The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  The colonel has promised me our own chopper as soon as its role in Panther is complete. ‘We’ll coordinate with the police superintendent … You can have the men too.’

  ‘They’ll be tired after being up all night.’

  ‘They’ll want to help … we’ll bus them to wherever’s needed.’

  Somewhere between Glenbrook and Leura. Forty-odd kilometres of dense, impenetrable bush. Where has he taken her? Where is my daughter? Has she eaten? Is she warm? She’s scared, that much I know for sure. Jasmin’s too damned clever not to be scared.

  I phoned Sophie immediately after hanging up from Chloe.

  ‘Where has he taken her?’ Desperation caused me to shout.

  ‘I don’t know, Aidan. I’m sorry, I really don’t know.’

  ‘What did you say to him? What did you say to make him do this?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear. He took this upon himself … You must believe me, I’m as horrified as you are … He’s gone crazy.’

  Has Richard harmed Jasmin? Touched her? Already killed her? I could barely bring myself to vocalize the question. ‘Would he hurt her? … Is he capable of doing something to Jasmin?’

  ‘No, no,’ Sophie sobbed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  God, I hope not, I pray not. It’s unbearable, even at the milder end of the scale. My daughter being at Richard’s mercy. My beautiful daughter, defenceless, scared, not knowing what – or why – this is happening to her.

  My job and the safety of my men demand at least some of my attention for the next few hours. I try my best to be there for them, to fulfil my role. But I can’t shake off the increasing dread of Jasmin’s life being at risk, and the thought physically hurts me. There’s a stabbing pain in my gut, a piercing right through the centre of my heart, the sense of being crushed. In the middle of a radio exchange with the head canoeist, I have to abandon my post, rushing out of the tent, leaving the colonel to pick up the reins. Out in the cold night, stars smashed across the sky, a wail erupts from deep within me.

  Where are you, Jasmin? Where the damned hell are you?

  The pain is excruciating now. It has me doubling over, clenching my fists, howling.

  Richard knew what he was doing. This is exactly what he wanted. This horrendous pain and helplessness is precisely what he wanted me to feel.

  Richard

  I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Jasmin. She is out in the night, in the cold, in the dark, in the bush. She is cold, hungry, thirsty, petrified. I have lost her. My anger has gone. It dissipated with every call of her name, every echo that reverberated back to me: Jasmin, Jasmin, Jasmin, Jasmin. It’s part of the cold mountain air, and it’s hard to believe that it was ever inside me, that only a few hours ago I was so full of rage I contemplated hurting a child, a little girl, Jasmin. In its place there’s grief, grief for damage I’ve already done, and shame … a deep, mortifying shame that I’ve caused this catastrophe. She was running from me. She weighed it all up – I know she did, because she is a smart little thing – and decided that I presented the biggest threat, the worse evil, and that she was prepared to take her chances in the bush, in the cold, with the wildlife. The shame of it. The sorrow.

  My phone is dead. Bloody typical. The screen is unresponsive, lifeless, unable to help me or Jasmin. If only I could call triple zero. If I could just speak to Dee, that would be enough. She’d know what to do. Whether to stay here and keep searching, or drive off, temporarily abandoning Jasmin but with the aim of getting help. Would the police station in Hazelbrook be open at this hour of night? Does Hazelbrook even have a police station? Would it be better if I went to a house, woke up the occupants, begged to use their phone?

  Stay or go? Stay or go?

  Dee would know what to do. Beneath her casual exterior, there’s a surprising pragmatism.

  Oh, Dee, I am sorry. Jasmin too. I’m sorrier than you can imagine.

  ‘Jasmin, Jasmin … Can you hear me? I’m sorry. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.’

  How has this happened? How, I ask, did things come to this? It’s preposterous. Unfathomable. Was I out of my bloody mind?

  ‘Jasmin, you’ve got to answer me … Jasmin!’

  Stay or go? Stay or go? Stay or go?

  Aidan

  At two in the morning a call comes through from the police. Apparently Richard has turned up at a house outside Hazelbrook, startling the residents by banging on their front door and demanding to use their phone. The residents called triple zero at his request.

