‘Yes, she has a cast on it. Sammy said it gave her magic powers.’
I thought back to that morning, after I’d had difficulty getting Bella’s pink coat on with her cast. Tara had commented on my injured face but the kids had been excited about Bella’s cast. My cut cheek still hurt but it was healing. How could one part of my body be healing when the rest was disintegrating?
‘Sammy said …’ Zoe thought again, then spoke slowly, remembering: ‘Bella—is—not—safe.’
From the lips of an innocent four-year-old. My face stung as though I’d been slapped. Not safe. From me? From Marty? Or from someone else? In Bella’s first year, I’d been a bad mother, lost in a haze of grief, worn down by the media campaign against us and the hospital inquiry. Maybe Bella hadn’t been safe then. But now, now, I was a good mother to my beautiful Tinker Bell. How dare Sammy or Mel or some other faceless playgroup mum imply that I wasn’t!
Mel’s van was not parked outside her house but I hammered on the door anyway. I needed to know what Sammy had meant. Bella is not safe. Words overheard and repeated. I banged the door again. Without waiting for an answer this time, I hurried down the side, opening the gate to the backyard. No-one here. Peering in through the window to the back room, I could see a pile of suitcases and packing boxes. Was Mel still unpacking from five months ago?
Or packing to leave?
Sammy had always been kind to Bella. They laughed together and played make-believe. Bella was a princess trapped on a pirate ship and Sammy would rescue her. He never let Bella be the hero. They pretended the sandpit was the pirate ship and Sammy rode a tricycle as the rescue boat. Picturing them together, I tried to remember their conversations. Had he ever spoken about any other family members? Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents in Byron Bay? Months ago—it must have been his birthday—Sammy said: ‘Aunty Deedee gave me a horse ride.’
Bella had giggled. ‘I have a Deedee too!’
ACT POLICING ONLINE NEWS
MONDAY, 23 SEPTEMBER
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GIRL: Concern for welfare
ACT Policing and ACT Child and Youth Protection Services are seeking urgent public assistance to help locate an eight-year-old girl. Fox Hensley has been missing for a week.
Fox has curly dark hair and brown eyes. She was last seen wearing black tracksuit pants and a light blue long-sleeved polo shirt, with black sandshoes.
It is possible that Fox is travelling with her uncle, Ray Hensley, in a yellow Ford Falcon with ACT numberplates: YFR 336.
Fox was last sighted at Merrigang Primary School on Monday, 16 September. Concerns are held for her welfare.
Anyone who has seen Fox or who has any information about her whereabouts is urged to contact ACT Policing.
46
BRENDAN
‘BRENDAN, TWO POLICEMEN ARE HERE TO TALK TO YOU.’
His mother’s voice rang out from the front hallway. That same singsong voice she used when speaking to kids at her childcare centre. Brendan had forgotten that annoying trait. Tossing Snowboarder Magazine back on the bed, he checked himself in the bedroom mirror. A big square of white bandage still covered the stitches in the middle of his forehead. Smoothing down his t-shirt and jeans, he sent up a silent wish. Let this be over soon. He’d get the police onto a different topic, ask them about victim compensation. He’d already paid for his accommodation in the snow; the hotel wouldn’t refund it but maybe Jeff could take his place and pay him back. If he got some compo as well, he could double up. That’d be sweet.
In his parents’ good room, the two policemen stood waiting: older coppers with faces wrinkled from both the sun and the cold. These guys were New South Wales police—would they know about victim compensation in Canberra? Stupid how these things differed between states. It was the same with education: different systems when you stepped across state borders.
Brendan shook hands with the men, offered them a seat and then launched straight in.
‘Can you tell me if the protection order against Dr Parker has been filed?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to go back to Canberra until it’s in place.’
What would the doctor do if he found out that Brendan had picked up his teenage daughter in the car, taken her to a party and given her drugs? When Brendan had recognised Tory’s photo in the newspaper that morning, he’d nearly shat himself. And the frigging friend kept texting him; he had to get rid of that phone.
