Six Minutes

by Petronella McGovern

  ‘Told me what?’

  He peered over her shoulder, trying to see through the door’s stained-glass panels.

  ‘My name’s Melissa but I use Mel and Elissa because of my ex. He’s violent and he’s looking for me.’

  An obsessive ex. Marty could understand that. Men could easily be attracted to this woman and not want to let her go.

  ‘But you could trust me. Why didn’t you tell me about him? About going to playgroup with Lexie?’

  ‘Marty, my ex is devious. I wanted to protect you all. It was safer for Sammy and everyone around us if I had two different identities. That way, if he found my name at the hospital, it wouldn’t endanger the playgroup. He couldn’t link us up.’

  Marty felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  ‘But what if he found the playgroup first? Does he know Sammy? What if he mistook Bella for Sammy?’

  ‘My ex wouldn’t take Bella,’ she said it slowly, as though trying out the idea for the first time.

  ‘Have you told the police about him?’ Marty whipped his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Let’s call that detective now.’

  ‘I’ve given them his name. They checked on him.’ She waved at his mobile. ‘Put your phone away, Marty, there’s no coverage here. You followed me. Did anyone follow you?’

  Mel looked up the driveway, her brow furrowed with lines, her hand on the doorknob. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest rising up and down—a strange reminder of his fantasies as he’d sat opposite her in the hospital cafeteria.

  ‘I’m scared, Marty. With Bella going missing … my name has been in the paper. My ex knows where I am now. He’ll find us if we stay in Merrigang. You have to leave.’

  When Marty had been tailing Mel on the winding roads through the mountains, he’d been fuelled by adrenaline. Now, his mind lumbered in confusion. Should he go back and focus on Brendan Parrish or find out more about Mel’s ex-boyfriend?

  ‘So you’re hiding out here?’ Marty asked. ‘Hiding from your ex?’

  ‘Yes. Please don’t tell anyone.’

  But there was that ute in the driveway. Who else was on this isolated property with her?

  ‘Go home to Merrigang, Marty,’ she begged him. ‘Go and find Bella. You’re making it even more dangerous for us by being here.’

  Dangerous for her! He bit back his retort. Her son wasn’t the one missing.

  ‘Mummy, what time—’

  The little boy had come around the corner of the verandah, calling out to Mel as he ran. He stopped talking when he saw Marty. Flattening himself against the wall of the house, keeping his distance from Marty, he sidled towards his mother. The look he gave Marty was one of pure hatred. Did the boy remember his violent father?

  ‘You must be Sammy. I’m Bella’s dad.’

  The boy nodded seriously, his eyes darting to his mother for her reassurance.

  ‘Marty, you can’t be here, you have to go.’

  Wrapping her arms around Sammy’s shoulders, she drew the boy tightly against herself.

  ‘Can I use the toilet?’ Marty asked. A ruse to check inside. ‘It’s a long way back.’

  ‘No!’ Sammy squeaked and buried his face in his mother’s dress. Bloody hell, what had that father done to him?

  ‘Please,’ Mel whispered it this time. ‘Please, just go.’

  As he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear, Marty could see the pair of them watching him. Two sets of dark eyes. Terrified. Scared of the ex-boyfriend finding them or of something else? Marty studied the white ute again. A common sight in the car park of Merrigang shops, used by farmers and weekend warriors. The sort of people who liked to go out bush. Had he seen Lucas, the army guy, jump into a Toyota HiLux?

  He glanced at the boy again and glimpsed something blue in Sammy’s hand, half hidden behind his back. Staring harder, he could make out the shape. Lulu.

  Marty slammed on the brake, wrenched the gearstick into park and bolted to the front door, yelling at Mel.

  ‘Why do you have Lulu? Where’s Bella?’

  She hastily pushed Sammy through the front door, pulled the heavy door closed and turned to face Marty. Tears on her cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Marty. I didn’t know.’ She shook her head gently. ‘Sammy just told me then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said Brendan Parrish took Bella. Sammy saw the teacher at the gate that morning.’

  Oh God, no. Marty swallowed, forcing the bile back down his throat. His worst fears were confirmed. The teacher had drugged his Bella Ballerina and taken her to the party house in Ainslie.

