“Yeah,” he says. “That’s a good idea.” He slides me a reassuring look. “I’ll call my parents and let them know. I don’t think you should be alone.”
*
Morgan gets a fire going in the living room and makes us pasta while I shower. I leave my rinsed clothing draped over the shower rail, the faint blood stains a permanent reminder of my negligence. Before we eat, we do a final check of the house together, making sure all doors and windows are locked, eventually ending up side by side on the patchwork couch. Morgan kicks off his shoes, nestling cross-legged on the seat cushions, and I relax into my own seat, relieved he’s settling in for the night and I won’t be alone.
I’m so wiped out I can barely keep my eyes open, but my mind keeps replaying uncomfortable images as though I don’t deserve to rest: Mallory upset with me at the carnival; Benny growling at me as I tried to free him; Morgan’s flicker of disbelief when I mentioned three hours of my time unaccounted for. I rest my head against the back of the couch as drowsiness overcomes me, vaguely aware of my pasta bowl being removed from my hand, a blanket spread over my knees and tucked around my shoulders. I swim in and out of consciousness, the crackling fire and the TV’s canned laughter lulling me deeper. At some point I’m roused by Morgan’s gentle snoring to find myself curled in the foetal position, using his lap as a pillow.
When I next open my eyes, morning sunshine is streaming through a gap in the curtains. It hits me square in the face like I’m under an interrogation lamp. I find myself horizontal on the couch with cushions bunched underneath my head, and I panic that Morgan has snuck out in the middle of the night.
Then I sense the solid warmth of his body against my back, his arm folded across my waist and warm breath tickling my hair. I snuggle into him and he mumbles something soft and dreamy, flexing his arm around me before relaxing it again and pulling me close.
We’re suspended in a deliciously dozy state, our bodies spooning, Morgan’s weight pressed against me in a way that is both familiar and a promise of the unknown. I feel myself resubmerging into our warm, safe slumber when I hear two shrill beeps from somewhere down the hall.
I jerk upright.
My phone.
I extract myself from the couch as gingerly as I can, but Morgan’s disturbed by my repositioning. He yawns and throws his arms above his head in a feline stretch. I pad my way to the kitchen, and I’m staggered to find my phone sitting in the middle of the round breakfast table, plain as day. Apart from a couple of missed calls and some texts from Sadie, there’s one other new message. From Mallory, of all people.
It reads, What do you want?
I frown at the speech bubble. Above it is my message from last Saturday about bringing food up to Mallory’s bedroom. I don’t understand the context of this new message. What do I want? In relation to what?
Doubt burrows in my gut like a poisonous seed. Mallory knows. She knows my questions about her disappearance are more than polite curiosity. She wants to know what my motives are, why I’m trying to get close to her.
Hey Mallory, I text back. Not sure what you mean?
I’m aware of Morgan moving around in the living room down the hall. I catch a glimpse of him scratching his stomach and mussing up his hair.
I’m still gripping my phone when it chimes with Mallory’s response.
My phone’s showing three missed calls from you in the middle of the night. Why didn’t you leave me a message?
I make a small scoffing noise and scroll to my call history. There are calls to Mallory’s phone at 2.41 am, 3.36 am and 5.02 am. What the hell? I haven’t even seen my phone since one o’clock yesterday afternoon. If Morgan found it, why would he place three calls to his sister from my phone in the early hours of the morning?
And why would anyone call Mallory anyway? They must know she’s unable to talk back.
As I’m grappling with how to reply, Morgan shuffles into the kitchen. “Found it last night,” he says, pointing at the phone. “On my way to the loo.”
“What? Where?”
“On the floor in the hallway.” He moves towards the kitchen cupboards. “You must’ve dropped it yesterday when you ran into me.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not right. I’d already misplaced it by then.”
He grabs two coffee mugs from the cupboard above the stove and glances over his shoulder. “You sure?”
“Yes, I couldn’t find it. That’s why I was rushing out to the neighbour’s house. To use their phone.”
Morgan shrugs. “Okay.”
“And how many times did we walk up and down that hallway yesterday evening? Why didn’t we spot it earlier?”
He raises defensive hands. “Hey, I’m just sayin’ – that’s where I found it.”
Just sayin’.
There’s a hint of impatience in his words and I think of his doubtful look yesterday when I insisted I’d locked the house. Does he think I’m lying? Or is he the one not telling the truth?
“What time did you go to the toilet?” I ask, thinking of the calls to Mallory’s phone.
He moves towards the pantry, shrugging. “Dunno. Maybe around one? Why?”
“What did you do with the phone after you found it?”
His hand pauses over the coffee jar. “Umm, I placed it here on the kitchen table? What’s with the interrogation?”
“I’m just a bit baffled, that’s all.”
“Huh. You and me both.”
His frown clears and he wiggles the coffee jar at me, as though a shot of caffeine will rewire my muddled brain. I return my attention to Mallory’s message and respond the only way I can that stops me from looking like a weirdo.
Sorry, I must have butt-dialled you. Promise it won’t happen again.
I slide my phone away from me across the table like it’s untrustworthy. Yet history tells me I’m the unreliable one.
