Misplaced

by Murray, Lee

  Normal.

  ‘So, Kieran. You got any practical suggestions for dealing with Adam’s frustration?’ Corey asks.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Achievable ones, Kieran...’ Corey taps his foot in exaggerated scorn. Adam bats absently at the swing ball.

  ‘What about...’

  ‘Legal, too.’

  ‘Geez.’ Kieran looks at the tennis ball. After a minute, he says, ‘What say Corey and I whip down to the supermarket and buy some melons? Then we’ll climb up on the roof of your dad’s garage and throw those babies onto the driveway. It’s practical, and legal.’ He throws a look at Corey. ‘And it should definitely squash a bit of tension.’

  Adam has to admit the idea, while puerile, has its appeal. He pictures holding a melon out over the roof edge, lingering momentarily before thrusting the ripe orb over the edge into space. He imagines the delicious instant that the melon is in mid-flight before it shatters on the ground, pulp splashing back over the garage doors. Maybe Kieran is onto something? Could smashing melons be the perfect stress buster? But suddenly, the melon becomes a head, a fractured skull, its grey matter bubbling through the open rictus to be splattered in impressionistic splodges on the concrete. Adam shudders. Fortunately, Kieran and Corey have already discarded the idea and moved on.

  ‘No, no! I’ve got it. Since you’re stuck here, I’m going to bring my punch bag over. Hang it in the garage. Corey can hold the bag and the two of us will take turns pummelling it into oblivion.’

  ‘Hey!’ Corey protests.

  ‘Don’t whine, Corey. You should step up and do this for Adam. We’ll call it a gym session, Adam, and get ourselves a head start ticking off the training boxes on Reece’s schedule.’

  ‘I vote no,’ Corey says.

  ‘Shit, Corey, this is about Adam and what he needs. Anyway, I don’t suppose you’ve got a better idea?’

  Corey shrugs, dropping another shower of crushed hebe leaves.

  ‘Adam?’

  But Adam doesn’t have a better idea either, and since legions of dense girls don’t appear to be lining up to boink him, Kieran’s latest suggestion will have to do.

  It’s only been four days. Barely ninety hours since Mum disappeared.

  Adam’s not sure how much more he can take.

  Before this, the worst thing that ever happened to me was a stupid bike accident. It was a Saturday in mid-January, and I was riding the mountain bike trails at Welcome Bay. The afternoon was almost over and I guess I was getting tired, maybe a little inattentive, when the rim of my wheel struck a tangled root and slipped sideways. That’s when my bike took on the persona of a stallion with a whiff of freedom in his nostrils: the back wheel reared and spun, flinging me over the handlebars headlong into the trunk of a stubborn pine tree.

  Whump!

  The impact cracked two ribs. I don’t know how long I lay stunned and sprawled on the track. Probably not long. No one ran me over, anyway. It wasn’t until I moved that my brain registered pain. From that point, every nerve ending wanted a taste. I nearly passed out standing up. To breathe was torment. I was tempted to give it up altogether. Only a few hundred metres from the end of the trail, and it may as well have been a journey to Mars. White nerves shredding with each ragged step, I staggered into the car park where I waited twenty minutes for an ambulance and, following that, a further four hours at Accident and Emergency. I still wonder how I didn’t lose consciousness. I never knew a person could hurt so much.

  Until now.

  Although, if I’m honest, losing Mum isn’t exactly the same kind of hurt. I’ve had time this week to analyse it, as I lie wakeful in the darkness, my face to the wall, cheeks wet with silent, private tears.

  When I fell off my bike it was swift, and afterwards I kept my breath shallow, too frightened to fill my lungs and invite life and anguish in. This is different. Now a slow ache permeates me, seeping through me as if I am made of mud. Desperate, I move legs of mud that run through mud to catch her. I reach out and snatch at the air.

  Mum!

  Weightless, she eludes me, a spinifex seed tumbling across the beach.

  Chapter 9

  One afternoon a few days later, Adam lets himself out of the house, waiting until he’s on the porch before putting on his trainers. Inside, drinking their squillionth cup of tea since Mum disappeared, Dad and Aunty Mandy don’t hear him leave.

