Found

by Melissa Pouliot

  Bessie had never confided in anyone about this mish-mash of emotions that brutally kicked her into the gutter. She was scared that if she ever spoke them out loud she would never escape them. She worried she wouldn’t be able to get out of bed or off the couch ever again if she spoke these feelings aloud. While they stayed in her mind they were locked away. While they remained unspoken they were unable to destroy her.

  The only person she went some ways towards confiding in, albeit it a glossed over version, was Christine. Her annual letter, with its general enquiry about Annabelle. She held hope in her heart that if Annabelle had decided not to contact her, maybe she had contacted Christine instead. Being of similar age their relationship was different. Closer. Annabelle was more likely to confide in a friend her own age than a woman who was the age of her own mother. Annabelle would share things with Christine she wouldn’t dream of sharing with Bessie.

  When Facebook started filtering into people’s lives, Bessie was one of the first to set up an account. A secret one, so nobody could track her, but it enabled her to Facebook stalk others. This, combined with Google, meant she knew every public detail about Annabelle’s case. Unfortunately, there were very few details to be known. She was listed on the Australian Federal Police Missing Persons website but the information was frustratingly one dimensional. A few extra notes appeared on the Australian Missing Persons Register, which also had a Facebook page that every year, on Annabelle’s birthday, August 17, would list her profile asking for anyone with information to please come forward. Despite people across the nation sharing, empathising and commenting, nothing changed from year to year.

  In 2011, they added an aged progression image to show what Annabelle would look like, twenty-three years on. When Bessie saw Annabelle’s face flash up on national news programs, the face she remembered, and the new face the AFP age progression experts had constructed, she felt a surge of hope. The police hadn’t given up. Rhiannon was still chasing answers. It was a huge comfort to Bessie, followed soon after by a dead, flat feeling when all the fuss died down and everyone again forgot about Annabelle Brown. That’s when she decided she had to move on and forget about her too.

  Now Christine was dredging up old memories and emotions. Could Bessie allow herself to reinvigorate hope for finding Annabelle? She didn’t know where to turn, or who to turn to, but maybe Christine would be able to open doors that Bessie couldn’t. Maybe Christine could contact Annabelle’s mother, something they had never been brave enough to do back then, living the life they were. Now that they were normal people with steady, acceptable lives it might be easier to sit around a table together and share what they knew. Maybe, maybe not. As Bessie drifted into an exhausted sleep, she still hadn’t decided what to do. The memories pinned her to the bed and dragged her mind, kicking and screaming, to the last time she’d seen her favourite girl. Then sleep blanketed her in darkness and took her into the black forest which had haunted her dreams since the night Annabelle disappeared.

  CHAPTER 8

  Back on the train

  He couldn’t help it. Even though he knew he was opening Pandora’s Box he had to see her again. Would he be brave enough to speak to her? Make her realise it was him? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was sure of was that he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since that afternoon on the train. He began rearranging his life so he could catch the same afternoon train, every day.

  He rarely caught the train, in fact, hardly ever. But his bike had been out of action. On the day he saw Christine, he had to get home early to meet the pest control man. Bloody rats were destroying his wiring. After seeing her, he started to feel grateful to those damned rats. Ironic really. He’d also had rats in his dirty Kings Cross apartment building where he and Christine had spent weeks in the prostrate position before she left him for good.

  He was in the same carriage, today no different to all the days since he’d seen her. It had been a couple of weeks and he was starting to lose hope. Maybe it wasn’t her train, maybe she had been on her way somewhere totally random.

  He really should do something about his bike, and forget about trying to catch another glimpse of Christine. He loved this bike as much as he’d ever loved a woman. He’d been accused more than once of putting more love into her than his relationships. Main reason was, she didn’t talk back. His bike hadn’t been the same since the Black Dog Ride up to the Red Centre in late August. She was perched in the corner of his tiny shed where he tinkered with her every night after work, but her problems seemed insurmountable. He lived alone, after yet another disastrous relationship walked out the door, so he had plenty of time to tinker.

  Working in a Harley Davidson shop, out the back with the other mechanics, he was surrounded by beautiful bikes but none was as good as her. He had the money, in a stash from when he was the king of the streets in The Cross, but he’d been clean since the early nineties and was reluctant to dip into his dirty money.

  He approached his new life like a test. A test of his inner strength. He battled with depression, which was how he got involved in the Black Dog Ride. Which was why he was much happier in a relationship with his bike than with a woman.

  He scrolled through his Facebook newsfeed in between stops. A post caught his eye: I’ve left the building. It’s unfortunate that the district I’ve known and loved for the past 13 years has had all the vibrant diversity and prosperity squeezed out of it. I’ve never felt unsafe, I’ve never felt isolated, I’ve never felt bored, until 2015 came along. Kings Cross is destined to be yet another generic, bourgeois, nanny-state precinct. There’s no real going back from the effects government legislation has had on this area. How lovely that the state is building us all (I mean mainland China tourists) a lovely new casino to replace it. Signing off from Shoreditch London, where I’m drinking 500ml of beer on the footpath from a glass made of glass, and nobody died xx

  He smiled a wry smile then hit like. He wondered what it would be like to walk along Darlinghurst Road these days. Would he run into anyone he knew? Maybe, maybe not. Would it be like going back to the small country town where you grew up, running into childhood friends who hadn’t moved beyond the town perimeters? Most likely.

