The Way Back

by Kylie Ladd

  Charlie didn’t even look at him. ‘No,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Some children do prefer it that way,’ Dr Papoutsis reassured them. ‘You know what it’s like when you’re a teenager—you don’t want your parents walking in when you’re getting changed.’ She smiled apologetically and closed the door behind her.

  Yes, Rachael thought, but it wasn’t as if Charlie was simply getting dressed for a party or for school. She was about to be examined—and she’d been abducted, for God’s sake. They’d barely got her back.

  ‘Do you want some more tea?’ Terry asked. ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘No,’ Rachael said. Matt took her hand.

  Terry turned to the other policeman. ‘Jake, get an order out—someone to check all the hospitals in the vicinity of the fire. Burns units, EDs; see if anyone’s come in with injuries consistent with a fire, smoke inhalation, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Roger,’ Jake said, and left the room. Rachael slumped in her seat.

  ‘What is she doing to her?’ she asked. ‘The doctor. That thing she said about being uncomfortable.’

  Terry shifted uneasily. ‘An internal examination, I’m guessing. I saw that she’d put out a rape kit.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Rachael spun around to face Matt. ‘Was Charlie raped? You didn’t say she was raped. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  Matt started to answer, but Terry interrupted. ‘Rachael, we don’t know that she has been.’ He held up his hands to placate her. ‘She didn’t say anything at pony club, or in the car, but she was kidnapped and held by a man she says tried to touch her. We have to check. It’s protocol. You’d expect us to, anyway, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Rachael, defeated. It was all too much. What had happened to Charlie out there in the bush? And why didn’t she want her mother with her now, after they’d been apart for so long?

  The door from the hallway opened quietly and Dan slipped in, clutching a can of soft drink and two packets of chips. She hadn’t noticed him leave.

  ‘I got you some food, Mum,’ he said, handing them to her. ‘You must be starving. You barely ate anything before the funeral.’

  The funeral, Rachael thought. It seemed light years away now. How strange to have lost her mother and found her daughter on the same day.

  It seemed light years, too, until the door of the adjoining examination room finally slid back and Dr Papoutsis reappeared, alone.

  ‘Charlie’s just having a wash,’ she explained. ‘I imagine she’ll want a long bath when you’re home, but I got one of the nurses to bring her a basin of warm water so she can at least get the blood off her before you leave. They’re rustling up something for her to wear, too. We have to keep her clothes, in case they’re used for evidence.’

  ‘Is she OK?’ Matt asked at the same time as Rachael blurted ‘Was she raped?’

  ‘She denies it,’ Dr Papoutsis said, addressing Rachael. ‘There’s some suggestion of trauma, but then she’s pretty scraped and bruised all round. I wasn’t able to retrieve any … evidence.’ She chose her words carefully, then replied to Matt. ‘And yes, she is OK, as far as not needing any immediate treatment. I thought she might have a broken jaw and there are some teeth loose or cracked—she says she was hit—but it’s not too bad. The X-ray showed a hairline fracture, nondisplaced, which means we can leave it to fix itself as long as she’s careful about not chewing on that side and eating mainly soft foods. Her throat and nostrils are very inflamed, no doubt due to the smoke, and she’s probably irritated her lungs as well, but again, that will come good with rest.’ She looked down, checking her notes. ‘The blood was from a nosebleed, again, I believe, from a recent blow. It looks worse than it is, though her face is going to be swollen tomorrow. She’s malnourished, though not dangerously so, and the muscles in her legs are atrophied, which means she didn’t get much exercise.’

  ‘But she’ll be alright?’ Dan asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  ‘She will,’ Dr Papoutsis said, smiling at him as she closed Charlie’s folder. ‘She won’t be feeling great for a while, but there’s no permanent damage.’ Her expression sobered. ‘Physically, anyway. Charlie’s been through a lot, and everyone responds to and recovers from that differently. We’ll put you in touch with a psychologist, of course, and any other help you need, but the most important thing you can do right now is to get her settled back into her real life as quickly as possible. Normally, I’d keep her in here for a night or two for observation, but not in this case.’

