I close the book wistfully, wanting to see more, but also aware that what I’ve already seen is an invasion of Mallory’s privacy. I smooth my hand across the book’s cover, and lean over to place it beside Mallory on the bed.
Her eyelids flutter open.
The whites of her eyes grow wide as she struggles to sit up.
Oh shit.
“What?” I spin to look over one shoulder, then the other. Behind me, the room is empty. Mallory scrambles away from me across the bed, her legs kicking pillows and blankets onto the floor. She lunges for the bedside table, her hand closing around the base of a ceramic lamp.
She cocks her arm and pitches it at me like a baseball.
I flinch and duck, yelling something indecipherable. There’s a loud crack as the lamp’s power cord hinders its flight. It jerks backwards in midair, crashing to the floorboards and cracking apart. The lampshade pops off and skids into the wall.
“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, backing away from the bed until I collide with the desk. I knock into it so hard the plate of food scatters all over the tabletop. The lemonade can barrels across the wooden surface before tumbling onto the floor.
Mallory jumps at the sound, groping wildly behind her. Her fingers latch onto a glass picture frame.
“Wait!” I hold up a defensive hand. “Wait!” I glance desperately towards the door, my view obscured by the side of my hood. I quickly yank it off, and that’s when it occurs to me. My face was hidden. The room is dim and my face was in shadow.
I raise my hands in surrender. “Mallory, it’s me. It’s just me – Tash. See?”
She’s frozen on the bed, gripping the picture frame, her chest heaving like she’s run a marathon. Strands of blonde hair are stuck to the corner of her mouth as her ice-blue eyes map my features in confusion.
“I brought you some food,” I say, gesturing behind me at the mess on her desk.
Her shoulders slump. She loosens her grip on the picture frame and it lands lightly on the mattress beside her. I sink to a slouch and prop both hands against my thighs, releasing a quivery breath. Down the hall comes the hammering of footsteps on the staircase.
I blink at Mallory, my pulse still jackhammering. She only breaks eye contact with me when her brother bursts into the room.
“What’s going on?” he cries, flicking on the light switch. Rachael and Christopher cram into the doorway behind him as Morgan’s eyes bounce from the broken lamp to me doubled over in front of the desk. “What the hell happened in here?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I manage. “Mallory was dozing and I think I startled her. It’s completely my fault.”
Morgan stares at his sister, stunned. “Jesus, Mal. You threw a lamp?”
“It’s my fault,” I repeat. “I’m sorry.”
Rachael snorts and mutters something to Christopher under her breath but he frowns and shooshes her in response. Morgan throws Rachael an unimpressed look.
“Are you okay?” he says to me. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I reach for the lemonade can near the foot of the desk. “Let me just clean up this mess.”
“Don’t,” Morgan says, clearly impatient. “You don’t have to do that.”
His gruff tone makes me recoil. Rachael clears her throat, rearranging her features into a picture of concern.
“Look, Tash,” she says. “It’s probably best if you go home.”
“No,” Morgan snaps.
“All right,” I mumble, moving towards the hall. Rachael steps aside.
“No,” Morgan says again. “Can everyone just … God!” He whacks a hand against his thigh and glares at the three of us in the doorway. His eyes are wild and so uncharacteristic of the Morgan I know, I feel like I’m looking at a different person.
“Look,” he says sharply. “Can you two please go back downstairs?”
“Sure, man,” Christopher says. “Just take a deep breath, okay? No one’s hurt. Everybody’s fine.” He nudges Rachael. “We’ll give you some privacy.” He retreats into the hallway and I slip past Rachael to follow close behind.
“No, Tash. Wait,” Morgan says, his voice losing its edge. “I didn’t mean you.” He gives Rachael a pointed look, but she folds her arms and doesn’t budge.
Morgan quickly turns to his sister, softening his tone. “What’s going on, Mal?” He drops his voice lower still, shooting a quick look over his shoulder. “I thought we talked about this. Do you need me to call Mum?”
Mallory’s eyes find me over her brother’s shoulder as she shakes her head no. The heat off her stare sets my pulse racing.
She remembers something.
I back out onto the landing and rush downstairs to retrieve my things. Christopher approaches me in the rumpus room, shaking his head. He releases a puff of air and widens his eyes, as though we’re in on the same joke. “Seriously though, what the hell did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “She was asleep. She woke up and got a shock I was in her room.”
Christopher smirks. It’s unintentionally reminiscent of his sister and I have to turn away.
“Crazy,” he says, with a shaken kind of awe.
I ram the last book into my backpack and spin to face him. “She’s not crazy. And it’s really unkind to call people that.”
Christopher’s face drops. “No, wait. I didn’t mean–”
“Yeah, whatever.” I march down the hallway dragging my backpack beside me. Morgan appears at the bottom of the staircase with Rachael close on his heels.
“Wait,” he says to me. “You’re going?”
“Toodles,” Rachael purrs, pushing past me to join her brother.
Wasting no time, I head for the door. Morgan glides in and scoops up my heavy backpack for me, his voice low and beseeching. “I really wish you’d stay longer.”
