by Wendy James
‘Any information would be valuable to us at this point Mrs Carter. We have to talk to your daughter – you never know what a child hears or sees. Karen might have confided in her.’
‘She wouldn’t tell her anything. I know.’
‘Mrs Carter. Please.’
‘Oh, if you really think it will help.’ Her mother shrugs. ‘Susy. Susy darling, will you come over here and talk to the police lady. She just wants to ask you few questions. About Karen.’
The policewoman squats down beside the child and smiles. At this level she seems very tall to Susan, taller than her father, and her dark hair is cut short like a man’s. But even in the dim light, and through the fug of cigarettes, Susan can tell that she has a kind smile. She holds out her hand. ‘Come on sweetheart.’
Susan puts down her doll and reaches out. The woman pulls her up gently. ‘How about we go and sit over on the lounge, Susy. You might be more comfortable there.’
The child sits right in the middle of the big lounge. Her feet dangle, don’t touch the ground, and she bangs her heels against the bottom of the chair. The policewoman sits close beside her. Her skirt rides up a little when she crosses her legs, flesh coloured stockings wrinkling a little around her knees.
‘It’s a little bit scary, isn’t it – all these policemen? I know I’d think it was pretty scary if I were you, but don’t worry, sweetheart, everything’ll be okay.’ She takes the child’s hand again. The policewoman has short bitten-down nails – but her hands are soft and warm. ‘Your big sister’s probably just gone to a friend’s place without telling anyone. Maybe it’s a friend your mother doesn’t know.’
Susan says nothing, looks down. Drums her heels nervously.
‘Perhaps Karen has a friend that you know, Susy? Maybe she’s got a new friend, someone she hasn’t had time to introduce to your mum? Maybe it’s a boy?’
The child says nothing. Gazes at the thick black belt the police woman wears around her waist, and the wooden handle – the gun – pressing in tightly under her ribs.
‘It’s okay sweetheart. You can say. Karen won’t get into any trouble. We just need to make sure she’s safe. Susy?’
‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend,’ the child speaks at last.
‘No?’
‘She’s never going to get married. She told me that. She doesn’t even like boys.’
‘Oh?’
‘Me and Karen are going to get a big house far away from Mum and Dad and we’re going to get a little puppy. Karen said I could.’
‘That sounds like fun. Doesn’t Karen like living here, then?’ Her voice is very deep, and she’s speaking so quietly that it’s almost a growl. ‘Does she fight with Mummy and Daddy?’
‘My dad’s not her daddy, you know. We’ve got the same mum, but her dad’s dead.’
‘Yes. Your Mum explained that, Susy. Does Karen fight with your dad?’
‘Daddy’s away a lot. He’s a traveller. That’s why he’s not here now.’
‘He’ll be home soon, Susy. We called him this morning. He’s on his way. Do Karen and your mum fight, sweetheart?’
‘Karen said that when we got the puppy, it would be mine mostly. At least three-quarters mine. She said I could name it. But I’m still thinking what. I really like Scruffy, but I haven’t decided yet.’
Ed
Ed stretches before he runs. Breathes in through his nose. Feels the air fill his lungs, pushes it down, down, down, all the way to his belly. Holds for ten. Then breathes out through the mouth. Slowly, slowly. Aaaaahhhh.
He takes it gently this morning, starts off walking, then eases into a jog halfway down the beach. He’s feeling a little, not unwell, but low in energy, out of sorts. Susan’s news of the night before has put him into something of a spin. He is simultaneously aggrieved (he’d made plans, who wouldn’t? – pay off the mortgage, buy a new car, an investment property, take an overseas holiday), anxious and amazed. He had wanted to really talk to Susan about it last night – to gauge her response, find out what she expects, how she feels, what she thinks he should be doing, how he should be feeling – but after the initial (and, it must be said, rather blunt) revelation, Susan took herself off to bed, half-pissed, and by the time Ed followed her she was deeply and unrouseably (he tried nudging, tickling, groping, whispering in her ear) asleep. And the mornings – with the mad rush to get ready for work and school – lack both time and opportunity for that sort of discussion. He doesn’t (how can he with so little information?), doesn’t know what to think, what to make of it.
