Found

by Melissa Pouliot

  Christine’s thoughts then went to Annabelle. She thought Bessie would have kept in touch with the young policewoman who had shown so much care and compassion when Annabelle first went missing. Christine scrambled for her name. Rhiannon McVee, that’s it. Christine used to call Rhiannon once a year but had stopped calling years ago; she couldn’t exactly remember the last time they’d spoken. Fifteen years ago? Or had it been twenty years since she shut the door on Annabelle, and moved on?

  She felt guilty now, sitting on the train in her expensive designer suit, designer shoes and a stunningly understated gold necklace with an intricate ruby pendant nestled in a cluster of diamonds. Matching gold and ruby earrings sat neatly at the base of her ear lobe, and a row of four diamonds from large to tiny travelled up her ear. She wore one ring; it was plain gold, no stones, and covered the bottom half of her middle finger on her right hand. Under her shirt sleeve a matching gold band encircled her wrist neatly. She was living a life of luxury and normality, rarely giving a thought to her missing friend. Except on her own birthday when she opened Bessie’s card and letter.

  She reached for her phone in her bag and focused on her Facebook newsfeed, liking and commenting on the posts from her large circle of friends, who knew her as Christine the elite jewellery designer who’d moved down from Sydney in the nineties with a suitcase full of dreams and a hidden talent that made them possible. She then flicked through Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, Google Plus, Tumblr and Snapchat, trying to ignore the niggling thought that had its hand up like the eager school child in the front row. Excuse me Miss, Miss! You’re dreamin’ if you think you won’t be scanning the crowds for the rest of your life in the hope you have another chance meeting. You’re tied together forever, and you’re dreamin’ if you think you’re not.

  CHAPTER 6

  Angelsea

  She tried hard not to break routine, otherwise the past crowded in on her like the sweaty, hot bodies in the underground clubs lurking beneath Darlinghurst Road. With her nerves a frizz from searching desperately among strangers’ faces on the train for Ant to reappear, and dreaming every night she was walking the streets of Kings Cross with Annabelle, Christine forced herself to make a decision. She needed to recalibrate. She needed to know where Annabelle was. The only way to do that was to talk to Rhiannon, and the best way to find Rhiannon was through Bessie.

  ‘Danny,’ she said quietly across the table in their peaceful, comfortable home in their safe, slightly posh Melbourne street, ‘I am going to see Bessie, I haven’t seen her for a long time, thought I should, you know.’

  Danny looked up from the script he had next to his plate. He was working on a new television series, it was going to be the next big thing, he was sure of it. Forget Packed to the Rafters, forget Offspring. Set in the eighties, this was going to be an insight into the dark seedy streets of Sydney, but with a completely wholesome family drama underpinning it.

  ‘Visit who?’ He was distracted by his work, as he often was when in his writing zone. Christine fought off the feeling of frustration which tightened her stomach and made her slightly breathless when he was so vague and in his own little world. Admittedly, it was his ability to live in this fictional, fairyland world of television dramas that made their relationship possible. If he didn’t spend so much time in his own little world, he wouldn’t be so adept at being tolerant and understanding of where Christine came from.

  ‘Bessie.’

  Danny was looking at his script again and Christine wondered whether to pursue the conversation or leave it hanging in the air, never to be completed. She decided to leave it in the air. He was far too engrossed in his pretend friends right now. Anything she said would only end up being written into a scene.

  …

  The next morning at work she spoke to her boss, Duane. A glorious looking man with a completely bald head, who always smelt divine and never had a thing out of place. She often wondered how he found the time to run his successful international jewellery business while keeping his toned body in shape, his eyes crystal blue, his skin soft and blemish free and his hands so perfect they belonged on a television ad for Dove hand cream. He was also the only male she knew who could pull off a large gold earring with matching ring and not look like he was in the Mafia. She adored him and the feeling was mutual. He knew nothing of her past, but even if he did, he wouldn’t care. All he cared about were her stunning creations that rarely stayed on his plump black and white jewellery cushions for longer than a week.

