‘Have you had any threats?’ the policewoman asked. ‘Anything from unhappy patients at the hospital, for instance?’
‘My patients are children.’
‘Well, their parents then?’
He’d been through all of this already with the police. Did this woman think that he’d suddenly remember something at five in the morning?
‘No, not really.’ Marty opened his eyes to look at the police officer and explain. The world spun briefly and then his eyes adjusted.
‘Upset, angry parents say things in the heat of the moment. You know, in the shock of finding out their child has a terrible disease, moments like that. But they don’t mean it.’
‘Can you give me an example?’
Marty closed his eyes again. He didn’t want his patients’ pain entwined with his own.
‘It doesn’t happen often. Stuff like: I wish this was happening to your child, then you’d know what it’s like. I haven’t had any in Canberra.’
Mostly, it was the fathers who shouted at him in the hospital. The ones who thought life could be controlled. Like he once had.
His body ached and his mind was at a standstill. He’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours. Was it only yesterday morning that he’d checked Bella’s cast, hugged her carefully, kissed her cheek and left the house at seven thirty? And this policewoman—Marty didn’t even know her name—wanted to question him now. A logical thought clicked through his exhaustion. She wants to catch you off guard.
At last they were pulling into his driveway, a five-minute trip that had felt like hours. He hoped that Lexie was asleep inside. Marty couldn’t bear to see her expectant face.
‘And what about your wife? Has anyone threatened her?’
Marty ignored the question and pushed open the car door. He heaved himself out of the seat, fighting the lethargy in his body. Focusing on the house, he almost missed the policewoman’s last words.
‘Have you threatened her?’
No, I’m not to blame. I’m NOT.
If he shouted it loudly enough in his head, perhaps he could force himself to believe it.
All over the TV news. Bella everywhere. Like a celebrity.
The media should be focusing on those protesters at Parliament House, not on Bella.
Police crawling all over Merrigang.
Her last steps. Her last movements.
Too much attention, too many people searching.
Yes, she’s special to me, but not to the rest of them.
They don’t know the real Bella.
They’re just pretending to care.
All those people on the news, they didn’t care before.
Don’t look. Turn it off.
15
LEXIE
THE SOUND OF THE TOILET FLUSHING IN THE ENSUITE WOKE ME. IT MUST be Bella, I thought groggily. But when the bathroom door opened, Marty stood there in the same clothes he’d been wearing the day before. In an instant, that sick feeling gripped my gut again. How could I have slept while my daughter was outside in the cold? I’d wanted to keep searching all night, but when I kept stumbling and tripping on tree trunks, Imogen had insisted on taking me home.
In our front room, Tara had been asleep on the lounge, Daisy in the pram beside her. I’d forgotten that they were in our house and I switched on the light, startling Daisy. Her cry stabbed through me. Ignoring Tara, I picked up the baby and held the bundle of warmth against me, breathing in Daisy’s sweet smell, my tears falling on her fine hair. I’d never touched her before, this precious child with her gummy mouth and drools of saliva. The red cheeks, chubby face and flat nose of a baby. Perhaps I’d avoided looking at her during playgroup. The cherub grinned at me for a second, realised I was a strange face, then screamed for her mother. Tara had snatched Daisy away from me and hurried out to her car, followed by Imogen pushing the pram. My arms, bereft of the baby, bereft of Bella, fell limply by my sides. Standing in the middle of the lounge room in my silent house, I didn’t know what to do. My family was gone.
At three in the morning, Imogen had put me to bed, stroking my back until I was asleep. As I fell into a blessed blankness, I’d wished for Phoebe to be lying beside me. We used to sleep together as kids, camping on the floor between our beds, draping a blanket over the top as a tent.
‘Anything?’ I asked Marty.
I sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp, trying to read his face. He shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot—tiredness and tears. I’d done this to him. I’d failed to protect our child. I got up and wrapped my arms around his waist. His chest heaved and I held him tighter as he began to sob, his tears dripping onto my neck.
