Wreck

by Fleur Ferris

  Someone is rounding up the family, ushering them towards the helicopter. Mum looks up to find me and again waves for me to join them. My last climb down is the worst. The pain in my feet and in my eye and cheek gets the better of me and I can’t stop crying.

  Mum rushes towards me when she sees my face. ‘What happened?’

  My eyes flick to Knox and then back to Mum. If I tell her Knox did it he’ll make me pay for it later. Years ago, I learned never to do or say anything that makes Knox look bad in any way.

  ‘I fell,’ I say.

  ‘On your face?’

  ‘Whoa, we’d better take a look at you,’ a medic says.

  ‘This has only just happened,’ Mum explains to the medic. ‘He was fine thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘It looks like you’ve been brawling?’ says the medic.

  ‘I fell,’ I say, ‘and rolled on the sharp rocks.’ I turn to show them the cuts on my back. ‘My head hit a rock.’ Mum’s frowning but she seems to believe me. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I think you’re going to live,’ says the medic.

  Knox is standing closer now, watching everything I do, listening to everything I say. My skin crawls.

  Uncle Oliver is also helped towards the chopper and placed onto a stretcher.

  The medic sits me down and hands me an ice pack for my eye. He takes my blood pressure and gives me a bottle of water. It soothes my throat and the relief almost makes me start crying again. The pilot tells me that another chopper is on its way and Knox and Dad are staying to assist with the ground search. I’m glad not to be sharing space with Knox. I’ll be even gladder to get home safe, knowing that he is not in the house. I lean my head against the window and peer down at the flat grey water, in case Christian is there, in case I see him swimming, but I don’t. When I’m certain we have flown beyond the search zone I angle my head so I can’t see the water. My eyelids are as heavy as my heart and it brings great relief when I close them. I concentrate on the whir of the blades taking us home, and eventually sleep carries me away.

  When I step onto the hardwood floor of our house it’s clean and smooth and cool against my feet. The stairs are carpeted, soft to touch, and the bathroom tiles are even shinier, colder and smoother than the wooden floors. Everything in our house is luxurious. I am protected from the wind, the rain, the heat and the cold and the fridge is full of healthy food. I think about a picture I saw recently of tents being pitched for refugees, of people stranded, destitute, like we were on the island. I looked at that picture and thought nothing, felt nothing. Now I feel sick to think that those people are still stranded, still destitute and no one is coming for them. The moment we hit the water and our distress signal went off, a search party prepared for action. There was an all-out effort to rescue eight people, and the search continues now for Christian. Yet, thousands of people need rescuing. My mind can’t grasp the unfairness of it, I can’t work out the difference. Why do we get such special treatment when others are left to die? And they do die. I saw a picture in the paper of a mother carrying her baby who had drowned. No one came for them.

  I press my fingers against my swollen eye and it hurts to touch. We are not worthier people. No person is worthier than another. Disgust seeps into me because of our extravagance, of how much we waste, of how we treat each other. The world is so unfair.

  I run a hot bath and add some of Mum’s bath salts. I soak myself for what seems an hour, then change into pyjamas. My bed is clean and luxurious like the rest of our house and although I desperately want to get into it, doing so makes me feel self-indulgent and loathsome. My tears come and I let them.

  While I lie here, thousands of people need help … and Christian is one of them.

  As the news broadcast finishes, I feel sick. I’m a fugitive?

  ‘Stop the car!’ The air feels so thick that I gulp for breath. Zel veers off the road and pulls up in a skid. I get out of the car and bend down so my hands rest on my knees. I think I’m going to vomit.

  I turn to look at Zel. The blood has drained from his face, which makes his bruised eye look more purple. His jaw hangs open, like he doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘You rescued me from private investigators? Real investigating officers?’

  ‘No. Yes. They might be real private investigators, but they are crooks. The scar, that guy, it’s Cameron Porter, I know him. He’s bad news.’

