by Belle Brooks
When Gleaton disappears from my view, I drop my shoulders in defeat. My legs feel like jelly, and my stomach burns a trail of acid to the back of my tongue—my tongue, that feels like leather inside my desert dry mouth. I’m thirsty, really fucking thirsty. I also need a moment to breathe, to be alone, so I bypass my father and the bottles of water on the table and head to the kitchen.
Shuffling my feet, I walk to the kitchen cupboard and retrieve a glass. I need to trust the police. I have to believe none of the officers working my wife’s case could be responsible for her abduction.
I hold the glass under the tap. I turn the faucet on and fill it to half full. If I don’t find a way to see that the police are on my side, I fear I’m going to combust.
Every heavy gulp of water pains me as it travels down my throat, but I finish each drop before placing the glass into the kitchen sink.
I need to let go of my desire to run and fight, and let the law take up the fight for me.
Each step I take is sluggish, and before long, Dad’s hand presses against the middle of my back as he guides me towards Mum who stands beside the lounge.
“Reid.” She speaks softly, and when she links her fingertips with mine, I no longer feel the presence of Dad’s touch or guidance.
“Sit down, love.” Mum doesn’t unlink our hold. Instead, she lowers with me. “We’re all here. Morgan’s coming home. It’s only a matter of time now.”
There are so many things I want to say ... so why can't I say any of them? Why can't I vocalise my worries? Things like: What if Morgan’s found but not repairable? What if the things she’s experienced have broken her heart and darkened her soul for the remainder of her life? What if all her future holds now is gut-wrenching, mind-torturing agony? I saw that corpse in the morgue, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the lady endured more than any human body should ever be capable of receiving. Morgan’s fighting—it’s been nearly three full days, and she was still able to make a call and talk. That must mean something. But how does Morgan go on to survive after she’s escaped the monster who’s taken her?
“Reid, look at me.” Mum’s voice is distant, but loud enough to have me zoning in from my thoughts to watch her lips move as she says, “One step at a time.”
“I know,” I murmur, making eye contact.
“Every minute counts. Be brave. You’re strong. I bred both my boys to be fighters. You boys are wolves.” She pauses. “Reid, you need to sleep. You need to get some rest.”
I swallow hard. “Where’s Cruise?”
Mum’s eyes fold closed. Her head drops. “I wish I knew.”
“Mum, what if Cruise did do this?”
“He didn’t take Morgan.” Mum’s voice is stern and her eyes are fierce when she comes to look at me. “He wouldn’t hurt Morgan. He loves you. He loves her. He loves the kids. Maybe he’s just gone walkabout again.”
“We all know what he was working on, and why you four took off overseas like you did. It wasn’t a pre-planned vacation, it was an escape. Why isn’t anyone discussing this?”
“It’s not relevant. That’s a show. This is real life,” Mum huffs.
“Mum. Mum, listen to yourself. Cruise was playing a character who abducted a woman in a brutal way. He holds her for ransom, and hides her in the fucking bush. You don’t think that maybe, just maybe, Cruise snapped and the line between fiction and reality disappeared?”
“It was too much for him. He couldn’t handle the crap they were putting his character through. He wasn’t dealing with it. That’s why we had to get him out of the country. They took a break from filming so he could regroup and come back ready to finish.”
“And now he’s nowhere to be found and my wife is missing. Maybe we’re too scared to see what’s right under our noses.”
“He didn’t do it. He didn’t.”
The sound of sobbing has me twisting my neck. Natalie’s hair creates a shield around her face. All I see is the top of her head as it hangs low. I catch sight of the droplets of water dripping to the ground below.
Kylee’s feet slap against the flooring, and she wraps her arms around Natalie’s shoulder’s.
Every single one of us suffers. If Cruise has done this, then he meant for it to break us all. Is he capable of murder though?
“He didn’t do it.” Mum’s eyes plead with me, but I can’t tell her no because he’s not here.
