The Way Back

by Kylie Ladd

  She turned off the ignition and unfastened her seatbelt.

  ‘Don’t,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Don’t what?’ asked Rachael, reaching for the door handle.

  ‘Don’t come in.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rachael said. ‘Oh. Are you sure? Do you know where to go?’

  ‘My timetable’s exactly the same as it was in March. I checked with Britta. All my teachers too, except History, but we don’t have that today.’

  She’d been preparing for this, Rachael realised. Charlie the dreamer, Charlie the girl who was forever forgetting her lunchbox or handing homework in late must have actually unearthed her school diary from somewhere and got herself organised. The thought made her want to cry.

  ‘What about your locker?’ Rachael asked.

  ‘I got Britta to check that too. It’s still the same, but they had to break into it. Did you know that? The police went through all my books and stuff.’

  ‘I did, yeah, but I’d forgotten. That seems so long ago now.’ Rachael stared out the window, at the other students streaming past. Terry had mentioned it to her in passing in that first terrible week Charlie was missing. He’d been apologetic, but firm. Maybe she’d gone off with a boyfriend, he’d said. Maybe she’d met someone online and had arranged to meet with him somewhere. They’d gone through her bedroom too, riffling through her drawers and under the mattress. There was no boyfriend, Rachael had wanted to scream at them, not unless he had four legs and a mane.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Charlie said. She put one hand to her head, as if to smooth down her hair, then abruptly dropped it. ‘Britta said she’s tidied it up for me. I just have to go to the office and get a new lock.’

  ‘I could do that,’ Rachael said. ‘I can come with you.’

  ‘No,’ Charlie said. She opened the door. ‘Everyone will notice if you do. I don’t want anyone looking at me.’

  ‘Alright,’ Rachael said. Charlie leaned across and kissed her, then was out of the car, heaving her bag onto her shoulder. ‘Have a good day,’ Rachael called after her helplessly. She watched her disappear, beanie slightly askew. Oh, Charlie. Of course people were going to look at her.

  She stayed in the car as the first bell rang, then the second, wondering if Charlie would return, wondering if perhaps she should just check on her after all. The school grounds were empty. Everyone was in class; Charlie too. Rachael made herself turn the key in the ignition. She couldn’t sit here until the end of the day, and besides, Charlie had said she would walk home, with Britta, as she’d always done. Briefly, Rachael considered going in to work, then rejected the idea. She was starting back in two weeks’ time, just for some half-days to begin with. It was all organised; there was no point rushing in now. She wouldn’t get anything done. She’d just spend the whole time fretting, worrying if Charlie was OK. Returning home was equally unappealing. Matt was on a day off, and would be just as anxious as she was. The two of them would bump up against each other in the silent house, neither wanting to be the first to voice their fears, both glancing at the clock when they thought the other wasn’t watching. A café, Rachael thought. She’d go there instead. She might even take her laptop in, maybe make a start on all the emails awaiting her. Her own life had to begin again too.

  She had just ordered her coffee when she saw the magazine sitting next to the till. It was one of the popular women’s glossies, the sort of thing she never read, but a line on the cover in a lurid lime caught her eye: Charlie—The TRUE story!! Charlie? Her Charlie? Rachael’s heart began to pound, a pulse flickered in one eye.

  ‘I’ll take this as well,’ she said as calmly as she could to the young man who was handing her her change.

  ‘Oh, they’re for customers to read.’ He smiled at her. ‘Just leave it on the table when you’re done.’

  Rachael thanked him and shakily made her way to the back of the café, sat down, took a deep breath and opened the magazine. She didn’t have to look far. There, on the first double spread, was a photo of Charlie on a horse—the one they’d given Terry when she first went missing—beneath huge block capitals. CHARLIE KEPT AS SEX SLAVE. The words blurred and danced before her. She thought she might faint, but forced herself to read on.

