Time's Long Ruin

by Stephen Orr

  ‘Well that’s not a possibility.’

  ‘Maybe not. What else do I need to know about him, or the wife?’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Liz.’

  Dad looked at him. Watch your mouth, he felt like saying. ‘Nothing. The rest is just Ajax and cut lunches.’

  Dad drove along the esplanade, along a mile of coastline covered with a driftwood of salty bodies – swimming, sleeping, standing staring out at a sun that seemed too high in the sky for that time of day. A few clouds spread themselves low and grey in the near distance but no one seemed concerned.

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t be short of witnesses,’ Bert said, as Dad parked the car in a No Standing Zone beside the old Semaphore tower, placing a wooden plaque that read POLICE on the dashboard and looking over at the clock tower on the esplanade. He watched as the second hand moved around. He checked it against his watch and said, ‘It’s keepin’ time.’

  They locked the car, crossed the esplanade and found a sergeant and a group of constables standing beside a police car parked behind the kiosk. ‘G’day fellas,’ Dad said, shaking each of their hands in turn. He looked at the sergeant. ‘How’s it going, Joe?’

  ‘I’ve got fellas lookin’ all the way up to Largs and down to Glanville,’ he replied, indicating with an outstretched hand holding a HB pencil. ‘We’ve checked the beach, and all the stormwater drains, and now we’re checkin’ the carparks.’

  ‘Good,’ Dad said, taking out a handkerchief he’d ironed and wiping his forehead. ‘Could be anything: a towel, a thong. Especially if they got into a car.’

  ‘Or were forced into one,’ Bert added.

  ‘Is that how it’s lookin’?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Joe, you tell me,’ Dad replied. ‘I’ve got three kids at the beach, assuming they even got here.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Well, I think I can help you there.’

  He led them over to a middle-aged Indian woman dressed in a long gold and saffron coloured robe, sitting on a bench outside the kiosk eating hot chips from a bag. Dad introduced himself, sat down and asked, ‘What exactly did you see?’

  ‘I’ve told the policeman and he’s written it down,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been waiting here for an hour. I have an appointment.’

  ‘Just another minute,’ Dad smiled.

  ‘There were three kids . . .’

  Dad let her describe the children before he showed her the photo.

  ‘That’s them,’ she said.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘After lunch. One, one-thirty. They were with a man.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘He was tall, this big . . .’ She stood up to indicate. ‘His hair was blond.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Mid thirties. Very lanky. A flat chest, with no hair. Was he their father?’

  ‘No,’ Dad replied.

  Bert was writing. He looked at Dad and lifted his eyebrows. Dad couldn’t believe it. An hour ago they’d missed a train, or gone to a friend’s house. Now they were playing with a complete stranger. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Are the children in trouble?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He had blue bathers. Short bathers, coming to here. They were playing over there, on the lawn beside the shower block. He was holding the little boy’s hands and swinging him around. The boy was laughing.’

  Dad took a lung full of air and let it out slowly.

  ‘That’s all I can remember,’ the woman said.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else you can think of that might be important?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No,’ the woman said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dad replied. ‘Thank you for waiting.’

  The woman stepped into her sandals and stood up. ‘Will you need me again?’ she asked

  ‘Possibly,’ Dad replied. ‘Have we got your number?’

  ‘Yes.’ And she was off, through the playground and along the path that passed behind the dunes.

  ‘How did you find her?’ Dad asked Joe.

  ‘When we arrived we spoke to everyone around here.’ Again, Joe indicated with his hand and pencil: the small, grey-looking besser block kiosk, the tables shaded with torn canvas awnings, the playground and the benches surrounding it, the lawns and, in the near distance, a few sideshows, a merry-go-round, a miniature steam train running on a figure-8 circuit, clowns with open mouths, and an airgun shooting gallery.

  ‘You spoke to the operators?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So what’s up with Gandhi? How come she’s the only one who saw anything? There must have been hundreds of people.’

  Joe shrugged.

  Dad looked at Bert. ‘Come on, we’ll try the beach again.

