by Leanne Hall
Marcel presses his whole body against mine, and finally all the thoughts and visions from these last few weeks melt away. The ghosts creep back into the dark corners.
Marcel has a stubbly scalp and ridges of muscle on his arms. Skin on skin and soft mouths and I don’t see flashing blue lights and think about how I gave up on Yin long before she disappeared and maybe now I’m going to pay for it. We steam up the whole stairwell. We’re both out of breath when Marcel finally pulls away.
‘You know,’ he says, a newly sheepish and innocent expression filling his face. ‘I’ve never had a blowjob.’
I stare back. The lone light bulb in the corner casts distorting shadows over his gorgeous face. He’s batting his eyelashes with the best of them, namely me. I know his game. I tilt my chin and the corners of his mouth twitch.
‘Liar!’ I say. ‘You big fat liar.’
He smiles with full brilliance, dazzling teeth in the darkness. ‘It was worth a try, wasn’t it?’
‘Here’s a deal,’ I say, once I’ve made up my mind. ‘I’ll use my hands.’
I close the front door so gently it makes almost no sound. The lights are on in the back half of the house. I shuck off my coat, kick off my shoes and pad to the kitchen, where I spit my chewy in the bin and fill a glass of water.
It’s not until I turn towards my bedroom that I see Mum sitting very still at the dining table. I almost drop my glass.
‘Mum! What are you doing up?’
As long as I message her at a decent hour and promise to taxi home, she doesn’t wait up. There’s a bottle of wine and a glass on the table, and a stack of books. Mum is barefaced, her hair frizzy. Sometimes she looks so washed-out and saggy I have to promise myself I’ll never let things get that bad.
‘I couldn’t sleep, hon.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘I haven’t been sleeping in general.’
‘What are you looking at?’
She shows me.
An old photo album, open on somebody’s birthday party. Yin is right up in the camera, face painted, grinning with one tooth missing. A slap in the face.
‘I had no idea you kept these.’
It never occurred to me that Yin would be on Mum’s mind too. She sinks underneath me when I put my hand on her shoulder. I can see the weekend paper peeking out from underneath the photo albums, Yin’s photo on the front yet again.
I don’t want to step too close with my night-out grottiness, the debauchery behind my minty breath, the details of what I’d done with Marcel lurking in my eyes. It’s not often I wish I could be Mum and Dad’s little girl again, but perhaps tonight is one of those times.
The wine bottle is empty though, so I’m probably safe.
‘What did you used to say?’ I point at a photo of Yin and I with our heads together, my hair shockingly white-blonde, hers as black as it comes.
‘Double the cute, that’s what I used to say,’ says Mum. ‘You had the Polish hair. Mine was the same colour at that age.’
The remaining photos show us in a whirl of colour and activity as the party games heat up—musical chairs, giant’s treasure, pass-the-parcel. In the background is Mum, blurry, and Yin’s mum, right off to the side. Pages of half-forgotten dreams.
‘Were you friends with Chunjuan back then?’
I can’t remember our mums together, but they must have spent time in the same places, while Yin and I played. They must have talked on the phone and dropped us off at each other’s houses.
‘I suppose so…I found her hard to figure out though. Her work was so demanding and she was so serious. We would only talk about you kids, nothing else. I got along with Stephen—Mr Mitchell—better. Once he was on the scene.’
I’d forgotten how much time I used to spend at the Mitchells’ house. Chunjuan fed me and made up a blow-up bed for me on Yin’s floor and left out a clean towel and face washer for me when I stayed over and washed my knees when I scraped them and patiently watched the silly plays Yin and I performed using our dolls.
‘I can’t stop thinking about her trapped in that bathroom,’ Mum says. ‘What she’s going through.’
I’ve hardly thought about Chunjuan at all these last two weeks. Sometimes, I’m scum.
‘Is Dad home?’
Mum nods and turns to look me up and down and I am definitely not her little girl anymore.
‘What are you wearing?’ She tsks, so she can’t be that tired. ‘Oh Tal, it’s like feminism never happened.’