  At the letterbox, Adam hangs a left, and at the Johnsons’ place, ducks down the driveway to the flat at the back. The flat looks deserted; grass sprouts between the bricks that separate the drive from the lawn and the curtains are drawn. On the doorstep, a bundle of freebie newspapers is turning yellow, the pages curling outwards. He skirts the section, following the fence-line, kneeling periodically to check under the hedge, ignoring the damp that seeps through the knees of his jeans. The hedge is thick, so Adam pulls aside the bottom branches, sweeping his hand all the way back to the fence. He finds a discarded Tim Tam packet and an old gardening glove with a hole in the index, but nothing else.

  Behind the house, Adam checks the muddy gap between the shed and the fence. An old rake leans up against a fencepost. Pulling his sweatshirt over his hand, Adam grabs the rake and backs out of the narrow space. He turns it upside down and examines the tines. Nothing. He puts the rake back, taking care to leave it as he found it, then rattles the shed door. The rusted padlock doesn’t budge; it doesn’t look as if anyone’s been in there for a while. Not being occupied, Adam had worried that the house and outbuilding hadn’t been properly inspected. Adam takes a last look around, but sees nothing obvious. It wasn’t that likely anyway. It’s the wrong direction. He can’t decide whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

  Leaving the flat, Adam heads back past home towards the dairy. There are still a couple of things to check. When he gets to No. 16, he runs his hand along the block wall in front of the house, carefully scanning the grouting and the rough surfaces of the concrete, looking for signs: a tiny thread of green, a strand of hair, the scuff of her shoe. Mrs Steele’s been so swept up in the media hoopla that Adam doubts she’s taken the time to check her property thoroughly. The front of the house checked over, Adam sneaks down the driveway for a gawp at the back. The garden looks exactly as he’d expect it to look, old-fashioned and prim: the lawn is flat, its edges neatly trimmed, and the bordered flowerbeds, while sparse, have been weeded and mulched for the winter. He peers through the garage window, but it’s too dirty to see anything other than a blue blur. Mrs Steele’s Suzuki Swift. Pulling his sweatshirt over his hand for the second time, Adam gives the window a rough scrub, clearing a peephole, and peers in again. This time he can make out an arrangement of gardening paraphernalia: slug bait, seed trays, and a spray bottle of weed-killer up high on a wooden workbench safe out of reach of little hands, as well as a few tools leaning up in a corner.

  Suddenly, a movement alerts him. Through a lace-trimmed rear window of the house, Adam spies Mrs Steele pottering in her kitchen. He whips behind the garage to avoid being seen, stopping there for a moment, breathing heavily, the smell of wet moss in his nostrils, then glances out to see if she’s spotted him. Inside, Mrs Steele is intent on her task. Kneading something by the looks of it. Flour streaks her forehead. Please don’t let her be baking them another batch of her paving stone scones. What does she put in them, cement? Keeping his eyes fixed on the window, Adam inches his way along the fence and then, bending low, slips in close to the house. There’s an instant where if she were to look to her right, she’d see him.

  Quick dash, then he’s safe.

  If this wasn’t so serious, it’d be fun. Tip-toeing around hunting for clues like a paperback detective. Adam strolls hands-in-pockets out of Mrs Steele’s drive; direction: the dairy. Best not to appear as if he’s been trespassing in a little old lady’s back section.

  At the dairy, he does a quick reconnaissance. The back door sports the standard dairy-issue fly-screen of multicoloured plastic strips. Blue plastic bread cr
ates are stacked to one side, and opposite, pushed up against the hedge, is a rubbish skip. Adam lifts the lid and peers in, assaulted by the stench of rot. But apart from a few soda bottles, a crumpled cardboard box and the foul-smelling liquid pooling at the bottom, the skip is empty. If there were any evidence of Mum having been here, it’s long gone. Adam drops the lid. It closes with a bump. He brushes his hands on the back of his jeans. Then he crosses the road, stationing himself opposite the dairy entrance where he leans against the bus shelter pretending to wait for the next bus.

