The Lost Man

by Jane Harper

  “It’s not that.” Ilse’s protest was almost drowned out by her daughter. “If Daddy was missing something, why didn’t he say so?”

  “Because he knew you wouldn’t believe him either, like you don’t believe me.” Lo was shouting now. “That’s probably why he said to keep it a secret.”

  There was a sharp silence, and Lo put her hand over her mouth as though trying to claw back the words. Her tiny face was flushed an ugly red.

  Ilse was very still. Her eyes flicked to her older daughter, who looked shocked. Sophie shook her head. No idea. Ilse turned Lo around in her seat so they were facing each other. “Lo, this is very important. What exactly did Daddy say?”

  Lo shook her head, silent once more.

  “For God’s sake—” Harry sounded frustrated.

  “Harry.” The warning note in Liz’s tone was clear. Outside, the dingoes had started howling again. They sounded close.

  “Lo, it’s okay.” Ilse leaned in so her face was level with her daughter’s. “You’re not in any trouble. Just tell the truth. You’re sure Daddy was looking for something?”

  The little girl’s face was pinched and anxious. “Yes, I saw him.”

  “And Daddy told you to keep it a secret from everyone?”

  “Not everyone.” Lo looked at her mother. “Just you.”

  17

  Nathan sat on the porch watching the night creep in. The red from the ground and the sky bled into one until they both deepened to black. Lo had been unable—or unwilling—to offer any more useful information, and Ilse had eventually taken her off to bed.

  Nathan had been putting Cameron’s instruction manuals away when he’d discovered a guitar in the hall cupboard. Xander was reading in his room, so Nathan took Duffy and sat on the veranda. The guitar was out of tune, and the discordant notes jarred as he tightened the pegs. Across the yard, the lights were still on in the backpackers’ caravan, and he could hear the murmur of voices. He couldn’t make out the words, but from the tone it sounded like an argument. Beyond the caravan, he could see nothing. He played softly, trying to get an ending right, when he heard the screen door open and looked up.

  “That’s my guitar.”

  Sophie was leaning against the door, her head haloed by the yellow light.

  “Sorry. I found it.”

  “It’s okay. Did you write that song?” She sat down opposite him as he started playing again.

  “Yeah. Nearly ten years ago.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  He’d written it for Ilse. “No,” he said. “Untitled. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds kind of sad. But hopeful. Kind of. You could call it ‘Sunrise’ or something.”

  “Good name.” More appropriate than For Ilse, at any rate. He played some more.

  “It’s nice. The ending’s not right, though.”

  “No. I know. I’ve never been able to work it out exactly.”

  “If you haven’t got it after ten years, maybe you should give up.”

  “I think you’re probably right.” Nathan smiled at her. “So you play?”

  “When I don’t have this.” Sophie held up her sling, then listened for a bit longer. “You’re really good.”

  “I have a lot of time to practice.” He tried not to sound bitter.

  “Do you play every day?”

  “If I can. Since I was your age, probably.”

  “That’s such a long time.” She looked so staggered he had to laugh. “Every day?”

  “Pretty much. Except for a couple of years when I didn’t have a guitar anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Nathan’s smile faded. “It got damaged.”

  It was actually his clearest memory of his dad, which was surprising because it was far from the worst. It had been the day Nathan and Cam had tried to run away, and Carl Bright had rounded them up at the stockman’s grave. Nathan could still remember sitting in the truck, looking at the back of his dad’s head and wishing he would just start shouting. It was the stillness that scared him. They did not see another car or person the whole drive home, Nathan remembered clearly. That wasn’t at all unusual, but that day he had noticed. There was no one else around.

  Nathan had been sure he’d known what was waiting for them when they got back, but to his surprise, Carl had gotten out of the car without a word, leaving his sons looking at each other. They’d walked on eggshells all day, waiting. It was only late that evening, after Harry finally said good night and headed off to his own cabin away from the house, that Carl had at last looked their way. It was almost a relief when he’d murmured under his breath: “Outside, both of you.”