  We can now reveal the full horror suffered by Melbourne teenager Charlie Johnson after she was abducted while riding her horse in Kinglake National Park earlier this year. Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that Johnson, 13, was held in a deserted farmhouse in the Kinglake region, where she was repeatedly raped by at least three men until she managed to escape last month. The men, alleged to be of Middle Eastern appearance …

  Rachael slammed the pages shut. Her coffee sat before her, gently steaming. She hadn’t even noticed when the guy behind the counter set it down. She pulled it towards her and took two big gulps, three, grateful for the burn that seared her throat because for a moment it stopped her thinking about what she had just read. Charlie a sex slave? It was utter rubbish, it was completely made up. She recognised all the giveaways: sources, alleged. What sources? Who alleged it? It was a complete fabrication, concocted to increase sales, but even now, all over Australia, other people were picking up the magazine in checkout queues or at the hairdressers, in cafés like this one, and reading the same vile lies. Rachael’s stomach twisted; the coffee tasted sour. All the offers they’d had to tell their story—from newspapers, from publishers, from 60 Minutes—and they’d refused them all, every last one of them. Of course they had, though some had come with six-figure inducements—but how could they ever do that to Charlie, turn what she had been through into someone else’s entertainment? And now, because they’d said no and because Terry had kept his word and released only the basic information on Charlie’s reappearance to the media, New Idea had simply invented something instead. How long until all the others followed, if they hadn’t already? And how could she stop Charlie from seeing it?

  Rachael went to stand up, but her legs trembled so violently that she sank back into her seat, suddenly afraid that she was going to fall. She pressed her hands against her face. Calm, stay calm she told herself for the second time that morning. What was it that the psychiatrist had advised her after that abortive appointment with Charlie? That Rachael needed to be strong. That children take their lead from their parents, and if their parents could cope with an awful situation in a positive way then their children would feel that they could recover and move forward too. It had made sense, and Rachael had vowed to try, but Charlie’s bare head, her hurting, haunted eyes, the way she clung to Rachael still, each night in Rachael’s bed—it was killing her, it was eating away at her like acid. She had to look after Charlie, but who was going to look after her? Or Matt, for that matter? Some days it seemed they were both too damaged to prop each other up.

  She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. The magazine cover smirked up at her from the table. Fuck calm, Rachael thought. It was time to get angry. She had to tell Matt, tell Terry. They would complain. They would sue, they would take that fucking rag for everything it had. This time when she pushed back her chair, her legs didn’t buckle. Rachael picked up what was left of her coffee and poured it all over the magazine, then strode out the door before the man who had served her could even protest.

  Charlie stole a glance at her watch. Ten minutes until recess, thank God. Her first period, Art, had been OK, but this second one, French, was killing her. She’d missed so much, and it wasn’t as if she’d particularly liked French to begin with. When she’d last been in the class, back in March, they’d been working on the days of the week and counting to twenty. Now it was August they were dealing with verbs, conjunctions, tenses—and some of the other kids even seemed quite fluent. Last week, the idea of returning to school had been quite appealing—anything to get out from under the eagle eye of her mother—but now that she was here she wasn’t so sure. At least you couldn’t fall behind in Art.

  ‘Charlize! Écoutes-tu?’

  Charlie jumped as Madame Lavigne laid a h
and on her shoulder. She still couldn’t bear having anyone touch her, even Britta. She’d had to tell her as much when they’d met up just before Art, but Britta had been cool about it. She’d never been one of those huggy-huggy girls, anyway.

  ‘Pardon?’ Charlie said, sliding her arm across her doodle.

  ‘I asked if you were listening, Charlie? Are you keeping up?’ Madame Lavigne’s eyes were concerned and sad. It was the same way her mother looked at her; the same way everyone did now, apparently. When she’d walked into her homeroom at eight forty-five that morning, twenty-three faces had turned to her with the exact same expression; twenty-four, if you included Mr Porter, the teacher. It had made Charlie want to cry. She wished they’d all ignored her and had just got on with their lives; she wished Madame Lavigne would go back up to the board and her precious tenses.

  ‘Oui,’ she said, as brightly as she could. Madame Lavigne didn’t move away but remained, regarding her, with her head tilted slightly to one side.

  ‘No,’ Charlie admitted. ‘I don’t understand any of it.’

  The older woman sighed, though not unkindly. ‘I thought as much. Charlie, it’s been what? Four months? If you want to catch up I’m happy to help, whenever you want to meet. But if you don’t, that’s fine too.’ She thought for a second. ‘In fact, if you like, and you don’t plan to choose French next year, you can bring some work from your other subjects to my class, just as long as you don’t disturb anyone else. I’m sure you could use the time. Oui?’

