Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  SIXTH DAY MISSING

  Friday, 15 April

  5.24 am

  Mac and I are in the case room. It’s late and we’re arguing.

  ‘You’re not listening to me,’ I repeat. ‘Everything still points to Nicki running away. Her parents swear it’s her writing on the postcard. Owen and I have spoken to over twenty of her friends. She had talked about running away for months. She broke up with her boyfriend and her dog died. I can’t explain the thing with Susie, but maybe it was just someone out there wanting to jerk us around. Even if Susie was paid to say she’d seen Nicki, it doesn’t mean she isn’t out there somewhere.’ My voice drops. ‘She was messed-up, Mac. Her relationship with sex was problematic—you’ve seen the photos, the messages. I think she made a snap decision to run away and now she’s proving a point by sticking to it. What more do you want?’

  Mac holds my stare for a few seconds, then pushes away from the desk and stands up, hands on his hips. He’s facing a board covered with information about a girl neither of us has ever met. ‘That doesn’t explain the CCTV. If she caught that bus, why isn’t she on the tape? It doesn’t add up, Gemma. Anyone could have bought that ticket. And the dog dying bothers me too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was three years old and just dropped dead in the backyard.’

  I fold my arms. ‘Maybe it had a heart attack.’

  ‘Maybe, but when I spoke to Lucas something felt wrong. There was something he wasn’t saying, I’m sure of it.’

  We’ve both found Lucas hard to read. He flips from grieving to numb in a moment and is desperate to know every step of our progress.

  ‘Mac,’ I say, as calmly as I can, ‘I want to find her as much as you do, but I don’t see what a dead dog has to do with a teenage girl going missing. My bet is that she took off and has probably convinced some poor guy to put her up for a while. We’re wasting our time.’

  Mac leans forward, fists on the table. ‘Can’t you see, Gemma? There are too many red herrings. Someone is setting us up, trying to make it look like she ran away.’

  I sigh. All I want is to grab his face and kiss him. We first slept together a month ago, barely making it from the pub to his house. I was glued to him in the taxi, knowing that everything was about to change between us, that the thing I wanted so badly was finally going to happen. I wrapped my arms around him as he fumbled with the keys to his door. As the door slammed shut behind us, he pushed me gently against the wall. We had sex right there, next to the hatstand in his hallway, our clothes puddled around us. I couldn’t get close enough to him.

  Since then I’ve stayed at his place almost every night. I’m in a blissful bubble of intensity that I thought only existed in films and illicit relationships. I’m still getting my head around the idea that this could be real, that we can actually be together.

  But Nicki Mara is a thorn in my side, the only thing Mac and I can’t seem to agree on. I notice that Owen is often leaving us to fight it out, perhaps sensing our relationship has transcended a professional partnership.

  ‘I’ve got to be honest with you, Mac, I feel like I’m being dicked around by this girl. If it wasn’t for the media coverage we would have dropped this a long time ago. I don’t disagree there are red herrings. Maybe she bought that ticket on her credit card and then paid cash for a train trip out of here. She probably sent that postcard but that doesn’t mean it isn’t full of lies.’

  ‘But what if we’re wrong, Gem? What then?’

  His words echo around me as I stare in horror at Nicki’s bruised face, her broken fingers nestled on her lap in the empty bath.

  What if we’re wrong?

  I blink awake, Mac and the case room retreating into the shadows. All of my frustration is gone, and I lie in bed feeling hollow and numb, my nerve endings muted. I reach my hands up to the ceiling as if to prove to myself that I’m real.

  I slide out of bed and pull on the wetsuit I found in the guestroom cupboard. Standing in front of the mirror, I smooth my hands down the front of the suit. Last night with Mac feels like it happened a million years ago. I creep down the corridor and out of the house.