  ‘Let me inside the house to call Caruso.’ Marty tried to push past her. ‘You must have a landline.’

  ‘No, we’ve haven’t—but there is phone reception in the chapel.’ Mel took his arm and pulled him away from the house, towards a garden path. ‘We’ll call the police from there. It’ll be quicker.’

  God help him if that bastard had harmed Bella.

  ‘Why didn’t Sammy say something before?’

  ‘Mr Parrish threatened him with death. My poor boy has been petrified. I should have realised that something was wrong …’

  The acrid taste burnt in his throat. Classic paedophile behaviour—terrorising a child into silence. Brendan Parrish. Blond hair, goofy grin, cheery manner. A guileless smile to put the kids at ease. To make them trust him. Marty had known it all along and no-one had believed him. What has that fucker done to my daughter?

  Mel was hurrying him past scraggly roses and hedges, around a dried-out pond. She pointed to a stone chapel at the end of the path. It looked like a shape that Bella would draw—a box with a triangle on top. One window, one door and a tiny cross at the highest point. A portico at the front, offering a tiny covering from the weather. Next to the chapel sat a small graveyard, the weathered tombstones cracked and listing to one side. The wind rattled the chapel’s roof and stirred up dead leaves around the graves.

  Marty had his phone out of his pocket, staring at the screen. Still no reception. Mel took a large brass key from a peg in the portico and unlocked the chapel. She swung the huge wooden door open.

  ‘The only place where the phone will work is right in the middle,’ she said, giving him a little nudge on the shoulder.

  As he stepped forward, Marty heard the door creaking and turned to see Mel closing it from the outside. Rushing at the door, he managed to grasp the edge and hold it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘You’ll need to talk to the police too. Tell them what Sammy said.’

  Her face had changed now. Hard. Hating. Suddenly, he couldn’t recognise the kind-hearted Elissa who volunteered in the hospital every Monday. The one who had helped him regain his self-confidence after the inquiry and the accusations.

  ‘The phone only works right in the very middle,’ she repeated, pushing him backwards.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Dropping his phone in his pocket, Marty grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her furiously. ‘I don’t understand why you have Lulu. Are you in this with Parrish?’

  He felt a sharp punch to his inner thigh. But that made no sense because Mel had barely moved her arm. Heat flashed through his body. Confused, he looked down. In her hand she held a hospital-issue scalpel. Drops of blood shone on the silver blade.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  Marty touched the area where she had cut him. His jeans were damp, the blood starting to seep through. He jammed his finger against the hole. Fuck, she’d aimed for the femoral artery.

  ‘That’s for Archie and for Sarah Hayden,’ she spat. ‘You killed them both.’

  She put her palms against his chest and shoved him hard. This time, Marty wasn’t ready, his mind in shock, his leg bleeding. He sprawled backwards onto the cold stone tiles. Mel tugged the door shut, and he heard the sound of the brass key turning in the lock.

  With his thumb still pressed against the artery, Marty crawled to the centre of the chapel and flicked on
his phone. She’d lied. No coverage.

  Christ, how badly had she cut him?

  Sarah Hayden.

  One of the four deaths under his care that the hospital inquiry had investigated. Eighteen months old. Pneumococcal meningitis. But the little girl didn’t have the usual symptoms. A lot of vomiting and diarrhoea but no neck stiffness. No photophobia. No seizures. Marty had diagnosed gastroenteritis and set up an IV drip to keep Sarah hydrated. He’d thought her slight drowsiness was related to dehydration. When Sarah hadn’t improved, they’d done the lumbar puncture. Despite the fast infusion of IV antibiotics and corticosteroids, she was brain dead within five hours. He’d had to deliver the news to her parents, Sally and David Hayden. Sally clinging to her husband, sobbing and sobbing; David stone-faced, unable to utter a word. And lying on the white hospital sheets, Sarah, their lifeless toddler. Sarah’s brain scans showed severe inflammation of the meninges and the subarachnoid space.

