by Anni Taylor
“It was you, Phoebe,” she repeated.
“Why are you lying?” I didn’t understand why my own grandmother would say such a thing.
Lifting her glasses, she rubbed away the wet that had gathered under her eyes. “It was in November of last year. You weren’t well. Not well at all. You tore up the cushions in the house and smashed the vases and plates. And yes, you did this to Tommy’s toys.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“I know you don’t remember. You’d been drinking heavily. The drinking made you forget things all the time back then. On this day, you called me on the phone and begged me to make you stop. I rushed straight up there with Bernice and her mother. We cleaned everything up. But you wouldn’t let us throw anything away. You said you wanted to fix it all and make it right again, when you were better. So I had to keep them. But there was no possible way of fixing those things.”
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. My voice weakened. “Where was Tommy when this was happening?”
She moistened her lips. “He was there. He was very frightened. Bernice took him with her back to her house while Mrs Wick and I did the clean-up. We had it all sorted before Luke came home from work.”
Hot tears burned the edges of my eyes. The memory was vague. But I remembered snatches of it now. I’d been drinking since that morning, rage slowly building inside me. The sound of the drum relentless in my head.
Stepping to Nan, I took her arm. “But why would you keep it so secret? The toys in the shed?”
Nan took in a shuddering breath. “That day, after you calmed down and realised what you’d done, you went hysterical. You threatened to kill yourself. Said you were no good as a mother. I was afraid for you. The next day, when you didn’t seem to recall what you’d done or what had happened to the toys, I thought it was all best forgotten.”
“I’m sorry, Nan,” I whispered to her.
Her fingers shook as she unfolded her arms and twisted her fingers together. “I never understood what the trouble was with you, but I did try to help you. Maybe I just didn’t do enough.”
I saw fear bright in her eyes. Did she believe that I’d killed Tommy? She knew about the fourth letter and the rhyme and the blood—everybody did.
No, I had no memory of hurting Tommy. No memory . . .
But was my memory enough?
I hadn’t remembered what was in the tool shed. No wonder I’d dreamed of Tommy trying to get in there. He’d wanted his toys.
“I thought Luke’s mother threw Tommy’s things away,” I said, my voice falling away.
“I know. In the weeks after that day, you had another episode,” Nan told me. “Luke came home to find you’d been drinking and not watching Tommy. I tried to get him to have you sent somewhere to get better. But instead, he got his mother to come stay with you. You blamed her for taking away Tommy’s toys. But they were already gone.”
“But I did get better,” I said. “I know I got better.” But was that only because I’d had Luke’s mother to feel resentful of, rather than my own life?
“Yes, you did get better,” she agreed, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
The detectives were all observing me closely as the conversation between Nan and me ended.
“Phoebe,” Trent Gilroy said, “I have to inform you that you have become the primary person of interest in this case. Do you know what that means?”
I swallowed, feeling dry and burned inside. “It means you think I’m the one who hurt Tommy.”
He hesitated, the blip line in his forehead deepening. “I’d suggest you get yourself a good lawyer, Phoebe. We’re going to need to have you in for questioning. Within the week.”
Trent Gilroy’s face was very different to the way I’d always seen it before. This was a grim, masked face that was closed to me.
I gave a dazed nod.
Police were carrying the destroyed toys out of the shed. I watched them carry the nightlight past me.
Sleep, Tommy. Sleep.
I no longer needed to find out where the nightlight had gone.
And I didn’t even want to remember who I’d been on the phone with the day Tommy went missing anymore.
But it was too late.
I remembered.
42.
LUKE
Sunday night
IT SEEMED LIKE A GIANT STICK had pried the whole neighbourhood out of their burrows. There was nothing like red and blue police lights to tear people away from their TV sets.
I sat on the low brick wall outside Nan’s house, not caring who saw me or who filmed me. I couldn’t stand another minute of being inside Nan’s house or yard. The sight of Tommy’s destroyed playthings had sickened me.