‘We’ll find her,’ I whispered into his shoulder. ‘Any moment now.’
I couldn’t look at my husband’s broken face.
‘Superintendent Milson will be at playgroup at seven,’ Marty managed to choke out between the sobs.
‘I’ll go down there now,’ I told him. ‘You have a shower.’
I forced myself to eat a whole slice of Vegemite toast and washed it down with tea, and two Panadol to help my throbbing head. The fridge was full of plastic containers. Yesterday, while waiting at our house, Mel had made soup and casseroles from whatever she could find in my cupboards. God knew who would eat it though; I could barely manage the toast.
On the fridge door, along with Bella’s paintings, a new drawing had appeared. A red scribble inside a heart and words in blue texta: WE LOVE BELLA. The letters were misshapen but still legible. Had Sammy written it? Could he actually form letters? Mel had tidied the toys and the books in the living room. Perhaps Sammy had played in there. Or was it Tara’s daughter enjoying Bella’s dress-up box and Bella’s fairy tea set? Her special playmates had been in her house—if only she’d been here too.
My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans and I reached for it. Heart thudding, I brought the screen into view. Phoebe again. Hoping for good news.
‘Nothing to report,’ I said quickly.
‘I’m sure you’ll find her this morning. A bit cold and missing Lulu but otherwise okay.’
Lulu, Bella’s first and favourite bed toy. A pink teddy bear head sewn onto a tiny blanket body. Bella slept with her every night.
‘Maybe she saw a fairy and followed it into someone’s shed,’ I mused out loud. ‘Maybe she thought she could make herself invisible so the fairy didn’t see her.’
Bella believed in fairies, my sister understood. I could say this to her; I could say anything to her. Wherever we went, Bella looked for fairies, hoping that she would catch one unawares before it vanished. Perhaps I’d encouraged it with my pet name for her. When I read her the story of Peter Pan, she wasn’t interested in the Lost Boys or the ticking crocodile, only Tinker Bell.
‘Yes, she’s with a fairy,’ my sister agreed. ‘She’s safe and warm inside.’
Her decisive words calmed me. Phoebe had the resilience to roll with the punches and come back up ready to fight, ready to live life to the fullest. Just like my little Bella.
That feeling of calm only lasted for five minutes. As I left the house, a slight breeze brushed the early-morning air against my face. Cold for my Bella but not freezing. Two weeks ago, it had been minus four, the ground sparkling with frost. This morning, the Brindabellas had disappeared into fog. Please, God, let Bella have found somewhere warm to sleep.
My fingers shook as I put the key into the ignition. Should I have waited for Marty or called Imogen? I couldn’t do this alone. Suddenly I wished for my father—as he was five years ago. Dad had been such a rock for all of us, especially when Mum was dying. He was a practical, get-the-problem-fixed kind of guy. But around the time we moved to England, he suddenly went downhill. His body and his mind decided they’d had enough. It was another thing for which I blamed myself. But, truth be told, I’d been in no state to look after him then; I was barely able to look after Bella and myself. From afar, I’d organised an assessment, a home nurse and then a nursing home. Mostly
he recognised me, occasionally Marty, never Bella. He asked what time Mum would be home from the shops. He wondered if Phoebe needed collecting from piano lessons after school. He remembered the name of the ski lodge where we’d stayed when I was ten.
When I’d spoken to the matron yesterday afternoon, she assured me that Dad would be kept away from the television. I’d had a quick word with him and he’d given me his usual salient advice.
‘Finish your homework. Never give up. You’ll be learning all your life.’
