Risk

by Fleur Ferris

  Mum is staring at me. Callum’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He’s in his own world of hurt.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I whisper. My throat is so dry it hurts. I cough.

  ‘We wait,’ Mum says. She sits down on the couch and leans back. She’s struggling. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

  We sit on the couch for what seems like hours, waiting for the phone to ring. I close my eyes and count my breaths. Focusing on the numbers numbs the pain. I realise I started grieving when I woke up this morning. Something switched overnight while I was searching for Jacob, and I lost hope. I knew.

  The phone rings and startles us all. I jerk into a sitting position. My head pounds. I look to Mum. She’s up off the couch, walking stiffly towards the phone. She picks it up and holds it firmly against her ear.

  She pauses for a moment.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Her voice is barely a whisper.

  It’s the call.

  I stand up, move in behind her.

  ‘Thank you for calling.’ She hangs up the phone. She turns to me. Her face is contorted with anguish and her voice high-pitched with pain. ‘He strangled her,’ she says.

  I embrace Mum and we sob together.

  TWELVE

  Callum is still on the couch, staring at the wall. When we go back to the lounge room he stands up.

  ‘I’m going home,’ he says as he walks towards the door. I say nothing. I need to be alone, too.

  ‘Do you want me to drive you?’ Mum calls after him. He’s already outside and halfway down the drive. He stops and turns, keeping his eyes to the ground.

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Then he’s gone.

  Mum and I have no words. I go to my bedroom and flop on my bed. Grief comes in huge waves. Having a bad feeling this morning is one thing, but not knowing still allowed a tiny slice of hope. I thought not knowing – the wondering, the waiting – was the worst thing ever. I was wrong. Knowing is far worse. The finality and brutality of it is like an axe through my heart.

  Sierra is dead.

  Beautiful Sierra.

  Strangled.

  The image forces its way into my mind, even though I try to stop it. Her, smitten, oblivious to the danger she is in, giving herself to him so willingly. Then that first moment she realised he was bad. Did he hurt her? Torture her? Did they have sex first? Was he after that too? I picture her struggling, choking, groping at her neck, striking out at her attacker and then the life slipping from her, her limbs going slack.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of something else. Nothing comes. My imaginings of her last moments won’t budge from my mind.

  I run through my strongest memories of her, trying to focus on something else. I remember Sierra arriving at Dad’s funeral, wearing that beautiful navy dress and those white socks, with her hair in pigtails. Already seated, my family was huddled together like penguins, each one of us essential to our family’s survival. Sierra let go of Rachel’s hand and strode up to our pew. No words, just her large eyes looking up at the adults, letting them know she wanted them to move and make way for her. She pushed past their legs, squeezed in beside me and took my hand. She sat there like that for the entire service and didn’t let go of my hand, even at the cemetery.

  And then there was that time in year five, when Chantelle Romeo, a year ahead of us, stood over me and took the hair band from one of my pigtails, leaving me lopsided. She’d then put it in her own hair and strode off with her friends, laughing her cruel laugh. Sierra found me crying, one pigtail on one side of my head, the other side of my hair down. When I told her what had happened she took off after Chantelle and grabbed her by the pigtail at the back of her head. Chantelle spun around but Sierra wouldn’t let go.

  ‘You have Taylor’s hair band,’ Sierra said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Get off me!’ Chantelle screeched. ‘Someone get her off me!’

  Her friends were so stunned they did nothing but stand back and gape at the spectacle. Chantelle started spinning around, her arms flailing, trying to grab Sierra, but Sierra hung on and spun around with her until Chantelle’s neck was snapped back and she was forced to look up at the sky.

  ‘All right! Just take it and get away from me, you stupid little freak,’ Chantelle screamed.

  Sierra came back to me, sat behind me, and neatly gathered my hair into its pigtail and secured it. I was so proud to be her best friend that day. She was so tiny, yet she was so fierce.