  The superintendent is there, at the house, with Richard.

  ‘He’s very distressed and seems confused. But he’s being cooperative.’

  Cooperative? This is the man who kidnapped my daughter. I can think of many words, but ‘cooperative’ isn’t one of them. Good thing it’s the superintendent there with him, not me, because I’d probably strangle him before he got the chance to say where Jasmin is. From what they can determine, she ran off on him, into the bush. This makes me feel equal parts terrified and proud. All available patrol cars are heading there now, to search the specific area as best they can in the dark.

  Chloe is hysterical when I call the barracks to relay the news. ‘Our baby girl is alone in the bush. Anything could happen to her. Anything.’

  Yes, true, but the worst thing – Richard harming her – hasn’t happened (if he is to be believed), so the current situation is a sickly relief.

  ‘I’m coming up there. I’m getting in the car right now. I don’t care what you say.’

  ‘Just hold on, Chloe. It’s easier for me to contact you if you stay put. I know it’s hard …’

  Three thirty in the morning. Another call, but not with the news we wanted to hear. Jasmin hasn’t been found. Richard is muddled about which track he took and the police have just wasted an hour searching the wrong damned one. Once again I use the satellite phone to update Chloe and I have to brace myself for her distress.

  ‘No. No. My baby. Our baby. Will she be all right, Aidan? Please tell me she’ll be all right.’

  It’s eight degrees outside, relatively mild for the mountains at this time of year, but cold enough to cause hypothermia if one is outdoors for long enough without adequate clothing. Does she have adequate clothing? A jacket? Thank God it isn’t raining … If she was wet, her chances of getting hypothermia would sky-rocket. The only other risk is the wildlife: the brown snake, the red-bellied black snake and the diamond python are all common to the area. We concluded that snakes presented next to no risk for Panther (they should feel the vibrations of us coming and shy away). I hope it’ll be the same for Jasmin.

  ‘She should be fine,’ I say to Chloe, reassuring myself as much as her. ‘It’s a mild night up here and it’s not raining.’

  Five in the morning. The chopper – a Black Hawk – has finished its role in Panther, and the police superintendent has approved its use for the search-and-rescue operation under his command. It lands on the plateau, the noise shredding the pre-dawn calmness, the tent flapping with the downdraught. I sprint towards it, holding my beret down firmly. The pilot, Lieutenant Michael Hurst, is one of our best.

  He hands me a helmet. ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Hazelbrook.’

  The stars are beginning to fade, the sky now a murky mix of black and grey. We should be there by first light.

  55

  Jasmin

  I’m cold. Really, really, really cold. Especially my legs, which feel a bit numb, even though I stand up every fifteen minutes to get my blood moving again. And I feel sleepy, which is ironic because I’m freezing and very uncomfortable, and it’s just weird that I want to close my eyes leaning against this scratchy tree when I lie awake most nights in my soft, cosy bed. I rub my arms and legs constantly, to try to keep them warm, and I think of all the extension words I’ve learned at school to keep myself awake, rolling them through my head like a movie. Sceptical. Infamous. Reluctant. Irritable. Exhilarating. Fantasize.

  I try not to focus on all the sounds around
me. Grunting, screeching, howling, and – the most terrifying – the sound of twigs cracking under animal feet. The only sound that isn’t terrifying is an intermittent hooting.

  Hello, Mr Owl. I can’t see you. Can you see me?

  It’s reassuring to imagine an owl close by, wise, watchful, like a friend. Thinking about the owl makes me cry. Thinking about Mum and Dad makes me cry. Not for long, though, only a minute or two. I don’t seem to have many tears left in my eyes.

  The other thing I try not to do is look at my watch too often, because time seems to go even slower when I do. I play guessing games. What time is it now? How many minutes and seconds since I last looked? Richard stopped calling out hours ago, but I’m still too scared to move, to return to the track – the only way out of here – in case he’s waiting for me.

