Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  ‘We should look for her, too.’

  ‘So we should. But guess what? Because the man who wasn’t a prince was so very lonely, she sent him a sky-child, all the way from the stars.’

  ‘Did he love her, too?’

  ‘More than anything else in the whole world. She was his special gift from his lost princess – the most beautiful sky-child of all.’

  Rory kisses him goodnight and George is left alone, looking up at what is, after all, an ultimately unknowable vastness. No wonder humans need stories to make sense of it all – stories that, no matter how elevated, are no more than narrative dross compared to what they endeavour to explain. He and Rory had tried to find the princess star but agreed in the end that there were too many to choose from. Funny how that story came to his mind unbidden. He had never thought before that Rory might be a gift from his dead wife. Never believed in an afterlife. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it, as far as he’s concerned. Nevertheless, as he steps out under the dome of stars, he finds a prayer on his lips – not a prayer to a distant god, but a prayer wholly domestic, wholly earthbound. Don’t let them take her away. Please, Pen. I couldn’t bear it.

  Bree rings back as promised. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I’m not giving her up.’ George is surprised by his own vehemence. ‘Angie forfeited the right to Rory when she ran off. It’s going on two years, Bree. And in all that time we got twelve phone calls. Twelve! I counted them. And for most of those she was drunk or stoned.’

  ‘It’s your decision, George.’

  ‘My oath it is.’ But Bree is wavering. He can hear it in her voice. Rattled more than he cares to admit, he speaks to her sharply. ‘You’re not going to let us down, are you?’

  ‘No. But I can’t get involved any more than I am. With my record I’ll end up doing time for sure.’

  She sounds really frightened and she’s already done more than he could have reasonably expected. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It’s my problem. As it happens, I’ve got a plan but it’s better you don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll only ring if there’s something you really need to know – and George?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘No worries. And keep Redgum out of trouble, won’t you? He’s not a very good liar.’

  George puts down the phone and opens a can of beer. He has never been a good liar either, but now lies slide from his tongue without the impediments of consciousness or conscience. He has no plan, just resolve. And resolve, though a start, is not nearly enough. He still has a week before Park and Stella’s return. Tomorrow he’ll organise things so, if forced to, they can leave in a hurry, but he has no idea where to go. That’s the best he can do for now – it’s time to prepare for bed. But as soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake and his brain continues to buzz, ideas forming, collapsing and reassembling like fragments of glass in a kaleidoscope.

  What if . . . ? How about . . . ? We could . . . We could!

  He sits up and clutches at the momentary hope a random reassembling has produced. He’d read about it somewhere – people managing to live cheaply and anonymously in places like Thailand and Bali. Riding the wave of this thought, he sees them in some remote tropical village where his pension would be enough to live on, with Rory attending an English school (miraculously operating in this insignificant place) and . . . He flops back on the pillow. What on earth is he thinking? He’ll have to do a lot better than that. His overwrought imagination crumbles into dust under the implacable force of reality. They don’t have passports. As a fugitive, he’d have no pension. Sudden weariness prevents him from further planning, fanciful or otherwise. He turns over, determined to sleep. Things always seem brighter in the morning.

  Rory is training Richie Dog to beg. None too successfully, but at least it keeps her busy while George makes his preparations. He’s pleased that he filled up with petrol last time he went to the township, and estimates that, with good preparation, they could be on the road within an hour if necessary. He works on this most of the morning, which leaves him a couple of hours to worry before taking Rory for the promised trip to the swimming hole later in the day.

  So he frets and dozes while Rory makes a rainbow snake out of penne pasta and string. She’s an enterprising little kid. Artistic, too. Her activity makes George feel guilty, so he takes out the road map and tries to focus. Which way would they expect him to go? He has no idea himself, so why would they? ‘They’ loom in his imagination as social workers with judgemental briefcases, and SWAT teams and lawyers and judges in wigs. He worries at the map and finally settles on a place, a largish town by the look of it. They’ll stop there and head for Sydney the next day. Hide in a crowd. He’s beginning to feel very exposed out here.

