by Elle Croft
‘She’s allergic to shellfish,’ Dylan says, his eyes still firmly on me.
After a second, I nod.
‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘Severely allergic.’
‘OK,’ the younger officer says, scribbling in his notepad. ‘We’ll keep that in mind, and we’ll check the hospitals, just in case. Now if we could go back to the reason she was grounded …?’
‘She got into some trouble at school,’ I explain.
‘What sort of trouble?’
Dylan shifts awkwardly next to me.
‘She punched another student,’ I say quietly.
Jemima tenses in my lap, and I stroke her hair gently.
I glance up to see the officers’ reaction to this news. They exchange a knowing look.
‘Mr and Mrs Braidwood,’ the older cop says, his voice quiet and calm, ‘I know this is difficult to accept, but it’s not uncommon for teenagers to run away, especially after arguments with their family, or when they’re in some kind of trouble with the law or at school—’
‘No,’ Dylan interrupts firmly.
The policemen exchange another glance, one that says here we go again.
My husband ignores it and carries on, his tone even and steady. ‘I understand that you’ve probably seen a lot of runaways in your time, and I do know that teenagers can be difficult. I could accept that Imogen might have run away from us, but she would never, ever run away from volleyball. Not for anything. That’s why we know there’s something wrong here, OK? She’s never missed a practice before, not even when she was sick. She’d sit on the bench, shivering under a blanket, sweating and coughing and spluttering. But she didn’t turn up today. Something, or someone, is keeping her away, and we need you, please, to find her for us. If she’s being kept from volleyball, something is wrong.’
There’s a silence as the older cop considers Dylan’s plea. Then he sighs wearily, and nods. Pulls out a notepad.
‘OK. Do you have a recent photograph of Imogen?’
Chapter 11
IMOGEN
Imogen blinked her eyes open, her pale lashes glowing in the golden sunlight. For a moment she lay frozen in fear, her surroundings unfamiliar. She was looking at a grimy, textured ceiling. It wasn’t her bedroom at home; that one was smooth and bright white, not covered in strange stains, the presence of which, when she thought about it later, she struggled to understand.
But she wasn’t thinking about that just yet. Cautiously, she slid her eyes to her left, to try to piece together the puzzle of where she was and what was happening. As her eyeballs moved in their sockets, a red-hot pain seared through her skull, slicing along the nerves behind her eyes. She clamped them closed and scrunched her face until the sharp, piercing agony was reduced to a dull ache. She pressed her fingers to her head, probing to see if she was injured. There was nothing – no bruising – and when she hovered her fingertips above her face and gingerly opened her eyes again, there was no blood.
Confused, she tentatively rolled onto her side so she could assess her surroundings without having to move her eyes. As soon as she heaved her body around, the nausea hit, enveloping her. She leaned over the side of the bed and threw up, her chest aching and her head throbbing.
Imogen stared at the sticky mess on the grubby green carpet, too weak and sick to feel bad about it. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back again, urging herself to pull a coherent thought together. Her brain felt like it was at sea, sloshing back and forth, constantly moving, swaying. Drowning. She lay perfectly still and closed her eyes to concentrate.
Where was she?
She forced herself to claw her way past the panic, to wait for everything to make sense. There had to be an explanation for why she was here, in this strange, squalid room, rather than in her own bed, in her own room. There had to be a reason for her to be feeling this sick, this battered.
Gradually, like a camera coming into focus, snippets of memory sharpened in her mind: salty air, bright headlights, a pastel pink ocean, roaring anger, a white car, a blue stripe, a gravelly voice. Bubbling nerves. A bottle of clear liquid. Fire. A laugh. A strange pram. A glaring, naked light bulb. Her head spinning.