  3.05 a.m.: I relive last week’s soccer match, every single tackle and run, imagining another ending … where we actually win for once. 3.33 a.m.: I’m in Amelia’s house, playing Teachers in her bedroom, and here’s my mum and dad at the door, coming to collect me. 4 a.m.: Now I’m in Matthew’s office, the weighted cape pressing down on my shoulders, realigning my senses. 4.27 a.m.: I’m doing laps for Davy, the grass bouncy under my feet, my breath heavy. Hurry up, lass. 5 a.m.: Mrs Stanley is giving me a brand-new list of extension words: Alertness. Vigilance. Equipped. Expertise.

  Finally, light is seeping into the sky and now there are friendlier sounds: chirping, trilling, cackling … birds. I pull myself up from the tree, putting weight on my stiff, heavy legs. Is it safe? Has Richard gone? As I stand there, trying to pluck up the courage to leave my hiding spot, I hear it: a new sound, a clacking, coming from above, getting louder and louder. I only catch a glimpse of it, because of all the trees, but the brown-green colour tells me it’s an army chopper, and I just know my dad is in it – with the pilot, of course, because Daddy can’t fly – looking for me.

  ‘Dad, Daddy …’

  I hurl myself through the brambles and branches and cobwebs, not caring this time about the scrapes and cuts and spiders.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy …’

  He won’t be able to see me here, not with all the trees. But out on the track he will. If I can just get there quickly enough.

  Aidan

  The forest is especially dense in this part of the mountains, a thick carpet of blue-green as far as the eye can see. Our first pass is a high-level visual sweep of the optimal area, about fifteen square kilometres, concentrating our energy on the network of tracks, fire trails, gullies and clearings (where it should be easier to spot something untoward … such as a nine-year-old girl, lost, alone, terrified).

  We see nothing, nothing but white patrol cars dotted around, advancing slowly down various paths and trails. From up here the cars look small, insufficient. We’ve been told that an official search-and-rescue chopper is on the way. When it gets here, we’ll divide the optimal area between us.

  On our second pass Michael reduces speed and brings the Black Hawk lower. This stage is more thorough, more time-consuming and technology reliant (mainly using the TV camera of the multi-sensor system). The scenery is stunning – rolls of multilayered green, thin strips of orange-brown dirt, sandstone tables and crags, silvery waterfalls and creeks – but I’m oblivious. There’s only one thing I’m interested in seeing. A small, surprisingly strong nine-year-old girl. With hair and eyes the same colour as my own. A girl who loves soccer and big words. An hour has somehow disappeared. Michael is talking about needing to refuel at some point. The other chopper has long since arrived and, like us, has nothing to report. There’s no sign of my daughter, none at all.

  Has she fallen asleep? Hurt herself and fallen unconscious? Then, the most horrible image: her body in a shallow grave of twigs and dried-out leaves. Damn it, stop thinking like that. But the image persists, and the nagging question: What if Richard is lying? We were all so quick to believe him – the superintendent, Chloe, me – because he’d virtually turned himself in. We were all convinced by his distress and supposed confusion, desperately seeking assurance that Jasmin was essentially safe and hadn’t been harmed. But what if it was all an act? A huge revenge-ridden lie? What if we’re not looking for a scared, cold, hungry nine-year-old, but a buried, lifeless one? The faces start to reel in my head. The dead people. The ones I didn’t keep safe. They stare right through me. Some of them perfect, just very white and unblinking. Others bloated, discoloured. Or a grotesque mangle of skin, tissue and bone. Not Jasmin. I would die. Not Jasmin.

  ‘Aidan.’ Michael’s voice juts into the macabre reel of images. ‘South-west. About thirty degrees.’

  It’s not the first time he’s seen something and asked me to zoom in further. Last time, it was a wallaby – so startled by the noise, it was frozen to the spot – that caught his eye. I adjust the camera accordingly. Yes, there is something down there. Something multicoloured.

  Michael is already turning the chopper around, going as low as he can, as close as he can.

  And there she is. My daughter. And she is moving. Running. Waving her jacket above her head, her mouth open, calling to us, beseeching us to notice her.

  ‘Jasmin!’ I hear myself yelling, even though I know she can’t hear me. ‘Jasmin! Jasmin! I’m coming. I’m coming to get you.’

  The trail is particularly narrow. There isn’t enough room to land.