“If he didn’t do it, then where is —”
“He didn’t do it.” Dad’s tone is commanding. He stands in the doorway, every set of eyes in the room on him. “Reid, you need to sleep. Grandparents, our job is next door, with our grandchildren. Natalie, you’re coming with us.” He pauses. “John.” He stops. He doesn’t offer further instruction. “Linda, you look like crap. You need rest also.”
“I’ll take her home and bring her back later,” Dusty says, his arm wrapped around Linda’s waist.
“Okay.” Dad’s tone softens. “Max, is this the plan?”
“Yes.” Max stands by the television with his hands on his hips. He tries to hide his grin by squeezing his lips into a fine line.
“Sleep, son.” Dad smacks my shoulder, causing a sting to rush across my back. “Sleep.”
“John.” I don’t say another word, I just look at him.
“I’ll be here. I’ll sit and talk with Max. Clean yourself up and get some shut-eye. Morgan will need you soon, okay?”
The corner of my lips arch. Morgan will need me.
Every step I take up the staircase has my muscles burning. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon twice over. My stomach growls and groans from hunger, and even though it hurts I still can’t fathom the idea of eating anything.
When I reach the bedroom door, I pause. It’s only for a moment, but it’s long enough to hear the sudden slamming of another door behind me.
I twist on my heel and glare down the corridor. “Morgan,” I whisper.
Silently, one foot in front of the other, I approach the children’s bedrooms. Aleeha’s is where I stop.
I place my hand on the handle and push it wide open. “What are you doing in here?”
My finger is pointed in Dusty’s direction as he bends over Aleeha’s bed.
“Reid.” He flings his body towards me. His hand whips outwards, and in his grasp there’s a purple pony. “Linda asked me to get this.”
“Why?” I snap, stepping towards him.
“John said she wanted it, and your folks are going next door.”
A blowing curtain steels my attention. Aleeha’s window is open.
Was it open earlier? When was the last time I came in here? I can remember Shirley holding Aleeha on her bed; that was the last time I was here in her room. Maybe Kylee and Ronald opened it? Or was it Dusty?
“The window.” I point in its direction.
Dusty crooks his neck and looks behind him.
“Did you open it?”
“Yes,” he says, facing me once more.
“Why?”
“The room had a bad …” He stops speaking. “The room needed some airing. I couldn’t hold it in.”
“You farted?”
He nods. “Mate, I just came to get the pony as instructed.”
“Hon, have you —”
I swivel on my heel. Linda’s eyes are wide. Her lips are pulled tight.
“You tell him to get this toy?”
“No, John did. What’s going on here?” Her eyebrows furrow.
“I’ll explain downstairs.” Dusty walks towards me, turning sideways to slip through the gap between me and the doorframe. “I let one rip in there. I opened the window to let some fresh air in and the door slammed. Reid got a fright, I think.”
Dusty passes Disco Bash, Aleeha’s pony, to Linda.
“Reid.” Linda steps towards me. “It’s okay.” She runs her free hand down my arm. “I’ll see that Aleeha gets Disco Bash.”
I close my eyes and cup my hands to my forehead. “Just go,” I huff.
I want to be the one
taking my daughter’s toy to her. Giving her the comfort she seeks. Not any-fucking-body else.
“I’ll ring you. Remember what Dusty said. Keep your eyes on the cops.”
“Why is that again, exactly?” I drop my arms until my hands dangle at my sides.
Dusty looks to his left, then his right. “Because there’s a lot they —”
“Linda, have you got the pony?” John calls. I can hear the sound of his feet hitting each stair.
“Got it,” Linda yells.
When John’s head pops into view, his eyes narrow. “Reid, what are you still doing up? Go and get some sleep, for the love of all things that are holy.”
I shift my eyes to Dusty, then to Linda, then back to John.
“Okay, I will. Linda, are you staying?”
“I’ll be back later.” She frowns. “You need sleep.”
“It’s what you all keep telling me.” I take a step back. The tension in the hallway is thick, and I’m pretty sure all of it’s coming from me. Who the fuck is this Dusty fellow? And why the fuck did he come here?
