Six Minutes

by Petronella McGovern

  Tara decided to call Detective Sergeant Caruso directly and tell him. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s Tara Murphy here. I just wanted to make sure that you’re aware of all the stuff being said on the community Facebook pages. Can you access them?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. We’re monitoring it all. But if you or anyone else has specific information, they should contact the police, not write it on Facebook.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that.’

  Tara didn’t want him to think she was stupid. She’d never been involved with the police before. That time the boys burnt down the shed at school, she didn’t get to be interviewed by the hunky police officers.

  ‘While I have you on the phone, Mrs Murphy, could I ask you about a photo shoot with the playgroup a few months ago?’

  ‘You mean the one up on the ridge that Brendan Parrish did?’ Tara remembered the day clearly. A break from the monotony. ‘That was brilliant. He took great shots. We got some of them framed.’

  ‘And have you seen Mr Parrish since that day?’

  ‘Occasionally, yeah. He’s always around the shops. One day, he bought Lexie a coffee because he was at the front of the queue in the bakery. He was tops with the kids—they were so relaxed when he photographed them.’

  Brendan didn’t buy me a coffee, even though I called out too. Fucking Lexie—she attracted the men, young and old. And he was all smiles with Bella but then ignored Zoe.

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Murphy. I won’t keep you. Thanks for calling in.’

  The detective was gone before Tara could say another word. What was that about? How could the photo shoot have anything to do with Bella’s disappearance? Josh’s niece—Pam’s oldest granddaughter, the favourite granddaughter—was in Mr Parrish’s class. Tara was hoping that Brendan would still be teaching there by the time Zoe started school. Everyone loved him.

  A whimpering noise came from the lounge room. Shit, Daisy would need dinner any minute and Tara hadn’t yet opened her blog. She brought up the page and smiled for the first time today. Sixty-three comments and fifty shares. Fuck-a-duck!

  BLOGSPOTCRAZY HAZY DAYZ

  COMMENTS (63)

  Kylie says: She’s such a gorgeous girl. Please keep us updated. Keep on hugging, Crazy Hazy Dayz. Xx

  Gaynor G says: Look at that beautiful bedroom—she must be missing her fairies. Praying she’s home in her own special bed soon.

  CheerfulChick says: I want to climb through my computer and give you a hug. Your family must be so scared. I’m here for you, any time you need. Xxxxxxx

  MuminLondon says: It’s every mother’s greatest fear. I gave my babies extra special hugs this morning, and I’m sending some to you and to Bella’s family too. (I’m the editor of a weekly magazine in the UK and we’d like to profile Bella. Please send me a message.)

  Caring, sympathetic, kind—that was just what she needed: some kindness from strangers to counteract the fear. Tara loved this online community. And the best thing was that everyone knew her as ‘Crazy Hazy Dayz’, not Tara from playgroup; not Tara, mother of Zoe and Daisy, wife of Josh.

  As Tara scrolled downwards, tears in her eyes, she heard the key in the front door. Quickly she logged out and erased her web history.

  ‘Josh, what are you doing home already?’ She hurried out to the hall and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Come to help with the witching hour?’

  Shaking his head, he tossed his keys on the hall table and called for the girls.

  ‘Guess who’s home early?’ he yelled down the hallway, and then announced himself: ‘DADDEEEEEE!!!!!’

  Zoe came running. He swept her up in a bear hug and kissed her hair.

  ‘Oh, my gorgeous girl. How are you today?’

  Maybe in January, when she started work, Tara could announce herself like that at 5 pm each day and the kids would be delighted to see her. At the moment, she was just their supplier of food and entertainment.

  ‘I’m only here for a few minutes,’ Josh explained to Zoe. ‘I have to get changed and then go looking for your friend Bella.’

  ‘Poor Bella,’ Zoe moaned. ‘Lost Bella.’

  ‘Don’t go on about it, Josh—you’ll upset her,’ Tara snapped. ‘So you’re just popping in, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have dinner first. Is there anything ready?’

  ‘I haven’t started cooking yet. Let’s get takeaway.’