Ed has read somewhere that many successful people – those who are successful in a spiritual and emotional as well as material sense – conduct what might be termed a ‘stocktake of the self’ in times of stress or uncertainty. They look at themselves objectively, dispassionately identify what they feel to be their most significant attributes, their belief systems, their weaknesses and strengths. This supposedly grounds them somehow, allows them to face most situations with a positive and creative attitude, encourages them to move forward in a positive manner – to evolve emotionally. He has read that it is helpful to keep typed inventories of these attributes, which can then be pinned above desks and beds, stored in glove boxes and briefcases, as a type of ready reference, affirmations that can be re-assimilated in moments of self-doubt. Though Ed has never actually taken the time to type out such a list (he can’t quite bring himself to expose himself – face himself – so literally, so permanently) he has frequently engaged in a slightly less rigorous mental stocktake. He undertakes just such an examination now, as he jogs, in the hope that this, in combination with aerobic exercise, will help clear his mind.
Ed (he finds that use of the third person gives him access to a starker objectivity) is a partner in a family business, Middleton and Sons, a kitchen design and manufacturing company. His brother Derek runs the factory (established by their father thirty years ago) while Ed handles designs, sales and marketing. Ed loves the business passionately, is committed to providing what their advertising claims they provide: An Executive Quality Product, Teamed with Superior Family-Oriented Design Concept and Comprehensive Project Management. After more than a decade of slog, a not insignificant level of uncertainty, of risk, the anticipated return is in sight. The business plan is running smoothly – better than smoothly – and goals have been achieved far in excess of expectations. Since their father’s recent retirement Ed and Derek have finally established a committed and congenial team. Ed has achieved a satisfactory – if not perfect – work/life balance: usually restricting himself to working no more than a hundred-hour fortnight. Ed runs two prestige cars, has a not-outrageous mortgage, a comfortable home, an efficient secretary, and a more than substantial pay-packet.
His substantial pay-packet means that he is able to provide for his family single-handedly, without having to rely – as so many of his friends and colleagues do – on a second income. His wife Susan, a nurse, works only one part-time day a week. The decision to postpone her career has been her own, but there’s no doubt it pleases Ed that she has chosen to stay home, pleases him that his children, unlike the children of so many of his colleagues and friends, have the security and stability that only hands-on, full-time parental care can provide.
He is finding it difficult to get the correct order, the right emphasis. He is describing the external detail, not the essential Ed. And it is the essential Ed that he needs. It may be that the jolting rhythm of his jogging is interfering with the process. He slows right down, moves over to the soft sand, walks. Starts again. Begins with the basics.
Ed loves his wife. He loves his kids. He loves his work. He loves the ocean.
He is respected by his employees and his colleagues. He has many friends. He would class a number of his employees as friends.
He is, in general, a responsible man. He would even say a moral ma
n. (Though his morality does not extend to being judgemental – he has no problems with abortion, recreational drug-taking or soft-porn, for instance.) As far as he is aware he has never committed an illegal act, has never even been issued with a speeding fine. He never speeds. This is not because he is afraid of being caught, or not only, but because he believes in law and order. A civil society.
He also believes in market forces – though in the face of each new financial crisis he is wondering whether he needs to rethink some of his assumptions.
‘No Man is an Island.’ If Ed had to sum up his guiding philosophy, his take on life, that line would more or less encapsulate all that he feels most deeply. It goes without saying that, unlike the originator of this quote – some old white guy, no doubt – he’d include women. In fact, he’d put women first: No Woman or Man is an Island.
It is Ed’s belief that in this one simple phrase the principles of the marketplace and any and all humanitarian concerns have been happily synthesised.
