Attempting to sit up, my head hollers in protest. My mouth feels like sandpaper, my stomach, empty and delicate. Did I really drink enough last night to warrant this kind of a hangover? The memory of being hunched over the toilet bowl comes flooding back and it’s enough to encourage a repeat visit. Whatever was in my belly last night has already come up; I manage only a shaky dry-wretch.
I stagger to the sink to swill out my mouth, rubbing some of Ally’s toothpaste along my teeth with my finger. Peering at my reflection in the mirror, I appear almost ghoulish in the dim light. I’m pretty sure I stink like wine and vomit and god knows what else, but I need to check on Mallory before I shower. If she’s feeling even half as rough as I am, she’s going to wake up in a bad way and may need my help.
As I move towards the door, I instinctively reach for the light switch, and it only now occurs to me that I don’t remember turning it off last night. Grey dawn seeps in through a squat window near the ceiling and the frosted glass panel above the bathroom door. I close a hand around the brass doorknob, giving it a tug. The door doesn’t budge. I twist the handle in the opposite direction, yanking more firmly now. The door creaks and clunks in the doorjamb and remains stuck fast.
Crouching on my haunches, I peer through the keyhole to the hallway on the other side. If this door has a key, it’s not sitting in the lock, and it’s not inside here with me. Maybe Ally mentioned something about the door lock being dodgy. Maybe it likes to stick on chilly mornings.
Seriously? Why the hell is this house always working against me?
The familiar thump of my heart protests about the confined space. I release a steady breath and rap a knuckle against the door.
“Mallory? Are you there?” I knock harder. “Mallory, you awake?”
I crouch and peer through the keyhole again, not detecting any movement on the other side. I’m about to stand up again when I notice a small red smear on the white floor tiles beneath my feet. I lift up one foot to inspect it, finding tiny scrape marks on the side of my ankle. The skin is broken in places, one scratch dotted with pinpricks of blood. I check my other ankle; there are matching scrape marks on that one too.
Baffled, I glance around the bathroom.
What on earth have I been doing in my sleep?
I really need to get out of here. Now. The tiny painted-in window is somehow more unnerving than if there’d been no window at all.
“Mallory!” I yell, tugging on the doorhandle again. “Mallory, can you please come and help?”
I pace up and down behind the door. What are my options here? Sit and wait for Mallory to wake up? Or try to bust my way out? I glance up at the frosted glass panel that Gran installed above the door to help prevent damp and mould.
Come on, Tash! Think.
My eyes scour the room and land on a ceramic toilet brush holder beside the cistern. I grab a handtowel from the sink and wrap it around my fist. Hoisting myself up onto the bathroom vanity, I send a silent apology to my late grandmother as I swing the ceramic pot into the window panel.
The glass shatters, raining down onto the floorboards on the other side. I use my towel-covered hand to knock out any remaining glass teeth still clinging to the doorframe. Plucking two bath towels from hooks on the wall, I drape them over the window base then pause, listening for Mallory’s quick footsteps. I’m both deflated and confused when I hear none.
Is it possible Mallory locked me in here?
Or was it me who chose to lock her out?
I grip the padded windowsill, fear and adrenaline driving me as I swing my body up and over the window frame. Momentarily dangling half in and half out, I wiggle just enough until I’m able to squeeze a knee up into the gap beside me, then unwittingly tip forwards, somersaulting out into the hall.
I land hard on my hip and rump, broken glass crunching beneath me. I quickly inspect my arms and legs for shards, plucking a few small pieces from my pyjamas and skin. It could have been much worse, and for that I’m thankful; even more thankful to be out of that pokey bathroom.
“Mallory?” I say again, yanking off Ally’s knitted cardigan that I vaguely remember borrowing last night. I drape it across the broken glass and tiptoe my bare feet out of the danger zone. Moving quickly to the bedroom Mallory slept in, I find the bed rumpled, sheets strewn sideways to the floor.
On the staircase, I listen out for breakfast noises. There’s no bubbling kettle, no rustling cereal box. When I enter the kitchen, it’s as murky and silent as a tomb.
I try again, louder this time. “Mallory? Come on! Where are you?”