  ‘Sure. I need to be quick. I want to get out there searching and help find the poor girl.’

  Tara flipped through the takeaway menus—Indian, Chinese, Thai, pizza, pasta. Maybe Indian, Josh’s fave. She’d have to drive to Woden for it but an Indian meal would keep him going for a long night. Onion bhaji, butter chicken, rice, naan bread. Her stomach cramped as she read the dishes.

  ‘Josh, actually, I can’t face food. What if I cook you bacon and eggs?’

  The smell of bacon frying reminded her of mornings after—back in the old days, BC: before children. A huge night out at the trendiest bars, cocktails to start, wine later. Getting to bed after midnight and sleeping in until midday. And then a fry-up to manage the hangover. Three of the Gong Gals were still doing it every weekend—no partners, no kids and no responsibilities. In their last post, they’d been lounging in plush sofas at a swanky bar, a chandelier glowing above them, the band behind and espresso martinis in their hands.

  While she envied the martinis, she didn’t want to be single again. Despite the lack of sleep and the monotony of child rearing, she loved Josh and her little family. Tara’s stomach cramped again. Oh God, what if something happened to Josh out there tonight? Or if someone came for her and the kids while he was out searching for Bella?

  ‘Don’t go.’ She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight. ‘Stay here with us.’

  Josh rested his head against hers. ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘I needed you today.’ She pulled back to see his eyes. ‘I rang and you weren’t at work.’

  ‘What time? Did you ring the mobile?’

  ‘I rang your mobile, then your direct line, and then I spoke to someone in your team. They said you’d gone out.’

  ‘Getting lunch probably.’

  ‘It was three thirty.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Josh shrugged. ‘I had a couple of meetings. Or maybe I was in the loo doing my afternoon poo.’

  ‘Yuk.’ She pushed him away. ‘Don’t tell me about your daily dumps.’

  She didn’t need to keep track of yet another person’s pooing habits. She’d been slack about toilet training. Zoe still wore a nappy to bed and would take it off each morning and leave it on the carpet, dribbling shit everywhere.

  ‘But you didn’t call me back,’ Tara whined.

  ‘Sorry, busy afternoon. But I’m here for you now, babe.’

  Yeah, for five minutes. Before he was off to search for Bella.

  ‘I’m scared.’ She said it so softly that her husband didn’t hear.

  27

  LEXIE

  I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE, I DON’T WANT TO BE THERE, I DON’T WANT to be anywhere. The phrases whirled through my head like the Dr Seuss books I read Bella at bedtime. Bella, you’re not here, you’re not there, you’re not anywhere.

  Three hours after midnight: the clock had ticked over to Saturday. Our torches barely dented the blackness. Stumbling across the open land on the edge of Duffy, land that had contained pine forests before the bushfires. Now it was a settlement of new houses, surrounded by open parkland, a few trees, grass and dirt paths. On the other side of the road, the lights glinted from the new suburbs of Molonglo. The ridge hid any sign of Merrigang. An invisible wall between the city and the bush. What if something had crossed over from the wilderness and snatched my daughter?

  ‘Stop!’ someone shouted at the end of the search line. Thirty of us stopped instantly. The first few times this had happened, I’d rushed over to see what they’d found. A dumped garbage bag. A log pile that needed investigating. A kids’ hide-out with blankets an
d drink bottles. Now, I stayed still, holding my breath, waiting to hear the next words.

  ‘Okay, go on again.’

  The line moved forwards and I tried to control my breathing. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Smell the roses, blow out the candles. But I couldn’t get the rhythm right—I was taking short breaths and blowing out long ones. Head spinning, I stumbled against Marty. His arm was around me in a moment.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I couldn’t answer—had to concentrate on breathing. My whole body focusing on this one task; a task that normal people didn’t even notice.

  ‘Hold it up,’ the call came out again.

  Without realising, I began counting the seconds, waiting, waiting for the searcher to speak again. Two minutes. Muffled voices.

  ‘I’m going over to look,’ Marty said, extracting himself from my grasp.