  Terry stood up. ‘I’ll bring the car round. Are we OK to use the service entrance?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dr Papoutsis said. ‘Good idea. I’ll walk you all out and make sure there aren’t any problems.’

  ‘Service entrance?’ Matt asked.

  ‘In case there’s any media waiting,’ Dr Papoutsis replied. ‘I’m not sure if they’re onto it yet, but they will be, believe me.’

  If there were media waiting as they left the hospital, Rachael didn’t see them. She sat in the back seat of Terry’s police car with Matt, Charlie tucked between them, Dan in the front. The drive passed mainly in silence, the sleeping streets slipping past outside her window. She had so much to say to Charlie, so much to ask her, but for now words were superfluous. All she wanted to do was hold her daughter, feel her warm breath against her skin, and Charlie in return seemed equally content to be held. None of them had had any dinner so Terry suggested the drive-through at McDonald’s. It was late, there wasn’t much else open, and before she knew it Dan was distributing thickshakes and fries and Charlie was declaring them the best she had ever tasted. It was a surreal moment in a surreal day; it was like Christmas morning, everything heightened and shiny. Rachel caught her daughter’s profile in the orange haze of a streetlamp as they turned into their street and felt her breath catch in her throat. I was ready to bury her, she thought. The guilt immobilised her for a moment, but then they pulled into the driveway and she pushed it away.

  Up the front stairs. The porch light was out, it was broken, but it hadn’t mattered after all. Key in the lock, Terry clapping Matt on the back and shaking his hand, taking his leave; Rachael ignoring him in her hurry to get Charlie inside; inside, through the door, and shut it behind them. Charlie looking around, spellbound, taking it all in again, running into her room to check that Crush was there, then running back out, clutching him, embracing Dan, embracing them all. A shower for her while Rachael pottered in the kitchen in a daze of happiness and Dan took the phone into his room to call Hannah. Charlie emerging from the bathroom, hair dripping but clean, clad in her old blue nightie, a smile on her face. I haven’t brushed my teeth in three months she told them. I can’t believe how good it feels. Then yawning and saying she needed to go to sleep, but once in bed calling Rachael back and asking if she could sleep with her. Settling Charlie into her and Matt’s bed and crawling in beside her; Charlie snuggling up close and smelling like herself again. It wasn’t a dream. Rachael closed her eyes and allowed herself to exhale fully for the first time since March. Charlie was back. They were all under the same roof again. It was all going to be OK.

  Cotton. Cotton sheets. Could there be anything more wonderful? Charlie had lain there, awake, for at least fifteen minutes and the thrill of it still hadn’t worn off. She wriggled one bare leg just to experience the sensation anew—the fabric sliding smoothly over her skin, wrapping her in a warm cocoon, nothing itching or poking into her. And the smell! She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. It was the exact scent of home: her mother’s perfume, the laundry detergent she always used, sunshine and fresh air. She could picture her father pegging the pillowcase to the line: shaking it out first to get rid of the creases, aligning the corners in his particular way, chatting to the chooks who had wandered over in the hope he had food. The chooks. Would they remember her? She pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed.

  ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ her dad said as she wandered into the kitchen. ‘We were wondering when
you were going to get up.’ He put down his cup of coffee and stood up from the table, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged back, face squashed against his jumper, and breathed that in too. So much that she’d missed; so much to catch up on.

  ‘Sorry I took your spot,’ she said eventually.

  ‘I’m willing to forgive you, under the circumstances. Your bed’s actually pretty comfy.’ He released her and peered down into her eyes. ‘How’d you sleep?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Actually, not that good, at first. I kept falling asleep, then waking up again, thinking I was still back there.’

  ‘I know.’ Her father pulled her to him again. ‘Your mum told me. She’s on the phone, with Terry.’

  ‘Oh. She sort of woke me when she got up. I thought she might be going to work.’

  Her father’s sigh ruffled her hair. ‘Oh, sweetheart, she hasn’t been to work for months. Not since you went missing.’