  Her death had been investigated by a coroner and, later, by the hospital inquiry. They both determined that Marty had followed correct procedure. But Marty blamed himself. Meningitis was such a quick killer. Sometimes parents didn’t bring their child in fast enough, and the medical staff were up against the clock. In this case, he’d had time. If only he’d started antibiotics straight away, Sarah would have had a fighting chance.

  After Archie’s death and the hospital inquiry, the media had thrown around the phrase ‘God complex’ as if Marty thought he had the power to determine who would live and would die. But it wasn’t like that at all. He had to make choices every minute of every day. Choices that would affect a child’s chances. He’d spent his life trying to improve outcomes for every one of his patients. Surely Mel would have seen that when she was working in the hospital with him, seen how many children Marty had helped.

  How did Mel even know about Sarah Hayden?

  The wound was throbbing and his body was burning. Using his teeth and one hand, Marty ripped up the sleeve of his sweater and tried to tourniquet his thigh above the cut. Would it be tight enough?

  Groaning, he kept his thumb on the pressure point. Marty needed to get out of here—talk to Sammy, find out what the boy knew about Bella, then ring Caruso. Parrish must have convinced Mel to help him take Bella.

  Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

  See how they run. See how they run.

  They all ran after the farmer’s wife,

  Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,

  Did you ever see such a sight in your life,

  As three blind mice?

  Run, run, run.

  They’ll be coming soon. Not so blind anymore.

  Destroy the evidence.

  The house in Queensland is ready.

  Get Sarah to safety.

  Pray that the police are distracted long enough.

  51

  LEXIE

  I SPED THROUGH THE STREETS OF MERRIGANG AND TURNED LEFT ONTO the open road, whizzing past farms of brown paddocks. Tight bends punctuated the road into the river valley. I checked each vehicle coming in the opposite direction, watching for Marty’s car. Why had he gone out towards the Brindabellas? Could he really have taken Bella and hidden her from me? Racing around another blind corner, I had to slam on the brakes. In front of me, a logging truck laboured up the steep incline, its long load weighing it down. No way of getting around it. Breathe, Lexie, breathe. Smell the roses, blow out the candles. The truck finally lumbered off onto a side road and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.

  Another fifteen minutes. Was I nearly there or had I missed it? I slowed the four-wheel drive, searching for the entrance gates to properties; they were few and far between. The phone buzzed. Please let it be Marty; I need to know what’s going on.

  Nudging the car to the edge of the road, I checked the caller. Imogen. When I’d told her what Sammy had said, she agreed it was weird.

  ‘I like Mel, but I’m not sure she always tells the truth,’ Imogen said. ‘Did you know she had two different birth stories?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not long after she joined playgroup, she told us about a horrendous eighteen-hour labour. She ended up tearing and had terrible bruising. She couldn’t sit down for a week.’

  ‘That’s not the story I heard.’

  ‘I know. A few months later, she said the birth had been great.’

  I remembered Mel’s birth story because I’d envied it. Six hours with a bath, candles, heat packs, music of her choice and a gorgeous midwife. And afterwards, resting her new baby against her breast, skin-to-skin contact. My labour with Archie had been calm until the moment of his birth when the medical team had whisked him away and I’d been left terrified, with empty arms. Bella’s birth had been full of fear: a foetal monitor strapped to my abdomen, Marty barking at the midwives, two obstetricians assessing me and a neonatologist on hand to check Bella immediately. According to Mel, Sammy’s arrival had been beautifully gentle.

  We all had reality as it was and the version we wanted it to be. Perhaps Mel was creating a reality that she could cope with—just like I had. A sanitised family film, with the worst bits cut out, in which we felt comfortable showing ourselves to others.

  At last a sign: WIRRA WARRA. I pulled into the entrance and picked up my phone to call Marty, only to see there was no signal.

  I drove on. The track entered the forest and darkness enveloped me, the gum trees blocking what meagre light managed to penetrate the heavy clouds. A strong wind whistled through the treetops. Up ahead, the track twisted and turned. Slowing to a stop, I opened my window to listen. Black cockatoos were squealing in the distance, their eerie calls mimicking an animal in distress.