She waited for each of the memories to slot together, puzzle pieces that would fit perfectly to form a clear recollection, but they just floated, suspended and jumbled together, unwilling to fall into place. Her stomach lurched again. She rolled over and retched, but this time it was only bile, thin, bitter strands of it, that dangled from her lower lip. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Imogen squeezed her eyes closed again, willing her brain to play along, to spit out the information she wanted. But there was nothing. Blackness. She gave up after a few seconds, too tired and weak to fight the mental battle.
Exhausted and in pain, she tentatively rolled onto her side, more cautiously this time, and curled up into a ball. Closing her eyes, she let oblivion claim her once again.
Chapter 12
KAT
‘Any news?’ Dylan asks breathlessly, rushing towards me as soon as I open the door.
After the policemen left our house, armed with a recent photo of Imogen and names and contact details of her best friends, her school and her volleyball team members, I’d paced up and down the hallway, nervous tension eating away at me until I couldn’t take it any more.
‘I’m going out to look for her,’ I’d exploded, and before Dylan could argue or Jemima could insist on joining me, I was out the door, in the car and reversing off our driveway. I didn’t know where I was going or how I was going to find Imogen. All I knew was that I couldn’t just sit in the house and wait.
I’d driven aimlessly at first, the windows wound all the way down, the hot air whipping my face, the stinging of my skin somehow soothing the anxiety inside. Eventually I’d calmed down enough to think more strategically. In my daze I’d driven along the coast, past the conservation park, onto the main road until I’d found myself in Port Noarlunga, staring at the sapphire water, the reef jutting out at the end of the jetty and the seagulls lazily swooping down to snatch any fish swimming too close to the surface. I couldn’t imagine any reason why Imogen would be there, but it seemed silly not to at least try.
I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I stopped the car outside a beachside cafe and went inside.
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman with a lip ring and bright blue hair had turned around as the bell above the door jingled. She started. ‘Are you OK?’
I must have looked disastrous. I’d been crying, and dishevelled probably didn’t begin to cover my appearance.
‘I’m OK,’ I’d said to her automatically. Then, ‘Actually, my daughter is missing. Have you seen her? Here, I have a photo.’
I’d tapped my phone with trembling fingers to find a picture where Imogen’s face was clear. I didn’t have to search for long. I’d taken a photo of her yesterday – although how could it possibly have only been yesterday? – at the barbecue. It had been snapped when she wasn’t looking, which is the only way I can capture her these days. Imogen was standing behind Jemima, teasing her, probably. In the photo, the two girls are staring right at one another, a silent conversation no one else was privy to. My throat had closed over at the sight of the two of them, but I swallowed firmly, zoomed in on Imogen’s face and turned the screen of my phone towards the waitress.
She peered at the photo, her forehead scrunched in concentration. My whole body tensed in anticipation. She pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head slowly.
‘Nnnnooo, sorry,’ she said, drawing out the no and looking me in the eye. She tipped her head slightly to the side, presumably an attempt to seem apologetic, or sympathetic. It only made her look dim-witted. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Sorry I can’t help.’
I mumbled a thank you at her and hurried out of the door, disappointment wafting after me like the girl’s cheap perfume. I got back into my car and drove north, stopping in every cafe, r
estaurant and shop I saw along the way. It was the same every time. That exaggerated squinting at Imogen’s photo, the look of intense concentration, the slow, apologetic nod. The sympathetic head-tip.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake them and yell ‘I don’t need your sympathy. I need my daughter,’ but, of course, I smiled and said thank you and tried to walk out upright, the weight of despair growing heavier with each failed attempt.
When I got to the shopping mall, one of Imogen’s favourite places to hang out with her friends, I stood at the bottom of the escalators that lead up to the cinema and spun in a slow circle, my eyes greedily scanning the crowds for any sign of my daughter.
‘Kat?’
I turned my head sharply, unable to recognise the woman in front of me for a couple of seconds.
‘Kat? Are you OK?’
‘Oh. Tammy,’ I’d said eventually, the face and name of one of the mums I see regularly at the school gates coming into focus all at once. ‘Hi.’
‘Is everything OK?’
