I try not to breathe as his fingers slither around the neck of my camisole, stopping to caress the fluttering pulse in my throat. They skim the top of my breasts and he moistens them with blood then draws gentle circles on my skin. My nipples harden; he smiles. The tip of one finger dips down and presses the left one, lightly. Nausea churns in my stomach. He withdraws his hand, slowly licks his finger and runs his tongue along his lower lip, smiling. Blood is seeping into the woollen stitching of his balaclava.
‘Let me go…please, let me go.’ Begging does not come easily to me.
‘No way. You’re our tickets to riches, Ally,’ he whispers. ‘You’re not going anywhere until we get paid for you, but if you persist on fighting, we’ll have to drug you again.’ He moves to force me against the wall. I whip my knee up, but he twists his body sideways and it bounces harmlessly off his thigh. ‘I can think of something better than drugs to calm you, sweetheart.’ He chuckles and thrusts his hips at me. His crotch bulges, Scarpia to my Tosca. I understand that any further resistance will encourage him in ways I don’t want to think about.
‘Sweetheart, there’s no way you’re going anywhere until your father pays the ransom.’
What? ‘My father’s dead. You’ve mistaken me for someone else!’ Relief shoots through me. They’ve got the wrong person. ‘You can let me go. I promise I won’t tell—’ I surge forward, but he pushes me back against the wall.
‘Oh no, he didn’t die, Ally Carpenter. He’s very much alive! I’m not going to tell you his name, but you better hope he does care what happens to you, or …’ He pulls the knife out of a sheath on his belt and carefully runs his tongue along the flat side. I match him stare for stare. His teeth flashing in the slit of the balaclava match the twinkle in his eyes. Perspiration pours down my forehead onto my cheeks. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
‘We have a lot of persuasion to send him.’ He slowly runs the flat of the blade over my earlobe. ‘Do you need this?’
Nooooo…
Before I can fully comprehend what he has said, the door swings back and the woman comes in with food, a plastic water bottle and a towel. Now she’s wearing a blue scarf over the lower half of her face. She dumps a bottle of water on the floor and tosses a towel onto the stretcher. The ferocious expression in her hazel eyes both chills and confuses me. There’s something very personal in the hatred emanating from her. Why?
She slips out of the door and in seconds, returns with a mop and bucket to clean the mess on the floor. If I can get to the broom… he blocks my access, legs splayed and hands on hips as he rocks backward and forward—Action Man.
Run for it! Now. His eyes beg me to try something. He rises on the balls of his feet, like a hunting dog ready for the chase and waggles his finger at me. Naughty, naughty. I want to punch him in the face. Claw his eyes out.
Without a word, he backs out the door, still smiling and slams it shut. The key turns in the lock, ice forms in the pit of my stomach. How many kidnap victims live to tell the tale? I don’t want to know. Tremors ripple through me as I struggle to drag breath into my lungs. Blood drops off my chin onto my clothes. Stooping like an old woman, I pick up the thin towel to wipe my face.
My unknown father, who is apparently very much alive, has to pay a ransom. ‘Oh, no he didn’t die, Ally.’ The memory of Scarpia’s throaty drawl ricochets through my brain. Scarpia, the evil cop in Verdi’s Tosca, but this one’s no policeman.
I need to get my head around this. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, reaching for the water bottle, my mother’s words returning loud and clear: ‘He died before we could be married, Ally. It was a terrible time. I was only eight weeks pregnant with you.’
The reality of death kicked in when I was about seven. Our cat died and I cried for days, not only for the cat but because I finally understood that he couldn’t ever come back and purr in my arms. And my dad was dead too. He’d be all swollen and smelly like the cat when we found him after he went missing for days. My ten year-old voice rises into my mind: ‘I wish I had a dad. Everyone else does. Why don’t you get married again?’
Another memory surfaces, of packing a satchel with essential items—doll and clothes, bananas, a bottle of water—and marching down to the wharf, where I planned to catch the ferry across to the mainland and find a father. Any reasonable, kind man would do. The ferry master refused to take me and asked the postman to cart me home. Mother was not best pleased.