  Nathan had braced himself, trying to control his reaction. Carl didn’t like it when his sons looked afraid. He had told them to build a fire, and both boys had gaped at him until he’d said it louder, grabbing Nathan by the shoulder and pushing him toward the woodpile. They’d staggered over, bewildered.

  Carl hadn’t spoken again until they’d gotten a decent bonfire going. His face flickered in the light as he instructed them in a disturbingly soft voice to go inside and each bring out their favorite possession. Nathan had a tight, hot knot in his chest as he’d eventually wheeled out his bike.

  “Nice try.” His dad had gripped his arm so hard he could already feel the bruise forming. “Get it right next time or I’ll burn everything you bring until you do.”

  Nathan had gone inside for a long time, and finally come out with his beloved guitar. His hand had sweated and slipped against its wooden neck and, despite knowing it would make things worse, he had cried and begged his dad not to do it.

  Liz had been there as well, tears in her own eyes. “Please, Carl,” she had tried. “Can’t he keep his guitar?”

  Her husband had ignored her, and she’d tried again, until he’d finally turned from his sons to look at her.

  “You want me to teach them this a different way?” he’d said in a voice that made Nathan glad Liz didn’t ask again.

  Nathan had held out the guitar, barely able to see through his tears, but his dad had made him throw it on the fire himself. Nathan had finally done so, then reflexively tried to snatch it out. He’d burned his arm and still had a scar.

  Cameron had got his selection right the first time, of course. He had brought out an illustrated history of stories from World War II. Nathan thought it was bloody boring, but Cam had been fascinated by it. Cameron had actually looked Carl in the eye, craning his neck upward to do so, as he’d thrown the book on the fire. Then he’d said something, under his breath. The words were almost, but not quite, lost in the crackle of the flames.

  Carl had gone very still. “Say that again.”

  Cameron hesitated, then opened his mouth. When he spoke, he actually raised his voice a fraction. “Nazis burned books.”

  Liz had sucked in a breath so sharp it squeaked, her shoulders high. There had been a terrible silence, then, to Nathan’s astonishment, Carl had very nearly smiled. A hard, toothy twitch of his lips. He had seemed almost amused as he stared at Cameron. He had clenched and unclenched his fist, just once, then opened his mouth.

  “Get the rest.”

  Cameron had obeyed without flinching. He disappeared inside, returning a few minutes later with his books piled in his arms. Nathan sat on the steps with Liz and watched as Cam threw them into the flames one at a time. Cameron’s eyes had been completely dry as he watched them burn.

  “Apologize to your dad,” Liz said after the first five. Cameron ignored her, tossing another book on the pyre while Carl watched his son with an expression that Nathan had never seen before. He was struck by the sense that, on some level, they were both getting a strange enjoyment out of the standoff.

  The whole thing took more than an hour. Finally, as the last book was burning and Nathan was nervously glancing at the house, wondering what would happen next, Cameron had looked Carl in the eye.

  “Sorry, Dad.” He’d dropped his gaze, fi
nally contrite.

  Nathan felt Liz go slack. Even Carl had seemed a little relieved, as the embers glowed in the hot night air. He had looked at Cameron, as though trying to work something out, then turned to Nathan with a far more familiar look.

  “Either of you ever try this bullshit again, I promise you it will be ten times worse. And not just for you two.”

  Nathan had felt Liz tense again, and after that, for a long time, both he and Cameron had done exactly what they were told.

  On the veranda now, sitting opposite Sophie, Nathan’s fingers stopped moving on the strings. He didn’t feel like playing anymore. Sophie didn’t notice straight away. She was glancing back at the house, toward her sister’s darkened bedroom window.

  “Any idea what Lo was talking about at dinner?” Nathan said.

  “No.” Sophie picked at her sling. “She probably doesn’t know herself. She has trouble with make-believe stuff.”

  “She seemed scared,” Nathan said.

