The Mistake

by Katie McMahon

  Three pairs of eyes implored Bec from across the beige room.

  She sighed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kate

  For the last ten minutes there had been headlights coming fast towards us. The day-trippers were heading back to Hobart.

  ‘You got the coroner’s report there?’ Stuart said.

  It was on my phone. I passed it to him. He read, quietly, but aloud. I listened as he said, ‘“Danika Ryan’s background. Estranged from her parents . . . family violence . . . chronic ulcerative colitis . . . anxiety . . . moved to Tasmania from Margaret River in the early stages of her first pregnancy.”’

  Then, ‘“She arrived at the Royal Tasmania Hospital on 14 January . . . very unwell . . . assessed in a timely fashion . . . twenty weeks pregnant . . . untreated ulcerative colitis . . . in septic shock . . . urgent surgical procedure . . . deemed necessary to preserve Danika’s life, despite threat to pregnancy . . . recent medical evidence concurs with this view.”’

  ‘I remember her so well,’ Stuart said. ‘Poor young woman.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘She’d stopped her medications for the ulcerative colitis. Saving for a good car-seat for the baby.’

  I thought of her, Danika. The young woman who’d had more, and also, so very much less than me.

  We passed a small, freshly painted fire station.

  Stuart started reading again. ‘“On 15 January, obstetric ultrasound scan performed on Danika in the intensive care unit found that all foetal heart activity had ceased. This foetal-death-in-utero was not reported to the coroner, and I make no comment about it, other than to say that it was not unexpected, and in any case would not generally be reportable.

  ‘“Danika made an uneventful recovery. She received assistance from the Royal Tasmania Hospital psychiatric and social work teams and was discharged. When seen in the surgical outpatients’ clinic four weeks later, her wound was healing well. According to the medical record, she reported that she was taking medication for long-term ulcerative colitis as prescribed, and that she had no concerns. She was duly discharged into the care of local services.”

  ‘That was the last I had to do with her,’ Stuart said. ‘I honestly thought she was fine.’

  No, Dr Darcy. I have no intention of harming myself at the present time.

  Then Stuart read a whole lot of stuff about how Danika didn’t turn up for her psychology appointments, and who rang who and when and whether they all should have assessed her risk of ‘self-harm’ better. But I knew Danika wouldn’t have ‘attended for mental health follow-up’ because she wouldn’t have been able to plan her days, or have a shower, or get out of bed. Takes one to know one, let’s just say, because I have never lost a baby but I know about grief, and I couldn’t go and talk to strangers either. There was a time – after the arm anatomy and Dave-the-Second, but before the Tudors and the underwear – when I couldn’t really go out at all. When I just wanted someone to lie down next to me and hold me. Bec rang me almost every day. Mum rang me every single day for more than a year.

  Anyway.

  After all the how-can-this-sort-of-thing-be-avoided-in-future?-slash-let’s-find-someone-to-blame part, it said that the following August, about seven months after her baby died, Danika left two letters under her pillow.

  Stuart read, ‘“The letters were addressed to a family member and a local friend, and were in their nature farewell messages. One contained a discursive reflection on the unfortunate loss of her pregnancy.”’

  It said that Danika bought a bottle of Kahlua. She drove for almost three hours to a beach on the Tasman Peninsula.

  “‘Danika Ryan’s car was found in a beach car park near Eaglehawk Neck by police on 20 August, under a sign that read, BEWARE THE RIP.”’

  There was quiet in the car for a moment. Then Adam said, ‘We didn’t know about her connection with him yet. But we thought we should look.’

  I hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do. And it all seemed to be taking so much time. Adam’s mate hadn’t got back to him.

  We’d googled Danika Janelle Ryan. Nothing much we didn’t already know.

  Then: Danika Ryan mental health Margaret River. On the third page, we found the little article. From the Bunbury Telegraph. There was a quote from a local politician about unprecedented funding. There was an announcement about a new helpline. And a photo of Danika Ryan, the well-liked and vivacious bartender, who had died by suicide, thousands of miles away, at a Tasmanian beach with a well-known rip. There was a photo of her from the ‘good times’ alongside her ‘much-loved brother’. She was an angular-looking girl in a tight green dress, with an awkward smile and both her arms around a very handsome man, as if he was a wonderful prize she’d won.

