by Jaye Ford
Breathing hard, clenching his teeth, he heaved himself upright, pressed his back into the wall and hoped the crazy spinning in his head was going to stop. He wiggled his toes then his fingers. Okay, that had hurt but it hadn’t severed his spinal cord. Good start.
He took a careful breath and let it out on a shout. ‘Oi!’
The effort stabbed at his ribs. The sound echoed back at him. Not the shy reverberation of a wide open space but a gutsy, rebounding repetition that told him he was somewhere large and enclosed. He picked up a pebble from under his palm, threw it straight ahead. It’d barely left his hand when it hit something and bounced back to the earth beside him. He stretched his legs out, pushing with the heels of his shoes, feeling only clear air. The other side was close; not close enough to touch.
He tried again with another small stone, throwing to his right. It was a second or more before he heard the missile land with a soft tink. The same to the left. One more time, he tossed straight up. A small tap was followed by a drop to the floor. Further than the surface opposite, not so far as left or right.
All right, closest first. He held his neck as he lifted his spine from the wall, shifted butt then feet, a little at a time, pain drilling in his head, until his shoes touched something. He patted across the surface with a hand. Same as the other wall – hard, solid, immovable.
Two sides of a narrow, hollow space. Which meant . . .
He was in a hole? An old mine shaft, maybe. He’d fallen in here? Headfirst? Like Alice in fucking Wonderland?
What were you doing, Max, to be stupid enough to fall down a goddamn hole?
He looked right then left, as though the blackness on either side might tell him. All it said was that if he went one way, an escape hatch could be two metres in the other direction and he’d never know.
No guts, no glory, Max.
He paused, took a breath and rolled to his left for no other reason than to protect the damaged ribs on his right. Pain ricocheting around his skull, he kept the wall within touching distance. He’d been in enough coalmines to know the giveaways – wire on the walls, mesh for ventilation control, timber supports, roof and rib bolts. A disused mine, even an ancient one, would have supports and/or bolts.
When he stopped, he was breathing as though he’d run five k. There was no way of knowing how far he’d gone – not as far as he’d like, possibly only a few body lengths – but enough to find the evidence if it was here. And it wasn’t. This wasn’t a coalmine.
So he hadn’t smashed his head falling down a mine shaft.
Had he even fallen? Was he already injured when he got here? Maybe he’d cracked his head some other way, in a fight or a car accident, and he’d stumbled about concussed and confused and ended up here. Which meant if there was a way in, there was a way out, right? And maybe it was dark because it was the middle of the night. Maybe if he just sat here for a while, the sun would come up and he’d see his way out.
He rested against the wall, swallowed on the harsh dryness in his mouth and rubbed at his forehead, trying to coax out the memory of how he got here. But there was nothing. His recall was as black as the space before him. No faces, no places, no conversations. The only thing he got was an urgent, pressing sense that there was something he needed to do.
He squeezed his eyes tight. What was it?
Nothing. No idea at all.
Then what did he remember?
Dallas.
Not his big, stupid grin or his gravelly, you-know-you-want-to laugh. But the weak, breathy sound of his voice in the dying moments of his life. Have a good life, Max. I don’t mean a good time. We’ve done that already. I wish I’d thought about it before now. It’s got to be . . . I don’t know. Worthwhile. Just don’t fuck it up.
Max dug his hands into the earth beneath him, squeezing on the sharp pebbles until they cut into his palms, not sure he wanted to remember now.
I don’t give a shit where you are, Max.
Thanks, Leanne. Thanks a whole hell of a lot.
She wasn’t going to come looking for him. He was gone a week last time and she’d welcomed him home like he’d ruined her holiday. Well, what had he expected? He drank too much, he stayed out late, he put his hand up for night shifts. Everything she told him not to do. He’d tried to make it work – seriously tried – but it didn’t change the fact they should never have married. That they were a summer romance that’d run too long, that hauling rocks out of a hole paid the bills but would never satisfy him. That saying ‘I do’ for the sake of an unplanned pregnancy didn’t make it ‘I can’. Maybe this time, she’d just go to Sydney like she was always threatening.
Oh God. Hayden, he thought. And a great wave of sadness crashed through Max’s pain.
He didn’t want to lose Hayden, didn’t want him growing up with a weekend dad, wanted his son to have a family like he had. And now he remembered Leanne had already taken his son. She didn’t have to worry about finding a job before she buggered off – she’d met some arsehole dentist with a fucking mansion while Max was digging mines. All she had to do was drop by his hospital bed on her way out of town. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you anymore. And I don’t want to look after you when you get out of here. I’ve already wasted enough of my life in Haven Bay.
A week after promising Dallas he wouldn’t fuck it up, he had. He was Max Tully. It was what he did.
And now he’d done it again. He must have. He was in a goddamn hole with blood oozing from his head and there was something . . . something big and important he had to . . . and he couldn’t remember what it was.
21
Rennie’s night was long and restless. Plenty of tossing and turning, plenty of ugly thoughts, plenty of memories to reinforce them. Enough to make Rennie flick the bedside lamp on in the quiet, early hours, pull the gun from her pack and clean it.