‘Technically speaking, I have the right to wear whatever I want,’ I say in an oratory style, because this is well-worn territory with us, ‘even though some of my choices could be seen as perpetuating objectification.’
‘You do listen.’ She sounds surprised.
‘I listen to everything you say, Mummy dearest. But I still don’t think it’s my job to take care of other people’s outdated attitudes. Or their lack of control.’
‘I know.’ Her arms and legs are dangling, the chair barely holding her. ‘I don’t disagree. But it’s different when it’s your daughter. As soon as you turned fourteen and men started looking at you—’
That makes me laugh, one sharp, loud, ‘Ha!’
‘What?’
‘Oh, Ma. Try eleven. There were pervs looking at me in Junior School.’
I lean in to kiss her shocked cheek, she grabs my wrist. ‘Sweetheart, how are you doing? Really.’
I don’t like that ‘really’.
‘Fine.’ I try to wrestle my arm free.
‘It’s good to talk. Don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’ I decide to be straightforward for once. ‘I really don’t.’
I pretend not to see the flash of hurt across her face.
‘I’m always here,’ she says and then she unlocks the handcuffs and my wrist is free and I ignore the invisible pull of her, which could destroy my composure so easily, and I slip away.
Even though I’m exhausted, sleep won’t come. Little strips of street light show through my blinds.
Helicopters drone overhead, tracing circles over our suburb. There have been helicopters over our area more often recently. Every time I hear them I imagine a masked intruder running through backyards, climbing fences and darting down alleyways.
I watch the plain white ceiling of my bedroom, trying to imagine the inside of my head being as bland and empty as plaster. It doesn’t really work.
When we were not-so-little, just before high school, Yin and I believed that we were linked psychically. Or perhaps I believed, and Yin went along with the idea to be supportive.
For years we’d communicated in fragments of our made-up language, and the summer before Year Seven we decided we could also talk with our eyes. We’d sit at the dining table and stare at each other, having long ‘conversations’, breaking into laughter only when someone asked why we were acting so strange.
And what did I do with that connection? Took a big pair of scissors and severed it, right across the middle, because it didn’t suit me anymore, because I knew Yin wouldn’t be cool or popular in high school, or stand out in the way that I wanted to.
But even after we stopped hanging out, I’d sometimes catch her eye across the assembly hall or netball court, and wonder if we were still talking without talking. Sometimes she would look sad, I could see it in her eyes.
I empty my head to match the ceiling, and wait to hear Yin’s voice, calling out as if she was on a really bad phone line.
No voice comes.
It’s been three weeks since you were taken, I say to her, silently. I haven’t known what to think, how to act, what to do. I can’t figure out if there’s any hope and how much I’ve lost.
Sorry, I say, sorry sorry. Can you forgive me?
Radio silence. Yin isn’t sending out signals to me anymore. But why should she?
DAY 28
Katie offers me a cigarette, and I take it even though I don’t really smoke anymore. Maybe it will warm me up, because the bonfire isn’t exactly blazing. We h
uddle around the struggling flames in Brandon’s backyard, instead of retreating sensibly into the shelter of the house.
‘I never see you anymore.’ Katie and I pass a can of beer back and forth between us. It’s quite the juggle with the smokes and the can.
I flip my hood up, stamp my feet. ‘You wouldn’t believe the homework they give us. I can barely keep up.’
‘I got homework too, you know. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it though.’
I give Katie a quick one-armed hug. She’s a bag of bones wrapped in an oversized cardigan.
In theory I should be able to go to Balmoral and still see my Morrison friends on the weekends, but in practice it hasn’t worked out that way, I’m not sure why. I haven’t hung out with the whole group since Easter. It’s not really homework getting in the way, that much I know.
On the other side of the fire, Katie’s boyfriend Tim threads marshmallows onto sticks. Brandon’s mum is framed perfectly in the kitchen window, dish brush in hand. Brandon pokes the fire with a broken cricket bat and looks confused about the lack of heat, even though we always have the same problem at the start of every spring.