  His thoughts stumbled awkwardly over the top of each other while he sat on the Melbourne train, his mind scanning for memories while his eyes scanned for a glimpse of what was taking his thoughts so far into the past. Christine. The girl of his dreams.

  ‘You’re dreamin’,’ she’d say, when he tried to get her to commit to him, and only him. ‘This is my lot in life. Let’s just accept it and live it the best we know how.’ Then she’d hold out her hand for the dollar bills, making his penis feel like the size of a peanut and his heart like the shrivelled up shell.

  She’d let her guard down finally, to reveal a deep longing and desire, maybe even love. They’d dared to dream there was a life beyond this for the two of them. It didn’t last though, because Annabelle happened.

  Sitting on the train today, he knew he was ‘dreamin’, and not for the first time, he wondered if the writers of The Castle had coined this phrase from Christine.

  The train slowed to a stop where she’d boarded the first time he’d seen her. His heart started to race. Was today the day? If not, he was going to call it quits and accept it for the ridiculousness that it was. She probably didn’t even live in Melbourne and was probably here for a work thing or something. Dressed up like she was, it had to be a work thing. He wondered what line of work she was in now. Still the same? Surely not. She didn’t look like it. But maybe she was in it at a higher end? He figured some blokes would request the corporate, rich look.

  Lost in his thoughts, Ant momentarily looked away from the doors and down to his feet. They were a blur, then came into focus. Desert boots. So ‘not’ cool. But he’d always worn them. Always. No reason to change now.

  …

  ‘How many pairs of those you got?’

  Christine was sitting on the chair in the corner of
the motel room that had nipples all over the wall. She had just confided in him that with most of her clients she counted nipples, but not with him. He was the only one who captivated her more than the nipples. He was lying back on the bed smoking a cigarette, completely satisfied and pretending they were lovers, and that he wasn’t paying to have sex with her.

  ‘A few,’ he laughed, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  ‘Showing off are you?’ Christine, who was also smoking, blew her own set of smoke rings into the air. At least two more than Ant.

  ‘Show off,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a pro,’ she quipped, then winked. ‘Anyway, back to the shoes. How many pairs? I never seen you wear anything else.’

  ‘I don’t have anything else. One for day, one for night, and one for spare. Comfiest shoes ever made. Been wearing them since I was a kid.’

  ‘You know there’s heaps of other comfy shoes out there these days? They’re bringing in new styles all the time?’

  He laughed, and sat up to stub his cigarette out on the ashtray on the bedside table. ‘Well, you know, I’m a creature of habit. Maybe you’ve already worked that out.’

  She grinned. Yes, she had. He continued. ‘And one thing I figure is that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. When it comes to my shoes, they fit well, they never give me blisters, they look stylish…’ Christine guffawed before he silenced her with a look. ‘And I like them. They remind me of things. My Mum. My school friends. All the good things. The safe things. That’s what they are, they’re my safety shoes. And while ever I’m wearing them, I’m always safe.’

  Christine was silent. His words had floored her. First they made her laugh. Now they were making her want to cry. She walked over to the bed and leaned down, kissing him gently on the forehead.

  …

  The sound of the train doors sealing shut brought him back to the present. He startled, disoriented. He looked up from his shoes, straight into the eyes of the girl he loved back then.

  ‘Hello Ant,’ she said softly.

  His face broke into a foolish, goofy grin. ‘Hello yourself. Where you been all these years?’ He stood up and walked the two steps to reach her. She wanted to stop him, wanted him to stay where he was across the aisle. But before she could make any moves to discourage him he was sitting in the small empty space next to her, his hot thigh pressing into her leg.

  ‘Um, ah,’ she flushed and tried to move along, but the passenger on the other side wouldn’t budge.

  Ant, realising he was coming on too strong, realising he wasn’t back in that hotel room in The Cross blowing smoke rings and looking at walls covered in naked nipples, coughed awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve been catching this train every day since that first day I saw you. Didn’t know it was you at first, but when you got off and walked away….’ He blushed, feeling stupid for bringing attention to the way she walked. It had been a car accident, she told him in one of those rare weak moments of tenderness in between the exchange of fifty dollar bills.

  ‘Very funny,’ she said, her sarcasm slipping out without any effort. ‘Still got foot in mouth disease I see. Some things never change, eh?’

  Ant looked at her closely, trying to gauge the level of offence. Her mouth was turned up at the corners in a tiny smile, so subtle you had to look with your sharpest focus to see it.

  ‘No, that’s right. Some things never change. But lots of things do.’

  ‘Yes, yes they do,’ Christine’s voice became serious, halting the conversation in its tracks.

  They sat in silence as the train travelled smoothly along, swaying from side to side as they went around corners, pushing them closer together.