I yank the door open and step out onto the deck. Murky storm clouds have slunk in from the ocean, erasing what was left of the afternoon sun. “It’s definitely time I went home.”
Morgan rakes a hand through his hair and makes a small frustrated growl. “Damn it.”
I whirl around, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to startle her. I can go upstairs and apologise again if you think–”
“No.” Morgan sighs heavily, his frown softening. “It’s not that.” He scuffs a toe against the doormat. “It’s just … today really didn’t go the way I’d hoped.”
I’m not sure how to respond so I glance out at the road where a breeze is scattering leaves underneath the parked cars. There’s a brown ute near the corner that reminds me of Ally’s. It makes my stomach squirm.
Next weekend. Willow Creek. All alone.
“I really wanted to hang out with you today,” Morgan says, drawing my attention back to his face. “Only you, without anyone else.”
He moves a step closer and the backpack bumps between our knees. I bend to take it from him, almost headbutting his shoulder. As I glance up to say goodbye, Morgan ducks his face to mine and presses his lips against my mouth. He lingers just long enough to send a rush of heat from my face to my toes. There’s barely time to react before he pulls away and straightens up.
I have no idea what I should do next. Was that a real kiss? Or a friendly kiss? Do friends kiss each other like that? I don’t have enough of them to know.
I’m ridiculously confused now, not to mention embarrassed by how hot and dizzy I feel. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I–I’d better go.”
I scurry across the deck and climb onto my bike, throwing a quick wave over my shoulder as I pedal out onto Banksia Avenue. It’s only when I’m halfway down the hill that I sneak a look behind me at the Fishers’ house.
The deck is empty now.
But a pale face watches me from the porthole window.
16
THEN
15 APRIL 2008
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE OFFICE OF DR INGRID BALLANTINE, PHD CHILD AND ADOLESCENT PSYCHIATRY, NEWCASTLE CHILDREN’S CLINIC
PATIENT: NATASHA CARMODY, 9 YEARS OLD
IB: You seem a little frustrated today, Natasha. Would you like to come and sit down here on the couch?
NC: …
IB: Do you want to talk about what’s upsetting you today?
NC: Mum says coming here is supposed to help, but it isn’t.
IB: Oh? Why do you say that?
NC: No one believes me about anything. I thought coming here to talk about all the stuff that happened at Aunty Ally’s was so everyone would understand.
IB: Well, we’re trying to understand.
NC: I have to keep going over and over everything!
IB: We’re still trying to figure out why you saw some of the things you saw and said some of the things you said.
NC: Because they happened. Why else would I say so?
IB: Sometimes people think they hear and see things because they really want them to be real. Except those things might not have really happened in reality. Does that make sense?
NC: No …
IB: We’ve talked before about how it feels to be lonely and how sometimes it helps us feel less lonely to daydream ourselves into different scenarios. A bit like writing movie scenes for ourselves inside our heads where we get to be the main character, the centre of everything.
NC: …
IB: We’ve also discussed the difference between fact and fiction, and what’s happening in real life compared with those movie scenes inside our heads.
NC: I know the difference between fact and fiction.
IB: Okay, good. Do you think we could now talk about one of the things that happened to you at your aunt’s house?
NC: I s’pose.
IB: All right. Let’s talk about the afternoon in the bush behind your aunt’s house. The day you went looking for tadpoles in the creek.
NC: My dad used to do it when he was a kid. There’s a place where the creek widens into a little waterhole. Dad says it’s the best spot.
IB: And it’s close to your aunt’s house?
NC: Sort of. You have to walk for about ten minutes into the bush to get there.
IB: I see. So your aunt wouldn’t have been able to see you from the backyard?
NC: No, there are trees and then you go down a little hill.
IB: So what happened that day you went to find tadpoles?
NC: Aunty Ally was working. She was arguing with someone on the phone in the upstairs study. The door was locked.
IB: Then what happened?
NC: I knocked on the door because I wanted to play with Benny. That’s Aunty Ally’s dog. But she told me to go outside and play.
IB: So you decided to go down to the creek?
NC: Yeah. It was fun. I had ten tadpoles in my bucket when he came along and ruined it.
IB: Who ruined it?
NC: Sparrow. He was hiding in the trees.
IB: Sparrow?
NC: That’s what I call him.
IB: Did he speak to you?
NC: Yeah. He wanted me to follow him somewhere. I didn’t feel like it. He said he knew how to make my dad come and get me since I wanted to go home so much.
IB: How was that?
NC: A game. I told you about it before.
IB: The one where you held your breath and put your face in the creek?
NC: Why do I have to talk about it again?
IB: I want to understand why you did it. Do you know breath-holding games can be dangerous?
NC: People hold their breath when they swim all the time.
IB: Yes, except you weren’t swimming. You were kneeling on the bank, weren’t you? Even in the pool people play breath-holding games where they hang on for so long they get dizzy and pass out under water. When they become unconscious their bodies automatically breathe for them again.
NC: Then they’d breathe in water instead of air.
IB: Yes, and they drown. It’s very dangerous, especially if you’re alone.
NC: I wasn’t alone. Sparrow was there.
IB: Yes, of course.
