Small Spaces

by Sarah Epstein

  Did she?

  Movement catches my eye at the opposite end of the Seaspray. A shadow slips behind the corner of the shed.

  “I told you to come alone,” I snap.

  “I did.” Rachael makes no attempt to turn around, as though she knows someone’s been there all along. A witness. Her witness. “Letting your imagination run away with you again, Tash? Gee, what a shocker.”

  She shakes her head so disdainfully, I feel exposed and humiliated, as though there’s an audience of dozens instead of one little spy. All it takes is one to get the story around school, to reignite the taunts and relentless name-calling. Year Twelve was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be different.

  Nothing ever changes.

  “You can take your phone recording and shove it,” I mutter, my head fuzzy with anger. “And for the record, I didn’t want Sadie to be friends with you because I needed her more. I had no one before she came along. Do you even know what that’s like? To feel completely and utterly alone? You had everyone in the palm of your hand within two weeks of starting school. You didn’t need us. You didn’t need Sadie.” I thump a fist against my chest. “I needed Sadie. I need her right now and she’s at your birthday party.”

  Frustrated tears smudge my vision as I turn away, leaving her standing in a ring of dead sparrows. I head back towards Marine Drive, throwing a venomous glare over my shoulder at Rachael’s accomplice. A figure is crouched low behind the Seaspray, clad in black and cloaked in shadows.

  Yes, hello! I see you there, I almost jeer out loud.

  They turn their head to follow me as I pass, watching me watching them. I blink back tears, unable to make out any features. The figure’s face is shrouded from lamplight by a gaping hood.

  Just like Sparrow.

  No.

  On the window seat. In the shopping centre.

  Stop it.

  Just like Sparrow in every single one of my nightmares.

  My shoe finds a gap in the pier and I pitch forwards, knee cracking into the boards, followed by my hip and elbow. Rachael calls out a begrudging, “You all right?” and I’m aware of how feeble I must look, sprawled across the boardwalk like a foal struggling to find its legs.

  Scrambling to my feet, I hiss at the tender parts of my skin that hint at multicoloured bruising tomorrow. My eyes scour the dark void behind the Seaspray. There’s no hooded figure in the shadows. There’s no one waiting to pounce, no one scurrying away down the pier. There’s no one here except Rachael Tan gripping her phone, probably forwarding that voice recording to Morgan right now.

  Resentment rolls over me like the black water beneath my feet. The sensible thing to do is walk away now before I say or do something I’ll regret.

  But if Sparrow’s reappearance is proof of anything, it’s that I’m no longer in the business of making sense.

  *

  I circle my bike around Port Bellamy’s deserted streets, riding up past the high school to the top of Old Bluff Road. I ignore Sadie’s constant stream of phone calls and texts, her frustration evident in the final one she sends before going dark: WHAT’S GOING ON?

  Only when the rain has soaked through to my skin do I decide it’s probably time to head home. Mum’s dozing in the armchair when I get in – it’s much later than I thought – and once again I feel like I somehow lost time. I rouse her gently to let her know I’m home, then retreat upstairs before she’s alert enough to ask questions.

  It feels like I’ve only just surrendered to the mattress when I’m woken by a ringing phone. Daylight seeps through cracks in the venetian blinds, striping up and down my bed. I half-heartedly pat down my jeans for my phone until I remember it’s in the pocket of my damp hoodie crumpled on the floor.

  My elbow shrieks in pain, and last night’s events come flooding back to me: my fall on the pier, and the argument with Rachael. My secret about Mallory’s abduction is most likely all over town by now.

  I’m just about to pull the quilt over my head and hide for the rest of the day when my bedroom door is thrown open. Mum’s holding the cordless phone in her hand, her cheekbones high in colour.

  “That was Francine on the phone,” she says. “Rachael’s in hospital.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Somebody attacked her last night on Port Bellamy Pier.”

  “You serious?”

  “Natasha.” Mum’s face is grave. “The police want to speak to you as soon as possible.”

  28

  THEN

  The Mid Coast Times | Archives

  Section: News & Views

  Date: 8 February 2017

  Story: Jennifer Nguyen. Photos: Jack Allen.

  PORT BELLAMY, NSW – Fishers swim home to the port.

  Over the weekend, a quiet suburban street in Port Bellamy hosted the return of a local family that made headlines almost a decade ago. Once again, speculation is rife about the events of that sunny afternoon in January, 2008, when six-year-old Mallory Fisher disappeared from a carnival in Greenwillow.

  At the time, authorities stated Mallory was most likely wandering in Barrington Tops National Park for forty-eight hours maximum, with no account for the other five days she was missing. Her white sandshoes and pink cardigan have never been recovered in extensive searches to help pinpoint an area of the national park where she was freed. With no CCTV cameras installed around Greenwillow in 2008, there is no way of knowing whether Mallory was abducted from the carnival itself or whether she did indeed wander off.

  For years conspiracy theories have revolved around Daniel and Annabel Fisher fabricating their daughter’s abduction for media attention, to cash in on tell-all interviews. Others speculate that Mallory’s older brother, Morgan, was somehow involved and that his parents withheld information from police to cover it up.