It was a Glock 17, the world’s most reliable semiautomatic handgun – a lethal piece of equipment but useless if it wasn’t in good working order. Joanne had given it to her the day she finished her treatment with Dr Foy, a replacement for the one the cops had removed from her. A graduation present, Jo called it. It’d repulsed and reassured her and after twelve months of discussing security and stability and dealing with her fears, she’d wanted to sample life unarmed but couldn’t bring herself to hit the road without it. Lessons of a lifetime versus three times a week for a year.
She’d cleaned it regularly at the start, kept it oiled and the clip empty to save the springs. Then not so often, then not at all. She wasn’t sure if it was complacency or a sense of security. But at this point, neither was appropriate. She fitted it back together, tested the slide, dry-fired, loaded the clip, inserted it and left the chamber empty.
Before dawn, Rennie stood in the bay window, peppermint tea warming her palms as she watched the sun come up for a second morning in a row, anxious, wired and a little ticked off.
It might not be what you think, Evan had said. She hoped to God he was right about her father but after hours of trying to pull all the threads together, none of the possible scenarios fit.
If the kid from the four-wheel drive had gone back to the car park and assaulted Max, it explained the blood and not much else. Not the thud on the fence or the overturned brick or the search of the glove box. And how did the missing money come into it?
Some of the pieces held together if Max had left her: his previous disappearances, the password protection on the computer, the missing money, the women, maybe even the unfinished text message. But what about the blood, the fence and brick, and the glove box. She could reason that the blood wasn’t Max’s and that Max himself had been at the back fence and had later riffled through the glove box except . . . what would he have been looking for? Pen and paper to write down his escape route?
The father-released-from-prison option didn’t come together neatly, either. The unfinished text mess
age, the blood, the fence and brick, and the glove box made sense. Even the guy with the camera worked – she had no idea what her father looked like now, but the photographer with the brimmed hat had been small, wiry and carrying enough years. That still left the missing money and the password protection. What did they have to do with her father?
And how long was it going to take Evan to get back to her?
She wandered aimlessly through the house, tidied the sofa cushions where Hayden had been sitting, washed and dried the dishes he’d left. She was sick of searching the house for clues to Max but in the end, she found herself standing in front of his side of the wardrobe again.
She tucked errant clothes into drawers, straightened shirts on hangers, sorted and refolded. She wiped down his junk shelf with a rag and flipped through the papers again. There were receipts for new shoes and a DVD, she saw the car insurance was due next week and smiled at a photo of the two of them. She fingered through the ashtray, spilling coins, paperclips, rubber bands and tacks. She couldn’t locate a mate for a single cuff link but found the plastic cap for a USB thumb drive and replaced it. As she was scooping the contents back in, the landline rang.
She dived across the room. ‘Evan?’
‘Rennie, it’s Brenda. Did Max come home?’
She closed her eyes. On the odd occasion Rennie spoke to Max’s parents on the phone, she felt clumsy and cautious with her words, not sure of the right response to their enthusiasm, rattled and uncomfortable with their warmth, conscious of not saying anything to damage it. ‘No. Not yet. I take it you haven’t heard from him, either.’
‘No. I’ve called everyone I can think of. Annette in Perth, Aunty Roz, Aunty Cath and Uncle Grant in Wangi . . .’ Rennie listened as Max’s mum reeled off a long list of relatives and family friends, school and sports buddies who lived close and far. She must have been on the phone for hours. ‘I expect they’ll let me know if they hear anything but I’ll do another ring-around as soon as I’ve had my breakfast.’ She sounded concerned but also efficient and practical, as though it was just a matter of tracking him down so they could stop worrying.
Rennie figured that was about to change. ‘I spoke to a detective yesterday afternoon.’
She heard a quick intake of breath then a new current of alarm in Brenda’s voice. ‘Wait a minute, I’ll get Mike.’ There was crackling and rustling before Brenda’s muffled voice called to Max’s dad. ‘Mike, I’ve got Renée. You need to hear this.’
Five seconds later, his brisk voice was on the line. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The police are involved,’ Brenda said into the phone and Rennie guessed Mike had picked up a handset in another room. ‘Rennie’s been talking to a detective. Go on, Rennie.’
She hesitated, not sure how much to tell or how to phrase it. Habit made her want to cut straight to the chase, concern about upsetting them urged restraint. She told them that when a ‘couple of drops of blood’ had been found in the car park, the police decided to get more involved.
‘Did they find that kid from the four-wheel drive?’ Mike was obviously making the same connections Rennie had.
‘They hadn’t when I spoke to the detective,’ Rennie told him.
‘So he’s gone to ground then? That tells us something, the little bastard.’
‘Mike.’ Brenda’s voice was a slap on the wrist.
‘I don’t think they’d even looked for him yesterday,’ Rennie explained. ‘And the detective wasn’t convinced the kid had anything to do with it.’
There was a scoffing noise from Mike. ‘That makes no sense.’
Rennie closed her eyes, wishing she could agree with him. ‘Apparently there was a fight at the pub on Saturday night so there’s nothing to connect the blood to Max at this stage. He said he has to consider a range of possibilities when someone goes missing.’