  ‘I’m wondering if I can please take some time off, some personal time. Not sure how long, but a few weeks maybe.’

  Duane raised one of his perfectly plucked eyebrows.

  ‘Time off? Mmm, now that’s not what I was expecting. I can’t remember you ever asking for time off, Chrissie, daarrling.’ Christine loved the way he said darling, with a drawl on the aarr.

  ‘Well, I haven’t needed any time off before because this is not like a job, this is my life. This is what I do. What I want to do. Every day.’

  Duane smiled. He adored this girl and her loyalty. ‘You’re precious, you know that don’t you? What’s changed?’

  ‘Nothing, just a few family matters.’

  ‘Not racing off to elope with your mystery fellow who I never see, who might not even exist for all I know?’ Duane laughed confidentially.

  ‘No, no chance of that,’ Christine forced a smile. Getting married was the furthest thing from her mind. From Danny’s as well, or that’s what she thought. He had never mentioned or hinted at marriage, it wasn’t part of their dialogue. Christine shook herself back to the moment, realising Duane was waiting for her to elaborate on her plans.

  ‘Family stuff. A few things to sort out.’ She closed her lips tightly, refusing to be drawn any further. Getting the hint, Duane stepped forward to give her a hug. He was an overly affectionate person, he hugged everyone, but he rarely hugged Christine. She wasn’t an easy one to hug. All business, barely a crack in her shiny veneer. But when Duane stepped in to hug her, Christine felt she would melt like hot butter. A lump in her throat pushed tears into tear ducts she put so much effort into keeping dry. She stepped back and cleared her throat.

  ‘I’ll work the rest of the week, finish off the pieces people have ordered, but perhaps I won’t take on any new clients right now, so I don’t leave anything unfinished.’

  Duane, ignoring the glisten in her eyes, nodded.

  ‘Thank you Christine. You really are a gem.’

  She smiled, it was one of his favourite sayings.

  ‘Better than being a rough diamond,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Duane continued the joke, ‘I’m a bit partial to a rough diamond myself.’ He winked, knowing deep down there was a lot more to his creative protégé than met the eye.

  She smiled as she patted him on the arm affectionately. ‘Thank you Duane, I won’t be gone long. I won’t be able to – I’ll miss my sparkly stones too much.’

  Her equilibrium restored, Christine returned to her jewellery table and switched on her lamp, pulling out a gold engagement ring with a large square sapphire hugged by the most delicate and precious diamonds money could buy. Her steady hands started perfecting another piece of art that would join people together for life. Engagement rings were her specialty. She loved the way an engagement ring on a woman’s finger told a unique love story, representing a couple’s relationship, when they fell so deeply in love they decided to be together forever. That woman would wear that story for the rest of their lives, no matter what storms they weathered or how their circumstances changed. They could be richer, or poorer, but she could always look at that ring and remember a perfect moment in time when they declared their true love.

  As she worked on this love story her mind gave her a tick. Her plan was starting to take shape. She’d book a hire car for Friday night, leave straight from work and head along the freeway towards Geelong and the Great Ocean Road. Her hand shook briefly as she anticipated the loo
k on Bessie’s face when she opened the door to see Christine standing there. The thought terrified her but she had to stop worrying. She’d already studied the map and if she didn’t get lost, she’d be at Bessie’s by nine o’clock, ready to face up to her past so she could get back to her future.

  …

  ‘Danny, can we talk?’

  He was still wrapped up in his television script, and reluctantly put it to the side to give Christine his full attention.

  ‘Of course, I apologise, Chrissie,’ he said. ‘I’m just so engrossed in this, I’ve been very neglectful of you.’

  He got up and moved around to her side of the table, stood behind and put his arm around her while nuzzling her neck. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  Christine pulled away.

  ‘Not that,’ she smiled. ‘But maybe later.’ He did things to her that no other man ever could, except for…she pushed the thought away. He reached places no others had ever reached, except for… except for Ant. She frowned, annoyed with her thoughts. As Danny placed delicate kisses behind her earlobe she started feeling powerless to resist, but she had something important to get out and shrugged him off. He feigned hurt and returned to his seat.