It had struck me as strange, in that moment, that she didn’t know. How could she not know? How was anyone oblivious to the earth-stopping emergency that was happening? But of course she didn’t know. Why would she?
‘I—No,’ I’d stammered. ‘No. Imogen’s missing. Have you seen her?’
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. When did she go missing?’
‘Last night,’ I said, my eyes flicking back and forth to scour the faces of the shoppers passing by.
‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think—’
My heart had stopped. The noise had disappeared.
‘Imogen!’
I took off at a run, ignoring Tammy’s startled questions. Imogen was there. It was just a glimpse, a split second, a flash of blonde hair in the crowd, but I knew it was her. I just knew. My lungs burned as I pushed through huddles of teenagers and families with prams. A few people protested, but I didn’t bother apologising. I was oblivious to anything but the blonde hair bobbing in and out of sight towards the food court. I dodged and weaved, hope bursting in my chest.
‘Imogen!’
She didn’t turn around. I almost tripped over a trolley, and stumbled for a few steps, regaining my balance just before hitting the polished floor. I looked up as I steadied myself, and scanned the people ahead of me.
‘Imogen? IMOGEN!’
I took off again, looking around desperately as I ran. People stopped to stare, the crowds parting for the deranged woman hurtling towards them. I didn’t care. As I reached the food court, I caught sight of the blonde hair again, and the relief pushed me onwards, knocking chairs to the floor with a clatter as the distance between us closed in.
I was a few metres away, then a metre, and then she was within my grasp and I grabbed the top of her arm with a cry of relief.
‘Whoa, watch it!’ The girl tore her arm from my grip, and as soon as she began to turn around, I knew it wasn’t Imogen. Of course it wasn’t. She looked nothing like her. She was too short, too tanned, too curvy to be Imogen. How could I have mistaken a random girl for my daughter? The only thing they had in common was their light blonde hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ I’d muttered, all of the energy drained from my body in an instant.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? Crazy bitch,’ the girl said, and her friends burst into high-pitched cackles.
I wanted to collapse, right there on the food court floor, to just give in to the disappointment and fear and desperation. But I told myself to keep walking, to keep moving, to keep looking. I wandered the mall for a while longer, my heart skipping at every blonde head, then sinking again as I looked, properly, and saw a stranger each time. In the end, dehydrated and defeated, there was nowhere to go but back home.
Now, faced with Dylan’s hopeful tone, the pleading look in his eyes, I want to run away again, to not have to let him down.
I shake my head. ‘No. I searched all over. I don’t know where she could be.’
‘Where did you look?’
I explain to him my route down south, up to the mall and back home. He chews his bottom lip.
‘I’m going to keep looking,’ Dylan says, and I nod. I understand the compulsion to move, to act. And the more ground we cover, the more people we speak to, the more likely we’ll find her.
Part of me doesn’t want to ask, but I need reassurance, so I whisper the words I’ve been thinking. ‘Do you think we should have told them …?’ I don’t finish. I don’t need to.
Dylan stops and turns, looking at me intently. He runs his hand through his tawny hair.
‘No,’ he says, looking down. ‘It wouldn’t help us find her. It doesn’t have anything to do with this.’
I press my lips together and sigh. He’s right. Of course he is. But I can’t seem to stop the pinpricks of doubt that are needling at my conscience.
Dylan kisses me on the top of my head, but, I notice, he doesn’t meet my eyes.
‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘We did the right thing.’
I nod, unconvinced, as he jangles his keys in his hand and walks away.
‘Wait!’ I cry out, and he stops. ‘Jemima?’
‘India’s mum came and picked her up to go to that party,’ he says. ‘I thought it would be good for her to be away from all of this for a while. She’ll get dropped off again a bit later.’
‘OK,’ I say as he turns again. ‘Call me with any news.’