It’s a scene frozen in time from last year, the actors transported and arranged in almost identical positions. Nothing has changed with my friends, but maybe something has changed with me.
I’ve been trying all night, but nothing can hide the fact that I’m bored, and cold.
Brandon shoots me a slow, snaky look over his half-gallon man-cauldron. I think it’s meant to be seductive, but I can’t be sure. I turn to Katie.
‘Things still good with Tim?’
‘Yeah, guess so.’ Katie stubs out her cigarette on the sole of her boots, flicks it into the non-fire. ‘It’s been eighteen months, so we’re an old married couple, don’t you know.’
She’s joking, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the way it ends up, and for some reason that scares me, even though I like Tim.
Compared to Liana or me, Katie doesn’t really want much—she doesn’t want to travel, doesn’t want to study after school. She likes to keep things simple. She’s been made a supervisor at her cinema job, and they’ve promised to make her a manager as soon as she turns eighteen, so she’ll be able to make real money and buy the car she’s been saving for.
‘You look happy,’ I say, and she does. Old Katie used to be much pricklier than this.
‘I see Brandon hasn’t forgotten you.’ Katie gives me a pointed look.
I’m saved by hot breath in my ear; Liana collars me from behind and smooshes her cheek against mine.
‘Who can blame him, she’s such a babe.’
I slap at her head blindly and she wriggles away, not wanting her look to get ruined. Liana’s face is perfect as usual, her tan skin glowing, brows immaculate, eyeliner swooping in thick wings, highlighter making her cheekbones zing.
‘Although, so far this year he’s dated Teresa Vi Nguyen and Kristy Au, and made out with Glydel from Year Eleven,’ she continues, ‘so his yellow fever is real.’
‘Real and deep,’ Katie says to the bonfire.
‘Yuck.’ It grosses me out, but I don’t want to think about it. ‘You have to teach me how to do that braid.’ I tug on Liana’s hair. She’s wearing the same Fuzzy Peach perfume that she’s had since Year Seven.
‘Hate to break it to you Chlo, but that’s not all her real hair.’ Katie pops another can.
Liana refuses to rise to the bait. Her hair has been down to her bum since she was eight. We have a pact to keep our hair long until we’re eighteen. ‘When are you coming back to Morrison, seriously?’
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘Aren’t you scared of Doctor Calm, though? I swear, Chlo, I’m worried about you, all the time.’
‘They haven’t proved he’s connected to the school.’ I take the beer off Katie and drink until my smoky throat recovers.
Katie snorts. ‘Yeah, he’s connected! How clueless do they think we are?’
‘It’s wrong, that’s what it is!’ Liana’s volume ramps up. ‘They’ve got loads of money and they should be protecting you more. I can’t believe there aren’t security guards! If someone was snatching girls from my school, I’d get armed guards.’
‘Won’t matter,’ says Katie. ‘Because it’ll turn out to be one of your teachers, of course. The one you least suspect.’
There had been a lot of gossip going around about various teachers, but the police profile seemed to have put an end to it. It said that the offender might travel with his job, and would definitely be away from home or work regularly. That couldn’t be any of our teachers.
After the profile came out I thought it only had to be a matter of time before someone came forward, but nothing has happened. It’s gotten awfully quiet around the school this week, and in the media too. We’ve had exams, and everyone has been studying.
‘Listen,’ Katie says, ‘I heard that they’ve got new DNA evidence from an older case, and that they’re getting things together for an arrest. Have you heard about that? Tim’s cousin is in the police force.’
‘I don’t know.’ I give the can to her.
‘If you get taken…’ Katie sips. ‘The thing you’re supposed to do is breathe in real deep when you’re tied up, and then when you breathe out—bam! The ropes are loose.’
‘Did you get that email too?’ I can’t believe it’s travelled so far.
‘We want you back!’ The fire has finally caught, and orange light flickers across Liana’s face. ‘I always imagined we’d graduate together.’
I let her hug me. I imagined the same thing too, and that we could go to the same uni as well, even though Liana has been settled on Biomedical Science for ages and I have less of a clue than ever.