  It was the fire-eater.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bec

  ‘All right then,’ said Bec. ‘Let’s go. Essie, time to pop your coat on. You too, Mathilda, up you get.’

  Lachlan put down his Rubik’s cube. He’d finished the green side.

  Mathilda said, ‘Can I bring my book?’

  Ryan put his hand on the back of Bec’s neck as she locked the front door behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kate

  It was properly dark now. Steep rocky walls ran alongside the road; up ahead, the wind made the trees look puny.

  Two hours earlier, Ryan’s face, and Danika’s, had been staring out from my phone when Stuart rang.

  ‘Madam Kate, I’ve got a couple of missed calls from you. We still on for coffee tomorrow?’ He’d sounded so unbelievably normal.

  I’d told him what I knew. I hadn’t bothered trying not to alarm him.

  ‘Adam’s here. We’re going to go and find them,’ I’d said. I’d looked at Adam. ‘And we’re thinking we should call the police?’

  But Stuart hadn’t answered the question.

  ‘I’ll come right now,’ he’d said. ‘We can go in my car.’

  *

  In the darkness, a watch-for-wildlife sign flashed bright under our headlights, yellow with a black kangaroo silhouetted on it. Something else started to turn in my memory.

  The little girl with melting choc chips in both hands and muffin mix all round her mouth who said, ‘Why do sharks like yellow?’ and ‘I don’t need a life jacket anymore,’ and, ‘I’m a pretty good little swimmer, now.’

  ‘Stuart?’ I said. ‘Is Essie allowed to go swimming by herself? Or without a life jacket?’

  ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Struggles a bit with swimming, Essie does. Not like the other two.’ After a moment he said, ‘She should have been nowhere near those waves unsupervised, not even for a paddle.’

  Stuart had again turned around to look at me. His eyes moved, as he read me, then stopped as he understood. We both knew, at the same moment, but I was the one who spoke.

  ‘He wanted her to go in, that day. That school excursion at Clifton.’ My voice was fraying. ‘I think he tried. I think he opened the pool gate on Thursday. I think he’ll encourage a swim this weekend.’

  Adam said, ‘It’s rained nearly all day, and now it’s late. Surely they wouldn’t . . .’ He didn’t take his eyes off the road. ‘But we better head straight to the lake. Just in case. And let’s call the police again.’

  I dialled. I held my phone towards him.

  *

  It was after five o’clock.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ I said, stupidly.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Adam said, looking at the GPS. ‘Four.’

  Adam had talked to the police. He’d said things like single member, Vic Pol, constables. Two police cars were less than ten minutes behind us.

  WELCOME TO MOUNT DOBSON, THE APEX OF ATTRACTION, said the sign. It was white and green. To our right, the mountain itself was grey-black and huge. Cloud covered its summit. I tilted my head to look up at it. I remembered now, from childhood trips. The entrance to the Visitors’ Centre, and the track towards the lake, was just a couple of minutes
up ahead.

  We passed some holiday cottages. Mountain Retreat. Leafy Nook. Nature View.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Stuart said. I nodded. More headlights came towards us. Stuart and I sat up straighter, then turned and squinted after the vehicle. But it wasn’t them.

  Adam slowed down as we passed a brick, cream-painted building. A pub. On the roof was a satellite dish and a big green beer sign that had a corner missing. In the gravelly car park, there were a few impressively safe-looking four-wheel drives with huge bike racks against their back windows and some dodgy old utes.

  And Bec’s white Audi.

  ‘Stop!’ Stuart and I said together, but Adam was already pulling in. He’d even remembered to indicate. He said he’d call the police again. When he lowered the phone, he told us that the officers were less than five minutes away.

  Stuart and I looked at each other. He’d held himself together so tightly, but still. Tears of relief were in his eyes as well as mine.

  *

  We walked fast, almost running, along a dark, uneven concrete path at the front of the building. There was a door that said BAR. Two men stood under the eaves, smoking. They were in their fifties, with flannel shirts and beer guts and noses like mushrooms, and they looked at me in a way that made me glad both Adam and Stuart were present. I went in front and put my hand on the door’s sticky handle.

