by Stephen Orr
Dad turned on him. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Someone said . . . here . . .’ He searched through a pad and started reading. ‘Tall, blond, blue bathers.’
Bill shook his head; his mouth was open and he squinted directly at the sun. ‘What’s this about?’
Dad stepped towards the reporter. ‘Where did you get this from?’
‘It’s common knowledge.’
‘It’s not. No one should know, get it?’
The reporter looked at Bill, and back at Bob. ‘Sorry, I just assumed . . .’
‘You put a cross through that, and you stick to the media release.’
‘Alright!’ He put his hands up in the air, as if to surrender, and then stepped back and sat on a bench.
Dad took Bill by the arm and kept walking. ‘We’re not makin’ too much of it, Bill.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked, shaking his arm free. ‘You’re meant to be my fuckin’ mate.’
‘Listen, unless we know something’s a hundred per cent . . .’
‘A hundred per cent? What’s it matter? Wouldn’t you want to know?’
‘No – yes, I suppose.’
‘I can’t believe it. Is this the guy that’s got them?’
Dad stopped and turned to face Bill. ‘Listen, someone reckons he saw this fella playin’ with them.’
‘Playing?’
And Dad explained. ‘They might have talked to a dozen people down here.’
‘And only one person saw this . . . fella?’
Dad sighed and turned to Bert. ‘You go ahead.’
Bert made for the caravan as Dad and Bill leaned against a bike rack. ‘Someone else saw him. They reckon he was getting them dressed. And another fella reckons he saw the kids leaving with him.’
Bill shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. You knew all of this, and you were worried about some bitch I met. You know what it sounds like to me?’
Dad didn’t reply.
Bill looked down at wet, squashed chips on the concrete.
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ Dad managed. ‘That’s how we do things.’
‘Well, it’s not how we do things, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s just you’ve got so much to deal with.’
A long pause.
‘Sorry,’ Dad repeated.
Bill took a deep breath. ‘So, who is he?’
‘Tall, lanky, blond, blue bathers. We’ll release it soon, but that’s everyone’s uncle, isn’t it?’
‘Not mine. He’s a fat prick.’ Bill dipped his head towards the caravan. ‘You get on with it, Bob.’
‘So, you still talkin’ to me?’
Bill half-smiled and walked off towards the playground. ‘Blue bathers, red bathers,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s a start, Bob.’
Dad stood up and approached the caravan. It had SA POLICE FIELD COMMAND in block letters along the side. Its metal panels were rusted along the bottom and the windows were opaque with grease, smoke and dust. It reminded Dad of Goolwa, even down to the towels hanging on a rack along the side, sandy shoes on the doorstep, and a small cardboard box full of empty lemonade and beer bottles. He climbed a single step and hit his head on the doorframe. There was no order to the caravan, just seats around the side and a table in the middle covered with maps, notes, rosters and cigarettes. Bert was sitting beside three other detectives. Superintendent Jim Clarke sat in the corner, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose.
‘Jim, who’s got loose lips?’ Dad asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Who’s been yappin’ about the fella in the blue bathers? That Scottish prick from The News knows everything.’
‘None of my blokes,’ Jim countered.
Dad looked at the four detectives. ‘That was bloody embarrassing. Bill Riley’s standin’ there and this cunt says, What about this fella in the blue fuckin’ bathers?’
No one said a word.
‘I tell you what, if I find out . . . I got one bloody lead and we’re gonna blow the whole thing.’ Dad shook his head. ‘Alright, let’s see who’s doin’ what.’
‘I’ve been riding the train,’ one of the detectives said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many pissed old parrots – ’
‘Anything?’ Dad interrupted.
‘Few people reckon they seen ’em going down.’
‘Keep at it. Take the 9.05 from Croydon in the morning. Talk to everyone. Jim, how’s the search going?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘What have we missed?’
Jim smiled. ‘I’ll keep going. I’ll search every inch of beach, and every drain. But you know, if they were taken, they’re probably in a hole at Mallala by now.’