  The air is cool. All traces of the moon are gone but the sun is yet to make an appearance. I consider the ocean. It ripples prettily. I step into the water, my feet smarting from the cold. No one else is in sight. I know I shouldn’t go into the water alone but the desire to be cleansed, to be reset by the shock, is overwhelming. I take another step. My thighs are swallowed by the chill. Another step and the sandy floor disappears, and I kick frantically to keep my head above water. My teeth rattle as the cold overcomes me. My muscles, my skin, my organs are all screaming; in my mind their cries blend with the crashing cycle of the sea. I tip forward to frog kick. The suit chafes around my pelvis but it feels good to be suspended, to be weightless and free. I move past the breaking waves to the eerie calm of the swell. After a few minutes I roll myself onto my back and stare at the sky with my ears underwater.

  Is Scott watching me right now? Is he looking down at me as I bob around and thinking how unfair it is that he was the one who died? Is Mum watching me and attributing her unexpected death to my failings as a mother?

  I push my hands out in front of me and wing them back to my sides as if I’m flying. I think about Mac and how much I want to fuse my life with his, to finally let someone look after me, but now I just can’t see a path toward that anymore. I start to cry, tears streaming into the sea. Ashes to ashes.

  I have people who care about me, who I love in return, but right now I feel completely alone.

  The shore is already a surprisingly long way away. I can see the mouth of the path that leads to the Gordons’ house beyond the thick strip of sand. I cycle my legs and hear my breathing in my head like an echo. Is this how Abbey felt that night, raw and alone? I want so badly to find her. I can’t give up on her yet; I have to keep trying to bring her home, one way or another.

  A wave slaps against my face, shoving me under the swell. I cry out and my mouth promptly fills with water. I kick harder and come up for air but am struck down by another wave. Bubbles tickle my nose, and my eyes sting. I snatch a breath before another wave hits. I drift sideways; the sea is playing games with me. The wave bears down and I am under again. I’m being tossed around like a piece of seaweed; my limbs are splayed and my head snaps back. Once again I am thrust from the water, gasping above the surface. Another wave. This time I kick, my thighs burning. I need to get out of here.

  I kick again with as much force as I can muster, but suddenly I’m not sure which way is up. All I can see is navy-blue. My chest tightens and panic rips through me. Am I in real danger? The thought is oddly numbing. My mind empties; I let the ocean toss me from left to right as I hold my breath.

  Moments later I am spat out into the air again. The sky is lighter now, the clouds preparing for the arrival of the sun. The angry waves have vanished, replaced by innocent-looking peaks. My breathing is crazed, desperate, and a bizarre energy pulses in my veins. I enjoy the ache in my muscles as I push my limbs through the water and torpedo myself toward the sand. I’ve been kicked but I’m not down.

  My legs shake as I stagger onto the shore. I unzip and peel off my artificial skin. Feeling the strangest combination of dazed and intensely alert, I make my way slowly up the path, squeezing water out of my hair.

  ‘Mum!’ Ben runs from the porch where he has clearly been waiting for me. He’s still in his pyjamas. ‘I didn’t know where you went! What were you doing?’

  Fading goose bumps bristle on my arms. Through chattering teeth I stammer, ‘I just went for a swim.’

  Ben blinks. ‘In the sea?’

  I nod, pulling a towel from the railing.

  ‘I didn’t know you did that,’ he says.

  Wrapping him into the fold of the towel, I kiss the top of his head. ‘I do now.’

  Friday, 15 April

  7.28 am

  I wait at one of the tables outside the Bir
d of Paradise cafe, feeling the same panic that tore through me after Scott’s fateful phone call.

  At a table inside, a woman with Bali braids is trying to bribe two boisterous children to behave with offers of cake and hot chocolates, but the street is virtually empty, with only the occasional jogger plodding past.

  Pushing a spoon around in a jar of sugar, I try to force the dread deep down into my core but it just keeps bubbling up again.

  A cheerful young woman in extremely short denim cut-offs sticks her head out. ‘Sure I can’t get you anything, love?’ Her skimpy tank top reveals a generous wedge of her large breasts. ‘We’re not really supposed to be open today seeing as it’s Good Friday but the owners aren’t religious and they figured we could see how we go and close early.’ She clamps her hands on her hips and looks at me expectantly. ‘So. Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone.’ I check the time on my phone and wonder if what I just said is true.

