by Kylie Ladd
Her dad laughed as he ushered Terry back up the hallway to the front door. ‘Just once or twice. And the Women’s Weekly and Who magazine, and—’ As he opened the door, a wave of sound rumbled towards them, clicks and whirrs and shouts, her name called over and over. There were so many people on the lawn that for a second Charlie thought there was a picnic going on out there, but then her father slammed the door and leaned all his weight against it, sliding the deadbolt home. ‘Christ,’ he muttered, ‘not again.’
‘Terry!’
CIB Cayden was onto him the minute that Terry poked his nose through the door. He’d hoped to slip into the media room unobtrusively, but here was Cayden striding towards him, red face shining, eyes aglow. Terry held out his hand but Cayden ignored it, sweeping him into a bear hug.
‘Terry!’ he repeated, crushing him into his chest. Terry smelled cigarette smoke and breath mints and struggled to pull away. ‘Fuck, well done, mate. Well done!’
Terry freed himself and straightened his glasses. ‘Nothing to do with me. She managed to escape and was found by a friend of the family. A pony club girl, actually.’
‘It was still your catch, mate, still on your watch.’ Cayden belatedly took his hand, pumping it up and down. He was so excited that Terry felt ashamed of his own emotional reticence.
A young policewoman sidled up to them, hair in a bun, clipboard, the very model of efficiency. ‘Are you ready to start? The cameras are waiting.’
‘Talk later, mate,’ Cayden said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe we can get a beer?’
‘Sure,’ Terry said, meaning the opposite. It wasn’t yet ten in the morning and he had to drive back out to Kinglake after this, but there was no point telling Cayden that. He’d just slip away as soon as it finished. He’d done it before.
Terry took a seat behind one of the microphones, the same one he’d sat in all those weeks ago in March. This was brilliant, he told himself. This was the culmination of everything he’d so desperately wished for back then. So why did he feel so hollow? Was it because he hadn’t found her himself, as Cayden had assumed? But that didn’t matter, surely. Charlie was home, was safe, and that was the absolute bottom line. He was glad about that, he was delighted. Everyone was. When he’d finally got home from work the night before, Shell had met him at the door clutching a bottle of champagne; Katy had turned up only minutes later to help them drink it. She’d just seen it on the news, she said. That girl was found! The one you’ve been looking for. He should have called her, but then he must have been busy and it didn’t matter, anyway, she was just so pleased for him, so pleased and proud. He’d had to correct her then in the same way he’d set Cayden straight. Terry shifted in his seat as the journalists crowded forward, as the red lights blinked on atop the phalanx of cameras pointed at him and Cayden and Rhett. Was that what was bothering him, that he had to keep telling people that, actually, he hadn’t recovered Charlie, he’d had nothing to do with it? It wasn’t the glory of being her rescuer he coveted. Rather, it was the nagging suspicion that he should have found her, that he’d had his chances. She’d been in his own bloody backyard all that time—if not quite under his nose, then at least in the general vicinity. And then there was that tip-off that that girl had given him, Hannah, the one who had found her. He’d never acted on it. He’d meant to, sort of, but a scruffy-looking man wandering through the national park? Maybe that was the guy his colleagues were out there searching for now. Maybe that was this Col fellow, who Charlie had called different, and who Terry hadn’t bothered following up on. He groaned.
‘You right?’ Rhett whispered. Terry pulled himself together, sitting up in his seat and staring straight ahead. Luckily everyone else still had their eyes fixed on Cayden, who was reading the official press release. Eyes. Her eyes. That was it, Terry realised, that was why he was feeling so flat. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of them last night; they had haunted him as he lay in bed, trying to sleep, belly full of champagne. Charlie’s eyes, the expression on her face after her father had opened and quickly closed the front door and she’d glimpsed the throng outside, slavering for her. Confusion at first, then fear. She was going to be devoured, Terry could see that now. They’d eat her all up and spit out the bones. There’d be interviews, exclusives, photoshoots, a telemovie; there’d be offers of a book deal, a TV role. Charlie was young and pretty and a survivor. How could they resist her? They’d never let her go. If she thought everything was just going to fall back into place, the way it was before she was taken, she was badly mistaken. She had no idea what was coming for her.