Dad’s eyes narrowed, and every muscle in his face tightened. ‘This Janice, this girl, she’s my boy’s best friend.’
‘I heard,’ Jim replied, raising his eyebrows.
Dad pointed to the picture in a newspaper on the table. He tapped his left index finger hard, half a dozen times, on the image. ‘This shit doesn’t just happen, Jim . . . not to my neighbours.’
‘It happens. Look overseas. We’ve been shielded.’
‘Are you the best man for the job?’ Dad asked.
The superintendant was incredulous. He stared down his nose, through his polished glasses, at Dad. ‘Am I the best man? Christ!’
There was a knock. The door opened and a young constable popped his head in. ‘It’s the postie,’ he said.
Dad adjusted his tie as he stared at Jim Clarke.
‘Come on,’ Bert said to Dad. ‘We’re meant to be finding these kids, aren’t we?’
Dad turned slowly, stepped out of the caravan and smiled at the postie. ‘Harry.’
‘G’day, Bob.’
He took Harry Patterson’s hand and shook it. Harry was dressed in a PMG shirt and black shorts. His bike stood nearby with its post-bags empty.
‘Smithy, my new boss, said I should come down straight away to see you, Mister Page.’
‘Bob.’
‘Bob, when I was having a break this morning I read the paper.’
Harry Patterson had been the Croydon postie for fifteen years. He knew every street and every house, who the mother was, the father, the kids, and if there was someone staying. He knew every Hatched, Matched and Dispatched, and who got perfumed letters. He knew who was in the Communist Party and who had investments, who didn’t pay their bills (FINAL NOTICE marked in red), and who was in the Weavers and Spinners Guild. Harry only needed a name to make a delivery. And yet he was discreet. If you asked if so and so’s husband still lived with her he’d reply, I only look at the address. He knew me and he knew the Riley kids. Once, when Janice and me were standing out the front, he stopped and handed us our letters. Janice noticed a bandage on his leg. She knew how it had got there.
‘I’ve told you, Mister Patterson,’ she said, ‘that dog can be taken care of.’
‘How?’ he smiled.
‘Ah!’ She tapped her nose. ‘We have plenty in our medicine basket.’
‘If you’re caught, I don’t know a thing.’
Until Mr Patterson was transferred to Semaphore.
Back on the esplanade, Harry sat down on a bench beside Dad. ‘I saw them,’ he said.
‘When?’ Dad asked.
‘Three, or soon after. They were walking down Semaphore Road.’
‘With anyone?’
‘No.’
Dad sat back. ‘There couldn’t have been someone following them, or waiting in a car?’
‘I don’t think so, they were walking at full speed. I said hello and Janice said they were headed home. Didn’t think to ask how. Just supposed Bill or Liz were picking them up.’
‘It was definitely them?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘They had a bag?’
‘Janice – a big one.’
‘They were dressed?’
‘I think.’
‘Did it look like they’d been swimming?’
Harry
stopped to think. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay, thanks, Harry.’
‘You are gonna find them, aren’t you, Bob? Janice was a real character.’
‘We’ve got hundreds out.’
Harry shook his head in disbelief. ‘All three. Where did they go? You can’t steal three kiddies, Bob. One of them woulda got loose, surely. When I saw them in the paper . . . How’s Liz?’
‘Sedated.’
‘Bill?’
Dad pointed towards the playground.
‘I should go say something,’ Harry continued.
‘Leave it,’ Dad replied. ‘I’ll tell him this, eh?’
‘Thanks. Best of luck, Bob. How’s Henry?’
‘Fine, thanks Harry.’
And Harry was off, riding over the grass, dispersing a flock of seagulls. Bert came out of the caravan and sat next to him. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
Dad told him about the sighting and Bert shook his head. ‘So, where’s our mystery man?’
Dad looked at him. ‘Who?’
‘The fella in the blue bathers?’
‘Either it wasn’t him or he left them and picked them up afterwards, so he wouldn’t be seen leaving with them. Unless there was someone else.’