  Charlie thought about that, the wool of the jumper tickling her nose. Of course she wouldn’t have gone to work. Her parents loved her, she knew that; they must have suffered dreadfully. It was just that whenever she lay on the straw in the stable thinking of them she had imagined them living their normal lives—working and going to the supermarket and nagging Dan to do his homework, her dad cooking dinner, her mum arriving home always a little bit breathless, always a little bit later than she’d promised. To have to recalibrate that, to try to imagine the fear and grief that they’d lived through, was simply too hard. It would almost be better if her mother had gone to work, somehow. She couldn’t bear having caused them that much pain.

  ‘Charlie!’

  Her mother flew from the study, practically wrestling her from her father’s arms.

  ‘I thought I heard your voice. My precious girl.’ Her body heaved, shook; she started to cry. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing back the tears. ‘I still can’t quite believe it. I have to keep pinching myself, that you’re here, back, standing in the kitchen.’ She manoeuvred Charlie to the table and pulled a chair out. ‘Sit down. You must be starving. What do you want for breakfast?’ A glance at the clock above the oven. ‘Lunch, I mean. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up. I hope you don’t mind. You just took so long to really go to sleep properly, and I knew you’d need to rest. There’s hardly anything of you! But I rang Britta, and told her the news and she’s coming over, and Terry’s coming over too, to do an interview, so I have to get you fed before that and …’ Her mother was prattling, Charlie realised, her mother, who made such a virtue of calm and control and order, was running off at the mouth, shooting fevered looks at Charlie as she hauled stuff out of the fridge. And there was nothing of her, either, her collarbones pushing through her skin like knives, the planes of her face sharper and harder.

  ‘Mum, relax,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m not that hungry. What I really want is to see the chickens.’

  They’d remembered her, she was sure of it. Admittedly, she’d gone out into the garden clutching food—grated cheese, their favourite—but as soon as she’d called, all three had come running. It had made her laugh: Kiev, fat and fluffy, her red comb bouncing; Tikka and Parma jostling each other in their effort to keep up, almost skidding to a stop at her feet. They’d eaten out of her hand and Tikka had let her pick her up. Then Britta had arrived and Charlie had gone to hug her without releasing the hen, who had flapped and squawked and acted so affronted that she reduced everyone to giggles, even Dan, who came out to see what all the noise was.

  Charlie scowled. She wished she was back there now instead of stuck in the study talking to the police. Ten minutes, that was all she’d had with Britta before Terry arrived. She hadn’t even had a chance to ask her about school, she hadn’t had a chance to do anything, really, check Instagram or have a proper shower, a really long one, or find her favourite jeans to wear, rather than the tracksuit her mum had pushed at her as the doorbell rang. A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed it down angrily. She was free, wasn’t she? She should be happy.

  ‘So, Charlie, this man who took you—had you ever seen him before? Was he someone you knew?’

  Charlie shook her head.

  ‘Was there anyone else there? Did you ever hear any other voices?’

  Another shake. ‘He had a dog, though. It was called Blue.’

  Terry wrote that down. ‘And this man—did he ever tell you his name?’

  ‘Col,’ she muttered. She hated even saying it.

  Terry’s eyebrows went up. This was new. ‘Just Col? No surname? How old was he?’

  ‘Just Col. And I don’t know. I’m not good at ages.’

  Terry sucked on his pen, then asked ‘Older than your dad? About the same age?’

  Charlie glanced across at her father, but just felt confused. ‘I don’t know, I told you. He wasn’t like Dad. He was different.’

  ‘Different? In what way?’

  Charlie signed. ‘Try hard, Charlie,’ her mum urged her, putting an arm around her.

  ‘He spoke funny. Slowly, as if he had to think really hard to get the words together. And some days he was nice and others he was really grumpy, like he was cross at me for being there, even though that was his idea, not mine.’ She thought for a second, gazing out the window. Britta hadn’t asked any of this. Britta had just hugged her and told her how happy she was to see her. ‘And he smelled.’

  ‘Smelled?’

  ‘Dirty. Cigarettes. He smoked a lot. When he took me inside, the whole house reeked of them.’

  Terry’s hand paused above his notebook. ‘So he didn’t keep you in the stable all the time?’