Ed likes to read. He’s never been that strong on novels (though he read and quite enjoyed Hemingway and Conrad in high school), can never quite get the point, but is very keen on biographies (sporting figures, business people, rock stars – never politicians) and instructional books. Marketing manuals and guides to self-improvement. Not that there’s really anything terribly wrong with him – nothing that really needs improving. He has no deep-seated hang-ups, no serious problems with his parents, his self-esteem, his sexual, emotional or work relationships. He’s just keen to fulfil his potential.
In the last state election he voted for an independent. In the last federal election he voted for the Labor party. Naturally.
His name is Edward, but he prefers Ed.
He believes in spending quality time with his children. But is committed, too, to the ideal of quantity.
He believes that the family is the mainstay of the community.
He believes that men and women are different but equal.
He is heterosexual and monogamous but this is not an issue, not a judgement of other choices, other preferences.
He is what other people describe as a good bloke.
He never misses his shout.
He is even tempered; easygoing.
He is a happy man.
He looks at his watch. It is seven o’clock and he has three more lengths of the beach to go. He hasn’t even started on his negative points yet, but already his head is clear, he feels energised, his sense of purpose has returned. He knows who he is. He starts jogging again. Concentrates on his legs, his breathing. His head is clear but he can’t think now. He has to run.
Susan
This is her first-ever visit to Linda Carmichael’s house. Linda is not a particular buddy, is not even in Susan’s class, but Linda’s sister, Judy, was one of Karen’s friends, and so Mrs Carmichael has offered to have Susan for the afternoon, is eager to help. Since Karen’s disappearance six months ago Susan has spent afternoons and weekends with various friends, has spent very little time at home. Her mother seems to have barely moved since that night, sits hunched and smoking all day, waiting for the phone to ring, the key to turn in the front door. Susan’s father, who has been given a temporary job in head office – just until things at home are resolved – explains that her mother isn’t well, that she’ll be better soon, but Susan’s not too worried anyway. She likes visiting.
Linda lives too far from the school to walk home, so Mrs Carmichael collects the girls in her car, a big maroon station wagon. Susan follows Linda’s lead and clambers over the back seat into the spacious luggage compartment, though she knows that her father, who is tediously strict about seatbelts, would disapprove.
‘You’re really my best friend, y’know,’ Linda confides as her mother starts the car. At lunchtime Linda had told Susan to get lost, had said in her loudest voice that she hated Susan and didn’t know why her stupid mother had invited her over anyway.
Still, Susan responds instantly, eagerly: ‘You’re my best friend too, Linda.’ Linda is simultaneously the most feared and most admired girl in third grade: she is the junior girls sports captain, she has been to Luna Park three times, she has seen Jaws and The Towering Inferno, and she has (she boasts) ten new Barbies with an entire suitcase full of extra clothes – as well as the latest Ken doll. Susan has one black-haired Sindy. Her single outfit, which is only the one she came in, is coming dangerously apart at the seams. ‘You’re my bestest bestest friend.’
Linda shares a bedroom with her younger sister, Tracy, who has been banished to the backyard for the afternoon. Susan is surprised that other than the additional bed this bedroom is not so very different to her own. She had expected something else, something richer, more exotic. But it’s only the usual: white painted furniture, faded chenille bedspreads, baby-print curtains, a battered desk and bookcase. There’s a big shag pile mat in the centre of the lino floor and the two girls sit cross-legged, with a glass of milk and buttered pikelets, and prepare to play some serious Barbie games.
Linda scrabbles around in her wardrobe and finally produces a battered brown cardboard suitcase. It’s a small port; designed for preschoolers. Linda unclips it and tips the contents all over the carpet. A plastic boot lands on Susan’s pikelet. Linda laughs. Susan counts the dolls. There are only six Barbies, not ten, and they are all much older than Susan’s Sindy. There is no Ken: instead, one of the dolls has hacked-off hair and a drawn-on moustache. The clothes are sad looking, too, homemade and old-fashioned.