‘Anyway,’ Bert added, ‘why would you be worried about that if half of Adelaide’s just seen you playing on the grass with them?’
‘Or was the stuff at the beach quite innocent?’ Dad mused. ‘Maybe someone else picked them up. Someone who saw them walking home, hurrying, who guessed they were late and sure to accept a lift.’
Bert shook his head. ‘That’s quite a coincidence, two separate men. Unless the first had something to do with the second. Fella in the blue bathers goes to the phone: Hey, listen, whoever, I just met some very nice little kiddies. Whoever replies: Where are they now? First one says: Headin’ down Semaphore Road.’
Dad stretched his head back. ‘No, something simpler.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Maybe the fella in the blue bathers leaves them. But later he thinks, Why not? Goes back and they’ve gone. Looks for them. Meets them further down Semaphore Road.’ He stopped. ‘God knows. Maybe they’re just lost. Maybe they’re wandering around Ethelton.’
‘You reckon?’
‘No.’
Taman Shud. The End. Dad was staring into the plaster bust again. ‘Christ, it must have been him. Patterson must be wrong.’
Bert wiped his forehead and sighed. ‘The good thing is, it was busy. Lots of people are coming forward. All we need are a few more bits and pieces.’
‘Like our mate at Somerton?’ Dad asked.
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it?’
‘I think we should release this fella’s description.’
‘Coulda been him. Coulda been Robert Menzies. Everyone’s lookin’ for a tall, blond guy when the real culprit – ’
‘We’ll explain, say it’s just one option. People will understand.’
Dad looked at him, unsure.
‘We gotta try,’ Bert pleaded.
Dad lifted his hands into the air, his palms facing upwards as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay, go see Jim. Tell him we want a new press release.’
Bert stood up and took out his notepad.
‘Go tell that Scottish prick first,’ Dad said.
Bert walked off. Dad watched as Bill talked to parents in the playground. He stood up and walked over, determined to tell him what the postie had seen, and to make it sound like good news.
On top of everything else, my principal was at the Rileys’ front door. ‘Michael Coulson,’ he called down the hallway. ‘The girls’ principal. Anyone home?’
I sat in the lounge room, unwilling to answer the door. Let him stew, I thought. Liz, Mum and Rosa were in the backyard and I was running things now. I watched his reflection in the sliding-glass door as he went to loosen his tie but then thought better of it. He was holding a casserole dish that he put down on the verandah so he could hitch up his pants. His shoulders sagged. At school, at lunchtime, he’d patrol the yard with a stoop, as though he was piggybacking a small African elephant. He’d stop and sit on a fallen log. He’d take out a handkerchief and wipe his forehead. Then he’d cough up phlegm and spit on the ground. He’d examine it, frowning, smiling, and raising his eyebrows with surprise and delight.
‘Hello, anyone home?’ he called.
Mum came in the back door. ‘Coming.’ She walked up the hallway, stopped at the lounge-room door and looked at me. ‘You could’ve got that.’ Then she took a few more steps and opened the screen door.
‘Hello?’ she smiled. ‘Mister Coulson?’
‘Michael.’ He extended his hand and she shook it. ‘You’re Henry’s mum?’
‘Ellen Page.’
‘Nice to see you again. I’ve come to see Missus Riley. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it in the paper.’
‘Come in,’ Mum said, opening the door.
Please, no, I thought. Take him out the back.
‘If you want to wait in the lounge,’ Mum continued. ‘I’ll get Liz.’
‘I’ve brought a casserole. My wife made it this morning. It’s a curry, a mild one.’ Mr Coulson walked into the lounge. ‘Hello, Henry, how are you? Of course, you’re friends with Janice. You were in her class, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, watching his stomach squeeze out over his belt as he sat down.
‘Well, it won’t be long now, eh? They’ll find them soon.’
Then Mum did the unthinkable: she left me alone with my principal.
‘You had a good holiday?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘We went to Goolwa.’
‘We?’