I wanted to go to Kitty’s. But as much as I didn’t care who was watching me, I couldn’t bring her into it. And a camera crew might decide to follow me.
My wife was a monster. Nan had done way too much covering up for her.
I’d married a woman who’d murdered our son.
What had she done to Tommy? Who had helped her? Someone else had to have been there that day at the playground to abduct Tommy. Phoebe had planned this.
Maybe soon, when I found out what happened to him, I could finally grieve. I’d kept it all locked up tight for so long. There’d been no closure. No funeral.
A car pulled up across the road, behind the police cars. A middle-aged woman rushed out. My mother. My father followed, a lot slower in gait.
Mum crushed me to her in a bear hug. “My God, Luke. We were on our way home when we heard the news. We’d planned to stay overnight at your Aunty Felicity’s on the way, but when we heard the news, we just kept driving.”
“Mum . . . it was her. All along.”
“I didn’t want to tell you this before, but I always suspected her. But let’s not talk about that here. Too many people about. Let’s get you back to our house and leave them all to it. We’ll take Phoebe’s grandmother with us too. She’s probably half having a heart attack by this, poor old lady.”
“We’ll be looking after her,” came a sharp voice from next door.
It was Mrs Wick. Bernice and her mother were on their front lawn in their dressing gowns.
Mrs Wick stepped from her lawn across to Nan’s. “Bernie and I’ll be right there with Coral, helping get her place back in order. Coral and I have always lived in our own homes. We don’t just up and leave when there’s trouble. Now get away with you.”
“Tommy was our grandchild,” Mum said coldly. “We have a right to be here.”
“Not on Coral’s property, you don’t,” Mrs Wick informed her.
“Fuck off.” I took a step towards Mrs Wick.
My mother took hold of my arm. “It’s not the time or the place, Luke. People are watching.”
Bernice moved from the shadows of her house into the light. She shot my parents a look of what I could only describe as barely concealed hatred. She’d been a weird girl, and she’d become an even weirder woman. I could guess that Bernice hated me and my family because we were not fucked up in the head, like she was.
My mother led me away, past the Wick house and past number 29 to their house. Dad trailed behind.
“Bernice is unusual. I’ll say that for her,” my mother said quietly, even though she no longer needed to be quiet. Bernice was way out of earshot. “She should have got herself away from here and started her life a long time ago.”
“Yes, that would have been for the best. Poor Bernice,” my father said in a defeated voice.
I wanted to punch him in his soft gut. I hated the way he spoke through a sigh. He hadn’t stood up for my mother against Mrs Wick. He was always so damned placid.
And why the hell were either of them wasting energy talking about Bernice? They’d often said the same things about her over the years. What kind of catastrophe would have to happen before their normal lines of conversation swapped to the present moment instead of the past? An earthquake? Jesus.
Mum unloc
ked the door and herded us inside. The house smelled a little musty, but it looked the same as always. Everything in place.
While Dad settled into his armchair, Mum buzzed about, getting tea and coffee.
It was only after Dad had dozed off to sleep and Mum had mentioned Tommy’s name to me that I cried like a baby in her arms.
43.
PHOEBE
Monday morning
I SLEPT FITFULLY, MY MIND ROARING with nightmares and then snapping awake. My dreams rushed and jumped from scene to scene.
My mother, sitting on her bed, counting her collection of buttons. Calmly, she looks up at me and asks, “What did you do to Tommy?”
I can’t answer. My mouth is too dry, and my head hurts, and I can’t remember. Bending her head over her tin of buttons, she returns to counting. I run from the room, catching my reflection in the hall mirror.
I’m gawky and reedy in my school uniform, and I’m no older than twelve or thirteen. Stomping back to her bedroom, I want to scream at her to stop counting the damned buttons, but she’s gone. The tin of buttons remains on the bed, half uncounted.
