Lost Girl Diary

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 47- A Glimmer

  Anne found she was unable to just let it go as the days and weeks passed, to acknowledge the search was really over. It felt like a final disloyalty to Susan to admit defeat. So the story kept on going round and round in her mind always searching for what else she could do; whatever new lead to there was to pursue.

  Her life had been consumed by the search. Was it really only a year since she had started? She remembered so clearly that fateful day when Susan had begun telling her story, that futile attempt to cast off her past and return to her childhood Emily identity. It had lasted less than a week until the day when the evil spirit, which seemed to have taken residence in her soul, overwhelmed her.

  At least that was the way it now felt after all this time as she looked back. She was still no wiser as to whether Susan was alive or dead. No glimmer of a new identity or an existence after that night had emerged, but she refused to let her mind concede there was no hope.

  She had to admit it did look bad, the sandals which she had lent to her friend and the crocodile totem found next to the billabong must mean Susan had come back to this place of the crocodiles before vanishing.

  While nothing further had been found it was hard to believe that, after coming there, she had gone elsewhere rather than into the water.

  Since that day, when Alan had rung her to tell her of the discovery, she could not bear to allow herself to follow those thoughts to where they led, a body torn apart and consumed. But dreaming of other possibilities was futile. So her mind spun in an endless loop.

  Both she and David carried a burden of remorse for choosing to go out to dinner that night, rather than calling to see Susan and ensure she had their support.

  It was at least as bad for Vic who she could see had become instantly and totally captivated by this vanished girl. Vic blamed himself even more for agreeing to have his operation so soon, rather than staying with her and delaying it until after the babies were born. But, if it had happened the way everyone thought, there were no babies anymore either, not one but three lives lost. It was too awful to contemplate what it meant.

  But yet Anne, despite knowing she had done all she could, was not able to put it from her mind, it was always there, an unresolved grief.

  The good thing was it had not poisoned her relationship with David; that was stronger than ever though they had mutually agree to push the wedding back and defer marriage plans until next Christmas to allow Anne to pursue all the leads that she could uncover unhindered. Once they got married they planned no delay in beginning their own family and her free time would vanish. So she knew she must bring this search to something approaching a conclusion before then.

  Now it was June the year after, fifteen months from when Susan had vanished and a year since the fundraiser which had launched the public campaign, not just for Susan but for all the many other people who had vanished in Australia without a trace.

  Others were using funds to search for other missing people; she had concentrated her search only on Susan, the other girls whose passports were found and the girl, J, that Mark had spoken of in his diary.

  Last month, when the TV channel screened the documentary which accompanied her book, the response was huge. The million dollars of additional donations from that night was now funding the building of memorials and following of leads for other missing people.

  Next month would be the final event in which she would take a part, a memorial service in Darwin. They would place the six plaques with the girls’ names at the end of East Point where the harbour met the sea, a place which looked out to the west where the sun set over an ocean called the Timor Sea. Anne’s mind associated the setting sun with the passing to new life and eternal hope.

  This day, as all those thoughts of the search ran round and round in her mind, she was sitting in the sunny living room of the flat she shared in Glebe with David. It was actually his place, but now her travels around the world were finished she had moved in with him, set up with a computer and all the other mod cons for her writing.

  It had a glorious view out onto Sydney harbour, with ANZAC bridge dominating the skyline. In the early morning and evening she would watch the dragon boat crews practice their racing skills. Other times she would glimpse large ships further out, sometimes the luxury cruising boats with millionaire owners who moored immediately across the bay from her.

  She loved this view, especially on winter sunny mornings when the sun streamed in and she sat her in her track pants and slippers having a leisurely breakfast after David had gone off to his office in Camperdown to work. She thought of him and his tousled blond hair with affection as she had last glimpsed him leaving this morning.

  The phone rang, startling her out of her reverie. It was someone from the TV channel, one of the administrative people who had been dealing with the donations for the appeal. She could not recall this lady’s face but her name sounded familiar.

  The phone voice asked if it was Anne and, when Anne confirmed it was, the voice said, “We have this slightly unusual letter addressed to our appeal and with your name and then; ‘Private and Confidential’ written at the top. I have not opened it, it seemed like I should check with you first.

  “Perhaps it’s another parent asking for help, and they did not want to disclose what has happened more widely, but are asking for you to read their request privately before you do anything further. I wondered, should I send it on to you? Or alternatively, if you are coming past our office in the next day or two, you could pick it up.”

  Anne felt intrigued and curious. There had been lots of requests for help early on, mainly after the first appeal. They had worked with the police in deciding what to do with these, helping where they could. But generally these came in to the well advertised help line and address, not via the appeal which was used as a place of public donations.

  Anne felt she needed to read the contents of this envelope first, just by herself, to honour the sender’s wishes. As David’s flat was at the bottom of Glebe looking out to Blackwattle Bay it was only a fifteen minute walk to Pyrmont, the location of the TV channel office, from where the call came.

  Anne had not been out today; it would be good to stretch her legs. She replied. “It is only a short walk from here to your office. So, if it is OK, I will pop round in about half an hour to collect it.”

  “Sure,” the person on the other end of the phone replied.

  She had a quick shower and changed out of her tracksuit into a smart business suit, then walked out in the crisp winter morning air. It was a glorious Sydney day, the sun low to the north east and shining in her face, warming her as she walked. She loved this walk around the bottom of the harbour, passing people of all shapes and ages, the fit brigade, cyclists in fluoro gear on the way to a late work start, people walking dogs, elderly people taking in the morning sun and fresh air. She passed the coffee shop on the point and resisted the temptation for coffee and cake; she could feel weight was creeping on with the last month of at home inactivity and good eating and drinking. Perhaps she would indulge on the walk home.