‘Me, Janice, Anna and Gavin.’
‘Ah.’ He paused to think. ‘Lots of things could’ve happened. They could’ve got lost.’ Trailing off, trying to sound like he actually believed it. Still, that’s what teachers do, I figured. Spin stories: Archimedes jumping out of his bathtub, pyramids made out of one-ton blocks, long division and grammar.
‘Everything ready for school?’ he asked, awkwardly.
‘I suppose.’
‘What grade are you in now?’
‘Six.’
‘Big day Monday?’
And then I just looked at him. ‘I’m not going to school Monday,’ I said.
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s understandable. Still, it’ll be cleared up by then.’
‘How do you know?’
He looked at me fiercely, as though I’d crossed some invisible line.
‘This happens all the time,’ he said.
‘Not what my dad reckons. He’s a detective.’
‘Well . . .’
‘If they were lost, they would’ve been found by now.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
I stared at him, but he tried not to look at me. He pulled the foil tight over the top of his curry. ‘Come on, Henry,’ he whispered quietly. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Which was his way of trying to be principal on my turf.
‘They’ll find them, it’ll all be cleared up. You and Janice, you in the same class again? I think you’ve both got Mister Meus.’
‘Who’s Mister Meus?’
‘New chap, Italian fella, bloody nice . . . very nice.’
‘But I won’t be there.’
He stared at me, and I returned his stare, plus some. Mum, Rosa and Liz came into the room. Mr Coulson stood up. ‘Missus Riley?’
‘Liz.’
‘I’m Michael Coulson, from Croydon Primary. I just came to say – ’
‘They’re still looking,’ Liz interrupted. ‘Hundreds of them. Bill rang and told me. Isn’t that great?
‘Absolutely. If they’re out there . . .’ He stopped, realising he’d have to choose his words. ‘Several teachers rang me this morning. They’re all very concerned. Some were going to come but I said it would be better . . . you’ve obviously got a lot to deal with.’ He stopped ag
ain, realising he was sounding like a newspaper columnist. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d be too busy to cook, so my wife made you this curry, a mild one.’ He presented the casserole like some sort of consolation prize, and Mum took it.
‘Thank you,’ Liz said, sitting down, staring out of the window, remembering where she was and looking at Mr Coulson. ‘This time yesterday, they were already on the train,’ she managed.
‘What have the police said?’ Mr Coulson asked.
‘They’re still looking. Hundreds of them – Boy Scouts, firemen, everyone.’ Then she looked out of the window again.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ Mum asked Mr Coulson.
‘No, I won’t keep you.’
‘It’s no bother. White?’
‘No . . . yes . . . white, two sugars.’
Mum carried the curry from the room like a communion cup. I took the opportunity to escape, darting down the hallway, barging through the screen door and hobbling across the yard. I settled in behind a rosemary bush, sitting with my legs hunched up under my chin as a few neighbours walked past, slowing and staring in the front door. But they didn’t hear the screaming or see the commotion I suppose they expected, so they passed on. A few cars slowed, and heads turned and looked at the house, mouths flapping and fingers pointing out the poor kiddies’ house, looking so normal, like everyone else’s. They would have to find other ways of observing the Rileys’ suffering, of tasting their despair without swallowing it, of hearing and smelling and touching what they’d all known in imperceptibly small doses. 7A as a nightmare. A fairytale. A morality tale. A horror story with wilting agapanthus.
I turned around and saw Rosa’s legs. They were hairier than usual. Her corns had split the sides of her black satin slippers and the soles had come away. Her dress, again black, had come unpicked at the hem. ‘Should we look for them?’ she asked.
‘Okay,’ I smiled, climbing out from behind the bush.
We walked to the playground, sat on a bench and watched as a boy in shorts sat on a swing, twisted it and let it unravel. We laughed when he stood up, stumbled a few steps and then fell over, narrowly missing a pole.
‘I never even thought of this,’ I said, suddenly.
‘What?’ Rosa asked.
‘That someone could just disappear.’
