Six Minutes

by Petronella McGovern

  Would Josh have rung Pam from Adelaide today, perhaps mentioned where he was staying? Did Tara dare to ask her? Her mother-in-law already thought Tara was a dumbhead; this would confirm it.

  Where are you, Joshie? I’m so scared. I want to feel safe in your arms.

  She heard the theme music to the Weekend Wrap and hurried out of the kitchen with her mug of peppermint tea. Sitting bolt upright on the couch in front of the telly, Tara wondered how she’d come across on-screen. Thank fuck no-one would recognise her. The excitement and the dread twisted inside her again; hopefully she wouldn’t need to shit before the first commercial break.

  For ten minutes, the program showed old footage of the first baby and Marty entering the North Shore Hospital in Sydney where he used to work. In one shot, right-to-lifers were protesting outside the front of the hospital while Lexie pushed her way through the crowd, a newborn in her arms—that must have been Bella.

  Last night, when Lexie had burst into tears on the phone, Tara almost confessed.

  I’m doing this for Bella. She’d justified it to Lexie in her mind. Someone needs to speak up for that poor little girl. And I’m doing it for our community, to make it safe again.

  The thrill that Tara had expected to feel when she saw herself on TV lasted for precisely ten seconds. Even in the dark, she looked fat and sounded like a whiny teenager. Her voice was so nasal; did she need sinus surgery to clear a blockage?

  When Tara spoke about Lexie being the perfect mother, the producers flashed up old photos of Marty and Lexie dressed up to the nines for a charity ball, Lexie pushing Bella on a swing, all of them cuddling up together as a family. Picture perfect. They were images that Tara had snapped from photo frames inside Lexie’s house.

  In the commercial break, she called Josh’s mobile again. No answer still.

  ‘Where are you?’ she shouted into the voicemail, wishing he was home, that she was wrapped in his arms. ‘Call me, you bastard.’

  She watched the rest of the program without moving. At the end, it cut back to Jasmine Driver in the studio. The presenter had tears in her eyes.

  ‘There has still been no sighting of sweet little Bella Parker. Police are appealing for anyone with information to contact them. Someone must know something. How can a child simply disappear from a room full of mums?’

  Fuck-a-duck, was Jasmine blaming the playgroup mums? No, it wasn’t the mums’ fault, and it definitely wasn’t Tara’s fault—she was trying to help. It was Lexie’s fault: she had left the gate open either accidentally or on purpose.

  Tiptoeing softly to her bedroom, listening for Daisy’s wail, Tara switched on the computer and typed out a quick blog post.

  BLOGSPOTCRAZY HAZY DAYZ

  Where is little Bella?

  Did you see the Weekend Wrap report about Bella’s disappearance? What do you think? We’re so devastated. Every minute, we’re waiting for the news that she has come home. My beautiful daughter is crying herself to sleep every night. She’s scared to be alone.

  My heart breaks for Bella. Where can she be?

  It’s Bella’s birthday in five days. We’ve already bought and wrapped a present for her. We’ve planned a party. But she’s not here.

  Bring Bella home for her birthday!

  Short and sweet but that would get the comments rolling in. And hopefully some would share it to other platforms. Bring Bella home for her birthday—Tara repeated the line to herself. Imagine if she, Tara, managed to do that: what no-one else could do. Her social media presence, her interview, the photos, all of that was making people pay attention, inspiring them to find a lost little girl.

  Yawning, Tara checked her Moschino watch. Nine thirty. Could she sneak an hour’s sleep before the next feed? She changed into her PJs, crawled into bed and checked her mobile again. No text, no call, nothing. Maybe Josh had forgotten to charge his phone.

  As she started to doze off, Daisy cried out.

  In the darkened nursery, with the baby attached to her breast, Tara had a moment of regret. Would her comments really help find Bella?

  And where the fuck was Josh?

  38

  LEXIE

  MARTY HADN’T SAID WHAT I KNEW HE’D BEEN THINKING.

  You never should have gone on that work trip to Indonesia when you were pregnant with Archie.