  Charlie couldn’t reply. There was a lump in her throat. She nodded instead, careful not to look up at Madame Lavigne, afraid, once more, that she was about to cry. These infuriating tears! She wished there was a tap that could turn them off; she wished she could pluck the very tear ducts from her eyes. She wouldn’t mind if she never cried again. It only made her look weak, feel weak; it didn’t fix anything. Madame Lavigne squeezed her shoulder then moved away just as the bell rang. Charlie swept her things together and was first out of the door.

  Britta was waiting for her by her locker as they’d arranged, eating a packet of chips. She held them out as Charlie spun the combination and dumped her books.

  ‘Want some?’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘Nah. Thanks. I’m not hungry.’ She was never hungry lately, although her jaw was almost mended. Her stomach churned and roiled all day long, but she wasn’t hungry.

  ‘So you don’t want to go to the canteen, then?’ Britta asked.

  ‘No. Let’s go outside. I’m sick of people looking at me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have cut all your hair off, then, freakoid,’ Britta said.

  Charlie swatted her on the arm. ‘Bitch,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘Scrubber,’ Britta retorted. She shoved some more chips in her mouth. ‘Actually, it suits you. Makes you look a bit punk. We need to get you some piercings to go with it.’

  ‘Mum would love that,’ Charlie said. As they walked down the hallway she spotted Ivy coming from the opposite direction, flanked by Jacob and Damon. She stared at her, but Ivy looked away, hurrying past without meeting her eyes.

  ‘Hey, Ivy,’ Britta called after her retreating back, ‘You’re a FUCKING COW!’

  Ivy didn’t turn around, but Damon did. ‘She left her!’ Britta yelled. People were watching now; the whole hallway had fallen silent. ‘She left Charlie all alone in the park when her horse went lame. Charlie told me. Just left her there to be kidnapped.’

  ‘Britta,’ Charlie whispered, mortified at the attention. At the same moment, Ivy gave a muffled sob and sprinted down the hall head bowed, books clutched against her chest. Damon glared at Britta, then set off after her.

  ‘Well, she is,’ Britta exclaimed to no one in particular. She turned back to Charlie. ‘I can’t believe she didn’t even come over and talk to you.’ She hustled Charlie out the door and onto a bench alongside the oval. The morning air was icy against her bare cheeks. ‘Man. Is that the first time you’ve seen her since … you know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Charlie said. A number of friends had called or come round in the past few weeks—Britta, of course, Georgie and Mita, even Araminta, whom she hardly even knew when she was taken, but not Ivy, she realised. Not once. She really was a fucking cow. Her embarrassment was receding now, replaced with a tiny sense of exhilaration. Ivy had run away. Britta had really rattled her.

  ‘That totally blows, then. I always knew she was fucked.’ Britta picked up a twig and pretended to smoke, her breath misting as she exhaled. ‘Want a drag?’ she asked, holding it out to Charlie.

  Charlie chuckled. ‘No thanks. I’m trying to give up.’

  ‘Smart girl. So how’s everyone else been, then? Anyone you want me to hunt down and kill? Besides Ivy, of course.’

  Charlie smiled, just a little smile. ‘They’ve all been really nice. Too nice, if you know what I mean. They all look at me as if my kitten just got run over. Or maybe I’m the kitten, I don’t know, but I wish they’d stop. And some of the girls in my homeroom tried to hug me. I barely even know them and they’re draping themselves all over me. I thought I was going to asphyxiate from all that Impulse.’

  Britta laughed. She put the twig to her mouth again, then made a show of stubbing it out. ‘You’ll be OK,’ she said when she had finished. ‘I mean, everyone’s going to be a bit weirded out to start with, but they’ll get over it. Something will happen, like Mr Porter will run off with Madame Lavigne, or maybe he won’t, but it doesn’t matter. In a few weeks they’ll all be talking about someone else.’

  Charlie stared at her lap. Those tears again. ‘You are very wise, Grasshopper,’ she said, willing her voice not to crack.