‘Mr Parrish, we can’t speak to you about the protection order,’ said the one with grey hair, Sergeant Simpson. ‘We’re here on a different matter. One of your students, Fox Hensley, has been reported missing.’
Oh fuck. Brendan shoved his hands under his thighs to stop them shaking.
‘That girl’s always running away. Have they checked with the local shops?’ The words poured out in a rush. ‘She usually goes up there to steal lollies and chips.’
‘Fox has been missing for a week, sir.’
Brendan screwed up his face, sending a spasm of pain across his forehead.
‘When did you last see her, Mr Parrish?’
Cold sweat prickled under his arms and around his groin. He focused on the wedding photo of Lynette and Trevor on the mantelpiece.
‘I’d … um … have to check my class roll to be certain but I know she was away for most of last week. I think she was there on Monday.’
Had any of the other teachers overheard him saying to Jeff: Happy times, my friend, the Tiny Terror has been away for four whole days!
‘And where did you last see her?’ Sergeant Simpson asked.
‘It would have been in the classroom. The children stack their chairs on the desk for the cleaners, then I say good afternoon while they’re standing up. They go outside, grab their bags and meet their parents.’
‘Did Fox meet her parents that afternoon?’
‘She catches the bus.’
The two policemen looked at each other and then back at Brendan.
‘She never got on the bus,’ said the other copper.
‘What do you mean?’ Brendan could hear his voice rising. ‘She disappeared between my classroom and the bus stop at the front of the school?’
‘Yes, sir, that seems to be the situation,’ Sergeant Simpson said. ‘Can you tell us about that Monday afternoon? What did you do after the children left the classroom?’
‘It would’ve been the same as any other Monday. I finish tidying up and then go to the staffroom for a meeting at three thirty.’ Brendan tried to recall last Monday. Before the missing toddler, before her crazy father had attacked him. ‘Probably I spoke to Julia Fleming—she’s a parent who’s always coming in to talk about her daughter’s reading.’
Brendan waited for the next question but the coppers didn’t speak. He squirmed in the silence. He had to mention Ray—it would seem strange if he didn’t.
‘Have the police spoken to her Uncle Ray?’ he asked. ‘Fox sometimes stays with him in Canberra rather than going back out to the farm.’
The last time Brendan had seen Ray Hensley was about ten days ago. Ray had handed over Fox’s library bag with the same book that had gone back and forth to school all year. Reckon her reading’s improving, the ponytailed man had joked. Then he’d smirked and slapped Brendan on the shoulder. A bonanza is coming up. Reckon I’ll get meself a new car. A fast one, just like yours. Brendan deliberately didn’t ask any questions of Ray. And the less the cops knew, the better.
‘Thank you,’ Sergeant Simpson said, writing it down in a notepad. ‘I’ll pass that on. Sergeant Caruso has asked for you to return to Canberra. One of his team will be here shortly to meet you.’
Brendan kept his hands under his thighs. Would the cops take him in right now if they saw how much he was trembling?
‘I was going to stay here for the week. Do I need to go back earlier?’
‘Yes, that would be advisable,’ the other detective said agreeably, as though Brendan had made the suggestion himself. ‘Obviously, your school wants to talk to you as well. Did you report Fo
x’s absence?’
Not as quickly as he should have. His girlfriend, Claire, had always said that Fox would affect his career; she didn’t know the half of it.
‘Right, well …’ Brendan stood up. ‘I’ll get packing.’
‘Senior Constable Smith will be here in a couple of hours to take you back.’
Brendan shook his head. Was he under arrest? Did he have to go in the police car?
‘Thanks but I can drive myself. I’ll need my car in Canberra.’
His mother was at the door, a deep frown creasing her forehead.
‘Brendan, love, your father and I can bring your car up next weekend.’
Fuck, he had to destroy the phone and the library bag.
47
LEXIE
THOUGHTS KEPT CRASHING AROUND IN MY BRAIN. STRANGE CONNECTIONS. The emails between Marty and Lorraine. Mel taking Sammy to see Marty. Julia and the schoolteacher. Deedee—could she also be related to Sammy? I knew nothing about Deirdre, our gardener, only that she was a Merrigang local, which meant she’d lived here at least twenty years. Surely our sweet busybody neighbour Janice would be able to tell me her address.