  Lying on the floor of Archie’s room, I remembered being in Makassar and feeling so ill that I thought I was going to die. We’d been served fish for dinner. Two hours later, the cramps and vomiting had hit me. Four of the others were also sick. A doctor had come to visit me in my room and I’d had to postpone my flight to Jakarta. Only later, when I was home, did I even realise that I was pregnant. Food poisoning, listeria—I didn’t know what I’d had, but I was sure it affected Archie in utero. Despite all the tests after his birth, the specialists found no conclusive reasons for his condition. I knew, though; my body had been his incubator and it had failed.

  My mobile was ringing in the kitchen. Slowly pulling myself up from the carpet, I leant against the shelf to stand. The only problem with this room—my shrine, as Marty had called it—was that it didn’t have that baby smell. Not that I could ever really smell it on Archie. He was surrounded by too many machines and drugs and devices. That hospital scent had clung to him.

  When I finally made it to my phone, I saw that it was Mel calling. I considered ignoring it—the last thing I felt like was talking—but with Marty gone and the house silent, I could feel the pull of the wine rack luring me with its rich red bottles, maroon tops and golden labels. I pressed Accept with my index finger.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Mel asked. ‘Who’s there to look after you at the moment?’

  ‘Nobody’s here right now.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I tried to get my brain into action. I didn’t want gossip going around that Marty was furious with me and the police were investigating us. ‘I … um … think he went down to the playgroup.’

  ‘I’ll come over right now,’ Mel said. ‘Be there in five.’

  Leaning over the kitchen sink, I splashed cold water on my face and avoided looking at the wine rack. Was it a sign from God that Bella’s shoe and water bottle had been found in the church?

  When Mel arrived, she was all about practicalities.

  ‘Have you been eating?’ she asked. ‘Did you have some of the stew?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ I lied.

  ‘You need to keep up your strength.’ Mel put her arm around my waist and walked me towards the staircase. ‘Let’s go upstairs and sit in Bella’s room for a moment. I think that will help centre you.’

  Last night, before I’d crawled in with Marty, I’d lain in Bella’s bed, clasping her Lulu to my heart. As a two-year-old, Bella would suck on Lulu’s nose. Wherever Bella was, she’d be desperate for Lulu. Propped on the bed with Lulu now sat Dora the Explorer, watching over Bella’s toys. I’d decided to bring the doll home with me from playgroup; Dora had looked so lost in that room full of police.

  I surveyed the bedroom—the bright babushka pictures hanging against the white walls, the doll’s house in one corner, a collection of china fairies carefully positioned on a shelf, Hairy Maclary and a Dr Seuss set in the bookcase. Without a child in it, another shrine.

  Mel sat us down on the bed, her arm still around me.

  ‘I need to tell you something, Lexie.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s going to be a story about you on the Weekend Wrap tonight.’

  So many journalists had tried to contact us that I’d forgotten about the Weekend Wrap. There had been a message via the hospital, asking if we would participate in the program. Superintendent Milson had advised against doing exclusive interviews but encouraged us to speak at the police media conferences. As if we wanted to do any of it.

  ‘I don’t want to watch it,’ I told Mel.

  ‘I think you should see this one,’ she said gently. ‘That’s why I’ve come over—to sit with you. Someone from
playgroup is on it.’

  In the lounge room, Mel switched on the television. The screen showed photos of Bella at playgroup—with the yellow digger in the sandpit, wearing the wizard hat in the cubbyhouse. She looked so happy, so alive.

  The reporter began with Archie’s death and there was Yvette again, that paediatric physio. At the time, she’d been a godsend, helping me with Archie, caring for him like I did. Now I wished I’d never met her.

  ‘Lexie told me she couldn’t cope,’ Yvette was saying, repeating the words I’d heard so many times. ‘She said: “I can’t cope with Archie and a newborn. I just can’t cope.”’

  Every mother feels overwhelmed sometimes. It didn’t mean that I wanted him to die!

  When the playgroup mum finally appeared, her face was in darkness and her voice distorted. This was someone I had trusted with my daughter that morning. Torn, one part of me wanted to run from the TV; the other part wanted to know who it was.

  ‘Why have you requested to remain anonymous?’ the reporter asked.