  Joe, how many you got?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘We need more. Get on to Port Adelaide, tell ’em we need people now.’

  Dad was sitting down, taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his pants. ‘Well, come on, Bert.’

  Bert pocketed his notebook and pencil and did the same. Dad jogged across the esplanade and Bert trailed after him. Then Dad zigzagged along the beach, stopping at every sunbather, every wader, every fossicker, cupping his hands and shouting out to every swimmer, ‘We are looking for three children.’

  Bert tried his best to keep up. ‘Hold on.’

  Dad stopped, put his hands on his hips and looked out at a tanker on the horizon, as if it might provide some clue. ‘Bert, I reckon we can officially be worried,’ he said.

  ‘You reckon this fella might have taken them?’

  ‘You got any other suggestions?’

  And then he was off again. ‘Have you seen three children, this big? The girl was nine.’ As he walked he imagined Janice’s broken watch. He could see her sitting on the beach, asking Anna the time. He could see Anna running up to the esplanade to check the clock tower. He could see her running back and calling, Quarter past one.

  Christ, Janice replied. We gotta go.

  Why? Gavin asked.

  Put your stuff in the bag.

  As the man they’d played with earlier approached them again. G’day, kids, you going?

  We’re late for the train, Janice replied.

  Don’t worry about the train.

  Dad picked a shell from between his toes. ‘Someone must have seen something,’ he said.

  ‘We may need to put it in the paper,’ Bert replied.

  ‘Do you think?’ Dad asked, thinking how permanent things became when they were printed in ink: a grainy newspaper photograph, two columns of hysteria, descriptions, phone numbers and everyone thinking the worst: look at those beautiful little kiddies. A whole community imagining dark, muscular hands on soft skin. Tight grips and bruises. Screaming. A chaos of movement. Legs and arms going everywhere and a voice thundering, Quiet, or I’ll break his arms.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Bert replied.

  ‘You’re right.’

  Dad was off again. ‘Have you seen three children?’

  At last he got lucky. The man, in his early sixties, had breasts that sagged and rested on his potbelly. ‘That sounds familiar,’ he said, in a thick English accent, looking at his wife.

  ‘Yes,’ she added. ‘Two girls and a boy.’ And she started describing them.

  ‘Is this them?’ Dad asked, producing the photo.

  ‘That’s them,’ the woman replied. ‘Are they lost?’

  ‘They may be. What were they doing?’

  ‘They were with a fella, weren’t they, Tom?’

  ‘They were – a tall fella, blond.’

  Dad stood up and turned to Bert. He handed him the photo and said, ‘Listen, go ring what’s his name?’

  ‘Reynolds?’

  ‘Reynolds, at The News. And that fella at the Advertiser.

  Give ’em the kids’ description. Don’t mention this fella in the bathers. Explain the kids’ movements. Som
eone might remember them from the train. Then see if Joe’s got someone to drive the photo into town.’

  Bert was off, almost jumping across the hot sand. Dad knelt down and asked, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He was helping them get dressed,’ the woman replied. ‘I thought it was strange, they were old enough to dress themselves. He was brushing the older girl’s hair, and then he helped the little boy put on a pair of pants.’

  Dad almost shuddered. He could see Gavin in the bath, and Liz scrubbing him with Solyptol. He could see skin – acres of bare, white skin – and smell lavender and the rose-scented bath bombs they’d given Janice for her ninth birthday.

  ‘Was he their father?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No. We don’t know who he was.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  Dad sat down in the sand. ‘Right. I better take some details.’

  An hour later Dad and Bert stood outside the kiosk, pulling on their shoes and socks. Dad watched as several more police cars, filled with cadets from the academy, pulled up on the cooling asphalt of the esplanade. ‘This is going from bad to worse,’ he said.

  ‘You still reckon they missed the train?’ Bert asked.

  Back at Thomas Street, it had been the worst few hours of my life. We’d gathered in the lounge, waiting, everyone trying to reassure Liz. But once that was done there was no more conversation. What could you say? There were just familiar sounds, passing as though in a dream: the Chinese hawker at the door, a distant train whistle, crows, and the drip of a tap Bill hadn’t bothered fixing.