“Where’s the kettle?” Morgan asks.
Moving to the stovetop, I grab the old copper kettle from the burner. As I stand at the sink filling it, my gaze drifts out the window overlooking the backyard. The garden shed sits banal and unremarkable by the edge of the bush, no hint of the horror that took place there fifteen hours ago.
On impulse I glance towards the wall hook by the back door where the shed key is kept. The kettle slips from my grip and clatters into the sink, the stream of water hitting the handle and flicking out in all directions.
“Whoa, there,” Morgan says, jumping forwards to turn off the tap. “Somebody’s not quite awake yet.” He chuckles and gently nudges me aside to mop up the splashed water with a dishcloth. I back away from the sink in a daze, and it barely registers when Morgan passes me a tea towel to dry myself off.
“Everything okay?” he says, touching a hand to the small of my back.
No, it’s not! I want to yell. Because the shed key is now hanging exactly where it was missing yesterday.
I press my lips together and a dull pain surfaces behind my eyes. I want to ask Morgan if he just happened to find the shed key in some random place too. I want to ask him what he did after we left the carnival, where he was when I went to the supermarket and Benny was here all alone. I want to ask him how he let himself into my aunt’s house yesterday evening when I’m certain – certain – I locked the front door.
But really, how can I be certain about anything?
“Why don’t we get out of here?” Morgan suggests, turning me to face him. “Come and spend the day with my family down at the river.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and smiles at me hopefully. “You could meet my parents properly.”
I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. “I–I’ve got to get things in order here. Phone calls to make. I need to clean up the shed.”
“Let me help you,” Morgan says. I decline his offer. I send him on his way much sooner than either one of us expected even though the last thing I want is to be here all alone. I then straighten up the living room, clean the dishes in the kitc
hen and take a bucket of sudsy water out to the backyard. It takes me two hours of stops and starts, tears and panic, to finally scrub every last trace of Benny’s blood from the shed floor.
I call the vet clinic to check up on Benny and provide Margaret with Ally’s details, then leave a detailed message on Ally’s voicemail.
And finally, I do what I wished I could have when I was eight years old.
I call my dad to come and take me home.
22
THEN
The Mid Coast Times | Archives
Section: News
Date: 15 March 2008
PORT BELLAMY, NSW – Fisher family leaves Port Bellamy and bad memories behind.
The family of Mallory Fisher, the six-year-old girl who went missing for a week in January, has now relocated to an undisclosed interstate address “to put the past behind them”, according to a source close to the family. It ends speculation about the family’s possible move after Mallory’s father, Daniel Fisher, closed his orthodontic practice in Newcastle indefinitely last month.
After two months of investigation, police are no closer to uncovering the mystery of how Mallory disappeared from the Greenwillow Carnival and came to be discovered in Barrington Tops National Park.
Daniel and Annabel Fisher, who were cleared as suspects early on in the case, released a statement earlier this month confirming the investigation continues. “We believe we are drawing ever closer to finding out exactly what happened to our daughter,” the statement reads. “And we are cooperating with police in every way we can to make sure the perpetrator is apprehended. We urge members of the public with any information to please come forward.”
A source close to the family explains Mallory has been traumatised by events and is still not speaking, slowing progress in the investigation.
Inspector Owen Morris confirmed, “While Mallory was able to indicate she remembers waking up and wandering alone in the national park, she seems unable to recollect how she actually got there in the first place.”
Inspector Morris went on to clarify Mallory’s responses were still non-verbal at this stage. However, questions had been carefully constructed by a child psychologist to ensure answers were clear and unambiguous.
“With an investigation as delicate as this one,” Inspector Morris explained, “it’s important we give the child time to recover. Emotional trauma can often affect the victim’s recollection of events, but we are willing to be patient. In the meantime we intend to keep all lines of inquiry open.”
Family friends say the Fisher children are suffering under the intense media spotlight and have not returned to school.
“They need a fresh start,” the source said. “Maybe one day, when this has all died down, they’ll come home to Port Bellamy.”
23
NOW
I must have read every old newspaper story ever written about Mallory’s disappearance. In the last few days, I’ve used my editing time before school to scour for clues about possible abductors, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Every article is the same: there were no named suspects, not even a bad facial composite photo. There were no suspicious vehicles ever mentioned in the media reports, no dodgy hikers in Barrington Tops at the time.
Not a single indication Mallory was abducted by anyone.
It’s like whoever it was disappeared off the face of the earth.
Or got very good at hiding.
Our Dreamscapes deadline is looming and I should be editing my carnival photos, but every time I start I’m drawn into memories of Willow Creek, and the shock of what happened to Benny hits me anew. I’ve left so many messages for Ally I think I’ve filled up her voicemail. I can’t seem to get many words in before a beep cuts me off mid-sentence every time.
Why won’t she return my calls? Then again, there’s a lot I don’t understand about Ally. What does she do for work? Who are her friends? At what point did she and my dad stop getting along?
I feel helpless sitting here at school while Benny recovers in some sterile vet clinic a hundred kilometres away. So I just keep trawling old articles on news sites, looking for–
What? Evidence Sparrow is real?