  ‘Merrigang is a tiny village,’ the mum replied. ‘I don’t want to cause rifts and lose friendships. Also, I heard what Marty did to that teacher …’

  Squeezing my hands together, I prayed to the TV. Please don’t make us look bad. Please don’t stop everyone searching for Bella.

  ‘So why are you speaking out if you are scared?’

  ‘People need to know the truth.’

  The truth was that I had relied on this woman. I stared at the shadowed face; the speech, the gestures—none was familiar. A process of elimination. Imogen and Mel wouldn’t do this, I was sure. That left Tara and Julia. Unless it was someone from another playgroup who’d met me once or twice.

  How could any one of them think I’d done something to Bella? They knew how much I loved her! But the woman on television was twisting every situation to suit a different truth. Bella’s broken wrist. Victoria’s disappearance. Me walking up to the shops.

  ‘She was always going up to the shops to buy stuff.’

  Twice—and do you know how hard it was to leave my child in someone else’s care? I was right not to trust you!

  The commercial break suddenly came on, an advertisement blaring about a new European car. Mel excused herself to go to the toilet.

  It couldn’t be Imogen on the television—it had to be Julia or Tara. The ads finished and the playgroup mum was back. Without Mel by my side, I felt more vulnerable. Mel knew the real me; she’d defend me against this woman.

  The front door slammed and I prepared myself to face my husband. What sort of mood would he be in?

  ‘Is that you, Marty?’

  ‘No, it’s me.’ Mel came back into the room, swathed in a long purple scarf—Bella’s favourite colour. ‘I was feeling the cold. Just had to get this from the car.’

  The reporter asked about the moment that Bella had disappeared.

  ‘Lexie must have left the gate unlocked herself. Either that or …’

  ‘Or what?’ prompted the reporter.

  ‘Or she set the whole thing up herself.’

  The program finished. Mel turned it off and I stared at the black screen.

  ‘I can’t believe Tara or Julia would do this …’

  ‘Or Imogen,’ Mel added.

  ‘What do you think happened, Mel?’ I asked eventually.

  Did Mel know about the discovery of the shoe and the water bottle? It hadn’t been reported in the news yet—the female detective had asked us not to share the information until they’d finished another search elsewhere. I wanted to hold the shoe, to feel closer to my Tinker Bell, but the police had already sent it off for testing. An image of Bella with one shoe made my blood run cold. She needed two shoes.

  ‘I don’t like to say this, Lexie, but you must have left the gate open and Bella tried to follow you.’

  ‘But why haven’t we found her then?’

  ‘Do you think … ? No, I don’t want to upset you.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Do you think …’ Mel stopped and took my hands in hers. ‘Can you really trust your husband?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ I whispered.

  ‘I’m worried about you.’ She touched her fingers to my cut cheek. ‘Your face, Bella’s arm. You’re always so jumpy. Is he hurting you, Lexie?’

  I shook my head, unable to explain. Marty and I—we hadn’t been coping particularly well since Archie’s death but we still loved each other. I was sure of it. The trouble was that we didn’t grieve in the same way. Mel was looking at me so sympathetically that the tears came again. One playgroup mum slandering me on TV and the other here to support me.

  ‘If he’s hurting you or Bella, we can tell the police.’ Mel passed me a tissue. ‘We can get him arrested.’

  ‘No, no,’ I gulped between the tears. It was my fault, not his.

  ‘Lexie, I think you’re in a dangerous situation.’

  My thoughts crashed together—confused memories of the day Bella’s wrist was broken, the moment Marty had arrived at the playgroup after Bella had disappeared, his whispered phone calls with Victoria, the water bottle and the shoe. My husband wasn’t dangerous. He wouldn’t take Bella to punish me. Or would he? My tears grew into sobs. They racked my body and I gasped for air. Mel rubbed my shoulders in small circles that helped me to breathe.

  The front door slammed again. Marty was home. Straight away, he was in the lounge room and kneeling in front of me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Marty apologised, his eyes locked on mine. ‘I shouldn’t have said all that stuff about Archie.’

  He took the tissue from my hand and used it to dab away my tears.