  ‘Nah. He let me out sometimes, or took me in the house for a shower.’

  ‘Wasn’t he scared you were going to run away?’

  ‘I couldn’t. He tied a rope around me. A few times he tied me to a tree.’ Charlie felt her mother flinch.

  ‘Did that hurt?’

  ‘A little bit. When the rope was too tight and it rubbed against my skin.’

  ‘Did he deliberately hurt you, Charlie, at any time? Did he hit you, or did he,’ Terry cleared his throat uncomfortably, ‘touch you somewhere you didn’t want to be touched?’

  Charlie raised her chin. ‘He kept stroking my hair, like I was a dog or a cat. I didn’t want him to do that.’ It was the truth. She knew what Terry was asking her, but her answer had still been the truth. ‘And he hit me before I escaped. That was how I hurt my nose and my jaw.’ Like, duh, she wanted to add, but refrained. This Terry was an idiot. When she had woken up she had felt so happy, so delighted to be home, but his stupid questions were ruining it. She didn’t want to think about the stable, or Col, or if he had hurt her. He had, and Terry should be out looking for him, not sitting in their house clicking his pen and slurping his coffee. She wished he would go but he leant forward and started in again.

  ‘This Col—did he ever, uh, make you do anything you didn’t want to do?’

  ‘I didn’t want to do any of it!’ Charlie exploded. ‘I didn’t want to be locked up, I didn’t want to nearly freeze to death, I didn’t want to just eat chips and cornflakes and never see the sun and have to sleep on the ground in a disgusting old stable! I got my period and he didn’t even care, he just let me bleed all over myself, and made me shit in a bucket. Sometimes he didn’t even let me have that.’ She was panting by the time she finished, the room spinning. Her mother made a strangled noise and stood up with her hand over her mouth, then hurried out of the room. Charlie looked across at her dad. Had she gone too far? She wasn’t meant to say words like shit, but she’d had enough, she really had. Her head throbbed. So did her mouth. She just wanted to go back outside, with the chickens, and let the sky seep into her, fill all her empty spaces.

  Mercifully, her father got it. He laid a hand gently on her leg, the way she stroked Tic Tac when he was spooked or toey, and turned to Terry.

  ‘I know it’s protocol, I know it has to be done, but d’you think we can leave it for now? She’s had en
ough.’ He ran his free hand back through his hair, looking older than he had when they’d first sat down. ‘I have too, to be honest.’

  Terry closed his notebook. ‘Yeah. Sure. You know we have to get her down to the station at some point, though, to make a formal statement with cameras and things? I just thought this would give us a start on that, so we know the questions to ask her.’

  Yoo hoo, Charlie wanted to call out. I’m still here.

  ‘And help us find the perpetrator, of course,’ Terry continued. ‘The boys are sure they’ve located the house, but there was no one there, dead or alive. We’ll have to take Charlie out to it too, for identification purposes, though from what I understand what they think was the stable is burned to the ground.’

  ‘Good,’ Charlie said, and they both turned to look at her.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ Terry echoed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I really am. I know this is the last thing you feel like doing right now. But you’ve been great, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Charlie said. She didn’t dislike him as much with his face bare and creased. He looked a bit like Crush.

  ‘Thank you,’ Terry said and stood up. ‘Just one more thing—we’ll do a press conference tomorrow. We have to. We managed to keep it quiet last night, mainly because it was late before we got Charlie to the hospital, and the footy was on, everyone was preoccupied with that, but we can’t keep it quiet indefinitely. It’s a miracle that the news hasn’t leaked yet.’

  ‘Do we have to be there, at the press conference?’ her father asked.

  ‘Only if you want to. No pressure. It won’t go for long, just that Charlie’s back, she’s safe’—he flashed a grin at her, teeth surprisingly white and even—‘and maybe an update on the manhunt, if we’re still looking. The public will want to help us with that. They took such an interest in the case. They’re going to be so happy you’re alive.’ Another smile, just for her.

  ‘Really?’ she said. She hadn’t thought about that, about being famous, sort of. A little thrill ran through her. ‘Was I in the papers?’