  Quiet. Me, Mum, Con and Rosa sat around, trying not to look at Liz.

  ‘Just can’t think where they’d be,’ Mum said.

  Liz stood up and walked out to the backyard. Rosa followed, and found her kneeling in the garden, her head drooping like a parched camellia. ‘Come inside, now. Come inside.’

  More tears. As Liz looked at her cold coffee, still sitting on the pouffe. She wondered how many sips she’d had. Two, three . . . none.

  Before she’d headed back to the station to collect her kids.

  Janice, where have you been?

  Anna forgot her watch.

  Don’t blame me.

  A doctor arrived and mixed some powder in water and Liz drank it, slowly, sip by sip, until she said she felt like lying on her bed again. Whispering, ‘After so long, what can I expect? What can I expect?’

  The police had gone. One of them had stuck his head in the door and said, ‘We’d be more use down at Semaphore. You look after yourself, Missus Riley.’

  Look after yourself. A Bex, a cuppa and a good lie down. Then everything would be okay: the kids would be home, Bill wouldn’t be speeding back through the mallee, and the neighbours wouldn’t be wondering what the police were for.

  When Dad and Bert came in it was just starting to get dark. Mum hugged Dad and held his arm. I knew things weren’t right. ‘Anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Where’s Liz?’

  ‘She may be asleep.’

  He disappeared into the hallway and we heard him opening Liz’s door.

  Rosa looked at Bert. ‘Nothing at all?’ she asked.

  ‘A couple of sightings.’

  ‘And it was them?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks like it. We’re getting more people to help. There’s a lot searching already. And we’re gonna put it in the papers tomorrow.’

  Shit, I thought. How could they just disappear? Janice was just standing there, with her towel over her shoulder, and then . . . what if someone’s taken them . . . or hurt them? Even after these few hours I could feel it – in my skin and fingertips, and breath. The girls were my sisters and Gavin was my brother. I was scared. I must have started crying. And then Mum and Rosa were there beside me, holding me, whispering soothing words.

  Dad came back into the room. ‘We’re pretty sure they were there,’ he said. ‘People saw them. This Indian bird, a couple of Poms.’

  ‘What were they doing?’ Mum asked.

  ‘They were just there. Who knows? Once it’s in the paper people should come forward.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’ Mum asked.

  Dad sat down beside her. ‘Ellen, they were due back five hours ago. This fella . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘What fella?’ Mum asked quickly.

  He took a few moments and then whispered, ‘Not a word to Liz, but they were seen with someone.’ Then he described the man in the blue bathers. He looked at me and asked, ‘That doesn’t ring a bell?’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Well . . .’

  Rosa bowed her head and closed her eyes. She started praying in Greek. Dad looked at Con. ‘Did Bill ring?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘He asked what they were doing there alone. I explained, he wasn’t happy.’

  Dad sat forward on the lounge. He put his elbows on his knees and said, ‘I could go a beer. What about you, Bert?’

  Rosa stopped praying and stood up. ‘I’ll go,’ she said, looking for something solid, something physical and real and cold, something to take her mind off of the idea. The idea she’d been living with every day for years – that there was nothing you could do to fix or change things. Nothing you could mix or sift or hammer or sweep. Just thoughts you couldn’t change or vary. Except for a bit of raking up, or pruning or fertilising.

  Kazz and Ron Houseman knocked on the front door and, unusually, waited for Mum to answer before entering. Kazz stood in the doorway and asked, ‘Where’s Liz?’

  ‘She’s resting,’ Mum replied.

  They came in and Kazz sat down next to Dad. ‘Rosa told us,’ she said.

  ‘When did you last see them?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Kazz replied.

  ‘But we found these,’ Ron said, stepping forward, placing the still partly folded towels on the lounge.

  ‘They’re Liz’s,’ Mum said.

  ‘I know,’ Kazz agreed. ‘They were in our backyard. Someone had thrown them over the back fence.’