  Then there was that time in year seven when she had sex with that idiot from year nine who then told everyone what they’d done. He sat smiling, smug with his friends as they yelled out at her, asking if she’d give them each a blow job.

  ‘But he had such a teeny tiny dick,’ Sierra said in a high-pitched baby voice, making a tiny shape with her fingers. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  So the boys had all laughed and turned their attention on the guy, backing right off Sierra. You could see they were intimidated by her and didn’t want her saying the same things about them.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the guy snapped at his friends.

  Sierra laughed, looked right into his eyes and waggled her skinny little finger at him.

  ‘Bye-bye,’ she squeaked, in her tiny Tinkerbell voice.

  Had that been me, I would have died ten times over and probably would have changed schools.

  A couple of years ago, when I was on holidays at the beach with Sierra’s family, it was cold and rainy, but Sierra insisted on walking down to the water. The wind blew strong. Sierra screamed into it and her voice was carried away. I tilted my head back and screamed, too. A tiny noise escaped me and was lost in the wind. Sierra did it again. Her scream was deep and guttural and I laughed so hard I nearly peed. I then put my head back and roared as loudly as I could. It was so liberating. Sierra fell onto the sand, laughing hysterically. Then she jumped to her feet, put her arms up like she was some sort of grizzly bear and ran into the water, screaming as she went. When she was waist deep, she turned back and screamed her way back again. Her energy was addictive. We bellowed our way in and out of the waves, making up funny running styles and laughing at our ridiculous craziness. We were like the monsters we pretended to be when we were five. Soggy, sandy and bedraggled, our faces aching from laughter and our voices raw. Free and happy.

  I can’t imagine letting go like that with anyone else, being as close to anyone as I was to Sierra. Not ever again.

  This isn’t the grief I felt when Dad died. Dad wasn’t murdered. He was sick and in the end was hardly recognisable. He battled bravely for so long, against unbeatable odds, and by the time he went we were ready for it. We almost welcomed it because it meant an end to his pain. The suddenness and senselessness of Sierra’s death is unfathomable. Incomprehensible. Enraging. I will never accept what’s happened to her.

  THIRTEEN

  In the fourteen days between the police finding Sierra’s body and the funeral, there is nothing but overwhelming waves of grief wedged between periods of disbelief or numbness. Mum and I move from one room of the house to the next, restless and miserable. Half-drunk cups of tea and plates with nibbled-at food are left on desks, coffee tables and on the floor beside the sofa. Cleaning up doesn’t seem important. Getting through each minute of each hour is my only focus.

  I go to see Janelle. She explains the process of grieving. I’ve heard it before, but then she talks a lot about survivor guilt, which is something she didn’t talk much about when Dad died. She tells me not to fear anguish, that I must allow myself to feel, as awful as that may be.

  What I feel is that there’s a tornado tearing through me. Raging grief, anger, guilt and anxiety with periods of calm. Sometimes nothing. Always exhaustion.

  Mum and I dress for the funeral. I choose a black tunic dress that I know Sierra loved. Mum is in a black suit. For the first few minutes in the car we make superficial conversation, but then it’s silence, as we both dread the hours ahead.

  The funeral is in
a large hall which houses an indoor basketball court; next to that, a football oval. Our school principal had said that other schools might want to be involved – to show support, send a message, make a statement. So that’s why it’s at the sports centre – so more people can come. Sierra’s family isn’t religious, but it does seem a little weird to have it here.

  Mum and I walk towards the front of the hall. We’re early and there’s no sign of anyone yet, except for Sierra’s family. We sit a couple of rows behind them. A huge screen shows an image of Sierra. Her hair is shiny and straight, hanging past her shoulders. She looks directly at the camera, laughing with her head tilted back slightly. I haven’t seen this photo before. She’s beautiful. Her perfect face captured in a perfect, happy moment.