‘Like what?’ Mike asked.
‘Like Max leaving of his own accord.’
‘No,’ Brenda breathed.
‘James was here when the detective came around. He told him there were some financial issues with the business. He thought it was possible Max might’ve taken some money.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Brenda snapped.
‘James said that?’ Mike’s tone was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Thousands. Something to do with invoices.’
‘James is the damn accountant in the partnership,’ Mike growled. ‘And he shouldn’t be making accusations about his cousin when Max isn’t around to defend himself.’
‘Max doesn’t need that kind of money, anyway.’ Brenda said it as though she typed up his weekly budget. ‘He got that insurance payout from the mine and he owns the house.’
Rennie wanted to cheer their wholesale support, relieved they hadn’t for a second considered Max might take the money. But it wasn’t the only possibility as to why he’d disappeared.
‘Give me the detective’s number – I’ll see what I can do,’ Mike said.
When he hung up the second handset, Rennie figured the conversation was over but Brenda had stayed on the line. ‘You must be worried sick, Rennie. We are, too, of course but, well . . . how are you holding up?’
The switch in focus and the unexpected concern made something tighten in Rennie’s chest. ‘I’m okay, thanks. And yes, I am worried. Quite worried.’ She winced at her stilted words, wishing she knew how to match Brenda’s warmth. For both their sakes.
‘You didn’t have a quarrel, did you?’
What could Rennie tell her? They’d had sex on the floor, he’d proposed, she’d rejected him and they’d snapped at each other at Trish’s birthday party. It was Max’s mother and, put like that, she’d think it was no wonder he’d gone. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘It’s just that when he was married he needed a bit of time out once or twice and forgot to let Leanne know where he was.’
Rennie had always been amused at the spin Brenda put on stories about her children. They didn’t put on weight; they filled out comfortably. They didn’t drink too much at Christmas dinner; they were merry and entertaining. This time, Max hadn’t walked out on Leanne; he’d needed time out. He hadn’t made her worry; he’d forgotten to call. Turning an awkward truth into something more palatable – and it made her wonder about Brenda and Mike’s insistence that Max hadn’t taken the money. ‘I don’t think he’d do that,’ she said, wishing it sounded more convincing.
‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t, dear. How’s Hayden coping? He must be terribly upset.’
That was probably the nicest way to describe him. ‘Yes, he is. He’s had a couple of late nights. I’m hoping he sleeps for a while this morning.’
‘That would be best. He’s still so young. Do you want us to come down? Mike’s got a committee meeting tomorrow morning but I could catch the train and be there this evening and he could drive down later.’
Was that what other people did in a crisis? Have family turn up en masse? She was touched by the offer but Rennie didn’t want to be dealing with anxious parents and watching her words while she fretted about Max. And if her father was out of prison, she certainly didn’t want them anywhere near. ‘No, please, I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s only been gone a day and a half, he could be back anytime.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, but don’t hesitate to call if you change your mind. I’ll be thinking of you, dear.’
Rennie held onto the phone as though it might keep Brenda’s generosity in the room with her for a while longer – at a manageable distance. It felt inclusive and slightly intrusive, sincere and implausible, nice and unnerving. Come on, Evan, ring.
She moved restlessly about the house, not searching now but staying busy, feeling as though the adrenaline that’d been pooling inside her since Saturday night would start leaking out her
pores if she didn’t get rid of it. If she went for a run, she could take another look around for signs of Max, do a little reconnaissance at the same time.
She pulled on shoes, tied her hair back, zipped both mobile phones into the pockets of her running pants and checked Hayden was still asleep. Five minutes later, she’d locked the doors behind her and was turning left at the lake’s edge, the water smooth and deep green like an enormous sheet of opaque glass. She thought again about Max’s detour on the way to the party – was it the lure of the sunset or a last look before he left?
Shaking it off, she focused on more reassuring things: the beat of her stride, the rhythm of her breath.
Rennie was born with a built-in capacity to run. As a small, skinny kid, she’d done everything at a trot – going to the car, to the shops, down the road, around the park. It drove Joanne crazy. Her mother had watched with distaste, seeing only her father’s genes in it. She’d finished a couple of school cross-country events so far ahead of the pack she thought she’d taken a wrong turn. A teacher once accused her of cheating, others got stars in their eyes about rep teams and trophies, but Rennie was never in one place long enough to achieve any of that.
Evan and his kids were training for a fun run when Rennie and Joanne stayed with them. Up early and out on the road before school every day. It was all bullshit, as far as Jo was concerned, but Rennie was desperate to be part of it. Evan taught her how to breathe better and move more efficiently and after the first week bought her decent shoes and she’d never stopped. It made her feel cleansed and spent and strong. Plenty of times it’d kept her sane.
At the roundabout where the four-wheel drive had cut them off, the grassy path at the water’s edge narrowed to nothing. Rennie stepped onto the roadway, feeling the hard surface in her shins, and ran on the outside edge of the two-lane strip of bitumen, facing any oncoming traffic, the short drop to the water at her side.