‘These were Judy’s,’ Linda tells her. ‘My big sister. She’s too old to play with them now.’ Not one of the shoes makes a pair.
The girls play intensely for an hour or so, stage high-pitched Barbie battles and the occasional passionate love scene, though Susan never really accepts the moustachioed Barbie as Ken. Then: ‘I’ll show you something,’ Linda whispers. She takes Susan’s hand and they tiptoe in their stockinged feet along the hallway, stop halfway up in front of a closed door. Linda turns the doorknob slowly, pushes the door open carefully, quietly. She steps inside and pulls Susan after her, closes the door. They lean against it, half giggling, half panting. ‘This is Judy’s room,’ she says. ‘I’m not really allowed to go in here, but I thought you’d like to see it.’
Judy’s room satisfies all Susan’s expectations. It’s a small room, and mysteriously dark – like a secret cavern. Instead of a proper bed, a few mattresses are piled up lengthways along one wall to make a lounge. The walls are covered in posters, not the usual bright images of ABBA and the Bay City Rollers, or the cute, furry animals that Susan is familiar with from her own sister’s room, but strange signs and symbols, and some black and white shots of grimy looking men with guitars, women in leather. There is a desk against one wall – it is an old desk, made of some dark timber and has a roll-down top.
‘Judy keeps it locked, and wears the key on a chain round her neck,’ Linda whispers, wide-eyed. ‘I’ve never ever seen inside it. Or maybe once when I was a baby, but I can’t actually remember that.’
Books are stacked in piles everywhere, and there’s a guitar in one corner. The room smells strange, not the familiar comforting Pine O Cleen and Omo smell of the rest of the house, but sweet and slightly musty.
Linda sits on the lounge bed, pats the space beside her. ‘Come on. I’ll show you something.’ She tugs at the fabric covering the seat, pulls a section of it loose. Holds it up close to their faces. The material is coarsely woven, scratchy looking, a jumble of colours and patterns. ‘Look at this with your eyes half closed,’ she says. ‘Make it go all blurry.’ Susan screws up her eyes and the jumbles miraculously resolve into silvery elephants, shimmering tigers.
‘Wow.’ Now she is impressed. ‘And look,’ says Linda, clutching a small satiny cushion. ‘Look at this.’ The cushions have mirrors no big
ger than a fingernail sewn into tiny pockets. ‘They’re real mirrors,’ Linda says. ‘Real glass.’
‘Wow.’ Susan is stuck for words.
‘Judy wants to lock the door even when she isn’t here,’ says Linda, ‘only Mum won’t let her. She’s allowed to lock it when her friends come, but. Except when it’s David, her boyfriend – and then they have to stay in the lounge room at all times, Mum says.’ She opens her eyes wide. ‘That’s so they can’t do it.’
Susan doesn’t ask what it is, doesn’t want to reveal her ignorance, instead searches for something to compare. ‘I’m not allowed in my sister’s room either,’ she says finally. ‘My sister’s missing and the police can’t let us in because it’s...’ she pauses, relishing the big, important sounding word, ‘evidence.’ This is no longer true, but that doesn’t matter, it has the desired effect.
‘My mum says I’m not s’posed to talk about it.’ Linda is suddenly far less certain.
‘It’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m used to it now.’ Susan smiles graciously.
‘My sister says your sister’s probably been murdered, that she’s probably been adducted and cut up into hundreds of pieces with a big knife.’
Susan swallows. ‘She might’ve been adducted and murdered, but I think she’ll be home soon. Next week probably.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, that’s what the police say.’
‘You’re lucky, actually. Big sisters are a pain. I wish Judy would disappear.’ Linda says this carelessly, her interest rapidly waning. ‘Now, let’s play ABBA.’ She jumps off the seat noisily, then remembers where she is. Tiptoes to the door. The two girls creep back down the hallway. ‘You can be the blonde one,’ Linda offers. Susan accepts without comment: she is growing used to such generosity.