  Deirdre had never mentioned children or grandchildren but she doted on Bella. I was sure she’d talked about her husband, Bob, back at home, waiting for dinner—but I must have been mistaken. Most of the time, she’d discussed plants and weeding and watering: These weeds adapt and survive in the drought when everything around them is dying.

  The car juddered over stones and I held my body tight against the bumps, praying that our gardener could help me. Suddenly, the track opened out into a circular driveway with three vehicles. Deirdre was heaving a swag and a tent into her Toyota HiLux; Mel had an esky and bags of food in her arms. Our kids had been talking about the same Deedee—why didn’t Deirdre or Mel mention the connection to me?

  And then I saw it: Marty’s Audi was parked beside Mel’s van.

  As the two women turned at the sound of my car, I came to a stop, switched off the engine and hurried over to them.

  ‘Where’s Bella?’ I shouted. ‘Where’s Marty?’

  Mel ignored my questions and grabbed my arm.

  ‘We have to go, Lexie. Quickly. My ex is coming. He found us. He’s dangerous.’

  For an instant, I wondered if she meant that Marty was her ex. She’d never said the man’s name.

  ‘He’s violent,’ Deirdre added, and muttered softly, ‘just like your husband.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You don’t have to deny it anymore,’ Deirdre told me. ‘We’ve all been through the same thing. Victims of violent men. Don’t worry—I’ve got Bob’s shotgun ready.’

  The white-haired gardener nodded at her ute. This woman, who could be mistaken for a kindly grandmother, had a look of steel in her eyes.

  ‘Marty has never been violent to me,’ I said.

  My husband always thought he knew best—that was his personality. Sometimes I disagreed with him; sometimes I was able to change his mind. Never had he hurt me physically. But I didn’t know if he had hurt our son. Or hidden our daughter to teach me a lesson.

  ‘You can stop covering for him. Elissa and I have been watching him. We’re your guardian angels.’

  Deirdre smiled reassuringly at me; her smile sent goosebumps down my neck. Watching Marty? What did she mean? And why had she called Mel by that name, Elissa—where had I heard it before? Staring at the house
and surrounding sheds, I tried to remember. The wind rushed through the gum leaves, like the whispers of small children. I listened again.

  Towards the back of the property, in the distance, sat a stone chapel and the rectangular shape of tombstones. For a moment, the wind stopped; the stillness in the air settled on me and I felt the ghosts of generations that had gone before.

  ‘We know he did that to your cheek.’ Mel pointed at my face. ‘And he broke Bella’s wrist.’

  ‘Elissa told me that you turned up to playgroup with bruises every single week. And I was there when he hurt you and Bella. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from him.’

  The gardener must have misinterpreted what she saw. My negligence had led to Bella’s injury. If Deirdre knew, would she turn the shotgun on me?

  I suddenly recalled where I’d heard Elissa’s name: the cheerful hospital volunteer who Marty used to talk about all the time. Oh my God, were Mel and Elissa the same person? Had she been watching Marty at work and me at playgroup?

  I had to make them see the truth. ‘Deirdre, I didn’t come to playgroup with bruises every week. I don’t know why Mel would say that. Marty did not hurt me.’

  Deirdre frowned at the younger woman, a question in her eyes. Where was Marty? Hiding with Bella somewhere out here? If I told the truth, would it help me find her?

  Taking a deep breath, ignoring the tremor in my voice, I admitted it.

  ‘It was my fault that Bella broke her wrist.’

  As I explained what had happened that day, the surprise on Deirdre’s face morphed into anger. She took a step towards me. Mel twisted her hands together, then raked her fingers through her hair. She looked past me at the track, then turned towards the chapel. Her body twitched, she couldn’t seem to stay still. I had to get away from these crazy women and start searching the property for Marty and Bella.

  ‘It was Marty’s fault,’ Mel contradicted me. ‘He drove you to it. He told me the truth—he killed Archie.’

  I had been ready to run but Mel’s words shocked me to a standstill. The documents I’d found on his laptop, the doubt that had been festering since last night. It was like the papers said—Marty had been playing God. The landscape blurred and I felt myself sway. Deirdre had her arms around me in an instant.