Katie wanders off to find more firewood. I’m left alone with Liana, so now’s my chance.
‘Hey, L, I was hoping you might be able to help me with an art project.’
‘Yeah?’ She looks interested so I plunge on. It’s not like Liana hasn’t posed for me in the past.
‘I’ve decided to do a portrait for my final art project this year, and I need a model.’
‘You want to paint me again?’
‘No, I’ve been concentrating on photography recently.’
She screws up her face.
‘I need to do something different,’ I say quickly. ‘Mix things up. I’ve already got enough sketches and paintings in my folio. Let me show you.’
I pull up some Bill Henson images on my phone, the ones that look like teenagers have had a wild night out, and Liana scrolls.
‘Nope nope nope,’ she says. ‘They’ve hardly got any clothes on! You want me to flash this butt around in public? On a car bonnet?’ She scrolls. ‘Mum’d have a heart attack and they will throw me out of the church choir.’
‘It’s more the light and the mood. You don’t have to show any skin at all, if you don’t want.’
In my folio I’ve pasted Henson images alongside Vermeer paintings as examples of the light and mood I’m trying to capture, as well as all sorts of other things that have caught my eye. Advertisements featuring sleeping or reclining women, exposed and abstracted parts of women’s bodies, fairytale illustrations from falling-apart anthologies, newspaper snippets about missing women. I have no idea yet if any of it fits together.
‘I thought we could go out to the netball courts at sunset?’ There are rickety bleachers at the courts behind Meridian. If Liana sat right at the top, her hair might fly around in the wind, maybe the streetlights and the sky might combine to make something good.
Liana hands my phone back. ‘Sorry babe, you know I’m way too self-conscious.’
‘It’s okay.’ I half-knew she would say no. It would have been a nice excuse to spend more time with her.
‘Why don’t you stick to your drawings? They’re so good.’ Liana squeezes my arm. ‘I’ve still got every single one you’ve given me.’
I stare at the rising flames.
&n
bsp; I know Katie and Liana say they miss me, but no one has asked me about anything but the kidnapping. And while they’ve filled me in on the Morrison news, they don’t seem that interested in what’s going on in my life. I could tell them how I’m avoiding Dad’s calls or that Arnold got in a fight with Ron and Pearl’s cat or that I think Mum has a crush on someone at work but I can’t figure out who.
‘Shit!’ Tim hops around the circle swearing. Dirty grey smoke plumes off his shoe. Brandon picks up the esky full of ice and instead of tipping it on Tim’s foot, tips it over his head. Tim swears even more and starts swinging furiously at Brandon.
Liana immediately rushes towards them, getting the situation under control like she always does. In the kitchen window Mrs Barrie moves like an automaton, between bench and sink. She doesn’t notice the chaos outside. I realise that I can’t go back to Morrison, and I don’t want to.
It’s impossible not to be affected by the shiny, revving Balmoral girls who plan to climb confidently to the top, to be engineers and lawyers and surgeons and diplomats. They know they can be anything they want to be. Being around them has made me think differently about my own life, and what I expect from myself.
I remind myself about the outrageous levels of privilege my new classmates have, the money and opportunities thrown at them every day, not to mention that, despite their advantages, they seem overwhelmed half the time with eating disorders and anxiety and expectations, but I still feel like a traitor.
Katie couldn’t care less about Tim’s smoking foot. She rattles the empty beer can at me. ‘You little cow. You drank it all.’
Mum is surprised when I get home. She puts down the fat crime novel she’s been reading and pushes her empty chocolate wrapper between the couch cushions.
‘I thought I was going to have to wait up until at least midnight worrying about you.’
‘I’m tired.’
And hungry. I go to the kitchenette and grab a bag of rice crackers.
‘How’s everyone?’ Mum yawns.
It’s nice to see her relaxing for a change, on the couch in her sloppy tracky daks and old Nirvana t-shirt. She’s taken the next week off for annual leave and already has a stack of library books waiting for her.