Cayden coughed and straightened his papers. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘any questions?’
The roar that arose was like a tsunami.
Charlie opened her eyes and took a moment to work out where she was. Sunlight on pale blue walls, the scent of coffee—she was in her parents’ bed again, safe, and this time with her mother still there next to her, snoring softly in her sleep. The sound made her giggle. She’d never thought of her mother as a snorer, but then she’d never slept beside her before. Her parents had been strict about that: everybody in their own beds. Oh, sometimes she’d climb in with them for a cuddle in the morning, particularly when she was younger, or her mum might relent and let her watch TV in there if the boys were out, but she was never allowed to stay the whole night. Parents need some space to themselves, she’d told Charlie when Charlie had questioned it once. They’d tried co-sleeping with Dan when they’d first brought him home from hospital, her father had added. It was all the rage, apparently, what you were supposed to do with newborns, but they hadn’t even lasted one night. Her mum had laughed and pulled a face. Oh, it was awful—too hot, too many limbs, I kept thinking I was going to roll over and squash him. From then on that was just the way it had been in their family. If Charlie was sick or had had a bad dream, one of her parents would come to her, would stay there, perched on the edge of her bed, stroking her head all night if necessary, but she was never invited in with them.
Not until the night before last, that was, the first night she was home again. She tried to sleep in her own bed, but she’d only lasted five minutes. She wanted to be with her mother. That was normal, wasn’t it, after being gone for so long? And then last night she’d had every intention of going to her own room, but that scene on the lawn had freaked her out. Throughout the evening she’d kept sneaking glances out of the window to see them all still there. Her mum had said they could have pizza for dinner, but then no one had wanted to run the gauntlet of the media to go out and get it, or even open the door to a delivery man, so they had reheated lasagne instead. It wasn’t even her dad’s lasagne, it was one that somebody had apparently dropped round, and it didn’t taste right. Charlie rolled over and snuggled in against her mother. Surely all the reporters would be gone now? She really wanted pizza.
It had been a quiet day after that. Her mother had woken up not long after Charlie and they had stayed in bed for a bit, curled together, talking drowsily about nothing much in particular: that Parma had moulted in Charlie’s absence, and her new feathers had come back in slightly darker; how Dan had exams coming up but had missed so much school that there wasn’t much point him even sitting them. Charlie had felt an irrational stab of guilt at that and her mother must have noticed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d laughed, pulling Charlie to her and ruffling her hair. ‘It wasn’t like he was doing much study even before you went missing.’ Charlie’s father had heard them talking and brought them breakfast in bed, chocolate croissants. Her mother had shot him a look and he’d shook his head, then turned to Charlie and told her that he’d decided not to go to the press conference today after all. He’d intended to, but he’d rather be home with her, with all of them, and Terry could handle it; that they were going to spend the day doing nothing much at all with no interruptions, no interviews, no questions. Charlie had had a long bath and shaved her legs, then they’d cuddled up on the couch, the three of them with a blanket around them, and watched
her favourite films: My Friend Flicka, because it was about horses, and Love Actually, because her mum watched it every year around Christmas and it made her cry, but in a good way. Dan had wandered out to join them for the second one even though her mum had made some half-hearted noises about him getting back to his homework, and just at the bit where the doorbell rang and it was the cute guy with the posters declaring his undying love for Keira Knightley, their doorbell had rung too and everyone laughed. Her mum was a bit nervous about answering it but Dan had told her not to worry, it was only Hannah coming over to see Charlie. Hannah had hugged her and cried and Charlie had cried too and thanked her again and again—she couldn’t remember if she had thanked her when Hannah had found her in the national park, or after she’d taken her back to pony club, it was all such a blur. Hannah had told her not to be so silly, she was just so happy that Charlie was OK, and her dad had come back in and said there weren’t any reporters out the front anymore—they must all be at the press conference—so should he go and get that pizza now? But Charlie had wanted to finish the movie so he made popcorn instead, which she sort of had to suck because her jaw was hurting, and they all sat back down and watched it to the end.