  One of Abbey’s missing person posters has been taped to the inside of the cafe window. It already looks slightly faded and the bottom corners have ripped. I wonder who put the posters up.

  An older woman in a visor is power-walking past and smiles at me. ‘Hello.’

  A guy carrying a surfboard jogs across the road in front of me. I’m pretty sure I saw him on the beach yesterday.

  Even the dog tied to the leg of the park bench looks familiar.

  On the other side of the intersection, Tara Sheffield sidles out of an Audi four-wheel drive and beeps it shut with a flourish. A few moments later she struggles to manoeuvre an A-frame sign from the narrow entrance to the beauty salon. I can see her bright pink nails from here. She tugs the signage straight, its metal legs screeching along the concrete.

  The nerves in my spine contract just as two hands grip my shoulders from behind. I gasp and release my hold on the spoon, which clatters noisily against the table.

  ‘It’s just me,’ says Mac, brushing his lips against my cheek and taking a seat opposite.

  The waitress appears instantly, seemingly as relieved as I am that my date actually showed up.

  We order coffees and spend an excruciating minute struggling to make eye contact.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ I begin.

  Mac smiles wryly. ‘It wasn’t all bad.’

  I stare at the table. Snapshots from the car flit through my mind but it’s like they happened years ago. ‘No,’ I say, fighting tears. ‘But I am sorry about everything else.’

  Our coffees arrive and Mac stirs a teaspoon of sugar into his. I soak up his face, the way his watch sits on his wrist, the faint spray of silver on either side of his sandy hair.

  ‘I’m not going to lie,’ he says. ‘I was awake for quite some time last night.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t strike me as something to be mad about.’ He keeps his voice neutral. ‘At this point I’m mainly interested to know how you feel about it.’

  My rib cage contracts. ‘That’s the thing, I don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t have time to feel anything about it.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re pregnant?’

  I nod. I try to force a smile but can only manage a grimace.

  Mac has more coffee and starts to laugh. ‘Well, fuck, hey?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know how it happened—I mean, you know I have an IUD. It must have stopped working. Or maybe I did something wrong? I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t think the “how” matters too much right now, Gemma.’

  ‘No,’ I murmur. ‘I suppose not.’ I bite my lip. ‘I thought about not saying anything to you, just sorting it out and pretending it never happened, but I—’

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ Mac says quickly. ‘Very glad. And I’m even more glad I came here now and that we’re having this conversation in person.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pick up the spoon and prod at the sugar again.

  ‘So, back to your feelings . . . Gemma?’

  A car swings into a park outside the beauty salon. Lane’s girlfriend with the dreadlocks gets out and fetches a large canvas from the boot. Tara teeters down the front steps and waves her arms, clearly praising the artwork.

  I take a deep breath and try to keep the panic at bay, but my voice becomes increasingly shrill. ‘I don’t want this, Mac, you know that. Ben is nine and I haven’t lived with him since he was five. Your children are adults and you’re almost fifty. I miscarried the last time I was pregnant, and there’s every chance it will happen again. Scott is dead and I’m worried about Ben.’ My voice cracks. ‘I’m not even good with kids.’

  ‘Everything you just said might be true,’ replies Mac calmly, ‘except the last bit.’

  ‘I’m just really sorry.’

  ‘This is definitely one of those fifty-fifty situations—we each take half the blame.’ He reaches across the table and holds my hand. ‘Did you really mean it when you said you don’t want this?’ His voice is uncharacteristically tentative.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say softly, feeling a surge of intense affection for him. A whirring sound starts to fill my brain. The relentless crash of the waves this morning. Sheets of glass breaking. ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t! I feel so overwhelmed right now, about everything.’

  Mac squeezes my hand and nods. As I struggle not to cry, I wonder what he’s really thinking. No matter what he says, I know none of this was on his mind when we started seeing each other.

  ‘He wants a dog,’ I blurt.

  ‘Who does?’ says Mac, puzzled.

  ‘Ben.’

  Mac laughs. ‘So get him a dog!’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Why not? Dogs are good. I like dogs. You like dogs.’