  On a silver trolley sits a white coffin with pale pink roses scattered over it. She’s right there, inside that box. I stare at it; I can’t drag my eyes away. I want to open the casket and see her. I want to make sure she’s inside, in case someone’s made a mistake. And if it is her, I want to touch her one last time, to tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry. Mum squeezes my hand. I jump at her touch and tears spill over my eyes and down my cheeks.

  The hall is filling. Sierra’s family hasn’t moved since we arrived. They sit like stones with their backs to the guests. With their backs to me. They greet no one and mourners don’t approach them. It hurts so much to see their grief, to know their loss … to feel them shutting me out. I wanted to say something on behalf of Sierra’s friends, but I haven’t been asked. No one has. Mr Williams, our principal, is the only one from school making a speech. I look around for Callum and Riley and see them sitting with Joel towards the back of the hall. I haven’t spoken to them much since Sierra was found. I’ve needed to be alone.

  Everything has changed and I can’t imagine it ever being repaired.

  The hall fills up and the service finally starts. Sweat runs down my back and I imagine it’s showing through my dress. This is no celebration of Sierra’s life. Bitter words boom from the speakers. No one says, ‘At least she is no longer suffering,’ or, ‘At least she lived a long, happy and fulfilling life.’ Her death was brutal and senseless. Their words are of outrage and disbelief. They are angry, jarring and disturbing.

  When the speeches finish, it’s time to carry the coffin out. I don’t know the six men carrying her. Rachel, Dave and Cassy turn to walk behind the coffin and it’s the first time I get to see their faces. Rachel and Cassy make a soft rhythmic moaning sound. David is quiet, but tears pour down his cheeks. I search for Rachel’s eyes but she doesn’t acknowledge me as she walks by. Seeing them like this sends the hall into a loud sobbing mess.

  Mum and I hold each other while we file out with the crowd. As we reach the door, we are hit with a sea of school uniforms. Thousands of them. Our school, the public school up the road, uniforms from other schools including Windridge, the school Jacob Jones said he was from. The students stand in two rows, elbows linked, around the oval, in a huge guard of honour. In the centre of the oval are other students and adults, holding placards with their messages of outrage: ‘Stay away from our children’, ‘Keep our children safe’, ‘Give our children’s freedom back’. Messages to Sierra’s killer. I hope it’s on the news and he’s watching. I hope he has some understanding of what he has taken from the world.

  The funeral car does a slow lap through the guard of honour, and Sierra’s family follows behind in a matching car. The silence of the crowd is eerie. The funeral cars come back to the gate and drive through. They pause for a few seconds. I lean forward to catch one last glimpse of Sierra’s coffin. The anguish punches my chest and I want to scream. I run to the car and place my palms on the windows. The car stops moving. Mum grabs me and drags me away.

  ‘No. No. No,’ I scream, over and over. I clasp my head in my hands and rock back and forth as I watch the car drive away, taking away my best friend, forever.

  FOURTEEN

  Mum sits with me in the car for half an hour while I recover. When I stop crying, I lean my head against the cool of the window. I tell Mum I don’t think I can handle going to the wake, but the truth is I know I’m not welcome. Just seeing me will cause more pain for Rachel.

  We go straight home. I am all cried out and now that I’m away from everyone I feel calmer.

  I look through Sierra’s Instagram and print out some photos: some with me, some with Sierra on her own, some when she’s with others. I cut them out and paste them into a scrapbook. I write down some of the things she used to say, used to laugh at, the things that annoyed her. Mum comes to my door and peers in.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I wanted to do something for Sierra,’ I say. I show her some of the photos. ‘And for me. I want to make something to remember her. I thought maybe a scrapbook.’

  Mum nods. ‘She would like that.’ She walks away and I hear the shower turn on. Mum is totally worn out.

  I look at what I am doing and hear Mum’s words in my head. She would like that. But she wouldn’t. She’d be touched, but not impressed. The photos are printed on normal A4 paper. My handwriting is a mediocre scrawl.

  She would like something more professional, more glamorous, more sophisticated.

  And she’d want everyone to see it.