He was right, I had been learning all my life—until five years ago, when my mind seemed to stop. Broken. Marty tried. He showed me articles about travelling exhibitions at my old museum: treasures of the pharaohs from Egypt; objects from the Hermitage Museum in Russia; Aztec artefacts from Mexico. I pushed his offerings away, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the words or images. The ones that were related to my own research he printed out and positioned on the kitchen table, ready for me to read. A collection from the Pacific. Oral stories from the Torres Strait. The fishermen from Makassar. Papua New Guinea and the First Australians. Shell middens in Far North Queensland. Those ones I ripped into tiny pieces and hid deep in the recycling bin. He was trying to be kind, trying to bring me back. But it was too late. I’d been creating that exhibition when I’d fallen pregnant: Our earliest traders: The Yolngu People of the Northern Territory. I’d taken that trip to Indonesia to meet with the Makassan people whose ancestors had traded sea cucumbers and turtle shells with Australian Aborigines. With two other researchers, I was determining what dates to list in the exhibition: cultural links from the late 1600s, or was that too presumptuous? Perhaps we should only cite the early 1700s, of which we had hard evidence.
No, I didn’t want to think about any of that ever again. Someone else could follow up on my years of research. When I went back to work, it would be somewhere that kept my mind busy with admin or customer service. No more researching or analysing or investigating. No field trips to delve back into the past.
I swung the car into Fig Street and wondered where to park. Although I was still two blocks from the playgroup, both sides of the road were lined with cars. In the normally quiet streets, small groups of people were walking towards playgroup. They had backpacks and water bottles. They weren’t wearing the orange SES overalls though; these looked like ordinary people off on a hike. But they’d been out all night, searching for my Tinker Bell. I loved them for their kindness, these strangers who didn’t even know my daughter. Their compassion, their ability to give without expectation. And then I hated them—for the simple fact that it wasn’t their child missing.
The laneway behind playgroup had been cordoned off and a TV news van was parked on the grass at the corner. At the sight of the camera, my hands began shaking again. How could I have been so stupid? Morning television. The twenty-four-hour news cycle. No time was too early.
Keeping my face averted from the searchers and the cameras, I nudged the car back into the main street, up the road towards the shops. The early-morning fog was lifting. Please, God, give us a warm, sunny day to find Bella. Please, God, help find my little girl. The prayer came easily, as though I hadn’t stopped praying years ago. Maybe God could prove that he hadn’t abandoned me after all.
The parking area for the shops was overflowing, with cars up on the verge. Searchers in plain clothes queued at the bakery for coffee, SES blokes wandered out of the supermarket clutching cartons of chocolate milk and bananas. Three weeks ago, on the phone to Phoebe, I’d been so proud of myself for overcoming my anxiety and walking up to the shop without Bella. But my anxiety had been sending me a message—Bella would be safe now if only I’d listened.
If only, if only, if only …
Inside playgroup, the room was buzzing with police officers and SES personnel. Every other morning, the scents of paint, baby wipes, bananas, milk and perfume wafted through this room. Now, I gagged on the bitter smell of coffee combined with McDonald’s hash browns and the stale odour of male sweat. Dora the Explorer was still sitting in the home corner where I’d left her yesterday, a reminder of my terrible negligence, a homecoming present for Bella. Superintendent Milson was huddled in a tight group with two SES men, examining a map on a laptop. Spotting me, he came over immediately.
‘Mrs Parker, we’re assessing which grid to search next. I understand you and your husband were out there last night searching.’
‘Yes, with friends of friends,’ I told him. ‘And lots of other people.’
‘Well, the community is certainly being very helpful. More people have turned up this morning to assist with the search.’
From his tone, I couldn’t tell if he thought this was good or bad. Surely more people meant more eyes and more chance of finding her.
‘We have GPS trackers so we can see exactly which areas have already been searched,’ the superintendent explained. ‘The helicopter will be here at around nine, once the fog has lifted completely. We’ll have a media conference at ten. Will you speak to the journalists?’
The swerve in conversation threw me and I stared at the man’s closely cropped hair.
‘Can I decide later? When my husband comes in?’
Could he hear the tremble in my voice?
‘Of course. I’ll read a prepared statement. We’ll show the photos again.’
Last time we’d faced the media, Phoebe had stood beside me, shielding me from the questions and the assumptions. I couldn’t do this without her.