  Soon she was at the TV office reception. They all knew here from last month’s program and greeted her like a long lost friend. The admin person came out to the front desk and passed Anne the letter. Anne thanked her then looked at it curiously.

  It was a small plain envelope with a single postage stamp postmarked ‘Adelaide’ in one corner. At the top was her name – then Private and Confidential underlined, followed by the appeal address from the TV program. It had been meticulously transcribed in neat handwriting using capitals. There was no return address and no other distinguishing features on the outside.

  Anne thanked them and put the letter in her jacket pocket, wanting to respect the sender’s wishes to open it in private. She waved her goodbyes and walked back into the street.

  It was only a few minutes’ walk back to the cafe where the coffee and cake had tempted. She decided to return before openin
g and reading this missive. She found an outside table in a sheltered nook. Once her coffee and a lemon tart were served, she savoured a lingering sip and bite before retrieving the envelope.

  She did not know why, but she sensed this was a thing of importance. She opened it with a nail file from her bag, carefully lifting the flap with a minimum of tearing. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. There was writing on the inside of the folded sheet. She took the sheet, opened it and spread it on the table in front of her. In the same writing she read,

  Dear Anne,

  You do not know me though you have told part of my story. I saw it on TV a few days ago.

  I found it very hard to watch, most hard when my parents appealed to know where I am.

  I did not deliberately set out to hurt them.

  I ask you let them know I am alive to ease their pain.

  Perhaps one day I will be able to bring myself to contact them directly.

  In the meantime I ask you do not disclose this information to others.

  I do not want police or media searching for me even though I do not think they will find me.

  There is one other thing I want to say.

  It is that the Mark I knew was a good person. He was kind and never sought to hurt me.

  I wish I could say more but I cannot.

  Thank you.

  Cathy

  Beside the name Cathy was a funny little squiggle that did not mean anything to Anne.

  Anne felt like a bomb had exploded in her hand. It could be a hoax but it did not feel like it. She wondered if it was true, that when all the other searching failed the TV program had reached one soul who now wanted to lay her ghost to rest.

  She did not know what to do. They had all promised to share any information that came their way, that is between the group of close knit friends and family that had led the search. But this girl had expressly asked that the only communication be directly with her own parents and, even then, she could not release to them what she thought was the key, the story of the child. She supposed she would talk to David and together they would decide what to do.

  She picked up her mobile phone and dialled his number. He answered on the first ring.

  She said, “Could you come home for a bit. There is something really important I must show you.

  As she walked to the front of the block of flats his car was turning into the driveway. She sat in the passenger’s seat as he stopped alongside her.

  Wordlessly she passed him the envelope.

  He read it his face furrowing. “Wow,” was all he said for a minute. Then he said, “This is the best news in a year. Let’s go inside and ring her parents together. I know it is the middle of the night over there but, if it was me, I would want to know without losing a minute.”

  So they found their number in Anne’s contact list. There was the inevitable delay as the links connected through the different exchanges. Then they could hear it ringing. It rang and rang. Finally a groggy Scottish male voice came down the line.

  David asked, “Is that Mr Alastair Rodgers?”

  There was an affirmative grunt.

  David introduced himself and Anne. They had both met Mr Rodgers several times before.

  “Oh, aye,” came the reply; then, “What news?”

  David handed the phone to Anne. As she picked it up she heard a female voice, a bit distant, come down the line. “Who is it Alastair?”

  “Those people from Australia, the ones looking for Cathy, ye know who did that TV program.”

  “Oh my God, Alastair, what are they saying?”

  Before he could reply Anne spoke down the line, “Mr and Mrs Rodgers, we think we have got a letter from Cathy, it says it is from her.”

  There was a sense of stunned silence coming down the line, a sense of people too overcome by emotion to find words. Anne could feel tears in her eyes. She started to speak again, finding her voice was choked too.

  She passed the letter to David saying “Could you read it to them?”

  David took the letter and the phone and said to the continued silence. “Are you there Mr and Mrs Rodgers? Could I read the letter out to you? It is only a few lines long and we are not sure if it is real, but we knew you would want to know straight away.

  Two voices came down the phone line, almost together; a female, “Please do,” and a male, “Och Aye, Please Yes, for God’s sake.”

  So David read as slowly and clearly as he could. A couple times his voice had a slight tremor. Then he said, “At the end, just near where she signs her name Cathy, she had put a funny little squiggle, half like a face but not quite.

  They heard, down the line, the female voice, “God be praised, it really is our girl.” The male voice was silent but they could hear what sounded like a man sobbing.

  After a minute it calmed and he came on the line again. He said, “With the squiggle you describe we are almost sure it really is our girl. It was a thing she and her sister had for communicating together when they were little girls. It is like she put it there to tell us it is really her. We are both a bit overwhelmed with emotion right now but would it be possible to send us a copy as quickly as you can. I have an email in my home office so perhaps you could scan it and send it through.

  It was done in a minute while they stayed on the phone. Another minute later the voice came back again. “Yes we have the letter now. It is her handwriting and her signature. That squiggle is something that could have only come from her; so praise be to God, our prayers are answered and we know our girl is still alive.”

  There was not much more to say. The Rodgers’ said they would ring back next day once they had time to digest the news and decide what to do. They were already booked to come to Australia for the memorial ceremony in Darwin next month. Perhaps they could bring that forward and come for a couple extra weeks to try and find their Cathy.

  It was agreed they would talk again the next morning Scottish time.