  ‘You know it’s not easy for me, talking about my…’

  He finished the sentence for her, ‘…past.’

  She paused, feeling vulnerable. ‘Well, I think it’s time that I…aahh…you know. Faced up. To a few things.’

  Danny stiffened. ‘What sort of things?’

  Christine didn’t want to divulge details about Annabelle. Danny didn’t know about the party or her missing friend Annabelle. And he certainly didn’t know about Ant.

  ‘Just a few things, nothing to alarm you. But I need to go and see Bessie.’

  ‘The whore house queen that thinks she’s a descendant of Fleetwood Mac?’ The words slipped out before Danny could contain them. Christine wished she hadn’t shared so much in her weak moment, which provided him with fodder for insecurities (and his television scripts). Her shoulders stiffened. She felt a wave of anger dart around the room, bouncing off walls and crashing into the back of her head.

  ‘Anyway, I’m going away. For a little while. I won’t be too long.’ Her voice was tight.

  Danny stood, unsure of what to say. Christine never went away on her own. She didn’t stay overnight with friends, go on holidays, she just went to work and came home. He always knew where she was. He wasn’t controlling, but he, like Christine, liked the stability in their relationship. It might seem predictable if not for the aura of mystery surrounding her past. An aura that captivated his imagination while he waited patiently for her to reveal another layer.

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m just a bit surprised. You don’t, um, generally do this. But I guess it’s not up to me what you do, or where you go.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She couldn’t help the way each word went snap. Then she paused, acknowledging that it was out of character for her to go away. ‘I know it’s not something I do every day, and I understand you might be wondering what it’s all about. But it’s nothing too dramatic, I just need to go and see Bessie and talk to her about a few things. Things I need to face up to, things I need to deal with so I can move on and get back to normal life.’

  ‘Is she still running a whore house?’ Danny asked.

  ‘No, absolutely not! She left that life behind a long time ago as well.’

  ‘Where is she? Still Sydney?’

  ‘No, closer to home. Down on the coast. A little place named Angelsea.’

  ‘You mean Anglesea? Past Geelong? Tourist town?’

  ‘Yes, Anglesea, sorry I had it in my head it was Angelsea, imagined it was some place inhabited by angels and Bessie settled herself in amongst them, being the pure angel she is,’ Christine didn’t break a smile, delivering her line with absolute perfection. It worked, Danny laughed raucously.

  The mood in the room changed instantly. ‘Anyway, I’m heading off after work Friday and I’ll keep in touch,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, my lovely, that’s good enough for me. Now, about that other conversation we were going to have…’

  Dinner forgotten, they grabbed at each other’s clothes like love-struck teenagers, leaving them in a trail as they headed in the direction of the bedroom. They didn’t make it, only getting as far as the appropriately named shag pile rug on the lounge room floor, burying Christine’s past in the passion of the lovemaking they did so well.

  …

  Although she hadn’t driven for a few years, it didn’t take long for her to get used to the small black SUV from the hire car company. They’d offered to drop it to her work, which made it easy to step outside with her small suitcase. She had packed simply. Two pairs of her favourite Jag dark denim jeans, five Country Road T-shirts, all black apart from one white, and trendy Wittner black walking shoes with white soles which doubled as work shoes when she swapped skirts and heels for pants.

  Now that she’d left the safe comfortable cocoon she’d wrapped around herself, she felt a persistent itch for more adventure. It was out of reach, between her shoulder blades, made frustratingly harder to ignore as she got out onto the open road. It stretched flat and wide in front of her, the white lines to her left and right the only things holding her in place.

  She wound down the window, yearning for the smell of the sea to fill her nostrils. According to Google maps she was still a fair way from the coast, and wouldn’t see it until she drove into Anglesea, so all she could smell were car fumes. As she wound up the window a memory of Annabelle hit her. She was in the back, Annabelle in the front passenger seat, Bessie driving.