The sound of the front door closing echoes down the hall, and then I’m alone in resounding silence. Dylan is so confident that we’ve made the right decision, that there’s no way the truth we’re hiding could be relevant to Imogen’s disappearance. Logic tells me he’s right. I’m just being paranoid; there’s nothing to suggest that the two things are linked.
So why do I feel like the past is lurking behind me, ready to pounce?
Chapter 13
KAT
I’m rummaging through Imogen’s closet, trying to work out whether any clothes are missing, when a small, quiet voice breaks the silence.
‘Mum?’
My heart stops for a second. I whirl around, expectation exploding behind my ribs.
It’s Jemima. My stomach twists in disappointment, and then again with guilt for being disappointed. But it’s only momentary; relief floods over me as I realise that my youngest child, at least, is safe and accounted for. It’s exactly why I made her stay home from school today.
‘Jemima,’ I say, stepping across the room to pull her to me. I hold her tightly, and tears gather behind my eyes again. I blink them away, pressing my emotions into a hidden part of me that I’ll deal with later. When Imogen is home.
In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve become a pro at crushing my feelings, a skill borne out of necessity and practicality. Dylan came back yesterday after visiting the homes of each of Imogen’s best friends, no closer to knowing where she is than I was after my erratic drive around Adelaide’s suburbs, and we both just stood in the hallway, facing one another, paralysed by our helplessness.
We’d waited all evening, trying not to stare at the front door, at our phones, as Linda – who had cancelled her plans to wait with us – cooked us food we didn’t touch. The hands on the clock in the hallway kept sliding onward, forward, signalling the unthinkable. Midnight came and went and still we waited and watched, unsure what to do or think or feel. Imogen wasn’t home. She was out there, somewhere, and we didn’t know where or with whom or how to reach her. We tried to remind each other that the police were doing their job, that they were out there looking. And when the sun finally crept up over the horizon, Dylan reached for his keys and drove away to continue the search. He’s not home yet. I’ve been messaging him constantly for updates, but so far his search has been as fruitless as mine was yesterday. While I wait – for news, for Imogen to walk through the front door, for something – I’ve been trying to keep busy, keep doing, keep searching, but I feel helpless, and it’s excruciating.<
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It’s been tempting to crumble, to give in and collapse into my panic and fear, but I won’t find Imogen if I’m immobilised by my feelings. I have to stay composed until we find her. Then I can acknowledge the terror and guilt and anger. Then I can mull over the what-ifs that got us here. Now’s not the time.
‘Mum, did Imogen run away?’ Jemima mutters into my torso.
I kiss the top of my daughter’s head and stroke her hair. Tilting her head so her eyes meet mine, I sigh. She’s barely spoken, barely reacted, since she got home from the party yesterday, when we told her that her sister still wasn’t home.
‘We don’t know yet. Her window was open, so it looks likely. But the important thing is that there are lots of people looking for her, and we’ll find her very soon, I’m sure of it. Jemima, are you sure she didn’t say anything to you? Did she ask you to keep a secret for her, because it’s OK if you tell us now. It could help.’
I hold her out at arm’s length, and Jemima shakes her head, looking down at her feet. I pull her into another hug, feeling the tension in her small frame. I wish I could absorb it all, take on everything that she’s going through, make her anxieties my own.
‘Do you want to help me look through Immy’s room?’ I ask. ‘The police think that if she did run away, then she might have taken some clothes with her, so we need to see if anything is missing. Then we might know more about where she’s gone, and for how long. Does that make sense?’
Jemima nods.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘But I don’t think she ran away. She knows that she belongs here.’
Her innocence makes my heart contract, as though squeezed by an invisible hand. I don’t know how to tell Jemima that her sister’s phone – her lifeblood – isn’t in her room. Or that the flowers under her window were crushed as she slipped out in the night.
The police agree that she left voluntarily. But what happened next – where she went, and who she’s with – that’s what we can’t figure out. None of her friends have seen her, at least none that we know of. Does she have secret friendships? A boyfriend we’ve never heard about? The thought sends a trickle of dread down my spine.