I may be an adult, but my heart still aches for a father who would come to my concerts, clap proudly at the wrong places and tell everyone around him, ‘That’s my daughter.’ Just a dad who loves me. A grainy photo lives in my wallet, a pleasant-faced man with mid-brown hair, standing beside a sports car. The accident happened when he was coming home from a rugby match, mum said. Heartbroken, she had come back to Australia and given birth to me seven months later. He was an only child and so were his parents, which put paid to my dreams of extended family. ‘Leave well enough alone, Ally, the whole thing is best forgotten,’ she’d commanded.
Bloody hell, it was all lies, lies and more lies. Has she deliberately kept me from my father? Or was that his choice? I know that man is telling the truth, because they wouldn’t commit this monstrous crime unless there was a reasonable expectation of success. Excitement flickers deep inside me. My father isn’t dead; Robert Parker is still alive. He must be in Australia, or at least nearby. Maybe in New Zealand? But what if he doesn’t believe them? Tells them to get stuffed? If he does…no, don’t go there.
I force the fear to the back of my mind and set to work, wetting a corner of the towel to dab the blood from my sore nose. My clothes are clammy. My stomach won’t let me ignore the food, a piece of bread and butter, a small slice of cold meat cut into pieces, a tomato, and a spoonful of potato salad. At least The Cow is feeding me.
Did mother tell the wrong person who my father is? But who? Georgie? Aunt Rosalind? Even Pam? The thought slithers into my mind that one of these beloved women who comprise the only family I have may actually be involved. But I would have trusted them with my life. You might have to, Ally.
CHAPTER 5
Images of a Lost Child
Eloise Carpenter
Saturday: 3.00pm.
I was re-painting the laundry and had no premonition that anything was wrong when the telephone rang. My goddaughter, Pamela, spoke so fast I couldn’t make sense of anything she said. ‘Darling, slow down. Take a deep breath and start again.’
‘Ally’s missing and the police have been called in!’ Fear turned her voice shrill, starting my heart pounding. I was momentarily unable to reply.
‘Aunt Eloise? Are you still there?’ Pam has called me “Aunt” since she learned to talk.
‘Yes, yes. Give me a moment.’ Dear God. The room felt drained of oxygen, my hands trembled so violently that I could barely hold the receiver. Breathe. Somehow I pulled myself together, forcing myself to speak calmly.
‘What’s this about a night club? Pam, slow down and tell me again.’
She repeated the message.
‘What do the police say?’
‘They’re looking for her already because Sir James McPherson got on to some bigwig in the police force straightaway and threw his weight around.’
Thank God! I read somewhere that you couldn’t report a person as missing until a certain time elapsed. My mind began to squirrel around the logistics of travelling so late in the day. ‘I’m coming down to Brisbane, Pam. I hope to God Georgie’s home.’
‘Aunt Eloise, can you catch a flight to Brisbane? Or could you ask mum to drive you down?’ Pam must be frightened; she knows how flying affects me.
I knew she would rather have her mother cope with me. ‘Your mother’s away for a couple of days and I don’t know anyone else who’d be free at short notice,’ I replied. I’m afraid of flying to the point where I am aviaphobic, but “needs must.”
‘I’ll have to try and get a flight. But it might need to be the
bus. It’s so late…’
‘Of course, Aunt Eloise. Let me know the ETA and where, so I can meet you.’
I slumped into a chair, incoherent thoughts skittering through my brain. Better make a list…ring Johnny Morse and see if he can take me to the mainland on his water taxi, ring Georgie and ask her to come over. She’ll feed the animals, but first of all, ring the airline. No, ring Georgie first and ask her to ring the airline. Or should I just get onto the night bus? No, ring Johnny first and find out if he can take me—no, have to ring Georgie. Oh my God, Ally. Ring Ally.
Surely her mobile…she would answer? I had to check for myself that she was not available to answer her phone. I hit the speed dial and listened as the mobile on the other end rang six times. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought she answered, but it was message bank.