  ‘What are you doing in Melbourne?’ Ant asked carefully.

  ‘Working. Making an honest living.’ Christine wasn’t sure how much she was going to divulge. She’d been preparing herself for this meeting; it was another step in her plan to find Annabelle, but she didn’t want to charge in like a bull at a gate.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Same. Working. Making an honest living.’

  More silence. The train slowed for its next stop.

  ‘Here’s your stop,’ Ant said.

  ‘Yes.’ Christine didn’t move. ‘But I thought we might get off together, and go for a coffee…’ She groaned inwardly, she sounded so yuppie. Oooh, let’s get coffee.

  ‘Sure, I can do coffee.’ He much preferred a beer this time of day but she was calling the shots.

  ‘Here’s not really the place to talk,’ she continued. ‘And, um, there’s a few things, a few questions, I want to ask.’

  The train started moving again before they could make moves to get off and she looked at the map on the wall to see how far they were from the next stop. Christine squirmed uncomfortably. Everything had become so awkward, so forced. She felt hot and her underarms began to sweat. Five minutes. Not long. She could survive five minutes. Or could she?

  ‘Sure, I can do questions.’ Ant was feeling just as uncomfortable. They settled into a long uncomfortable silence and Christine was tempted to get out her phone and scroll through her Facebook feed. But he was sitting right beside her, and that would be so rude. She willed small talk to come to mind, but it remained blank.

  It reminded her of a date she’d had back in high school with a shy boy from her class. Their conversations were usually short and stilted – they’d never spoken for longer than five minutes at a time. She had wanted to go to the movies, thought it was a safe bet with nearly two hours of conversation they didn’t have to have, but tickets were sold out by the time they arrived. They ended up at the roller skating rink, sitting on the sidelines in the most excruciatingly awkward silence you could imagine. That’s what it felt like right now, side by side on this train with Ant.

  As the train slowed, they jumped up at the same time, eager to break this mood and find a new one. Ant waited for Christine to exit the door first; a true gentleman she thought to herself. Her heart fluttered unexpectedly and she immediately felt disloyal. Danny was waiting at home for her, oblivious to her turmoil. But she had a clear plan, and right or wrong, she was sticking to it.

  She tossed a warm smile over her shoulder, and he followed her like a faithful puppy to their next destination. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. No matter how much things change, some things never change.

  CHAPTER 9

  Annabelle

  1988

  ‘He’s like a faithful puppy,’ Annabelle said, adding an aawww to the end of her sentence for effect. Christine was lying in bed, recuperating after her near-death experience with the crook speed.

  ‘Stop it,’ Christine laughed. ‘He is nothing like a puppy.’

  ‘Yes, he is. With those adoring puppy dog eyes watching your every move. He is in luurrve.’

  Christine closed her eyes. She was still mostly bedridden, only getting up for the bathroom essentials. Weakened by what she’d been through during the past couple of weeks, she had no desire to jump out of bed and face life again.

  She was furious with Ant. Bessie hadn’t sugar coated things one little bit once Christine had come to, cursing and cussing so much that Christine knew if Bessie was a witch-hunter Ant would have been hung. Annabelle had been angry too, at the start, but her anger was waning. He had come around to see Christine every single day since that night, asking after her, making sure she was okay. He looked like death warmed up, and worry lines marked his forehead and pulled his mouth downwards into an expression Annabelle couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as though his life was teetering on the edge, like it could go either way. Just like it had been with Christine.

  The initial effect of the crook drugs was bad enough but it was the aftermath that truly tested them all. Once Christine had been lucid enough to make her own decisions she had put the foot down. This was it. No more drugs. She was going clean. No exceptions. Annabelle didn’t know how she did it. Every time she decided she was going clean, Anna and Bell dragged her
back. The two voices in her head, evil voices who followed her everywhere. She wasn’t strong enough for both of them, and didn’t have a hope of going clean. Not like Christine. Now here was one tough cookie.

  ‘Honestly Christine, he loves you. He’s been here every single day. And he’s not even letting scary Bessie put him off. Any other bloke would have run a mile by now with the roastings she’s been giving him through the tiny crack in the kitchen door.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘No, you get out. You’re as blind as a bat if you can’t see it.’

  ‘Yeah well, no room for love in my life. And certainly no room for faithful puppies. They’re nothing but trouble. Stealing shoes, pissing and shitting all over the house, digging up the garden and basically good for nothing apart from creating chaos.’

  ‘Puppies are adorable! Even if they do those things, they are easily forgiven. Just one look into those puppy dog eyes and all those bad habits are forgotten!’ Annabelle was a true animal lover, and despite having cleaned up mountains of puppy mess in her lifetime, she didn’t care a whit.

  ‘I had a puppy once,’ Christine’s mood became sombre. ‘I loved her so much. Adored her. She was the most amazing thing in my life. Ever. I took her everywhere with me. When she got tired I’d put her in my backpack and leave the zipper open a tiny way, just enough for her to stick her wet shiny nose out. She slept on the end of my bed and was always waiting at the gate when I got home from school.’