  Adding weight to such theories is a statement from a press conference given by Inspector Owen Morris in the days following Mallory’s abduction:

  “We cannot discount the possibility that Mallory’s abductor may be known to her, and we will certainly be pursuing this line of enquiry along with all others.”

  But after nine years, it seems we are no closer to answers in the abduction of Mallory Fisher. Did she know and trust the person who took her? Did she really wander off or was she willingly led away?

  One thing is certain: Mallory Fisher is the only person who can tell us what happened to her that week she was missing. And she’s not talking.

  29

  NOW

  First thing Monday morning Mum drives me to Port Bellamy police station so I can be questioned about Rachael’s attack. A thirty-something detective with cropped black curls and starched pants invites me into a small room with some couches and a window. It’s nothing like those stark interview rooms you see on TV, and she invites Mum in to join us even though I’m no longer a minor. She pauses to grab us Cokes from the vending machine in the hall. I take all of this as a good sign I’m not under suspicion.

  “So, by now you’ve heard your friend Rachael was assaulted on Saturday night at Port Bellamy Pier,” says Detective Gordon. She has flawless dark brown skin and pristine white teeth. I feel like I should point out that Rachael and I haven’t been friends for a long time, but I suspect such a slick-looking detective has done her homework. “Someone approached her from behind and hit her over the head so hard she lost consciousness.”

  Mum gasps at this even though Francine already gave us these details yesterday. Rachael doesn’t know how long she blacked out for. When she came to she was alone on the pier and her phone was gone. She staggered back to Kimchi with a cracking headache and a vague recollection of talking to me shortly before everything went dark.

  I nod politely. “She was mugged.”

  Detective Gordon neither confirms nor denies. “We just need to hear about your movements on Saturday evening before and after interacting with Rachael. I understand you were the last person to speak to her before her assault.”

  Mum gives me a
worried frown. The detective simply sips her Coke. I can’t tell if she’s being genuinely laidback, or if it’s a ploy to lull me into a false sense of security before she pounces. I slip my hands behind my knees, gripping the front of the chair as I give my version of Saturday night. I gloss over any distracting details. There’s no point bringing up things that will confuse the issue at hand.

  “You argued with Rachael then?” asks Detective Gordon pleasantly, scribbling something loose and brief in her notebook. She already knows the answer. Did Rachael also tell her what it was about?

  “She’d played a prank on me,” I say. “I wasn’t happy about it. I asked her to leave me alone.”

  Detective Gordon nods. “Then you left?”

  “Yes,” I say, wondering why she’s not asking me about the dead birds. Maybe Rachael didn’t mention them. After all, it makes her look pretty sick and twisted, regardless of what happened to her next.

  “Can anyone account for your movements when you rode your bike up to the bluff?”

  “Um … no.”

  “You didn’t run into anyone? Someone that could verify where you were after eight-thirty pm?”

  “No.”

  “What about before you left the pier? Did you see anyone else?”

  I dig my fingernails into the seat and swallow my rising panic. I know who I think I saw, but there’s no way I can admit it out loud. Mum glances at me expectantly and suddenly I’m eight years old again, fumbling through explanations about Sparrow and the carnival, only to be met with confusion and impatience.

  No one will make allowances this time. No one will write it off as childish whimsy. At best, I’ll be accused of lying for attention. At worst, my mental health will come into question all over again and it’s bye-bye university.

  “No,” I croak, quickly clearing my throat. “It was just us.”

  Detective Gordon’s pen scratches across her notepad. She glances up – a slow blink, a mild smile – and I feel my cheeks redden. She asks a few more questions that don’t seem to interest her much before standing and holding her hand out to shake mine.

  “We’re all finished?” Mum asks, sliding her handbag onto her shoulder.

  “I’ll call you if I need anything else,” says Detective Gordon, moving to the door. She points her finger at me. “Just don’t go skipping town now, you hear?”

  My stomach drops. “I–I’m going to my aunt’s house for Easter,” I blurt. “It’s here on the coast, though. It’s less than two hours away.”

  Detective Gordon chuckles, glancing from me to my mother. She winks. “I’m kidding. I’ve said it to all the kids I’ve interviewed from the party. Relax.”

  I’m not the only one she’s interviewed? Oh, thank god. I’m just a routine inquiry, a loose end to follow up. I smile as though I knew she was kidding all along.

  Detective Gordon holds the door open for us. She leans into me as I walk past.

  “If you think of anything else,” she says, “don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  I shrug on my jacket, leaving my untouched Coke on the table. “I told you everything I know.”

  She smiles like she doesn’t believe me.

  *

  My mother doesn’t say much in the short trip from the police station to school, but her fingers drum the steering wheel like she’s preparing to broach an awkward topic.

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to see Rachael on Saturday evening,” she says. “You told me you were going to Sadie’s house.”

  “Sadie wasn’t home so I went for a ride.”

  “At eight o’clock at night?” She arches an eyebrow. “Then you just happened to swing by the Tans’ party and an opportunity popped up to speak to Rachael?”

  “Yep.”

  She turns the car into the high school car park. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, hey, at least you’re consistent.”