It had been perfect, really. Perfect, that is, until the final scene, the bit where everybody was at the airport and all the stories were coming together. Charlie had thought she was going to cry so she looked down, away from the screen, and noticed Dan and Hannah, who were sitting on the carpet in front of the couch holding hands underneath a cushion. She glanced automatically at her mother in surprise, but the room was dim and her mum hadn’t noticed anything, was too preoccupied with Hugh Grant. Charlie sunk back in her seat, no longer interested in the movie. Dan and Hannah. Hannah and Dan. It made no sense. Dan had never had a girlfriend, had never even been interested in girls as far she was aware. It made a lovely sort of sense, though, too, made her happy to see them sitting like that. It reminded her of before Nan got sick, when she’d come and stay with them at Christmas, and she and her mum would sit on this same couch watching this same movie, holding hands at the end just like Hannah and Dan. Her nan. Charlie jerked upright. She hadn’t even thought about Nan. She’d been home two days, and her grandmother hadn’t crossed her mind. Yes, she had dementia now and it was different, Charlie wasn’t as close to her as she’d once been, but still. Heat rose in her cheeks. She was so ashamed.
The credits were rolling now. She tugged at her mother’s arm.
‘Mum, can we go over and see Nan? I had this dream about her a few nights ago.’
The smile that her mother had turned to her with slowly slid down her face.
‘What?’ Charlie asked. ‘Tell me. What?’
Her father leaned forward and put his arm around her. ‘Nan died, Charlie. Last week, from the dementia. She wasn’t in pain. She just didn’t wake up one morning.’
A lump rose in Charlie’s throat. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said. ‘Were you with her?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘I was at the police station with Terry.’ Her lower lip trembled.
Dan stood up and gently squeezed his mother’s shoulder, then he and Hannah left the room.
‘I wish I’d seen her,’ Charlie said. Her head felt tight. Her stomach hurt. Tears gathered like an angry mob behind her eyes. ‘I wish I’d got to say goodbye.’
Her mother dropped her face in her hands. ‘So do I,’ she wept.
Her tears triggered something in Charlie. She began to cry, then wail, and then she couldn’t stop crying, great choking sobs that surged out of her like vomit. The room dimmed. She couldn’t breathe. Nan. She hadn’t got to say goodbye to Nan, and her jaw hurt and between her legs hurt and Tic Tac had been sold and she still hadn’t got to have pizza but she probably couldn’t chew it, anyway. She was vaguely aware of her mother cradling her and her father saying something to her over Charlie’s head, but she couldn’t hear what it was because she was crying so loudly now, howling almost, anger seeping through her like poison. A stable! A fucking stable. He’d stolen her and put her in a stable and only got her out when he felt like it, when he wanted to touch her hair. She screamed then, a furious yowl that brought Dan and Hannah running back to the lounge, that propelled her father off the couch and into the kitchen for his phone. Blue, she wondered hazily. If the man was gone or burned, what had happened to Blue? Who was looking after him? She would have liked to ask someone, but she couldn’t stop screaming. She screamed on and on, eyes shut, head thrown back, until strong arms held her, lifted her. There was a sharp sting and she deflated like a balloon, only realising just before she blacked out that she was back in her parents’ bed once more.