NC: He did it first. He said if I could hold my breath longer than him he would call my dad to come and get me. It would be my prize for winning.
IB: So if your parents heard all about it they’d come and collect you?
NC: Sparrow promised.
IB: Did he keep his promise?
NC: No. It was a trick! He put his hand on the back of my neck – like this – and held my face under water. He wouldn’t let me come up for air. He said I wasn’t playing it right. He said, “Stop struggling”.
IB: So what did you do?
NC: I kicked and scratched and punched as much as I could, and I must have hurt him because he let go. I ran back to Aunty Ally’s house and told her what happened and she went down to the creek to look for Sparrow. But she didn’t see him. She never saw him.
IB: Mmm. Why do you think Sparrow held your face under water?
NC: I think he wanted me to go unconscious, maybe? Like you said.
IB: Why would he want that?
NC: Because I wouldn’t go to his secret room with him.
IB: Oh …?
NC: If I went unconscious he could take me there while I was asleep and I wouldn’t have any choice.
IB: You’ve never mentioned this secret room before.
NC: Sparrow said I’d like it because no one else knew about it. It would be our secret place.
IB: Why didn’t you want to see it?
NC: Because if I went there he might never let me go again.
IB: Do you still see or hear Sparrow now?
NC: Sometimes I have bad dreams about him. Sometimes I think I see him here – just off to the side of where I’m looking.
IB: Out of the corner of your eye?
NC: Yeah. But when I turn around he’s not there.
IB: Have you spoken to him since you’ve been home in Port Bellamy?
NC: No. He might be stuck there.
IB: Stuck where?
NC: In Willow Creek House. Maybe he can’t leave.
IB: Have you been back to Willow Creek since the summer?
NC: No way.
IB: Why don’t you want to go back?
NC: Because he might be there. Waiting.
17
NOW
The hour-and-a-half drive north to Willow Creek is a somewhat sombre affair. Dad and I abandoned small talk less than fifteen minutes from home. He and Mum shared a quiet and intense exchange as we left the house, and while Dad pretended to be unruffled as we wound our way out of Port Bellamy, I noticed a tic working away in his jaw. He seemed relieved when I suggested an audio book to pass the time, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere.
Between this weekend at Willow Creek and Morgan and I acting like his kiss never happened, I have my own preoccupations. It certainly doesn’t help that Sadie warned me to slow things down with Morgan until I know him better, making me wonder what she senses about him that I don’t.
The thing bothering me most is my last interaction with Mallory. It’s not just that I startled her awake and she reacted violently; something about me being there was so disturbing that she was terrified enough to lash out.
Does she remember something about her disappearance?
More specifically, does she remember something about me?
As we pass the neat grounds of Greenwillow’s golf course, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. It’s ten minutes to Ally’s house from here. A strange mix of familiarity and unease hums through me as we cruise up Greenwillow’s main street, past the strip of brick shopfronts that have been here forever, the two-storey pub on the corner, the Palace Theatre with its blue-tiled frontage. I spot a wooden sign with arrows pointing towards the local caravan park – the Fishers’ holiday house is nestled along the same stretch of river. It’s enough to set off nervous flutters again, because if they’re not here already, they will be soon enough.
“It’s gone,” Dad says, when he catches me peering up Old Meadow Lane, the back road police susp
ected Mallory was snatched from that fateful summer. “The carnival. Closed down about five years ago because of low attendance after that water park opened near Port Macquarie.”
“Oh?” I’m surprised I hadn’t heard about this. I crane in my seat for a glimpse of the carnival’s entry gates, the peaked roof of the dodgem car pavilion. All I spot is the top of the buttercup-yellow Ferris wheel before my view is obstructed by a clump of trees.
“It was in the paper,” Dad says, slowing at an intersection. We turn left and head west, the carnival site slipping away behind us. “The food trucks all left first, then one by one they sold off the rides and moved them off-site. Not much left there now, I imagine. The end of an era.”
I chew my thumbnail and slump against the door’s armrest. I don’t know why I feel disappointed by this news. Maybe I thought the carnival might still hold some answers. Now it’s just another dead end.
As we leave Greenwillow township, the road meanders past grazing cattle and murky dams, hillsides scarred by rocky escarpments and towering gums. Willow Creek is a smattering of timeworn farmhouses and rusted iron sheds, large properties separated by nothing more than a few wooden posts strung together with fence wire.
We turn up Cowpasture Road and I get my first glimpse of Willow Creek House, its red corrugated roof flanked on both ends by crumbling stone chimneys. The symmetrical facade is at the same time proudly classic and completely banal. From a distance the house appears hunched against the looming mountains like a stubborn old creature, struggling to stay upright but flat out refusing to fall down.
As we draw closer, Dad takes in the sagging verandah eaves and cracked window panes. It’s hard to tell if it’s nostalgia washing over his features, or quiet defeat about the state of disrepair.
We hit a pothole in the dirt driveway and the car lurches to one side.
“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, slowing to a stop in front of the house. A breeze whispers through the droopy boughs of surrounding willow trees as we get out. Dad inspects the wheel rim for damage.
“Didn’t hurt your precious baby, did you?”
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