  George douses his head and comes up snorting and blowing. Rory’s water confidence has improved with regular practice and she duck-dives and swims and jumps off his shoulders, squealing her delight. Rusty and Min, after a quick swim, retire to watch from under the trees, but Richie Dog, too young or too silly to stop, frolics along with Rory well after George has had enough.

  Watching child and dog, George is at once envious of their carefree play and nostalgic for these simple pleasures that he knows are coming to an end. Let them stay a while – finish in their own time. The sun is low and he feels strangely enervated. A haze, faintly blue, rises from the gum trees. There’s an end-of-day smell of dust and eucalypt. George tips his hat over his eyes and listens to the splashes and shrieks and Richie and Min’s short, sharp barks. There’s a remnant of daylight left. Let them play while they can.

  There’s a message on the answering machine when they get home and, while Rory has a shower, he listens to Bree. Her voice is sharp and flustered. ‘George? Don’t let Rory watch the news. Angie’s going to be on, making an appeal. Then there’s going to be a piece on that Channel 14 show – As It Happens. I don’t think they’ll be on your side. They didn’t want to talk to me or Shirl. And George? Don’t forget to delete this.’

  There is an old video recorder with the television and George tests it, relieved to find it works. He sets it to tape the news programs and after dinner is quite short with Rory in an effort to get her to go to bed. As soon as he hears her little snuffles and snores, he closes the door and rewinds the tape. ‘Let’s see what they have to say,’ he mutters, sitting down with the remote, preparing to fast-forward through irrelevant items. Not necessary. They are headline news now.

  Newsreader, face suitably grave: ‘Police are still appealing to George Johnson to give himself up and return six-year-old Aurora-Jane Wilson to her mother, who is fearful for her child’s safety. Today, Ms Wilson made her own appeal to the kidnapper.’

  Cut to Angie, looking distressed and respectable in the outfit Shirl had organised for her job interview. ‘George, if you have a heart, please bring my Rory back.’ She’s close to tears and looks young and vulnerable. ‘You mustn’t hurt her, George. Please don’t hurt her.’

  Newsreader: ‘More from Ms Wilson at six-thirty.’

  George is stunned. Why would Angie say that? She must know there’s no way he’d hurt Rory. Fingers trembling, he fast-forwards to As It Happens.

  At short notice, the producers have gathered a formidable array. First Detective Inspector Harrop is introduced as the chief investigating officer. George sees a middle-aged man with kind eyes and an austere mouth, who may well be a father himself. ‘As each day goes by,’ he says, ‘we become more and more concerned. Given his past actions, there is no reason to believe that this man would harm young Aurora, but . . .’ He looks directly into the camera to emphasise the point that sets George reeling. ‘We must always bear in mind that abused children are most often victims of family members or family friends.’

  Hand shaking, George tries to find the stop button but drops the remote control and sits in sick fascination as Mr and Mrs Nguyen appear, distressed and nervous. ‘George. Our neighbour. He a good, goo
d man. He take care of Rory while mother run away.’

  George looks with affection at his elderly friends as they blink uncertainly at the camera. They are standing outside their house and he can see Pen’s roses dipping and swaying over the side fence. A yearning for his old life in Mercy Street hits him with a force that is almost physical. He reaches out but Mr and Mrs Nguyen turn away from the camera. Bless them.

  Barely acknowledging the Nguyens, the reporter indicates the house now behind him – George’s own. ‘This is the ordinary house in Mercy Street, Fairfield, that George Johnson left nearly six weeks ago, claiming he was taking Aurora-Jane Wilson on holiday.’

  Claiming? Claiming? George doesn’t hear the rest of her presentation as the word spins and swoops around him in stomach-churning loops. He tosses his head, squeezes his eyes shut and bats at the word as though swatting a fly.

  Here’s Angie, looking tired and confused. ‘No. I didn’t say that he’d hurt Rory. Just that I hoped he wouldn’t.’ Beside her is another older woman the presenter identifies as Angie’s grandmother. She doesn’t look like the frail, ailing granny of Angie’s story. Early sixties, George estimates. But that must seem ancient to someone of nineteen.