JUMP.
A nightclub. Frenetic, pulsing electronic music. Saskia and Pria’s hair flying as they dance, red and yellow lights strobing across their faces. Sass is in her element.
It’s December last year. I’ve been leaving Tommy with Luke on Friday nights and heading out with Saskia. Pria doesn’t come along often.
Sass thinks I should leave Luke. Says he’s no good for me. Sass and I get drunk and wild on our nights out, just like in the old days.
I’m wearing a new dress and feeling good. I’ve lost a lot of the pregnancy weight, though I’ve still got a long way to go. My hair’s been newly shaped and layered to just above my shoulders, and it swings when I move. I love, love, love the feeling of my hair swinging as I dance. I’m also very drunk. And Sass gave me a party pill earlier. The lights of the dance floor pop before my eyes, and I’m sure the music is plugged into every nerve in my body.
Sass is sick suddenly and needs to go home—the pill had a bad effect on her. I stay at the nightclub with Pria, having too much fun to go home.
Someone taps my shoulder. I whirl around to a handsome face. We dance. He moves closer. Asks my name. Wants to know if he can have my number. I shake my head, but I’m laughing. Happy.
We kiss. He grins at me. Stays with me all night at the club. Says he wants to take me home with him. To the USA. His face . . . is Dash’s face.
Dash is visiting Sydney, but I don’t hear the reason why over the pumping music.
JUMP.
Tommy splashes near my feet. We’re in the playground. Luke’s gone to get ice-creams. My phone rings. Rebel rebel, goes the ring tone. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be taking a phone call right now. I’d planned it the day before. The cans of bourbon had made me forget. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull out my phone and answer.
The man who speaks is Flynn O’Callaghan. Calling me from London. His voice floods inside me, into every part of me. I can picture him as he speaks. He’s glorious, with his Irish accent and his crooked way of lifting his eyebrow at me.
He called me up out of the blue six weeks ago. Just friends, just catching up. At first. But it soon became clear to both of us that the spark between us had never extinguished. The following weeks, things became hot, heavy, and delirious over the phone.
Until the day he asked me if I’d leave Luke and go live with him in London.
Now, at the playground, I’m listening to the drumming inside my mind and chest as I hold the phone to my ear.
“Are you going to go ahead with it?” he asks.
“I want to,” I tell him, my voice uncertain.
“Then please, Phoebe. You know what you need to do.”
I’m nodding even before I answer.
JUMP.
I’m plunging scissors into the giant bear, tearing into it, letting its stuffing spill free. Then, Tommy’s face is there, his wide eyes staring up at me, and I’ve still got the scissors . . .
With a gasping scream, I woke. Not a terrified scream but an enraged yell.
God, what had I done?
I ran to the shower and wrenched the tap around with both hands. I stood under the too-hot water in my sleep shirt, wanting to burn myself. Shaking, I slid to the floor of the shower and let my tears flow with the scalding water.
It had been Flynn on the phone that day. Flynn urging me to jump on a plane and meet him in London. I’d blanked that out. Yes, I’d sneaked a few drinks that morning before Luke and I left home (to help me deal with Luke’s mother now being my live-in guardian) but I wasn’t drunk. It must have been the intense shock of losing Tommy (and then Saskia urging me to look like the perfect wife and mother) that had caused the blank. Whenever I’d thought back to that day over the past few months, my mind had switched off during the point Flynn had called me. Like a TV set momentarily losing reception.
Nan tapped on the door. “Phoebe! Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I rasped.
I wound the water off again. Wrapping a towel around myself, I headed back for my room and balled myself up on the bed. When the heat left my body, I began shivering in the chilled early-morning air.
I remained like that, in my wet clothing, until I heard angry voices outside.
Crossing the floor, I glanced down from my window into the street. The reporters were still there from yesterday, but they’d been joined now by a crowd of at least thirty people. They were yelling things I couldn’t quite hear, except for one word. One clear word. Murderer.