  ‘Give it a nice hard pull, darlin’,’ said one of the men.

  Adam turned his head very quickly and said, ‘I’d shut my face if I were you.’ The man stepped back, holding up his hands as if he didn’t want any trouble. As if Adam was over-reacting. Adam had barely broken his stride.

  I opened the door, which – unsurprisingly – required just a normal-strength pull, and we went inside.

  *

  There was a billiard table and a huge L-shaped bar. Behind the bar stood a lady with bright hair and a nice smile. To one side, men roosted on little black stools. In unison, they turned and glanced at us, as if we were all in a Western. A wooden sign above a doorway in the corner read THRU TO DINING ROOM. We walked, without speaking, towards that.

  As we passed, one of the stool-men muttered, ‘Farken typical.’

  Even though my body was full of apprehension, I couldn’t help but wonder if he really thought that one-armed former up-and-coming supermodels were all that typical of anywhere. Even the big smoke.

  *

  Stuart went into the dining room first, then me, then Adam.

  They were there. I heard Stuart make a soft sound when he saw them.

  The five of them were sitting at a little wooden table near the middle of the room. It was noisier, and – to be honest – much nicer, than I’d expected. Ochre walls and an electric fire and lovely old wooden tables, and lots of mountain-bike-y-looking men. Very few women. Clearly this was where you sat if you were Not From Around Here. It was a huge relief to be somewhere so public – and sort of more familiar, in a way – and I managed a deep breath.

  Essie was next to Bec, slumped in an unappealing way against her, because by that time of day she was always exhausted. Bec’s plate appeared virtually untouched; her arms were on Essie. On Bec’s other side, at the head of the table, was the fire-eater, lolling back in his seat with his legs extended. He had a beer in one hand and a fork in the other. Mathilda and Lachlan had their backs to us, but looked to be eating chips with their heads down.

  As soon as we walked in, a few things happened.

  Bec saw us straight away. She heaved Essie off her lap and stood up. A woman in black jeans came out of the kitchen, carrying two enormous plates of chicken parmigiana. Some of the mountain-bikers glanced our way.

  Essie ran towards Stuart as if she’d just been given a fairly large dose of amphetamines, and he scooped her up. Lachlan and Mathilda trotted over too, their faces confused and delighted, as if they’d just been told they could watch television and eat chocolate until midnight.

  Ryan looked up at Bec and said something. She made an I-am-constantly-mystified-by-my-bizarre-ex-what-will-the-idiot-do-next? expression.

  ‘Lachlan!’ she called, sharply. He either didn’t hear her, or pretended not to. He was already next to Stuart.

  ‘I’m taking you guys home,’ I heard Stuart say. He was clearly making a huge effort to keep his voice level.

  ‘But we’re going for a bushwalk tomorrow.’ Lachlan sounded puzzled. ‘To this lake? Mum wouldn’t let us go today, and we’re going to race—’

  ‘No can do, mate,’ said Stuart. He was already steering them out. There was another door off to the side, marked EXIT. I presumed it led directly outside, rather than back through the bar and along the dark, drunk-man-ridden path. Stuart obviously thought the same, because he started to move towards it.

  ‘What about Mummy?’ said Mathilda.

  ‘Aunty Kate and Adam will bring your mum home,’ Stuart said, firmly. The kids seemed to sense that it was not the time for arguments, or maybe they wanted to go with him, because there were no further protests. Stuart gathered up Mathilda, so he was carrying her too, and somehow managed to put a hand on Lachlan’s shoulder as well. He took a path well away from the fire-eater and Bec. The black-jeaned waitress – having delivered the parmigianas to a table of mountain-bikey men – stood aside for him.

  People were watching them idly; they were the only children there. The bright-haired woman from behind the bar appeared with a paper order pad in her hands. She smiled after Stuart in an approving way, the way women her age often do when they see a nice man doing anything with his kids.

  A song about having the time of your life was playing as Adam and I approached Bec and the fire-eater.