REDDIT
Unresolved mysteries: Martin and Lexie Ross
Warrior 4 YEARS AGO
I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that all of Australia wants to see justice …
MazinMelbourne
This case was investigated and closed. It’s done.
Stop going on about it.
Comment deleted
The-sane-one
A lot of Websleuths reckon they’re actual police and come across pretty delusional tbh.
Hamburger
One word. Police corruption.
John John
That’s two words.
Crocodile Dundee 24
Why is this thread still up here? It should be taken down.
Warrior TODAY
Just saw there’s a three-year-old missing in Canberra—is this the same family? I can’t believe it. I told you all that we should keep persevering for justice. And now look what’s happened!
John John
They’ve got a different last name. Is it them or not?
Princess Elsa of the Light
Karma. What goes around comes around.
16
BRENDAN
PARKING AT THE SCHOOL WAS IMPOSSIBLE THIS MORNING, WITH ALL those police vehicles and cars spilling over from the playgroup and the shops. Brendan considered driving home again and walking back before noticing a space between Jeff’s ute and the hopper for the cardboard recycling. He reversed his white Subaru WRX into the spot.
The buzzing of a helicopter made him look up. Wow, it was flying low. The atmosphere in school would be strange today—the kids making guesses and spreading rumours, and the teachers too. Some of the schoolchildren would know Bella; many of them had younger siblings who went to playgroup.
Brendan prepared himself for the white van conversation that would inevitably come up. Last year, a girl had been walking home from school when a white van pulled up and the driver asked her to get in. Allegedly. Harlow was known for her ‘wild imagination and storytelling’. Then Freddie said a white van had slowed down next to him, and he’d run as fast as he could. Merrigang was in shock: it was supposed to be a safe, friendly village. That white van turned out to be a house painter, pulling into a job. Eventually, the hysteria died down, the parents stopped driving their children to school every day, kids rode bikes and walked once again.
Even though no white van had been mentioned in Bella’s disappearance, the kids would make the connection. And they’d be scared. He’d do some quiet, re
assuring activities this morning; story time on the mat and some cheerful songs.
In the staffroom, Brendan found his favourite mug in the dishwasher and made himself an instant coffee. Tasted like shit. Should have walked and got a proper coffee at the bakery on the way. But the shops were full of coppers. He spotted the Canberra Times on the table, the front page had a gigantic photo of Bella. He did a double take, half smirked and studied the picture closely. He read through the article—no, it didn’t mention his name. Should he show the other teachers or not? The principal wouldn’t want any links to her teachers and the school; she preferred to keep a low profile. Maybe he’d tell Jeff later on. Claire would recognise the photo; she’d been there that day. He turned over the page and saw more photos of Bella and her family … Oh fuck, no way. Another teacher walked into the staffroom and Brendan quickly flipped to the sports pages.
As Brendan led his class inside to hang their schoolbags on hooks, Chloe sidled up to him, holding her lunch order in a brown paper bag. He frowned at the bag—Chloe’s mother always made her lunch except for the one day a month when she was on canteen duty.
‘Mr Parrish, do you know where the girl has gone?’ Chloe asked.
Was she asking about Fox or the toddler? Chloe kicked at the ground and he noticed her hair, a messy ponytail with lots of bumps on top, and a black hair band instead of the regulation red. Normally Chloe had perfectly neat hair. Her mother was the super-organised type who handed every note back on time, ensured library books were returned, helped out on excursions, the school picnic and at every social event. That was the useful side of the woman. She also wanted to meet with him every Tuesday to discuss Chloe’s reading progress, every Wednesday to discuss rough behaviour in the playground, every Thursday to discuss the maths program, and every Friday to complain about Fox disrupting the class learning environment.
‘We’re all worried about the missing girl.’ Brendan patted Chloe’s shoulder. ‘But I’m sure she’ll be okay. The police are out there looking for her right now.’
Six Minutes Page 11