  ‘You all right using the winch?’ Michael enquires quietly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He puts the Black Hawk into hover while I climb into the back. My hands are shaking as I attach myself to the winch. It’s been a while since I’ve done this: Afghanistan, jumping into a raid, with the real threat of gunfire and/or hand grenades ending my descent. Yet I don’t remember feeling as terrified then as I do now.

  ‘Steady,’ Michael instructs me, only too aware of the perils of my current emotional state. ‘Don’t forget the backpack. You might need something from it.’

  The backpack has medical supplies, water, food and blankets, none of which – other than the water – are immediately needed, but I slip it over my shoulders anyway.

  Turning backwards, I drop down from the open door, swaying through the air. In a matter of seconds I’ve landed, bouncing gently off the hard, dusty ground.

  She is on top of me before I can get out of the harness. A sorry sight: tangled hair, torn clothes and skin. A beautiful, precious sight.

  ‘Hey … Hey … It’s all right now.’ I kiss her face, the top of her head, every part of her, over and over again. ‘You’re safe, Jazzie. I have you. I’m here.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she sobs. ‘I knew you’d rescue me. I just had to wait.’

  Her faith takes my breath away.

  Much later, after Jasmin has been given the medical all-clear and has supplied a mature-beyond-her-age statement to the police, when she is back home and safely in her own bed (asleep!), I relay all the small details to Chloe, and when I get to this part – Jasmin’s absolute, unshakeable faith in me – I completely break down.

  56

  Sophie

  He has ruined my life. My father has completely and irrevocably ruined my life. He kidnapped Jasmin, scared her so much she got lost in the bush, instigated a major search-and-rescue operation involving the police and the army. What’s even more outrageous is that my mother is actually making excuses for him.

  ‘He snapped, Sophie. He just snapped. The doctor thinks he might have some form of post-traumatic stress. From your accident, you know. His reaction to it was never normal.’

  Unbelievable! Aidan used the exact same excuse: fucking post-traumatic stress. A build-up of tension from spending so much of his life in war zones, then the accident, and bam! He said that his guilt got completely out of proportion, made him behave oddly, out of character. Leaving Chloe and Jasmin. Thinking he was in love with me. Fuck him. Fuck him and Dad. I was the one who was injured, not them. They have no right, no right at all, to use the accident – my accident – as a reason for their crazy behavi
our.

  A pause stretches down the line. Mum’s obviously waiting for a response from me. I scream at her.

  ‘Can you stop making excuses for him? He kidnapped a nine-year-old girl. What the fuck was that going to solve?’

  ‘I know,’ she says, her tone placating. ‘I know it was a terrible thing to do. The poor child … when I think how terrified she must have been. I desperately want to call Aidan and apologize on your father’s behalf, but I think I must be the last person on earth he wants to speak to right now … But your father, he’s our problem, we’re his family, we must support him. The irony is that he was doing it for you, Sophie. At least, that’s how he justified it in his head. Which in itself tells you how mentally unbalanced he was …’

  ‘For me? He was doing it for me? Are you as crazy as he is? Supporting him is the last thing on my mind. I could kill him. He’s ruined everything. Aidan and I are over, thanks to him. Is he fucking happy now?’

  Aidan and I were having some problems, but we’d have got through them, I know we would have. Aidan owed me. Despite his feelings for Chloe and Jasmin, he’d have stayed with me for that reason alone. That’s how men like him operate. Now, because of Dad’s escapade in the mountains, I owe Aidan back. In insurance, we call it ‘negating factors’. The end impact is none, nothing, no obligation by anyone.

  ‘Of course he’s not happy!’ Mum exclaims, her tone becoming indignant. ‘He’s ashamed, extremely remorseful and out of his mind with worry. You should see all the charges that have been laid against him. And he’s been in a psychiatric ward for the last three weeks, Sophie. There are some seriously ill people in there. He misses home. He misses you.’

  ‘Well, he can keep on missing me. Because I am never going to speak to him again.’

  I hang up then, because if she keeps on nagging me to visit him, keeps on defending him and using my accident as an excuse, I could end up not speaking to her ever again either.