Janice’s front lawn—directly opposite our house—bore the brunt of the media intrusion: tyre marks left by the trucks; plastic lids from Coke bottles; cigarette butts tossed by the camera crews. Janice must be furious.
She was opening the door and taking me into her arms before I could even knock. We didn’t normally hug and it felt strange to be in such close contact.
Of course, she knew all about Deirdre.
‘She normally stays in the caretaker cottage up on the ridge but she moved out for a few weeks because of the kangaroo shooting.’
‘So where has she been living?’
‘Probably out on the farm. Deirdre doesn’t stay there for too long at a time—she thinks the ghost comes back to haunt her.’
My blank expression prompted her to continue.
‘Her dead husband. Deirdre had him arrested for domestic violence thirty years ago or so, back when most people kept quiet about it. After he was let off by the judge, he came home to teach his wife a lesson. No-one’s really sure what happened. The official line is that he thought he’d killed Deirdre and then shot himself. That nasty piece of work wasn’t mourned by anyone around here. Deirdre was in hospital for months.’
I had no idea that our gardener had been through so much. There were no visible scars. When Deirdre limped while carrying a bag of mulch, she’d said it was arthritis. Her persistent cough a few weeks ago had been put down to hay fever. Were they a result of her husband’s attack?
Deirdre had been in our garden the day that Bella broke her wrist. Had she seen what happened? Had she blamed me? Or Marty?
That day, the alarm had buzzed at 5.45 am and Marty was showered and gone by quarter past six. He’d kissed my forehead and said nothing about Archie’s birthday. He should have agreed to come with me to Newcastle on the weekend, take flowers to the grave and give Bella a red balloon for her baby brother.
Five years old today.
Kindergarten age. But Archie never would have started school. Sometimes, when we were leaving playgroup, I saw the kindy boys dashing around the school playground. Kicking a soccer ball. Dangling on the monkey bars. Rumbling, wrestling, play fighting. Constantly moving their strong bodies. My beautiful boy would never have been one of them.
At 7 am, Bella had snuggled into bed with me. She plumped the pillows around her, then disappeared under the covers.
‘Come down here, Mummy,’ she said, her muffled voice rising from the depths of the doona. ‘Lulu has found some trolls in the cave. They’re scary. Ooohhhhh. They want to eat her.’
Marty had been reading ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’ to her last night. She’d been fascinated—and terrified—by the troll under the bridge. I tried to shut out the thoughts of those other trolls: the online trolls who had no understanding of our pain.
Phoebe had rung at nine and asked what we’d planned for the day.
Instead of talking about Archie, I told her about playgroup. It was getting easier week by week; I was feeling more accepted. Even though Mel had joined after me, they’d taken to her straight away. Now she was looking after their kids. She’d offered to care for Bella, too. God, to be responsible for someone else’s child—I shivered.
‘I told you that I’d had a breakthrough, didn’t I?’
I’d trusted the playgroup mums to look after Bella while I walked to the supermarket.
‘Yeah, how was Bella when you got back?’
‘Fine. She didn’t even seem to notice I’d gone.’
Before Phoebe hung up, she had made a suggestion. ‘Why don’t you and Bella bake a cake today?’
Milk, flour, eggs. I put the ingredients out on the benchtop.
‘Are we making a cake for my birfday?’ Bella had asked.
‘No, sweetie.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Today is Archie’s birthday.’
‘My fairy brother.’ She held her arms up for me to lift her onto the high stool. ‘How is he going to eat it?’
‘We’ll have to eat it for him.’
‘Poor Archie. Can we make choc-o-late? I want choc-o-late for my cake, too.’
The tin of cocoa was next to the half-full bottle of red wine from last night. Marty and I had finished one bottle; then, when he’d gone upstairs to get ready for bed, I’d opened another.
‘Where is my fairy brother? Is he in heaven with Rascal?’
‘I’m sure they’re playing together right now.’