  ‘More than one person has a scar on their face, Zel.’

  ‘What about the uniformed police who arrived as you were leaving? How do you explain that?’

  ‘They could have been there for a number of reasons. They could have been returning a book,’ I say.

  ‘No. No. No. It’s all a set-up. You called the police – they wouldn’t send private investigators, would they? They got hold of that information somehow and beat the police there. They weren’t going to let you go or hand you over to the police. They were there to get me. God, what’s happening? I need to think. Let me think for a minute.’ Zel is mumbling to himself. ‘What about … then when … How do you explain them arriving so fast? At the newspaper office.’

  ‘Because I called them. It was probably the police that time too, or private investigators working on the same case or something. Maybe they share information in these situations, I don’t know. But whoever it was, clearly it wasn’t the murderers. We ran away from a murder scene.’ The enormity and seriousness of this hits me as I say it. I double over again, hands on knees.

  ‘Okay, your house. How can you explain it being ransacked? A guy was in your house. He asked for the note.’

  I stand back up, concentrating intently. ‘Yes. You’re right,’ I say. The police wouldn’t have treated me like that – would they?

  ‘Let me think for a minute.’

  ‘No, Zel. We have to hand ourselves in. As bad as it looks, the truth will come out. We’ll be okay but only if we stop running,’ I say. ‘As if they’re going to think I killed anyone. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No,’ Zel says. ‘It’s not. It won’t be okay. They’ve already set me up. I need enough to clear myself before I hand myself in.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Zel’s fingers tremble as he presses them into his forehead.

  ‘Zel, I’m confused about a lot of things, but I believe your story. You just have to talk to the police. When they see that other notes have been found and people have died and disappeared, they will believe you too. And there will be forensic evidence. They will know your gun wasn’t the gun that shot Simon and Darryl. The police know things like that. We’re going to have to trust the system. And as for the private investigators, they will have to explain what they were doing with me in the car and where they were taking me.’

  ‘All they have to say is that they were close by, investigating the same case privately for Knox, and were going to hand us straight over to the police. Systems only work if the right information goes into them … and … and the right people are operating them.’

  ‘Our word has to count for something.’

  ‘I wish I had your faith.’

  ‘I believe your story – why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Because it’s my word against Knox’s. I don’t stand a chance. I need to do things my way.’

  ‘But they will find us. They think we’re armed murderers. They could shoot us.’ My eyes feel gritty when I blink. I’m so tired. ‘I can’t run from the police, I can’t go with you. We should never have left my office. Oh my God. We are in so much trouble,’ I say.

  Zel turns his back to me, takes a few steps towards the car, then turns around to face me.

  ‘I’ll tell them you’re innocent. I’ll tell them everything. They’ll believe me,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t know Knox.’

  ‘No, but I trust the system. I trust that good people don’t go to jail for no reason.’

  ‘We need to get more evidence first.’

  ‘No. I’m not doing that. I’m going in and I’m going
to tell them everything I know and they can find the evidence,’ I say.

  ‘And what if they don’t believe you?’

  I’m stunned that he would think someone could believe I killed Darryl and Simon. ‘Of course they will believe me. When they hear my story they’ll know I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘You’re so naive.’

  Anger flashes through me but I try to stay calm. ‘Trusting the system is not naivety. I believe in the truth. Most people do. It’s not a new concept, Zel. Even the motto of the paper is “truth without fear”.’

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  ‘I want you to drop me at the nearest police station,’ I say.

  Zel nods. ‘I’ll drop you off, but I’m going on alone.’

  We hold each other’s gaze and I am overwhelmed by sadness. I walk over and hug him. He freezes for a moment, then his strong arms fold around me. He takes a long, deep breath.

  ‘Thank you, Zel. Letting me go is the right thing. Thank you for coming and rescuing me. I would be dead if it weren’t for you. I’ll tell them that.’

  ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he says. Zel walks back around to the driver’s seat, gets inside the car and starts the engine. Once I’m in the passenger’s seat he says, ‘I want you to remember a name. Solomon Midge. He calls himself Smidge. If anything goes wrong and you need help, money, lawyers, anything, find him. Solomon Midge, you got that?’

  ‘Solomon Midge,’ I say. ‘Is he a cop?’

  ‘No. He’s a helicopter pilot. We did Army Reserves together. He was from a farm and I used to go there and stay with his family on weekends. Some of his family are lawyers, high up in the legal system. They’re good people. If you tell Smidge I sent you, he’ll help you. He’s a good mate, someone I trust with my life.’

  I nod.

  The silence between us is heavy until we veer off the freeway and Zel asks me to look up the location of the nearest police station on his phone. I direct him towards it and ask him to pull over two blocks short. A sense of doom has engulfed us and I wonder if it’s the last time I will ever see him.

  ‘I’ll get out here,’ I say. ‘It’ll give you time to get away before I go in.’

  ‘Okay. I’m going to head towards –’

  I put up my hand so he stops. ‘Don’t tell me … Good luck.’

  I feel like hugging him again, but reach out for his hand instead. He takes it in his and closes his fingers around mine. ‘Thank you, Zel. You saved my life last night, and I won’t ever forget it.’

  Zel swallows hard, like he’s choked up.

  ‘And, no matter what happens, remember, I believe you,’ I say.

  ‘You are a good person, Tamara.’ He closes his eyes and presses the back of my hand to his lips. They are warm and soft and I wonder what they would feel like against my lips. I wonder what it would have been like if we’d met under different circumstances. I’m so thankful he came for me. Who knows what would have happened to me if he hadn’t.

  I try to hold back my tears but can’t.

  ‘Oh, God, now you’re making me cry.’ I laugh, and wipe at my cheeks. ‘Look at us. You with your black eye, me a crying mess …’

  He smiles and I realise I don’t want to say goodbye. There’s something about him I like … it’s difficult to describe. As I process my feelings a rushed breath escapes me, like the start of a laugh, because what I’m feeling is absurd. I’m Lois Lane, falling for the guy who rescued her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘for believing in me. It means a lot.’

  I step out of the car, close the door behind me and walk away. I turn to see he’s watching me. He salutes me with two fingers. I should be relieved to be out of that car and heading to a safe zone, but instead I’m fighting the urge to go back to him, to help him find the evidence he needs, to be with him. Then I remind myself I’m a fugitive. I have no choice but to hand myself in.

  I turn away from Zel and don’t look back.

  To give Zel enough time to get away, my walk to the police station is purposely slow. To suppress my panic I focus on some of the little things around me: the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the cool breeze on my skin, the sound of a motorbike rising above the dull hum of cars on the freeway. I tune in to my body – the tiredness in my back making my legs feel heavy; the emptiness in my stomach, yet I don’t feel hungry. I breathe deeply, then again and again, holding each breath before releasing it. My ordeal is not yet over, but at least I know I will survive. I trust the police. They will believe me.

  The Clarence Hills Police Station is old. Three steps lead up to heavy glass non-automated doors. I walk into the empty reception and wait, staring into the mirror-stripped window, knowing someone might be behind it, staring at me. A door behind the counter opens and a young man, a boy, in a police uniform smiles at me.

  ‘Hello, how can I help you?’ He’s so sprightly.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. I smile nervously, Zel’s scepticism suddenly having impact. ‘You’ve been looking for me –’

  The puzzled look on the policeman’s face makes me stop and smile again.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll start again. My name’s Tamara Bennett. I just heard on the radio, er, the news, that police are looking for me, so I am here to answer questions.’

  He stares at me.

  ‘Ta-dah … here I am.’ I try to be funny, but realise my nerves are making me sound nuts.

  ‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘I guess I should listen to the radio more to know who I should be looking out for.’ Then he looks serious. ‘Can you please wait one sec?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He smiles. ‘You’re not going to run off anywhere?’