  When he took his arms away, I didn’t know if I would remain standing by myself. I wanted Phoebe by my side, but she was on the other side of the planet. My legs shook, black dots shimmied in front of my eyes, my knees buckled and I fell forward into a kneeling position. What have they found over there? I began praying underneath the starry heavens. Please, God, bring her back to me safely. Take me instead. I’ll do anything.

  ‘All right. Moving on.’

  The searchers began walking again. In the darkness, no-one noticed me on the ground. As they marched away from me, I could see their torch beams dancing, lighting up a bush here, a patch of dirt there, a tree. Tiny shining specks in this gloomy paddock. A heavy cloak of darkness settled around me, and I curled into myself. This was where I’d stay till morning—if Bella was outside, then I should be too.

  ‘Lexie, where are you?’

  Raising my head from my knees, I saw the torchlights had all turned and were pointing back in my direction. Not close enough to spot me.

  Leave me. Go and find Bella.

  ‘LEXIE?’ Marty’s shout came out strangled with fear. Losing a child, losing an adult—it was all too easy.

  ‘Here.’ I patted the ground around me, feeling for my torch. ‘I’m here.’

  I switched it on and Marty ran towards my light.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  I was hurting. But that wasn’t what he meant.

  ‘What did they find?’ I asked.

  While I’d been kneeling on the ground, I’d seen a kaleidoscope of images: Bella lying in the grass, her eyes doll-like, staring blankly into space; Bella dehydrated but conscious, calling out, ‘Mumma, Mumma’; Bella’s clothes and shoes but no sign of her body; feral dogs skulking across the paddocks back to their lairs.

  Marty hesitated before answering. ‘A green sloppy joe with a dinosaur on it. A boy’s one—too big for Bella.’

  The cold had infiltrated my body. Cold like Bella would be. I wanted to succumb to it. Lie down on the damp earth and let it take me. Instead, I vomited, splattering my jeans, Marty’s shoes and the cold, hard ground.

  In the car, Marty turned the heating up to its highest level. The sudden warmth made my fingers tingle. I angled the vent away from me; didn’t deserve to be warm. Outside the window, houses flashed by; houses where families slept soundly, their children tucked up in their beds, babies in their cots.

  ‘Lexie, you’ve been vomiting quite a lot.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I hadn’t kept track but my guts ached and my throat was raw.

  ‘Do you think …’

  What was he getting at? My mind whirled slowly in the exhaustion. When I didn’t respond, he spelt it out.

  ‘Do you think you’re pregnant?’

  I dropped my head into my hands. Back to this again. Really? Now? Was that what he wanted? A dozen children filling our huge new house so that when he upset one child or lost another, it didn’t matter—there were plenty more around.

  ‘I’m vomiting because I’m worried sick.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ It was his doctor’s voice. Calm, reassuring, rational. ‘Perhaps it’s also because you’ve stopped drinking?’

  Flinching, I shifted my body away from him, closer to the car door, and a blast of warm air from the vents hit my face. We hadn’t talked about the day of Bella’s broken wrist. Afterwards, he had treated me with kid gloves and I’d been grateful. I didn’t know if he accepted any of the blame or simply blamed me. But I couldn’t talk about that day now, not with Bella missing. It was my fault. All of it.

  ‘I’ve stopped drinking and I stopped the antidepressants.’

  ‘What? You just stopped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve helped.’

  The antidepressants had given me diarrhoea, made me exhausted and uninterested in sex. Although given the current state of our relationship, I wasn’t sure if that last symptom could be attributed to the drugs. They’d also made me feel a little lighter, a little calmer; they had blunted the sharp edges. I could appreciate the view of the mountains, the magical tinkle of Bella’s laugh. I’d been able to interact with the women at playgroup and enjoy the experience. As the playgroup mums had become my friends and I’d felt better and better, I thought I could cope without my medication. My plan was to talk to a GP and work out a withdrawal dosage. But then, after Bella’s broken wrist … I didn’t take a tablet the next morning. Nor the next.

  ‘Lexie, you need to taper the dose slowly or you’ll get withdrawal symptoms. Oh Christ,’ he said again and shook his head. ‘You should have half a tablet when we get home.’