It was an image which made me smile: Archie playing with Bella’s bunny rabbit. He would have loved the soft touch of her fur. One afternoon, a few months ago, Bella and I had gone to lock Rascal back in his hutch but we’d been too late. Even though it was only four thirty, the fox had come. I assumed it was a fox or a wild dog. Rascal’s head was gone, his neck a mess of blood and sinew.
‘Did Archie’s head come off too?’
My fingers shook and the flour spilt onto the floor.
‘No, darling.’
‘But why did he die if he has a head?’
‘It was his inside organs—the ones that keep our bodies going.’ I tried to explain in a way she would understand. ‘The lungs that help us breathe; the heart that pumps our blood.’
She took the wooden spoon from me and stood up on her stool. The stool wobbled and I grabbed it, grabbed her and held her tight.
‘When will I die?’ she asked. ‘Am I next?’
‘Oh Tinker Bell, you won’t die until you’re very, very, very old.’
‘How old?’
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Archie; I wasn’t feeling strong enough for this. I tried to distract her.
‘Shall we decorate the cake with hundreds and thousands?’
‘Mummy!’ That determined face looked up at me. ‘HOW OLD?’
‘One hundred and—’
At that moment, Bella had spotted Deirdre in the back garden.
‘Deedee! I want to see Deedee.’
I’d forgotten she was coming today, of all days. A fork in one hand, wearing green overalls, a smiling face crowned by cropped white hair. Cheerful and weather-beaten. I could imagine her on TV presenting a gardening show, she was so down to earth. Ha, ‘down to earth’: I’d have to remember that pun for Marty.
While Bella went outside to the garden, I popped the cake in the oven. As I was putting away the flour and cocoa, my hand brushed against the red wine. Ignore it. Instead, I switched on the TV. The news was on. Before I could change it to ABC Kids, the report cut to an interview. Nurse Natalie.
‘Life is sacred—all life. It is not up to the medical profession to decide who should die. That’s legalised murder. We will be at Parliament House next week, fighting against this legislation as if our lives depended on it—as well they might.’
In an instant, I was taken back to the hospital inquiry. Pregnant, grieving, being attacked on every side. I’d been asked to
come in and discuss Archie’s postnatal care. Nurse Natalie was at the front entrance, egging on an angry mob. Someone involved in the inquiry had told her our meeting times and, whenever we arrived, she was waiting for us. Marty tried to hurry me along as the crowd chanted at us: ‘You killed your son!’ A grey-haired man, the veins bulging in his neck, had thrown red paint at me. It oozed down my hair and neck, into the top of my shirt. When I touched it, I thought it was blood.
Stabbing at the remote, I made Nurse Natalie disappear from my screen.
Just a small glass. To take the edge off.
I poured it into a mug, and guzzled the first mouthful. And then another. The antidepressant made me so tired. Bella had almost given up her daytime naps, but some days I’d insist she have a rest so I could close my eyes too. Last week, I’d promised myself that I’d find a doctor and discuss other options. But not today. Today I needed the oblivion.
The wine was having no effect. I refilled the mug and drained it …
I was woken by a beeping noise. Why wouldn’t someone turn it off?
‘Mummy, the cake is ready. It’s Archie’s birfday.’
I opened my eyes and looked up from the couch. Archie was standing in front of me, his face obscured by a soft soccer ball. But how could that be?
The ball moved and another face appeared. Bella.
‘Where’d you get that?’ I snapped at her.
‘In Archie’s room.’
‘What were you doing in there?’
Bella frowned at me and stepped backwards.
‘I was with you, Mummy. We were looking at the toys.’
Had I been in Archie’s room with Bella? No, I was too fragile today. I wouldn’t have gone in there. Struggling up from the couch, I tried to recall the morning. We’d been making a cake. I prised the soccer ball from her hands and walked down the hall, pushed open the door of ‘his room’. The blueness of the room made my throat tight. I must have sat in here earlier, staring at the photos, caressing the teddy. Balancing the ball on the shelf, I spun around and shut the door again.
‘You’re not allowed to play in there.’
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