  ‘Why?’ Mum asked.

  Dad stood up, unfolded the towels and examined them. ‘I bet they didn’t even take them,’ he said.

  ‘I saw them walking off,’ I began. ‘Janice’s bag was full, and she could barely carry it.’

  Dad re-folded the towels as Rosa came in with two beers.

  ‘They were probably rushing for the train,’ he suggested. ‘What do you reckon, Bert?’

  ‘Can’t think what else.’

  Dad’s mind started glowing, imagining the man in the blue bathers driving down Thomas Street and throwing a couple of towels out of the window as a sort of forget-me-not. But why? Some sort of lunatic? And why were the towels still folded? ‘Would Janice do that?’ Dad asked me. ‘Just throw them over the fence?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, thinking about it carefully. ‘She improvises.’

  Just then we heard Bill’s car crunching gravel in the drive. We saw lights and heard the engine die. We heard his door slam and his footsteps. And then we heard his voice. ‘Bob . . .’ He looked at Dad and knew. ‘You haven’t found ’em yet?’

  Dad stood up. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How far could they be? Between here and Semaphore? I’ll take my car and find them now.’

  Dad stepped towards him. ‘Bill, we got a couple of dozen men on it. We’ve checked, we’re checking everywhere.’

  ‘They’re lost. We just gotta look, thoroughly.’

  ‘Bill – ’

  ‘Come on, Bob, what are you doing? You gotta retrace their steps.’

  ‘Bill –

  ’ ‘Talk to people.’

  ‘Bill, people move about. We’ve gone to the papers.’

  ‘Papers? No one asked me.’

  Dad took his beer and tried to put it in Bill’s hand. ‘It’s standard, Bill. Now, come on, sit down.’

  There was a short pause. Bill was breathing quickly and heavily. ‘I can’t believe she let them go by themselves.
Where is she?’

  ‘She’s been sedated,’ Mum explained, standing.

  ‘It’s that fuckin’ Sonja. Liz runs after her relatives. Doesn’t worry about her own kids.’ Then he raised his voice. ‘Where is she?’

  Dad looked at Rosa. ‘Rosa, would you mind taking Henry home?’

  She smiled. ‘Come on,’ she said, taking me around the shoulders. ‘We need to get you ready for bed.’

  ‘And what about my kids?’ Bill asked. ‘Should I get them ready for bed?’

  ‘Bill, you gotta calm down,’ Dad replied.

  Bill knelt down and grabbed my arm. ‘What did they say to you?’

  ‘After you left,’ I replied, ‘Janice asked if I wanted to go to the beach with them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

  He looked at me in disgust, as though I should’ve been with them, missing too.

  ‘Bill, we’re doing our best,’ Dad said.

  ‘Crap . . . if you were you would’ve found them by now. When were they due home?’

  ‘Five past two,’ Con explained.

  ‘That’s already seven hours. Where are they, Bob?’ He stopped. Dad looked at me. ‘Okay, home to bed.’

  Rosa led me out without saying a word. The night was cooling. Everything was the same as it had been that morning, and the previous night – except for one thing. Crickets droned telegraphically and Con’s cousin blew a whistle as he closed the gates at the Elizabeth Street crossing. Our pittosporum rustled in the breeze and you could almost hear the footfall of ants driven to keep moving before Sirius appeared in the eastern sky. The transformer on the Stobie pole hummed and a streetlight flickered up towards Cedar Street. Everything unchanged, unchangeable . . .

  I could still hear Bill’s voice as I put on my pyjamas. He was trying to get in to see his wife. It was bad enough no one would buy his linen. Now his kids were lost too.

  Chapter Two

  It was early and it was hot. It had taken me hours to fall asleep and now I was tired. Somehow I could sense that Janice and the little ones hadn’t come home. Soon there’d be crying and screaming and police hovering like black angels with stubble. I guessed there would be despair, piles and piles of it, like the boxes of wood stacked high in our back shed, the cardboard wet from the ground, splitting open, releasing logs of all shapes and sizes.