  It’s past four, so the after-school crowd have already been in and bought whatever junk would satisfy their munchies. Now there’s just the occasional shopper dashing in for the newspaper, a missing ingredient for tea, and one man in a wrinkled suit who’s obviously run out of cigarettes. Stopping to light up outside the dairy, the wrinkled suit guy shakes out his match and flicks it onto the ground beside the rubbish tin. He takes a deep drag, enjoying the hit of nicotine and blowing out a white moustache. It’s starting to rain now, so he doesn’t waste time hanging around. He gets back into his car, not even bothering to glance at the photo of Mum taped to the inside of the shop window. At least his suit won’t be wrinkly and damp, Adam thinks as the car pulls away.

  Adam crosses the road and enters the store, brushing raindrops out of his hair.

  ‘Hello, Adam!’ Mr Singh comes out from behind the counter to stand beside the display of speckled bananas. ‘How are you doing? Is there any news of your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mr Singh looks awkward. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘That guy.’ Adam jerks his head in the direction of the empty car park.

  ‘Which guy? The detective?’

  ‘No, the guy who just came in here, the one in the blue suit. Do you know him?’

  ‘Blue suit...?’ Mr Singh puckers his lips in thought.

  ‘He was just in here buying cigarettes.’

  A flash of understanding. ‘Oh, him. What about him?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember serving him before.’

  ‘He’s not from around here, then?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t think so, although he could be new to the area. Want me to look out for him?’ Moving back behind the counter, Mr Singh digs around beside the till, eventually brandishing a business card. ‘You want me to let the police know if I see him again? I have the detective’s card right here.’

  Adam shakes his head. An opportunist might well have had something to do with Mum’s disappearance, but Adam doubts it was Wrinkly Suit. He certainly paid no mind to her photo in the shop window. More likely he was just some dude who’d run out of fags. But if Mum has been abducted, it’s quite possible her assailant was someone passing through the neighbourhood, a transient who saw his chance and took it. Perhaps he stopped here legitimately planning to buy something, saw Tiffany and followed her. It strikes Adam that if he’d stopped here once, perhaps whoever it was will try it again.

  ‘Hey, thanks for putting up Mum’s photo in the window.’

  ‘I’m pleased to help, Adam. Your mother was a good customer. I hope they find her soon.’

  Adam’s heart misses a beat. His mouth goes dry.

  ‘Adam? Is something wrong? Adam...’ The dairy owner starts towards Adam, alarm on his face. Adam backs away, stumbling out of the store like a drunk. Mr Singh had said was; Mum was a good customer. The words swirl around Adam like the greasy globules in a lava lamp.

  Was a good customer!

  Bile rising in his gorge, Adam forces it back.

  ‘Adam!’ Mr Singh shouts. But Adam sprints out of the store, tearing along the footpath, breath hot and fast, arms pumping, jeans scuffing, running hard, intent on getting the hell away from the meaning in those sounds. Your mother was a good customer.

  No, no, no!

  The rain is coming hard now. Stinging barbs hit his face. Adam ignores them, runs.

  At last, spent, he drops to a walk, his lungs still heaving. He’s run all the way to the sports reserve that backs on to the school grounds. Clinging to a soccer goal, his hands as white as the original chipped paintwork, Adam hides his face in his arm and weeps, tears indistinguishable from the rain.

  Chapter 10

  Interviewer: Leading the inquiry into the disappearance of Ōtūmoetai housewife Tiffany Creighton is Detective Brian Pūriri of the Tauranga police. Good evening, Detective. Thank you for joining us. We understand this afternoon police reluctantly called a halt to the five-day ground search for Mrs Creighton?

  Pūriri: Thank you, Paul. Together with New Zealand Land Search and Rescue, police and volunteers have conducted a thorough search of the routes we suspect Mrs Creighton may have walked on the night of her disappearance eight days ago. Making use of sophisticated mapping techniques and our knowledge of Mrs Creighton’s habits, police were also able to pinpoint other areas further afield; around bridges, in parks, and along a number of secluded walkways which exist in this part of the city. All of these have now been examined in some detail. To date, we have found no evidence of Mrs Creighton, and it is with regret that we have decided to conclude the search. We are extremely grateful to Search and Rescue and to members of the public who came forward and gave their time to assist us.

  Interviewer: Ōtūmoetai is a suburb that includes a number of small bays, creeks and swamp marsh reserve areas, I believe. Could drowning have been a possibility?