  Back in the studio, a woman with hair that looks a bit like Pen’s, and broad shoulders weighed down with gravitas, responds to the first question.

  ‘Doctor Philips, you have vast experience in psychological profiling, what would you expect this man to do next?’

  ‘What next? You may well ask. The outcome is difficult to predict and until I’ve had time to construct a full profile of the kidnapper, I can only say we must assume the worst and hope for the best.’

  The kidnapper? The man? Where is he, George, in all of this? Mr and Mrs Nguyen were the only ones to call him George. His eyes leak self-pity.

  The reporter senses something untrustworthy in Angie. ‘And is it true that you left your four-year-old daughter with this man, a stranger?’

  ‘She was five.’

  George almost feels sorry for her.

  ‘Anyway, it was just till I found a job.’ Predictably sulky, she pursues justification. ‘He seemed okay. I didn’t say he could take her away.’

  ‘Time for a break. Meanwhile, we all wait for this man to give himself up and return the little girl. The police will find you sooner or later. Give yourself up, mate. It’ll be better for everyone.’

  Mate? That weasel-faced dickhead wouldn’t know a mate if he fell over one.

  The next segment shows some dumb husband with his foot stuck in a tin of paint. His wife looking exasperated, then radiant as she remembers ‘Paint-off’, which it seems even works on graffiti. How can they show such rubbish when worlds are falling apart – groaning under the strain of wars, poverty, climate change – and his own little world, the one he has created out of a child’s need? Under threat, his own need has become voracious. One thing at least is clear. It’s time to move on.

  Shirl rings Redgum. She and Bill have just watched the news, their first intimation that anything is wrong.

  ‘George is a mate. A man has to help his mates. Didn’t want to worry you, Shirl.’

  ‘Worry me? What do you think it’s like to see your brother on the news, being called a kidnapper and – worse?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Redgum’s voice seems to float from a long way away.

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘We can’t tell you, Shirl. A promise is a promise.’

  Shirl snorts her derision. ‘Schoolboy stuff. This isn’t a game, for God’s sake.’ She pauses. ‘We? That Bree woman is involved, isn’t she?’

  Not waiting for a reply, she ends the call and turns to Bill. ‘I’m off to see that Bree woman.’ She doesn’t say I have ways of making her talk. The words remain unspoken but, in Shirl’s world, it’s a given.

  Shirl waits on Bree’s porch, fingers itching, twitching to clean the grubby glass and sand the badly applied paint.

  Bree responds to the first knock. ‘Thought you’d come.’

  ‘You were right.’ Without waiting for an invitation, Shirl strides down the hall, taking in the chaotic bedroom with one disdainful glance.

  ‘Coffee?’

  A curt nod.

  She looks tired, Shirl thinks as the younger woman prepares the coffee. She pauses now, wishing she’d taken the time to think things through, to formulate a plan of attack. ‘So,’ she begins, as they face each other over the kitchen table. ‘What do you know about all this?’ She puts down her mug. ‘He’s my brother,’ she says softly. ‘I’m worried sick.’

  ‘We never thought Angie would tell the police.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but she did, didn’t she?’

  ‘Got herself drunk when Charlie left. Cops picked her up.’ She parodies Angie’s whine. ‘He kidnapped my little girl. Just a way of getting herself out of trouble, if you ask me.’

  ‘Where is she? I need to talk to her.’

  Bree shrugs. ‘You gotta be kidding. No way she’ll talk to you. She’s at her gran’s, and the old cow’s guarding her like a Rottweiler. Won’t even let her talk to me.’

  ‘So where’s George?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Shirl raises a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘It’s true. He was on a farm somewhere in New South Wales but he would’ve left by now. He wouldn’t say where he was going.’

  Shirl sees fear in her eyes.

  ‘If it gets out that I helped him, I’ll end up back in jail.’

  Despite her exasperation, Shirl can see that Bree is telling the truth and that, in her own misguided way, she had tried to be a friend to George.

  ‘Pull yourself together, woman.’ Shirl’s manner is all at once brisk and business-like. ‘No one’s going to jail. I just need time to think.’