My closest friend and Ally’s godmother, Georgie, arrived within ten minutes of my frantic phone call. She made me a hot drink into which she put her panacea for all ills, a heavy slug of whisky. I sipped while she organised the island taxi driver to take me to the mainland.
‘Try for a seat on the overnight bus.’
‘Are you sure? I thought in this case you might find it would be better to fly. They might bump someone.’ My stomach did a slow roll and prickles of perspiration broke out over my body. I shook my head. ‘Okay, I’ll try the buslines.’
Georgie booked me a seat on the overnight coach and rang Pam to advise arrival time. She also promised to feed the animals and look after the house.
We made the bus in plenty of time. A gibbering wreck had nothing on me as I stuffed my handbag, with its cargo of precious documents, into the back pocket of the seat in front of me, then turned my mobile phone onto vibrate. I could not entertain the notion that Ally would, or could not, ring back.
Determined to retain my composure, I switched off the overhead light and pulled my travel rug up to cover my shoulders. My fellow passengers settled at odd angles, like abandoned puppets. The driver hunched over the wheel, occasionally glancing into the rear vision mirror as though to check we were all on our best behaviour.
Ally disappearing the night before a major concert performance? No way. She’d never do something as irresponsible. But what if a pervert had taken her? What if.
Images of parents in television dramas viewing a sheet-draped body rammed into my mind. ‘Yes, that’s my daughter.’ ‘Yes, that’s my daughter…’ ‘Yes, that’s my daughter.’ Sometimes, the mother just—screamed.
No. No. I refused to believe it would happen to us, only someone else. Ally’s mobile was her diary, her office. I groped my phone out of its pouch, shielded the glowing screen and hit speed dial. Again, Ally’s sweet voice asked me to leave a message. ‘Ring me. Mum.’
I slumped down in my seat, willing myself not to keep phoning. I’d fill the thing up at this rate and then I wouldn’t be able to hear her voice at all. When she was a teenager, Ally never neglected to call me or send a message if she thought she would be late home or wanted to sleep over at a friend’s place. Even when we rowed, she always rang and snapped where she would be. She uses Skype at least once a week. ‘Mum, I’m off to Italy tomorrow, staying at… ‘or ‘Mum, guess what? I’ll be in Moscow next Thursday!’ But not this time. Dear God, please, please, keep her safe.
The bus stopped and started countless times to pick up and set down travellers. Each time I jerked awake, disoriented and exhausted, to hear the driver stowing luggage under the bus, the slam of the locker door and the hiss of the main door closing. Boarding passengers scuffled past, bumping me with their wanted-on-voyage bags. I wanted to scream, ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake. Stop stuffing around!’
I turned on my reading light and peered at my watch. 4.00 a.m. Two hours to go. The temptation to try Ally’s mobile again was overwhelming, but I restrained myself.
Images of the past slid into my brain, like old newsreels looped to repeat themselves for an ever-changing audience. Ally, looking angelic at church with a pet rat peering through her waterfall of hair, scaring the living daylights out of the uptight Women’s Guild. That prank cost me a couple of sponge cakes for their next morning tea. Ally going to school for the first time, lip wobbling, eyes filling, the uniform so long that the hem sagged past her knees because I needed her to grow into the larger size. Georgie scolded me and I shortened it pretty quickly.
My newborn, squashed, red and screaming under a tuft of red Mohawk, her delicate infant neck warm and talcumed, snuffling like a baby hedgehog as she burrowed for my breast. What if the worst… no, don’t go there. Get yourself together, Eloise. Years of what might have been fell away, my determination to put my past behind me crumbled by terrifying images of my missing daughter. The past might be about to rise up and beat me about the head with an emotional bullwhip.
In my shy way I’d craved adventure and hoped to find some in England in1983. Flush with money inherited from my father, I headed overseas in search of self-confidence and romance. After a few months and a couple of false starts, I settled into digs with two other girls, and obtained a job at Cambridge University in England. My flatmates were noisy and outgoing in sharp contrast to my tongue-tied demeanour when meeting people for the first time. However, a number of parties after we’d been threatened with eviction, I’d found self-confidence. It was time to find romance.