I take four steps in the direction of my room before I press my chin to my shoulder and look behind me.
Linda’s eyes await mine. “It’s okay,” she mouths.
Nothing is okay.
A wall of humidity slaps my face when I enter the bedroom. It’s stifling, but I shouldn’t be too surprised. It’s as hot as Hades outside today. I locate the remote in the holster on the wall and press the button to turn on the air-conditioner. If I’m going to get a wink of sleep in here, I’m going to need it to be cooler.
I need to pee. I drag my feet to the bathroom. I lift the seat and press my hand to the wall above the unit. As I listen to the stream of piss pounding the water below, I remember the drip from the tap John fixed. Forcing the last trickles out, I shake, pull up the front of my pants, and turn sharply to look for even the slightest drip coming from the spigot—not a droplet escapes. John did a good job. He’s always right there when I need him, helping, getting jobs done. We’re a good team, him and I, and the fact that he’s downstairs manning the fort right now brings me some peace.
Maybe I can sleep. God knows I need it.
My eyes sting. Rough sand particles seem to rub behind my eyelids every time I blink. I open my mouth and yawn. Fuck I’m tired.
I think I should shower, and when I shove my nose to my armpit and sniff, it’s clear I need to—I reek. But I don’t take a shower. Instead, I rip my T-shirt over my head and walk to the drawer.
Grabbing a tight fitted black T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, I change, discarding my pants on the carpet. I stand by the window and stare down at the street below. I’m dazed, spent, and lost.
Do they know where Morgan is now? I can’t call her, but will she try to call me again?
“Where’s my phone?” I murmur. “What?”
My jaw drops. My mouth hangs wide. A flash of brown hair catches my eye. A woman sprints toward the driveway. I step closer to the window. Morgan?
She disappears. I glue my eyes to the footpath, awaiting her return.
Is my mind playing games with me?
“Morgan!” I yell as another flash of brown hair fills my vision. I see her. It must be Morgan.
I turn and run down the hallway until I hit the top of the staircase and almost trip the entire way down. My feet smack against two of the steps in my dash to the bottom. I burst through the front door, and as my soles pound against the ground my heart races.
I can hear Maloney calling after me. He catches me quickly. There’s pressure being applied to my shoulder, pulling me to a dead stop. My eyes move, crazed, as I search frantically for Morgan.
Nobody is out here. Where did she go?
“Where did Morgan go?” I’m panting.
“Reid, what are you doing?”
I try to answer Maloney, but I’m breathless. I hunch over, my heart still racing as my legs throb.
Questions, lots of questions are fired at me, but I can’t focus on any of them because I’m a million miles away, unable to understand where Morgan went.
Maloney claps his hands, and my eye catches his firearm, inches from my side. I want to grab that gun out of the holster and continue to run with it aimed and ready to fire. Morgan has to be here—does that mean her captor is too?
“Reid, where are you going?”
“John.” I see him standing beside Maloney. I straighten.
“It’s—it’s …” I stumble, placing my hands on top of my head. I can’t talk.
“Take your time. Just catch your breath,” John instructs.
I do. In then out. In then out.
“Morgan. I thought I saw Morgan.” I fold at my mid-section. I’m puffed, depleted of energy. I press my hands hard into my legs above my knees, trying to stem the muscle burn ripping through my hamstrings. Maloney’s revolver catches my sight again. I stare, lost, as I picture myself removing his gun and running away with it.
“Where? Reid, where did you see her?” I can hear the panic in John’s voice.
I stand upright again, looking at Maloney and then John. “Just there.” I point in the direction of the footpath.
“Nobody is out here, Reid,” Maloney says calmly.
I shake my head. “I saw her. It had to be Morgan.”
Maloney’s eyes fill with sorrow as he taps his hand against my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s try and get you some rest.” He sighs.
“I fucking saw her.”
“Reid—”
“Shit, what’s that?” John’s pitch is high.
“What?” Maloney swivels his head.