  ‘No. I’ll be waiting right here,’ I say as I take a seat against the wall. ‘Oh, wait …’ I stand up. ‘On the radio it said I was armed and dangerous, but … I’m not.’

  ‘Got it,’ he says, eyeing me. ‘Not armed, not dangerous.’ He gives me a funny look and disappears through the door.

  I sit back down and rest my head against the wall and my eyes close. Just when I’m thinking I could fall asleep right here in this police reception, the door opens. The sprightly officer is back, and a huge older guy with a shaved head and moustache follows him out.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sergeant Wheldon.’

  I stand. ‘Hi, I’m Tamara Bennett. Police are looking for me in relation to a murder in Tolsea. I think they think I did it, but I didn’t. I didn’t even know police were looking for me.’ I’d been rehearsing what to say in my head, but my nerves get the better of me and I try to blurt everything out at once and now don’t know if I’m making any sense. ‘I just heard it on the radio so came straight here to sort it out and to help the police if I can.’

  ‘Well, thank you for coming in, Tamara. The police investigating the case will be very grateful you did.’ He disappears and opens a side door into the reception area. ‘Come through.’

  The sergeant walks down a hallway and I follow. There are doorways leading to facilities on one side and offices on the other. At the end of the hallway there’s a large open room with desks and computers. Police officers in uniforms sit at the desks. One is taking a statement from an elderly man who has abrasions on one side of his face. They take no notice of me as we pass through to more doors that say Interview Room One, Interview Room Two and Interview Room Three. The sergeant opens the first door.

  ‘Take a seat. Can I get you coffee or tea, or a cold drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. Coffee.’

  Sergeant Wheldon turns to the young guy. ‘Mate, can you arrange coffee for Ms Bennett?’

  The young officer smiles at me and I think of a big bouncy puppy still growing into its feet. ‘How do you have it?’

  ‘White, no sugar, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he says, then dashes away, out of sight.

  The sergeant points to the chair that he wants me to sit in. ‘Is it all right if I call you Tamara?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve checked on ou
r system and see that police officers from the homicide squad are looking for you. I’m going to call them in a minute, but I need to ask you a few questions first. Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He places a notepad on the desk and takes a pen from his shirt pocket.

  ‘Okay, your name, address and date of birth, to start with.’

  I give him the details.

  ‘So you’re eighteen years old?’

  ‘Yes,’ I affirm.

  ‘We’ve confirmed police are looking for you, but tell me again how you came to be here, how you found out.’

  ‘I heard it on the radio just now. I escaped two men earlier today but I didn’t know they were police or private investigators or whatever the radio said they were. Something didn’t feel right though. My friends had been killed, someone broke into my house … I was …’

  Sergeant Wheldon frowns.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really nervous and not making sense. I’ll start again.’ I pause to collect my thoughts. ‘It all started last night when I got home from taking my parents to the airport.’ I carefully relay my story in chronological order.

  When I finish Sergeant Wheldon clasps his hands together on the desk in front of him.

  ‘So this morning I thought I was escaping from murderers, not running away from investigators. I would never run away from the police. I was scared. I’m still scared. I came to this police station at random because I know you are a real police officer. I wanted to tell an officer my whole story and I don’t want to be left alone with those men again. I don’t even want to see them again.’

  Sergeant Wheldon sits back and studies me. ‘Where are you supposed to be today, Tamara?’

  At the mention of my yesterday-life, my face crumples and I burst like a dam. ‘Uni. I’m supposed to be at O-Week,’ I blubber through my tears.

  There’s a knock at the door and the young guy comes in holding a tray. ‘Okay, I have coffee and water.’ He places it down in front of me. ‘Oh, should I get tissues?’ he says. He looks at Sergeant Wheldon. ‘I’ll get tissues.’ He leaves the room again and comes back a moment later with a box of Kleenex.