  “She is. She thinks someone’s coming to get her.”

  “Someone imaginary? Like the stockman? Or does she actually believe someone’s out there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve told her that she doesn’t have to worry. She still does, though.”

  “It must be hard for you two, after what’s happened with your dad.”

  Sophie nodded but said nothing.

  “Did your dad ever mention the stockman’s grave to you?” Nathan said. “Talk about it being somewhere special to him?”

  “I don’t think so. There was his picture, I suppose. But I never knew why he painted it, he thought the stockman was stupid. And he was.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He shot himself by mistake. Climbing through a fence and not paying attention. His foot slipped and he accidentally blew his own head off with his gun.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Daddy.”

  “Right.” It wasn’t true, but Nathan thought now wasn’t the time to correct her. Her memories of her dad would be confused enough, without him pulling minor ones apart.

  Sophie sighed and looked at the guitar. “Can you play something else?”

  “Happy to take requests.”

  She named a song he didn’t know, by a band he’d never heard of, so she hummed it and he managed to pick it up. By the end, she was smiling a little, mostly at his mistakes.

  “I’m going to practice when my arm’s better,” she said. “While there’s no school.”

  She meant School of the Air, Nathan knew. He had gone through all that himself, mucking around while he was supposed to be listening in to some faraway teacher crackling on the radio. Much of the teaching burden fell to whoever was supervising at home, though, and he remembered poor Liz trying her best and pleading with him to concentrate the way Cameron did. It was all done online now, mirroring the term times and lesson structures of a physical school as closely as possible. The teachers could at least video chat with students for a couple of contact hours a day, which had to be better than the radio, he guessed. He thought of something and frowned. “So Katy supervises your home learning?”

  “Yeah. It used to be Mummy, but now Katy does it. She’s supposed to look after us during the day when we’re on holiday.”

  He saw her face. “No good?”

  “It’s boring. She doesn’t have any fun ideas. The day Daddy went missing, she just made us sit in the classroom and watch movies the whole time.”

  “Was she with you?”

  “Yeah, she was there, but she didn’t do anything. She kept going on breaks, and she’s always kind of moody.”

  “Is she any better at supervising the school stuff?”

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Not really. She doesn’t know what we’re supposed to be doing and she doesn’t always make sure we keep up. I heard Mum tell Daddy he shouldn’t have hired her, that she’s”—she lowered her voice to a whisper and looked left and right—“crap.”

  Nathan suppressed a smile. “That’s what your mum said?”

  “That’s one of the things. But I think Mummy’s right, she is … crap.” Sophie leaned in. “I don’t think she’s even really a teacher.”

  “No?” The light was still glowing in the caravan. “What makes you say that?”

  “She cut our hair,” Sophie said. “Nicely. I think she’s a hairdresser.”

  Nathan looked at Sophie’s hair. It was a shoulder-length bob, with crisp edges all the way around. Nathan did not claim to be an expert; his own routine involved waiting until his hair grew too thick and shaggy to cope with, then shaving it all off over his bathroom sink. But even to him, the cut looked pretty professional.

  Nathan eyed the caravan again. Behind the thin curtain, he could see someone moving in the glow of the lamplight. The faint sound of voices drifted over. They were still arguing. A hairdresser, not a teacher, Nathan wondered. It wasn’t uncommon for travelers to embroider their resumes. In fact, it was unusual for them not to. But it always posed the obvious question: If they weren’t who they claimed to be, then who were they?

  “We came back from a ride one day, and they were both here,” Sophie said. “Daddy didn’t even tell us they were coming. I think that’s why Mum was annoyed.”

  “Why was I annoyed?” There was a gentle screech from the screen door, and Ilse appeared.

  “About Simon and Katy coming here,” Sophie said.

  “Oh.” Ilse frowned. “No. It was a surprise, that’s all. Don’t go around saying that, please, Sophie. They’ll feel unwelcome.”

  “How’s Lo?” Nathan asked.