  Pūriri: It is something we have considered, although we understand from the family that Mrs Creighton was a competent swimmer. A team of divers have conducted an extensive search of local water channels with no sign of the missing woman.

  Interviewer: Do you suspect foul play?

  Pūriri: At this point, police are not ruling out the possibility of foul play.

  Interviewer: Is there any evidence to suggest this? Traces of a struggle?

  Pūriri: No.

  Interviewer: Can we therefore assume Mrs Creighton’s assailant was someone known to her?

  Pūriri: It’s possible, but as I say, we have no evidence to support that theory.

  Interviewer: With so little evidence, is the inquiry over?

  Pūriri: Not at all, Paul. Cases like this typically remain open until the missing person is found. While we have ceased the physical ground search, the investigation is still continuing. Currently, Tauranga officers are going door-to-door asking the community for information and requesting that people check their gardens and outbuildings for any sign of Mrs Creighton. We’ve already contacted over one hundred households, and we will continue to do this for some time yet. It’s surprising what an offhand observation or sometimes just a hunch might lead to. Anyone with information who hasn’t already come forward should contact Tauranga police.

  Interviewer: And that number appears now at the bottom of your screens. Thank you for joining us, Detective. And in other news...

  Dad clicks the remote to mute, then placing it on the table, he picks up his fork and finishes his pork chop. They moved the telly into the dining room a couple of nights ago. Mum would’ve had a conniption. She always insists mealtimes are family times for discussing the events of the day: telling stories, sorting out problems, dreaming up plans. Communing, she calls it. But since her disappearance, the only thing they’ve had to talk about is her disappearance, so rather than stare at each other gloomily, or listen to Aunty Mandy blether on and on about nothing of consequence, they’ve taken to watching the news over dinner.

  ‘Another chop, Phil? There’s one left in the pan.’

  ‘No, thanks, Mandy.’ A final blob of gravy plops onto his plate, leaving a prune-coloured smudge on the remains of Dad’s mash potato.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Aunty Mandy offers.

  ‘No, thank you. Really, I couldn’t eat another bite.’ To prove his point, Dad rubs his hands over his belly.

  ‘If you’re worried about it being too cold, I could warm
it in the microwave...’

  ‘Mandy!’ Gran cuts in sharply. ‘If Phil says he’s had enough, then he’s had enough.’ Gran is over for dinner. Aunty Mandy had phoned and invited her earlier, and Dad, put on the spot, couldn’t come up with a decent reason to say no. Adam suspects Aunty Mandy’s probably regretting it now, too. She looks crestfallen, and Adam feels a bit sorry for her. She’s been trying hard to be helpful, and all they’ve done this last week is snap at her.

  ‘Um, I’ll have another chop, Aunty Mandy. If there’s one,’ Adam ventures. He throws in a half-pie hang-dog look. Appeased, Aunty Mandy whisks Adam’s plate off the table and comes back with the last pork chop and another dollop of mashed potato.

  ‘There you go, sweetheart.’ She sets the plate in front of him, her face flushing with triumph.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dad lays his cutlery tidily on his plate. Pulling at his ear, he says, ‘Look, I think we all need to start facing facts.’

  Aunty Mandy lets out a shriek. ‘No! I won’t! It’s too soon! I won’t believe she’s dead.’ She drops her knife and fork onto the table with a clatter. Startled, Adam almost chokes on his mouthful of chop.

  ‘Mandy, please!’ Gran says. ‘Being melodramatic doesn’t help matters. We all want to believe Tiffany is still alive.’ Without missing a beat, Gran wallops Adam on the back with the flat of her hand. ‘All right, dear? Have a drink of water.’ She pushes Adam’s glass towards him. He takes a swallow.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dad breaks in again. ‘Of course, none of us are giving up on Tiff, Mandy. What I mean is, I think we need to face up to the fact that the police investigation is winding down.’

  ‘But they have to keep on looking! They have to!’ Aunty Mandy wails. In Adam’s stomach, pork chops and potatoes churn. He doesn’t like where this conversation is heading. It feels like someone’s about to force him off a high-diving board; he knows he’ll have to jump sometime, but he isn’t quite ready yet.