  Angie wonders why she ever left her gran’s in the first place. She has had a nice meal, a hot bath and is tucked into those crisp, clean sheets that her skin remembers from her previous life with Gran. Charlie’s defection still stings, but long experience has taught her that to adapt is to survive and already she has a new plan. When she gets Rory back, she’ll stay here and get a job. Maybe train as a hairdresser or a nail technician. Rory could go to her old school. Gran’s is close enough. And who knows? The kid could grow up to be a doctor or a beautician. Not a teacher or a lawyer. Angie has never had much time for teachers or lawyers.

  She reviews her television experience and decides that she likes the fuss everyone is making of her. She has never really thought that George would harm Rory, but that cop said kids were mostly abused by family and friends. Abused. She rolls the word around in her mouth. It tastes gross, but that was the word he used. So she panicked at the end and asked George not to hurt Rory. The TV dudes were happy about that. But alone and safe in Gran’s spare bed, she experiences a small flicker of remorse.

  18

  The rooster crows, and George, who’s been wide awake for hours, suddenly falls asleep. An all-night talk-back radio station had been discussing the ‘missing child’ and callers were both outraged by Angie’s neglect and convinced that George is most likely a paedophile. The latter had sent him scurrying to the toilet, where he first vomited and then sat in an agony of stomach cramps as his bowels heaved and yarked his distress. No wonder, then, that when Rory and Richie Dog come sneaking in, the sun is already sending its slatted rays through the half-open shutters onto the rumpled bed. George groans and turns over to look at the clock. Good God. It’s nearly eight.

  Rory is in her pyjamas and George finds himself suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn’t felt that way yesterday or all the days before. Why now? In watching those television programs, listening to the radio he, like Adam, has eaten from the tree of knowledge. He’s never thought much about that story he first heard at Sunday school. It had been all about an apple then. Later, in one of the few times he attended church as an adult, he discovered that it was about much more than a piece of fruit. Knowledge of evil is contaminating, and in this ne
w manifestation, it makes him pull back from her hug.

  ‘Poppy?’

  Small eddies of anxiety ripple over her face. ‘Poppy. Richie Dog and me have made you breakfast . . .’ Her voice trails off, uncertain.

  With some effort, George rallies. ‘How’s that for luck? I’m hungry as a lion.’ He waggles a finger at Richie. ‘I hope you aren’t giving me dog biscuits for breakfast, young pup.’

  Rory giggles. It’s a sign she feels safe, that she hasn’t done anything wrong after all. ‘You’re so funny, Poppy.’

  In the kitchen, George spoons up the cornflakes from their inundation of milk and yums at his undercooked toast.

  ‘I didn’t make the tea,’ she says. ‘Richie and me are a bit young for boiling water.’

  She’s so serious, so anxious to be responsible. George grins. ‘Very wise. I’ll make the tea and you can have a cup, just for making such a nice breakfast.’ He pours her a milky tea and stirs in two teaspoons of sugar.

  Rory’s eyes gleam. This is an unexpected treat. ‘What about Richie? He helped, too.’

  ‘I might share my toast with him,’ George says, tearing off a substantial chunk. He chuckles to himself as the dog wolfs down his portion. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

  ‘Best breakfast I’ve had in years,’ he says, swigging the last of his tea. ‘Now we’ll clean up here and get ready to go.’

  ‘I like it here.’ Rory sits on the front step and folds her arms. ‘Who’s going to look after the chooks? And Min and Rusty?’ (They have already established that Richie is coming with them.)

  ‘I told you, sweetheart. Stella and Park will be home in a couple of days and Rabbit’ll take over the chooks and dogs like he did before we came.’ After two years, she seems to have forgotten her early life of constant moving and change, and now wants to stick where she is. As though the past is irretrievable and the one guarantee of a future is to cling to the present. If only he could tell her that they were returning to Mercy Street, to her schoolfriends, to Bree, to Redgum and Mr and Mrs Nguyen. Even to Shirl. After a shaky start, Rory and her Aunty Shirl have taken quite a shine to each other.