  ‘Grasshopper has extremely cold arse,’ Britta said, squirming in her seat. ‘What do you have next period?’

  ‘Science,’ Charlie replied. A spasm rippled across her gut. Liam would be in science. Liam, who had called and asked her mum if he could visit, though Charlie had refused. It would be too awkward, too embarrassing. Instead he’d sent a card, which she had propped next to her bed. Dear Charlie, I was SO happy to hear you were safe. I still can’t believe it even happened. I hope you are doing OK and I will see you soon. Liam. PS. I won’t even make you light your own Bunsen burner.

  ‘What does that mean?’ her mum had asked when she read it.

  ‘Nothing,’ Charlie said. ‘Just a joke.’ That was another reason she was glad Liam hadn’t visited. She didn’t want her mother studying him, weighing him up, particularly when she wasn’t sure how she felt about him herself. Would he still like her? Would he want to kiss her again? And more importantly, would she want to kiss him? So much had changed in that stable.

  The bell rang. Britta stretched and stood up, holding out a hand to Charlie.

  ‘Science, hey? Liam’s in that, isn’t he?’

  Charlie smiled despite herself. Britta didn’t miss a trick. She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, holding on to Britta’s warm hand for just a fraction longer than she needed to, squeezing it before she let it go.

  ‘There’s some eyeliner in my locker,’ Britta said. ‘If we hurry you can put it on before class.’

  ‘Yeah, and have Miss Case send me straight back out to wash it off? That’s sure to impress him.’

  Britta shrugged. ‘Gets you noticed. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘You’re a nut job.’ Charlie rolled her eyes.

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Britta retorted, then suddenly lunged at her, hands outstretched, to tickle Charlie under the arms and around her waist, the exact places that she knew Charlie was most sensitive. Charlie froze, but then gave into it. It was impossible to resist Britta. She was still giggling as they arrived at their lockers, right up until the moment she abruptly realised somebody had stuck something to hers. Something glossy and brightly coloured, a page torn from a magazine, the block letters unscrambling themselves as she approached and screaming to the world: CHARLIE KEPT AS SEX SLAVE.

  Bell Street had stopped. Normally it was one of t
he busiest roads in Melbourne, but right now it was frozen into submission by their lights and sirens. Three fire trucks, his station’s entire contingent, had that effect, particularly when they were practically nose to tail as they were now, weaving in and out of all the other suddenly stalled vehicles, the faces of drivers and pedestrians just an upturned blur as they raced through intersections and swung across lanes. Despite the danger, despite whatever horrors were awaiting them, Matt found himself smiling. He’d missed this. The adrenalin of it, the kick—not the speed, not the cheap thrills but of being a responder, being first on the scene. Making a difference. That sounded so do-goody, but it was still the basic appeal of the job. He liked to help people.

  The sirens were so loud he could barely hear himself think, but nonetheless Matt closed his eyes and ran through the procedures, what he had to do the minute they got to the scene. This was his first proper call-out since he’d returned to work. He’d been a firie so long that he knew he’d know what to do; still, it didn’t hurt to prepare. A petrol tanker had crashed and overturned on the Calder Freeway, crushing a car in the adjacent lane. Two people were trapped, possibly three, and the early reports suggested that fuel was leaking onto the road. The guys in the truck behind him would deal with that; his truck’s job was to assess and contain the scene and then, if safe to do so, assist the third unit with victim rescue and recovery. Tape, Matt thought. Secure the perimeter. Determine the extent of the spill and treat with foam. Were there any creeks nearby, any watercourses? Deploy floaters if so, to soak up the petrol; consider evacuating any nearby homes if the fumes were bad. Wedged alongside him in the back seat, he could just about feel Richo going through his own mental checklist. The cab hummed with energy. It was like a ballet, Matt thought, not for the first time. They were all in the wings, preparing themselves to go on stage, each with their own particular, crucial role to perform. He had a sudden mental image of Richo and Dobbsy in pale pink tutus, pas de deux-ing carefully through the carnage, Dobbsy’s walrus moustache rippling in the breeze. He almost giggled, but contained himself. The long, aching months of Charlie’s disappearance seemed to retract and fade behind him. Hell, it was good to be back.