efforts, kicking through undergrowth, calling for her until his voice gave out, then collapsed beneath a blue gum, spent and sobbing.

  When he opened his eyes again the sky seemed darker, as if the day had given up, like
Rachael. The earth beneath him was damp; an ant scurried across the exposed skin where his pants had ridden up. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket but he ignored it. It was probably Rachael, livid at him for running out like that, or Dan worrying where he was. Matt rolled over onto his back, gazing up through the darkening canopy. Poor Dan. He was always worried, even before Charlie went missing. He was born anxious. How was he coping now that he finally had something to be anxious about? Matt had never asked, too impaled upon his own pain. A moan escaped him. He was tired of it. It was eroding him, destroying him, there was no way out of it. He wished he could just lie here, forever, gradually entombed by fallen leaves; he wished he could reach inside his head and switch his brain off.

  The phone sent out another little distress signal, quivering in his hip pocket. Eventually it went still, but then started up again almost immediately. When it vibrated for the sixth time, curiosity got the better of him. He got to his feet, brushed himself off and checked the screen. Six missed calls, all from the same unfamiliar number. Probably a journalist. He’d give them a piece of his mind, but when he answered the next call there was a familiar voice on the line.

  ‘Matt?’ a woman said. ‘Is this Matt?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered cautiously.

  ‘Oh, thank God we reached you!’ Her voice caught, hooked like a fish, and his heart began to pound. ‘Matt, it’s Gia, Gia from pony club. Where are you? You have to come here straight away. Hannah’s found her! Hannah found Charlie.’

  Matt’s blood roared in his ears; the blue gum tilted and he was on the ground again. A parrot flew out, shrieking, from its branches.

  ‘Charlie?’ he asked. ‘You found Charlie? Is she dead?’

  ‘No!’ Gia cried, her words slurred with tears and laughter. ‘She’s alive! She’s fine. Well, she’s got some scrapes and bruises and she stinks to high heaven, but she’s here at the club. I’ve been trying to call but you didn’t answer, and Rachael must have her phone turned off because it keeps going to voicemail and Hannah told me that Charlie’s brother doesn’t even have a mobile, which I couldn’t believe, but she said it’s true and we’ve had Charlie here with us for fifteen minutes now and we couldn’t reach any of you. Hurry! She’s here, waiting to see you.’