I met the one whom I thought my soul mate at the Fort St George, a pub much patronised by students. Stuffed into a corner seat in The Snug, I listened to the roar of conversation all around me, while hiding from a particularly persistent youth who thought my life would be greatly enhanced by his ardour. Eager to reach the restroom without my admirer following me, I tripped over a pair of highly polished riding boots protruding from the next table and landed on the floor. Their owner bent and gallantly lifted me to my feet. I looked into his twinkling blue eyes framed with burnished brown hair and fell madly in lust.
‘Women don’t usually fall so hard for me!’ he said, ‘I need to make the most of this.’
‘In your dreams,’ I replied, emboldened by his appreciative gaze and shot full of newfound confidence. He let me go and I could feel his eyes on me as I sidled through the throng. He waylaid me on my way back to the table and that was the beginning of the most wonderful time in my life—until it ended in heartbreak and humiliation.
For the first time in years, I allow the memories of the six glorious months during which he cherished me in every way an average looking Australian farm girl could only dream of. When I let my guard down and became a vulnerable fool as ninety percent of women do at sometime in their life. If they’re telling the truth, that is. How I managed to keep my job with my mind all over the place, I’ll never know. His love gave me the confidence to blossom and courage to be myself, except around his family and friends, who regarded me as NLU, not like us.
James came from a long line of upper crust gentlemen who, somewhere along the way, had sullied their class by becoming manufacturing stalwarts. A comparatively recent ancestor gambled away most of the family shekels in the 1860’s, so his heir was forced to-God forbid-go into trade. Having had to suck it up, as Ally would have said, they made a fortune and played aristocrats when it suited them. A hereditary peerage helped considerably. The pressure for James to conform by entering the family business as his brother Peter had, was immense. Failing that, as the second son, one of the forces would be a suitable occupation.
By the time I met him he had almost finished a degree in economics, but secretly yearned to take music at Trinity College. I loved to listen to him play the piano—Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn—the names at that time unfamiliar, but which tripped from Ally’s tongue every day.
Memories of the morning after my pregnancy was confirmed loom in my mind. James had gone on an extensive trip to Europe, reluctantly standing in for his father on business for his family’s firm which manufactured agricultural tools. We argued the night before he left when I urged him to confront his parents with his plans for a musical c
areer.
‘Eloise, it’s not the right time. They need me to do this trip for them now.’
‘But James, this won’t be just one time. There’ll be another, then another—’
Was I the only one who could see the family sucking him inexorably into the course they’d set for him? This three week trip was the thin end of the wedge. Guilty, because he would be throwing back the support given by his father, he felt he owed them some time. ‘Back off, El, it’s none of your affair. They’re my parents and I have to handle this my way. It’s the least I can do,’ he’d snapped. I knew by the fleeting kiss which he had given me as he left, that he was still angry.
Yes, I had been pushy, but I thought we were close enough for me to show how I felt. Stupid, stupid. Big mistake. I sank into the depths of despair, waiting for a letter, even a postcard over the next ten days. The phone in our flat was out of order so he couldn’t have called me. At that time, only a few people had mobile phones, and what they did have were the size of bricks.
Nausea roiled in my stomach for several mornings and then I realised my period was two months late. The morning after the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, I became so sick I almost staggered into the street to ask a passer-by to call an ambulance. Jemima, my flatmate at the time and James’s cousin, arrived home unexpectedly, burst into the bathroom and caught me heaving over the toilet. I was a mess. My nose ran and eyes streamed from the effects of a roaring cold. After a brief but successful inquisition, she couldn’t get to his parents fast enough to tell them all about it.
They arrived at our flat later that day. James’s father, Sir Randall, smiled sincerely when I answered the door. Lady Margaret, the old bitch, barged past and looked around with flint-eyed scorn. They listened to my confession with great interest and then suggested they get in touch with James and tell him I was ill. Randall comforted me. ‘Perhaps he’ll be able to come back early,’ he said, patting me on the arm. He offered to go out and ring James; naively, I accepted.
The Naked Room Page 3