  She swings into a parking space and yanks on the handbrake, turning to glare at me. “What did you say to Rachael? Did you upset her?”

  I jerk in my seat to face her. “What if she upset me? What about all the shit Rachael’s put me through?”

  “Mind your language.”

  I stare at a point on the dashboard and shake my head. “You haven’t even asked me about Rachael’s prank and why I was so bothered by it. Do you even care?”

  The car continues its low humming idle. Mum’s expression is weary, and her eyes lose focus. “Of course I care, Natasha. All I’ve ever done is care. Quite frankly, I’m exhausted after years of dealing with this stuff with no end in sight. The panic attacks and nightmares and dramas at school – and now you’re being questioned about an assault?”

  “Everyone’s being questioned!” I say breathlessly. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.”

  Mum sighs and stares out the windscreen. “I know you’ve had your challenges–”

  “Gee, thanks, Dr Ingrid.”

  “I’m just trying to help you,” she says. “We all are. But sometimes I think you don’t want to be helped. It’s like you’ve convinced yourself the lies are all true.”

  “I didn’t lie. I didn’t mean to.”

  She glances at me, despondent, like she’s somehow failed in her duty of care. “You’ve always struggled with the truth.”

  I pull my bag into my lap and busy myself with the straps. I know she’s looking at me that way she so often does, like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces, a brain-bender she doesn’t have the energy to figure out.

  She switches off the ignition and leans for her handbag at my feet. Bringing it to her lap, she rummages inside.

  “This came on Friday,” she says, smoothing something against her thigh. She passes me a white envelope bearing the RMIT logo on the front. It must be the information I sent for about their Bachelor of Photography course.

  “This,” Mum says quietly, tapping her finger against the envelope. “You know this can’t happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Living away from home is not a good idea for you right now.”

  “I’m eighteen, Mum …”

  “Your anxiety’s spiking again. You’re acting irresponsibly–”

  “I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with Rachael’s assault!”

  “I’m talking about Tim. I couldn’t trust you to watch him for one measly hour. How are you supposed to look after yourself at uni? How will you cope?”

  My throat closes in and I pick at a loose thread on my backpack.

  “I’m saying this because I’m worried about you,” she continues. “You go through patches where you’re doing really well, then something trips you up and you start to unravel.”

  “Nothing’s tripped me up.”

  “The Fishers,” she says. It’s not a question. “Now that they’re back on your radar, everything about that summer is coming up again. It’s like you’re slipping into bad habits with the paranoia and attention-seeking.” She sighs and shakes her head at the steering wheel. “I think we should hold off on any university plans until after your next appointment with Dr Ballantine. I’m sure there are campuses you can commute to from here. I think that’s what she’ll recommend.”

  “But I need this,” I say, gesturing at the envelope. “A fresh start.”

  Mum looks at me so sadly it’s how I know it’s not going to happen. I think she actually wants it for me too. I’m the one sabotaging myself.

  “Let me go to Ally’s for Easter,” I beg. “Let me show you how I can cope away from home. You don’t have to worry.”

  Her expression is unconvinced. “Natasha, all I do is worry.”

  I open the car door and climb out. I’m just about to close it after me when I lean down and peer inside. “Please don’t make any decisions about uni just yet.”

  “You’re already late,” Mum says, sliding her sunglasses on and starting the ignition. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  Later never comes. That night at dinner, Mum an
d Dad are strategically silent about anything to do with my university brochures, and they don’t mention Easter either. I text Ally to confirm I’m coming anyway. She sends me a simple Great in return, which has me stewing about how she’s going to act around me. Maybe enough time has passed since Benny’s accident and all will be forgiven.

  Or maybe this will be the last time I visit Willow Creek for good.

  *

  Rachael’s attack is all anyone wants to talk about, and the remainder of my week is a study in the art of avoidance: ducking the suspicious stares of Rachael’s friends, and dodging awkward questions from my own. I skip a number of classes and spend my lunchtimes hunkered down in the computer room, only catching up with Morgan in Art and English. Sadie’s completely given up on trying to pin me down in the corridor.

  On Good Friday there’s a swift knock at the front door, and when I hear Tim’s excited chatter, I know it must be Sadie. My spirits lift out of habit even though our friendship is in a thorny place right now.

  “Hey,” she says, as she enters the living room. “You got a sec?”

  I lead her to the back patio where we’d normally squeeze onto the swing seat side by side. Today, Sadie takes the wooden chair opposite, perching on the edge like she’s ready to jump up and sprint away.

  “So, about Rachael,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you speak to Detective Gordon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And …?”

  “And what?”

  “What did you tell her?” There’s a guardedness to Sadie’s words like she’s holding back. It’s not in her nature and probably why she looks so strained.

  “Exactly what happened,” I say. “Rachael and I spoke on the pier. Things got heated, so I left. I found out the next morning what had happened just like everybody else.”

  “You were the last one to talk to her before the assault.”

  “Yeah, I know that, Dee. What are you saying?”

  Sadie pushes herself out of the chair and paces along the edge of the patio. “You looked upset when you turned up at Kimchi.”