  ‘What exactly is going on?’ said Bec, still standing up in her seat. She was doing her I’m-clearly-in-the-right-here-but-look-at-me-being-the-bigger-and-more-reasonable-person voice. My body felt barely mine as I glanced to my left, to make sure Stuart still had the children.

  Adam moved so that the fire-eater was right in front of him. The fire-eater was still sprawled at the head of the table, the cool kid down the back of the bus. Adam was next to me; he angled his body ever so slightly in front of mine. Protectively. Bec was across from me; the table – holding an enormous quantity of half-eaten pub food – steaks on skillets, an almost-empty basket of garlic bread, Essie’s kids-menu spaghetti bolognese – was between the two of us.

  ‘I asked you what’s going on, Kate?’ Bec said. She was only just managing to use her restaurant-voice, and she kept turning her head to look at Stuart and the kids. They were almost at the exit by then. Essie’s little face was examining us over Stuart’s shoulder.

  ‘Becky, you have to come with us,’ I said. ‘He’s trying to hurt you.’ I didn’t look at the fire-eater.

  Her face wrinkled – confused, appalled – as if I’d made a racist joke. ‘What are you even doing here?’ she said. ‘Stuart!’ she called, and that time she did raise her voice. She sounded very angry. ‘Stuart! Lachlan! Mathilda! Essie!’

  ‘Mummy!’ Essie called. She started wriggling in Stuart’s arms. I could see she was tired and confused, and the novelty of it all was wearing off. ‘I want my mummy!’ Stuart still had both girls in his arms, one hand on the door handle, the other on Lachlan’s shoulder. He turned.

  Ryan had his back to them, but he turned around and stared in Stuart’s direction. He draped a languid hand along Bec’s hip, and Stuart’s face changed.

  ‘I want my MUMMY!’

  And somehow Essie was on the floor. I saw her stand still for a split second. She had her feet apart, and her eyes on her mum. Her arms were pointing straight down, and the tip of her tongue was between her teeth in the invincible little way she’d always had.

  It was as if Bec wasn’t really thinking about it, because she probably wasn’t. It would have been so much of a habit. But Bec half turned. She held her arms out for her girl, even though her mystified, angry eyes were still looking at me.

  ‘Essie, stop!’ yelled Stuart. He’d a
lready dropped Mathilda. He reached both his hands towards his youngest child.

  But Essie was running towards her mummy.

  Adam grabbed the fire-eater’s nearest arm. ‘Stay there,’ he said, and he began to twist the arm up Ryan’s back, the way I’d only ever seen on television.

  The fire-eater didn’t even stand up. He grabbed a skillet with his free hand. Chips and bits of lettuce flew everywhere; a half-eaten steak fell with an ugly squelch onto the floor. The fire-eater’s arm was an elegant arc through the air as he smashed the cast-iron skillet down, fast and hard, onto Essie’s little golden head.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bec

  The day after the pub, Bec sat in a room off to the side of intensive care. There were evil-looking dark-turquoise carpet tiles on the floor, and a vending machine against one wall. There was a squishy caramel-coloured couch and blue vinyl chairs with wooden arms. There was no smell, except of them. She could hear elevator doors opening and shutting down the corridor.

  Lachlan and Mathilda were with her parents. Stuart had been on the phone to his father most of the morning, using phrases like ‘midline shift’ and ‘mass effect’ and looking as if he had just been told that everything he’d ever believed was a lie. Kate was next to her, always to her right, so that she could hold Bec’s hand. Adam came and went, murmuring to Kate about cars and food and school uniforms for the older children. The second time, he nodded to Stuart. Stuart nodded back, ended his phone call and went and shook Adam’s hand in a way that almost became an embrace. Adam had broken the fire-eater’s swipe, just a little bit. But the fire-eater had weight and momentum.

  Essie had a subdural and an extradural hematoma, clots of blood inside her head that were putting pressure on her brain. The night before, some of the blood had been drained by the neurosurgeon who’d been called in especially. When Bec met him in the emergency department, he was wearing ironed jeans. Bec nodded and heard little he said. Stuart heard everything. She could tell. Even though Stuart stood with his shoulders turned away from her, even though his eyes didn’t look at her, but slashed at the air near her head.