  I lie back on my bed and close my eyes. I see the sparkle in her eyes, hear her laughter, feel her energy … I don’t know if I can capture those things. Sadness floods me. How could he? How dare he take her life like that? I let my emotions flow. I have to feel it. I miss her so much it hurts. She has been on my mind all day, every day, since the Friday that I last saw her. I think of her alive and then I think of her lying in that shallow grave, naked, discarded.

  Rage surges through my veins. It takes over every inch of my mind and body. Bitterness bites at the back of my throat when I think of Sierra’s killer. I hate him. I hate him for sucking us in, for making it seem okay to meet him. We weren’t doing anything different to anyone else. Plenty of people meet online. But Sierra’s killer was not taking a risk. He was online-invisible. He fooled me … I was completely unaware, naive. His photo, the one he sent me of the beach huts … I never doubted him. I was so gullible. How many girls are online right now, taking risks they don’t even know about?

  I write on a piece of paper, ‘Are you online-invisible or risk?’

  What did that detective call those boxes that made you invisible? It rhymed, I think … I go through the alphabet and think of the word by the time I hit ‘g’.

  Proxy.

  Proxy boxes.

  I tap it into the search engine. Loads of information pops onto my screen. I read a few pages and within half an hour I have an alias and a proxy box that puts me in Sri Lanka. I just chose a flag. It was that easy. And free. I’m online-invisible.

  Fat tears roll down my face. That yearning ache in the pit of my stomach strengthens.

  I didn’t know about this.

  Sierra didn’t know.

  We were so ignorant.

  And he killed her, then disappeared like vapour, because he can.

  I use my new proxy to search through chat rooms, interrupting discussion, leaving insulting and bitchy messages to those trying to pick up girls.

  I flick through some screens and see that one guy is in a number of chat rooms, talking to a number of girls at once.

  I’m watching you, I interrupt.

  ? comes back.

  Done much grooming lately? I ask.

  I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  I’m coming for you, you murdering, rapist bastard.

  I disconnect, push myself away from the keys, fold over my knees and sob. Mum is suddenly beside me. She pulls me up and hugs me into her. I bury my face into the side of her neck and I weep. I tell Mum, through the sobs, about proxy boxes and how easy it is to be invisible. I tell her about what I just did online.

  ‘Do you think Sierra would want you to do that?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’
I shake my head.

  Mum strokes my hair.

  My tears keep a steady stream. ‘She hated hatred.’ I feel like smashing my desk or window or lamp. Something. ‘I just feel so helpless.’ Rage, despair and hatred; they’re eating me from the inside out. I want this pain to go away. I want him dead and I want Sierra back.

  ‘What would Sierra want you to do now?’

  I shrug. I’d only put thought into what Sierra would want if she was here. Alive. But she’s not.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Mum says.

  ‘Do you want to sleep with me?’

  ‘I might come in later,’ I say. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  I nod. ‘It’s just hard.’ Fresh tears run down the wet tracks on my cheeks.

  ‘You want me to stay?’

  ‘No. I want you to sleep. You’re exhausted.’

  I look up Taylor Wolfe. A link to her website comes up. I click into it. There is a picture of Taylor, looking through her fringe with a sad smile. She’s dressed in a white shirt with red trimming. I laugh. Sierra had that shirt. I should have known why she bought it.

  The photo is advertising the clip for her song ‘Bad from day one’. I click ‘Play’. Taylor Wolfe is alone, lying in a clearing near a pine forest. It makes me shudder. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a white t-shirt and behind her is a black wolf, howling into the sky. Her hair is darker than usual, almost brown. It makes it look dirty and dishevelled. Like Sierra’s would have been when the police found her.

  Taylor Wolfe gets up from the ground and looks around. She looks lost, rejected, sad. The first thing we hear over the howling wolf is a voice over, while Taylor Wolfe looks around to get her bearings. Eerie music plays in the background.

  Everything spun out of control so fast. I wasn’t ready, and suddenly it was too late and I couldn’t make it stop.