“There.” John points to our mailbox.
A pink bow holds a clump of long brown hair. It hangs out of the front of the mail slot.
“I’m calling West. Don’t touch it.” Maloney reaches into his pocket.
I saw Morgan. Did she put it there?
Is she even missing at all?
Morgan
Vibrations fill my palm. It takes me a while to figure out I’m sitting on the ground, holding the phone in my hand.
There’s a message on the screen. It’s blurry, yet I can make it out.
Unknown Number: Morgan, It’s Detective West. If you need to call, call this number. Only this number. Check for any names, contacts, and photographs on the phone you have. We need any details that can tell us about the person responsible for your disappearance. Then preserve the remainder of the battery. We’re coming for you.
I should be more excited. Butterflies should be dancing in my belly and happiness should be exploding through my chest at the mere thought that a search party is coming. However, butterflies don’t dance, neither does happiness explode. Instead, misery, hopelessness, and surrender cause a dull ache to rip through my heart and flow through my blood.
They’ll never find me here.
There’s just too much land to search.
There’s not a road, a person, or help anywhere. I’m probably on some vast reserve tucked far, far away from civilisation.
I try to reply.
I hover my finger over the keys, but I’m unable to put the letters together to form any words.
I’m not going to make it out of here. I’m never going home. I’m going to die here—it’s all I can think. The mental battle I’ve been experiencing for what seems like hours doesn’t appear like it will let up anytime soon.
Morgan, you need to concentrate. You need to send something back—anything.
I try to focus on the letters to create even one simple word, “yes”, in response. I can’t.
I feel as if I’m walking neck-deep in a muddy river, my wet clothes dragging me down. It’s a heavy, pulling feeling, and as I try to fight it, I experience sharp pinches all over my flesh. It hurts like hell, and as I squirm and wince, it robs me of my breath. Winded.
Violins play in the distance, scratching away, increasing in speed. They’re out of sync, and I scrunch my eyes closed. The sound is so nauseating.
My head hangs limp. The back of my hands flop against the earth, and when I manage to open my eyes, and the screeching strings are no longer making a racket, I see the phone on the ground a few inches in front of me.
The shivering I’ve been experiencing becomes a distant memory. I’m not even able to hold my head up on my shoulders or slide my fingers through the dirt. I moan out, “Nooooo.” Dense black fills my vision. The darkness comes to me, and all I can do is cry until I can’t hear myself crying at all.
My head is cushioned, my body relaxed, and as I stretch my arms above my skull and curl my toes, I yawn. I need more sleep than I got, but then again, I always feel this way lately.
I'm unable to think straight. I’m worn out, exhausted, and it’s all because of the man standing inside the canvas I’m now focused on. The one hung on our bedroom wall.
I love him, I don’t doubt that, but am I still in love with Reid? It’s been weeks of bickering and disagreements. Everything I do is wrong, and everything he does is erroneous. We clash, our tempers colliding in the most epic of ways, and then I feel an awful sadness wash over me, so I walk away. I brush him off. I avoid him.
Things will get better. We’ll get through this. Everyone goes through tough times in their marriages; that’s what I keep telling myself.
Up until recently, we hadn’t had any problems worth worrying about at all. We were solid. We had such a profound love. We were soul mates.
I follow the perfect ironed crease in his suit pant leg down to the shiny shoes he wears in this photograph, the one taken on our wedding day. We’re struggling—there’s no doubt about that. We both want to wear the pants in the household—have the power—be dominant. It’s not working out for us. We’re not working. We can’t own our mistakes and admit our faults.
Are we truly as broken as I think?
I roll over in bed to find Reid’s not there. I’m not surprised there’s no comfort to be found in his embrace. I’m so done with the bullshit that is my life right now.
I don’t shower, there’s no time, but I make myself up and choose a soft pale pink blouse to accompany a tight black pencil skirt.
I’m mad when I venture downstairs and find Reid in the kitchen, and I’m furious by the time I kiss the kids goodbye and walk out the door.