  “Asleep in your mum’s room.” Ilse beckoned to her daughter. “Your turn now.”

  “But—”

  “Sophie. Please. Not tonight.”

  Grudgingly, Sophie stood up. “Good night.” She looked at her mother, belligerent. “Are you coming to tuck me in?”

  “In a minute,” Ilse said. “Go and get ready.”

  The screen door slammed. Even lit from behind, Ilse looked exhausted as she came out and leaned against the railing. She opened her mouth but said nothing, as though unsure where to start.

  “What do you make of what Lo said earlier?” asked Nathan, by way of an opening.

  “I don’t even know what to think. Cameron never said anything to me. Obviously.” There was a sour note in her voice as she stared out into the darkness. “Not to mention that whole thing with that woman trying to contact him.”

  “Cam told you about Jenna, though?”

  “Of course.” Ilse’s face clouded. “He said she was a girl he met at a party once whose boyfriend got jealous. He made it sound funny. Like a misunderstanding.”

  Nathan didn’t say anything. It had been a lot of things, but funny wasn’t one of them.

  “He’d been so stressed lately. He was—” Ilse stared into the dark. “Something had changed these past few weeks. Probably around the time she tried to get in touch, I realize now.”

  “It would have been a bit of a shock, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I imagine it was.”

  Ilse looked at Nathan. He could hear the gentle rush of the night wind. A small voice floated out from inside the house.

  “Mummy. I’m ready.”

  “In a minute,” Ilse called, then turned back to Nathan, more urgent now. “Listen, no one actually believed what that girl said about Cameron, did they?”

  “No. Of course not.” He opened his mouth again, then stopped.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I was just going to say—” He wavered. “Maybe Steve did, for a while.”

  “Steve Fitzgerald? At the clinic?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Not believed her, exactly,” Nathan said, trying to remember. “I mean, he took it seriously, I suppose. That’s his job though, isn’t it? As a nurse. And he’s that type as well.”

  He was put in mind of Steve’s constant nagging. His unannounced visits and constant questions, and his insistence that Nathan come
to the clinic. He was persistent to the point of intrusion.

  “Not seriously enough for it to turn into a formal issue, though,” Ilse said.

  “No. It didn’t go anything like that far.”

  Ilse exhaled slowly. “Cameron never really got on with Steve.”

  “No. Well, I guess you tend to remember things like that.”

  Sophie’s voice called out again. “Mummy!”

  Ilse ignored it this time, keeping her eyes on Nathan. “You always believed Cam?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “No doubt at all?”

  There was a strange note in the air that Nathan couldn’t quite place. Her face was hard to read in the weak porch light, and he squirmed a little as he felt a long-buried guilt resurface. Cameron might not have told his wife everything, but, looking at her now, Nathan could bet he had told her some things.

  “No,” he said firmly. “No doubt.”

  Ilse’s face altered a fraction into another expression he couldn’t interpret. Sophie’s voice rang out again.

  “For God’s sake. I’d better go.” She opened the door and paused for a moment. “Good night, Nathan.”

  “Good night.”

  She disappeared inside, and Nathan looked down at Duffy, who wagged her tail and offered no comment. Nathan sat there for a minute longer, then put Sophie’s guitar down and wandered down the veranda steps and out into the dark of the yard, Duffy at his heels. He waited for his eyes to adjust. All was quiet from the backpackers’ caravan. They must have made their peace, for now at least.

  When he could see well enough to make out Carl Bright’s grave underneath the gum tree, he walked over and stood at the edge, unable to shake the feeling that he’d stuffed up. He’d meant to reassure Ilse, but could tell he’d missed the mark. He had fallen short in defending Cameron, and not for the first time. Nathan looked down at where his dad lay.

  “What’s this bullshit I hear about some girl?” Carl had said. He’d hung up his call from the sergeant and summoned his two eldest sons.

  Nathan remembered hovering, his back against the wall, as Cameron stuttered through an explanation. After a minute, Carl had cut him short and turned to Nathan.