  …

  ‘You finished crunching that apple yet?’ Bessie asked.

  ‘Nearly,’ Annabelle crunched on.

  ‘Jesus, can you crunch any louder?’ Annabelle’s apple eating technique was obviously getting on Bessie’s nerves as she negotiated strange suburban streets, trying to find their destination. Which Christine still couldn’t recall.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Annabelle laughed, flicking the core out the window with gusto. But the window was closed, and the core went splat. Christine might not be able to remember exactly what they were doing or where they were at the time, but she would never forget the hysteria that ensued. The three of them laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe, all over some tiny bits of apple stuck to the window.

  …

  Christine’s phone navigator spoke in her posh British voice, telling her to go straight through at the next roundabout. She was getting close to Bessie’s now. Would she be happy to see her? Or cross, because Christine had left so many of Bessie’s letters unanswered?

  She wound down her window again and there it was. The salty sea. She breathed deep greedy breaths of sea air and the crash of the ocean drowned out every thought. She stuck out her tongue, wondering if she would be able to catch a drop of salt on it. She giggled, of course she wouldn’t, silly!

  Her phone navigator spoke again, and she turned left. Bessie’s little cottage, which Christine had ogled over on Google street view, was as close to the ocean as you could get. It was isolated, tucked away from all the other houses at the end of a lonely road on the outskirts of town. On street view you could only see glimpses of a red tiled roof and whitewashed walls. Christine imagined it would be a replica of the terrace house in Kellett Street. A wicked thought ran through her mind. Maybe Bessie hadn’t really left her old life behind after all. Maybe she was running exactly the same business here in this sleepy little seaside town. She admonished herself for letting her imagination run away with her. Bessie had written in one of her early letters that she’d left the old life behind for good. If that’s what she said, that was the truth of it.

  She pulled up on the dark street, looking around for streetlights on this isolated edge of town. She also looked for cars but there were none, fuelling her unease. A rickety wire gate, the old-fashioned type you saw on farm houses with the little lift-up latch, squawked
her arrival when she had to give it an extra shove to get it open. The distant sound of small dogs barking was the second announcement of a visitor lurking in Bessie’s creepy, overgrown thick bushes and scribbly trees which shielded the house from the street. Christine’s heart banged loudly in her ears, drowning out the barking dogs. She whipped her head around when the bushes beside her rustled and smelt a pungent odour coming from her sweaty, stressed armpits.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she hissed through clenched teeth. The bush rustled again and Christine felt like bolting back to her car and driving to the safe, steady arms of Danny. She steeled herself, held her ground, and reached for her iPhone. Flicking from the bottom, she had her torch shining straight into the bushes within two seconds.

  ‘Now I can see you, but you can’t see me!’

  CHAPTER 7

  Bessie

  Bessie was sitting on her custom-made, bright yellow La-Z-Boy recliner with her iPad watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix. The story resonated with her; reminding her of her girls, those with a dark past, sometimes not even that. Just girls who’d gone off the rails, and could easily have ended up in a women’s prison like this fictional one.

  Christine’s past could catch up with her any day, Bessie’s too. She’d cared for so many over the years, but two who stuck most strongly in her mind were Christine and Annabelle. Dear, dear Annabelle. The mystery surrounding her disappearance haunted Bessie, especially around four am, when it was too late for the owls and too early for the morning birds. The roar of the ocean lulled her to sleep at night, but she was awake at the same time every morning, waiting for the sparrows to fart in the dark silence, where even the never-still ocean seemed to go silent. Try as she might, she couldn’t get murder out of her mind at this time, and a dark Kings Cross laneway transported her back twenty years, when she scooped up a young girl wearing a yellow shirt and brought her into her soft, squishy, oversized bosom. She wanted to be Annabelle’s protector from that moment, but did not realise the young girl’s fate had been sealed moments earlier by a lurking shadow behind a skip bin, watching the scene unfold.