“Hey, stranger.”
Behind me, Sadie’s peering around the doorway of the computer room. Apart from a few casual texts here and there, we haven’t spoken much since Sunday night when I filled her in about the weekend. I played down the kiss with Morgan because I knew she’d have an opinion about it, especially considering all the weirdness that came next.
“Lucky he was there yet again,” she’d said, with a hint of what seemed like jealousy. It only occurred to me afterwards that it might have been suspicion.
Even though I’ve questioned some of Morgan’s behaviour myself, I feel strangely defensive when Sadie makes a comment about his motives, the same way I feel protective about his whole family. It’s what compels me now to minimise the computer’s web browser, leaving a very obvious blank desktop on display.
Sadie frowns briefly at the screen before her attention moves to my face. “Thought I’d find you here. This where you live now? Wanna add a few pot plants?”
“I’ve just got a lot of editing to do,” I say. She’s complained three times this week because I’ve chosen to spend my lunchtimes up here too. It’s all right for her – she doesn’t have a major assignment due after Easter. And, for the same reason I’ve been avoiding Morgan since the weekend, I need time alone to think.
“Okay,” Sadie says, holding up both hands like she’s backing off. “Just confirming you’re still good for Francine Tan’s fundraiser on the weekend?”
“I said I’d be there, didn’t I?”
Carting around hors d’oeuvres and smiling politely at the Tans is the last thing I feel like doing. But I don’t want to leave Sadie’s mum short-handed, and I need the money for Benny’s vet bill if Ally ever calls me back to let me know the amount.
Sadie slumps against the doorframe. “Is there anything you want to talk about? Not that I’m not delighted by these short responses where you bite my head off.”
I swivel in my chair to face her, leaning my elbows on my knees. “It’s just this stuff with my aunt’s dog. Ally won’t reply to my messages. I think she’s pissed off at me for what happened.” That’s not the full extent of my worries, but it will do for now.
Sadie considers this, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I wouldn’t read too much into it; she’s probably still a bit shocked. It’s been less than a week since it happened. And if she does blame you, that’s out of line and you don’t want to talk to her anyway.”
“It was my job to care for Benny.” I try not to think about those hours unaccounted for, the missing key and my disappearing phone. “Who else’s fault is it?”
She shrugs, glancing over her shoulder at someone passing by in the corridor. “How could you know the dog would even go in that garden shed, let alone get all tangled up in Ally’s junk? Sometimes shit just happens, you know?”
She’s being blasé and it makes my blood simmer. She has no idea how responsible I feel, how much I need a better explanation for what happened.
“Look,” I say, “I’m kind of busy here …”
Sadie raises unimpressed eyebrows at my brush-off. “You wanna talk about what’s really bothering you?”
“Not particularly.”
“And that, my friend, is the problem. You’re being cagey and secretive.”
“No, I’m not.”
She juts her chin at the computer screen. “So, tell me what you’re reading about.”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing. You said you were up here editing photos.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry, Detective. Please arrest me for taking a little break.”
“Umm, okay,” Sadie says. “This is getting weird. Call me when my best friend is back because I’m not really up for whatever the hell this is.”
“Agreed. Do you need anything e
lse?”
“Guess not,” she says blandly. “Oh, except–” She rummages in her schoolbag for a second before producing a small wrapped package tied with a yellow bow. She tosses it towards me and I react just fast enough to catch it.
She’s already walking away when I hear her mutter, “Happy birthday.”
*
The remainder of my birthday is equally subdued. I don’t mention it to Morgan when I see him in the art room, even when Rachael stares at me like she’s remembered what day it is and refuses to let on. At home, I ask Mum if we can postpone my celebration dinner until the weekend because I’m not feeling up to it. Since I’ve been pale and listless after returning from Willow Creek, Mum insists it’s a virus and bundles me off to bed for the next two days. I haven’t told her or Dad about what happened to Benny.
On Saturday afternoon, Sadie’s gift still sits unopened on my desk. She hasn’t texted me while I’ve been absent from school, and I feel a knot of resentment tightening between us that I’m not sure how to loosen. Things are no better when I turn up at Port Bellamy Sailing Club for Francine Tan’s fundraiser. Sadie screws her face up as soon as I walk into the staff kitchen.
“I said the white shirts for today,” she says, plucking at the collar of her So Delish polo shirt. She turns to Kiri. “I’m sorry, Mum. I did tell her.”
Glancing down at my black shirt, I try to recall that conversation.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Kiri says, her own white polo shirt stark and crisp against the stainless-steel fridges. “It’s not a problem, Tash.” She pats Sadie’s arm on her way past, murmuring that it’s no big deal, before diverting the conversation to today’s order of events.
Upstairs in the function room I move silently between guests, offering tall-stemmed glasses of sparkling wine and orange juice, squirrelling discarded empties back down to the kitchen to load the dishwasher before doing it all over again. When Sadie falls behind with the hors d’oeuvres, I assist Kiri in plating up risotto balls and smoked salmon blinis, then circulate the room to help catch us up.
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