I shrunk back when two of them spotted me at the window.
Taking the damp towel from the bed, I hung it over a chair and then dressed myself. I couldn’t go out. I was a prisoner. Not that I had anywhere to go.
My phone buzzed, and I switched it on. There was a message from Kate. But I couldn’t bear to talk to anyone right now. I was about to switch the phone off again when an alert jumped up on my news app. An alert about Phoebe Basko. I tapped on it.
My heart sank through my chest as I read the short article:
The blood-soaked “kidnapper” letter is the fourth letter to be sent to Luke and Phoebe Basko. Police forensics have confirmed that the blood on the letter belongs to Tommy Basko. The blood is estimated to be six months old, possibly from around the time that Tommy was first reported missing.
Police allege that the letters were written by Phoebe Basko herself, the mother of Tommy. Her fingerprints were found inside all four envelopes, the last two of which were sealed at the time that either the police or Mr Basko gained access to them. A hidden police camera recorded Mrs Basko placing the third letter in her own mailbox.
In another twist to this explosive case, it’s been confirmed that Mrs Basko received a phone call from a mysterious person in the minutes before Tommy vanished from the inner city playground.
Police investigations are expected to concentrate on finding the identity of the person on the other end of this phone call. It is assumed that this person is connected with Tommy’s disappearance, possibly having abducted Tommy under Mrs Basko’s direction.
Police are confident they’re closing in on a resolution to the case and finding out what happened to Tommy.
It is expected that Mrs Basko will be under arrest by this afternoon.
I was going to be under arrest today . . .
Of course, what else did I expect? Murderers got arrested. Even if I arranged for someone else to do it, I was still a murderer.
But how could they be talking about Tommy and me? It was surely a news story about another mother and child, one of those stories that you read in the news that was so terrible you couldn’t believe it had really happened.
I scrolled down the page to a battery of reader comments under the story.
Slaughter the murdering slut the way she slaughtered her kid!
Drop her in prison, from a great height. Then let the prisoners rip into what’s
left of her!
I never trusted that po-faced bitch!
The comments got worse. People hoping I’d get raped and disembowelled. Hundreds more comments followed. I threw the phone onto my bed like it had seared my hand.
I heard someone talking to Nan, downstairs. Mrs Wick. I guessed she’d come over to help Nan tidy the house.
I needed to go and help Nan, too. If I was going to be leaving this house today, I had to do this one last thing. To help clean up the mess caused by me.
Mrs Wick met me with a lingering gaze as I descended the stairs. She never held back on staring at people with her tiny, caustic eyes.
“I feel awful for your nan,” she informed me.
“I’m sorry for her, too.” I kept walking, out to the kitchen.
“She shouldn’t have to deal with something like this at this stage of her life. She’ll go down, you know. And once old people go down, they often don’t get up again. Like Gladys at number 26. I knew that once they put her in a wheelchair, she was gone.” She paused, only to end with, “Dead within weeks.”
Her voice followed me along the hallway. She’d put it as though I were a disease that would end up killing Nan. I’d sensed fear in Mrs Wick’s tone. Fear that yet another old person that she knew was going to die.
Nan came in from the yard. She’d been pegging out clothes on the line. It was Nan’s washing day, and she was obviously determined to stick with her routine. She nodded an acknowledgement at me as she passed into the living room. Her eyes were red, and I guessed she’d been crying while hanging out the clothes. I wanted to hug her, but Mrs Wick’s words rung in my head. I was a disease. There was no comfort in me. Only hurt and pain.
I started on the kitchen first. All of the cupboards had been emptied by the police.
The process of putting all Nan’s things away felt oddly like trying to put the meat back onto bones. It couldn’t be done. The memories of the house had been stripped away. New memories replaced the old. Scenes of police tramping through the hallways and rooms, touching everything and disturbing the time-worn order.