  Without the medication, my diarrhoea had gone and the exhaustion had lifted. No need to sneak a nap on the couch every lunchtime. But the withdrawal had given me headaches and nausea. And when I’d finally managed to fall asleep, my dreams had been so vivid; they seemed more real than life itself.

  ‘No, I’m not taking them anymore.’

  Somewhere, beneath the blame and the grief, I knew he still cared; he still loved me as he once had. And I loved him. But he deserved a better wife. And I didn’t deserve to be the mother of his children.

  In the end I did take a tablet—not an antidepressant but a sleeping tablet to knock me out. And I dreamt. A family of children on a picnic rug, Bella surrounded by brothers and sisters. Marty’s wish coming true in my dream. One of the boys was blowing out the candles on a rocket-shaped cake. Not Bella’s birthday but the boy’s. ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ Bella cried, throwing her arms into the air. The children hooted on their party blowers, aiming the long paper tails at each other’s cheeks. The birthday boy handed me blue paper plates and I cut the chocolate cake, piece by piece. As the boy passed the plates to his siblings, I leant over and kissed his forehead. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

  Something woke me—a door slamming downstairs.

  Happy birthday, darling. Half asleep, I whispered the words, still feeling the boy’s fringe tickling my nose.

  Opening my eyes, I saw the bedroom. In this house, in this world. I yearned for those unknown children with Bella, yearned to climb back into that dream. But I couldn’t. My Tinker Bell wasn’t safe. I thumped my head against the pillow. The clock said 11 am. How could I have slept for so long when Bella was missing?

  I pulled on clean jeans and an old red top, and peered out of the window to check it wasn’t raining on my little girl. The sun shone with barely a cloud in the sky, but three news vans were parked outside our house. A knot of reporters stood together, some clutching sandwiches and coffee, others talking on their mobiles. One must have seen movement at the window and they all looked up at the same time. Two swung their large cameras onto their shoulders, directing them at my bedroom. I was frozen against the windowsill. Staring at them staring at me.

  Bella must be dead.

  Standing there, I groaned.

  The same guttural sound I’d uttered during her birth.

  And then I ran. Away from the cameras, down the corridor, down the stairs, along the hallway, into the kitchen. Marty was sitting at the dining table, his tired, furrowed face f
ocusing on the laptop screen. As I scurried into the room, he jumped up and came to me.

  ‘Lexie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘The news crews! Why are they here? Have they found her?’

  ‘No, no. No news. I was at the playgroup an hour ago and spoke to the police. Nothing to report.’

  A moment of relief. Relief that she wasn’t dead. But not yet found.

  ‘Why are the media vans out the front?’

  ‘That detective must have interviewed Nurse Natalie yesterday. As we expected, she went straight to the Telegraph. Now, it’s everywhere.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘All over the internet, the news, everywhere.’

  I collapsed into the nearest chair and he swivelled the laptop towards me. On the screen, Bella’s photo filled the front page of a newspaper, with Marty and I inset on one side. The headline screamed in bold capital letters: BELLA’S BROTHER: SUSPICIOUS DEATH.

  The police are asking too many questions. And that detective—Caruso—he’s like a dog with a bone.

  How to divert them from Merrigang? Drop the evidence somewhere else. A toilet in Belconnen Mall? No, too many security cameras all over that shopping mall.

  A place with no cameras. A place where people would care. They’d find it and give it to the police.

  Check the plastic bag. No fingerprints. Bella loves her fairies. That purple sticker with a fairy in the corner. But the label is clearly readable: This shoe belongs to Bella Parker.

  28

  CARUSO

  CARUSO HAD BEEN AWAKE MOST OF THE NIGHT, AT POLICE FORWARD command, then back at the station. After yet another person had told him to get some sleep, he’d gone home to his apartment and worked from there. Time was critical; with every hour that went by, the chances of recovery became more and more grim. Early this morning, when Caruso could no longer think straight, he’d jogged down the stairs to the tiny gym at the bottom of his block. Lifting fifteen-kilo dumbbells, he let his thoughts wander, crunching the weights towards him, left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm. Working out helped him think.