  ‘We have to stay strong together, Lexie,’ he said. ‘That’s the only way we’ll find her.’

  I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at Mel. Space to think, that was what I needed.

  When I didn’t reply, Marty turned his attention to the woman on the couch next to me. It had been such a strange time with people coming and going that I didn’t know if they’d met before. Mel piped up before I had a chance to speak.

  ‘I’m Mel—one of the mums from playgroup,’ she said, holding out her hand to Marty. ‘I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.’

  My husband’s face, ruddy from the night air, turned white.

  39

  BRENDAN

  BRENDAN ARRIVED AT HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE NOT LONG AFTER MIDDAY. Trevor slapped him on the back then offered him a beer, which Brendan wasn’t supposed to drink, according to the hospital discharge form. Lynette fussed around with his bag, tentatively touched his bandage and rushed off to get Scotch Finger biscuits and cups of tea. Rufus gave him the warmest welcome, barking in delight and nuzzling his legs. Back in his childhood room, surrounded by old snowboarding posters blu-tacked onto the walls, more than three hundred kilometres away from that crazy doctor and the police, Brendan felt safer.

  After a lunch of egg mayo sandwiches (Mum still thought it was his favourite filling), Trevor asked for his help to fix the lawn mower. Rufus followed them out to the garden, pushing his wet nose against Brendan’s palm, demanding a scratch on the neck.

  ‘Why d’you reckon this fella thinks you’re involved?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘’Cos I took some photos months ago,’ Brendan explained as he bent down and unscrewed the oil tank on the mower. ‘The father’s desperate. Clutching at straws. I was a handy punching bag.’

  ‘Guess he’s off his rocker with worry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Brendan grimaced, picturing Marty’s face as he’d charged at him, demanding the key to his shed.

  ‘And your house is close to this playgroup too, that right?’

  ‘Yep, but it was a Thursday morning. I was at school.’

  ‘And the other teachers and kids can verify that—good.’

  Using an old screwdriver, Brendan swirled the oil around inside the tank.

  ‘Yeah, but I did go and get a coffee.’

  ‘What’s that got to
do with it?’

  ‘From the shops where the girl disappeared.’

  This was the moment. He could explain that he’d bought a coffee, then popped home to collect his lunch and had forgotten to mention that part to the police. What would Dad say? Tell them quickly, mate, as quick as a dog can lick a dish. Or would he be more laidback? Ask if anyone could have seen him and then say: Let sleeping dogs lie, mate. But if he admitted to one part of it, what about the rest? As Brendan was considering the options, his dad spoke again.

  ‘And then you went straight back to school?’

  Nodding slowly, Brendan concentrated on pouring oil into the small opening.

  ‘So this fella, he’s barking up the wrong tree then, isn’t he, mate?’

  ‘Yep, the wrong tree,’ Brendan echoed.

  Once the mower was running smoothly, Brendan offered to do the backyard. He began the process of trawling up and down the lawn, with Lynette sitting on the back porch with her cup of tea. Was she watching him, like his dad had done? He’d better get rid of his other phone before the end of the day. And the bag. He should’ve put the phone on the ground at a rest stop on his way here and driven the car over it, then dumped the bag down one of those pit toilets. Thank God the police hadn’t noticed it when they’d been checking his study.

  ‘Hey, Mum, I could get takeaway for dinner if you like—my treat.’ An excuse to get out of the house so he could ditch the phone and bag. ‘What’s good in town these days? Is that Chinese place still open?’

  ‘No—thanks for the offer, but I’m cooking a roast for you.’ Lynette smiled.

  Unable to think of another excuse to leave the house, Brendan hid the phone in his old ski boots at the bottom of his wardrobe and the bag underneath some coats up the top. He turned the library bag upside down so he wouldn’t see the child’s name scrawled in black marker: Fox Hensley.

  After dinner his mother insisted on watching the Weekend Wrap. Seated on the floral sofas in the good room, Brendan stared at the photo on the mantelpiece: a picture of the four of them taken last winter when his sister had come home for a month. She was in Canada now, cooking in a funky Vancouver cafe in between seasons at Whistler. If only he could escape to Canada …