No one slept well that night. Not Charlie, who had tossed and turned, twitching and starting in her sleep, not Rachael, lying helplessly beside her, and probably not Dan or Matt either, marooned in single beds at the other end of the house. Rachael sighed. Were they as wide awake as she was, staring at their respective ceilings, going over and over in their minds the events of the previous afternoon? They were hard to forget. Charlie’s terrible screams still rang in her ears; the hysteria that had taken hold and wouldn’t let go. Matt had had to call Terry—they didn’t know what else to do—and he’d sent some sort of police doctor around to sedate her, to knock her out like an escaped beast. A shudder ran down Rachael’s spine. It wasn’t fair, somehow. After all Charlie had been through she deserved to scream, to shriek and bay and bellow, but they’d been worried that it was getting out of control, that she was going to harm herself somehow. Even once the drug had taken effect and Charlie fell asleep she’d still moaned and writhed, ire etched across her features. Rachael had barely been able to doze alongside her, and when she finally nodded off she was woken around dawn by a rhythmical mutter. She lay there for a moment wondering if a television had been left on somewhere inside the house before realising that the sound was coming from Charlie, and that Charlie was counting. Counting? She tried to wake her up, but Charlie couldn’t be roused.
Rachael got out of bed and pulled on her robe. Coffee. She needed coffee. It was dark in the hallway and the house was cold and silent, but when she reached the kitchen Matt was already up, seated at the table in front of the computer. He minimised the screen as she entered the room, eyes flicking to her guiltily.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, but only to be polite. She was too tired to care.
‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘Just reading. Charlie’s all over the papers, the press conference—that she’s been found. No new information, though.’
Rachael turned on the kettle. Well, duh. She could have told him that. If there had been any developments, to use the police term, Terry would have called them straight away. Matt should have known that. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ she asked.
‘Not really.’ He logged off, stood up from the table and fetched two mugs from the cupboard above the stove. ‘I kept thinking about last night, Charlie screaming like that. How is she?’
Rachael shrugged, not meeting his eyes. ‘Still asleep.’ She didn’t want to tell him any more for some reason, didn’t want to have to describe Charlie’s groans and twitches, the bizarre counting. Maybe if she didn’t mention them they hadn’t really happened. Maybe she’d just dreamed them, and Charlie had slept soundly and peacefully all night.
‘Dan too,’ Matt said. ‘I checked. Shouldn’t we be getting him up soon, though? For school?’
School. Rachael had forgotten about school. She ran through the days in her head. Charlie had been found on a Friday, last Friday, and she’d had three nights at home now, so that must make it Monday. All around her the world was gearing up to begin another week, ironing shirts, checking diaries, and Rachael was standing in the kitchen in a dressing gown but no slippers, wondering if she’d remembered to put water in the kettle before she turned it on.
‘What do you think?’ Matt prompted.
‘Yeah. I guess so.’ The idea didn’t fill her with much enthusiasm. Yes, Dan needed to go to school, but getti
ng him there meant organising breakfast, making his lunch and checking that his uniform was clean when all she really wanted to do was sit down with her coffee and stare aimlessly out of the window. The kettle burbled, then switched itself off. Well, that was one thing at least. She must have put some water in it.
‘I’ll go wake him, then,’ Matt said, but lingered at the far end of the island bench as she made their coffee. ‘Rachael,’ he added as she poured the milk. Something in his voice made her look up.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Charlie,’ he said, hands gripping the bench. ‘Is she OK? I mean, has she told you anything? About that man, and if he—’
She held up one hand to silence him, shaking her head. I’m not going there. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything more than you or Terry do, what she’s said in the interviews. If she wants to talk about it I guess she’ll do so when she’s ready.’
‘OK,’ Matt said simply and went out of the room. It was the most they’d spoken, just the two of them, in days. Weeks, maybe. They’d lost the habit of communicating with each other. Rachael stood there stirring her coffee. It wasn’t important. They’d fix it later. What mattered now was Charlie, and Charlie would talk to them when she was ready. It was the right answer, she was sure of it. She was no psychologist, but it felt textbook somehow. Why, then, did she want to pick her mug up and hurl it against the window? She felt so fucking helpless! She didn’t know what to do. For the last few days since Charlie had come back she’d been dying to ask her What happened? What actually happened? How did you feel, what did you think, how did you manage? Were you scared, could you sleep, what did you do all day? Three months, three and a bit months. Locked in a stable, yes, but what did that actually mean? Did you just sit there on the ground? Was there a bed? Did he come and see you, try to talk to you? Tell me, she’d wanted to scream. I’m your mother! I need to know!