  I make a frustrated sound.

  ‘What, Gemma?’

  ‘I just want to know it will all work out, whatever “it” is.’

  ‘Oh, Gem. That’s way above my paygrade, I’m afraid.’

  I glance over at the salon again. The pink of the exterior is the same colour as Tara’s nails.

  I pan back to Mac’s concerned face. ‘I need time to think. You shouldn’t have come here, and I shouldn’t have said anything yet. I need you to leave.’ I’m whispering as I struggle to keep myself in check. I don’t want to hurt him but his feelings are suffocating me. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t do this right now. I can’t afford to fall apart. You need to leave me alone for a while.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Mac looks incredulous. He pulls his hand away and sits back in his chair. ‘You can’t keep shutting me out. Have a baby or don’t, stay in Smithson or don’t, I’ll try to support you either way. Buy Ben a bloody dog. It doesn’t mean you’re putting down roots. I know you’re scared but you’re not alone.’

  ‘This isn’t what you want, though, is it? This isn’t what you signed up for. None of it is.’

  Mac’s jaw clenches. ‘I’m not going to pretend any of this has been easy. It has made one thing clear to me, though, and that’s how much I care about you. Obviously a lot of stuff is up in the air, but that’s the one thing I do know. I can’t make you guarantees—no one can. You need to stop looking for them.’

  I push myself to my feet. ‘I’m sorry, Mac. I need to finish what I started here. And I need to talk to Ben about what he wants. Just give me some more time.’

  ‘I’ll just wait to hear from you then, shall I?’ His jaw tenses.

  There’s nothing more to say. I wrench my eyes from him and head shakily over to my car. Through the windscreen I watch him leave a ten-dollar note on the table and walk away. I let my stare get lost in the pattern of the dash, taking deep breaths, and after a few minutes the ringing begins to fade. As the beauty salon comes into focus, a niggling realisation lands solidly in my consciousness.

  I get out of the car and jog across the road.

  Tara must see me coming—she emerges from the shop and waves to me with a friendly smile. ‘Morning, Detective!’ she trills. ‘I’m
so glad you finally stopped by but we’re actually not open today. I’m just here catching up on a few things. It’s relentless running a small business, always so much to do.’ She plucks a brochure from the plastic pocket on the sign and hands it to me. ‘All our treatments are listed in here.’

  ‘Tara,’ I begin, frantically pulling on threads that are knotted in my head, ‘your front window was broken, right? I’m pretty sure I saw it being fixed. You said you had a break-in?’

  Her smile disappears. ‘Yes, someone threw a brick through the window.’ She pouts. ‘It completely ruined the painting on the display wall. I have to say,’ she continues, ‘I felt really bad about that. Windows are replaceable but artwork obviously isn’t. Elsha, she’s the artist, was pretty upset about it and I don’t know if the insurance company will pay for it.’

  ‘When did it happen? Was it on Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ says Tara, looking slightly put out, ‘I called the station on Sunday morning and I spoke to that girl cop, and she said I had to call back. I could hear someone yelling in the background, but I didn’t know about Abbey then. Of course later on we heard about the search, so we just cleaned up the glass and got the salon sorted as best we could. There was a full week of bookings—I didn’t have much choice. And then Tommy had his accident as well, so the whole thing didn’t really get sorted out for a few days. Eric put some plastic sheeting he had at the hospital across the windows, which was the best we could do in the meantime. It was a bloody nightmare actually.’

  ‘But it definitely happened overnight on Saturday?’

  Tara steps back and says slowly, ‘Yes, I assume so. We had family dinner at the pub on Saturday night like we always do. There was a fundraiser on, a bingo night for the hospital. It finished early, probably about nine-thirty, and we walked home past the salon. Everything was fine then. But by seven o’clock on Sunday morning it certainly wasn’t.’ She points along the street. ‘Mary from the cafe called to tell me. She noticed it when she was opening up. We don’t keep any cash on the premises so we don’t have an alarm.’ Tara gazes at her building. ‘Maybe we should get one. What do you think?’