I check rooms systematically, moving towards the front of the house, legs growing weaker with every step. I have to force myself to check the guestroom I’d rather steer clear of, coming away feeling queasy.
This house has done it again. It’s trapped me here alone.
I carry a weak hope Mallory sleepwalks. Maybe she ended up in some other bedroom by mistake. I bolt upstairs again, running in and out of rooms like a child playing hide-and-seek. Arriving back in the room Mallory slept in, I notice her phone is on the bedside table. Her shoes are upended by her backpack near the foot of the bed.
I peer out of the window into the garden below and notice the grass is coated with an uninterrupted layer of frost. Scurrying downstairs, I dash to the back door and peek through the small window before reaching for the door bolt. Logic stops me. Mallory can’t be on the back verandah if the door is still bolted from the inside.
At the front door, both the deadbolt and security chain are still in place as well. I move from room to room checking windows, to find them all still firmly locked. Only when I’ve done a complete circuit of the house, checking every walk-in wardrobe, underneath every bed, the pantry, the laundry and behind the shower curtain, do I let myself succumb to rising panic.
Mallory’s disappeared on my watch.
From a house that’s still locked from the inside.
I grab my phone and sit at the kitchen table, almost calling Mallory’s phone until I remember it’s upstairs. Out of desperation, I dial Morgan’s instead. He’s either still asleep or screening calls because I get his voicemail.
“Morgan, please call me as soon as you get this,” I say. “It’s urgent. It’s about Mallory.”
Tossing my phone aside, I stare around the empty kitchen feeling helpless. I think of all those years ago when Ally sat here reassuring me it was okay to be different, how concerned she was that my parents would find out something was glitchy inside my head. I saw things that didn’t exist and invented situations that won me attention.
Am I still doing it?
Am I obsessed with the Fisher family like Morgan accused me of?
And if so … could I have done something to Mallory?
I place my head in my hands and struggle to get air into my lungs. Sadie’s words come back to me: What’s the common denominator here, Tash? I thought all of these disturbing things were happening to me, but what if they were orchestrated by my own hand? What if I’ve designed all of this to garner sympathy and attention, like those parents with mental illness who poison their kids?
What if I was the one who hurt Benny?
What if I’ve hurt people too?
My whole body trembles. So many things don’t make sense to me. Now I wonder if they ever did, whether I’ve ever been able to distinguish truth from fantasy. No wonder my parents are overprotective – they probably understand me better than I understand myself.
I’m shaking so much it feels like my bones are splintering. I reach for my phone and dial the only person who’s able to negotiate me down off my self-imposed ledge.
Sadie answers after the third ring. “Hey. It’s early – you okay?”
“Sadie,” I whisper.
“Tash? What’s wrong?”
“I–I think I’ve done something, Dee. Something bad.”
“Tash, speak up. I can barely hear you. Where are you?”
“At my aunt’s house in Willow Creek.”<
br />
“Okay,” she says. “What’s going on?”
Shifting in my chair, I bring an unsteady hand to my forehead. “I might’ve done something to Mallory.”
“Mallory Fisher? What are you talking about? Where’s your aunt?”
“Ally’s not here,” I say. “And Mallory’s just … v–vanished.”
Sadie releases a low breath. “Okay, Tashie? I can hear how upset you are. I need you to calm down and explain to me exactly what’s going on.”
My grip is vice-like around the phone. “Mallory stayed here with me last night. This morning I can’t find her.”
“Maybe she went for a walk,” Sadie says. “Did she borrow your keys?”
“No. They’re right here. She can’t bolt the doors behind her anyway. That can only be done from the inside.”
“What about a window? Maybe she panicked when she couldn’t get a door open.”
“The windows are all still locked from the inside too.”
“Well, what do you possibly think you could have done to her?”
“I–I don’t know. I think I’m sick. I think I’ve done stuff and blocked it from memory.”
“Like what?” Sadie says, trepidation in her voice.
“Attacking Rachael at the pier. I think I took her phone because she recorded what I said about Sparrow at the sailing club.”
Sadie’s voice is firm. “You didn’t attack Rachael.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you, Tash. You wouldn’t hurt her even though we all know she deserves a good smack over the head sometimes.”
“Dee, I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I! There’s no way you did it. You’d remember.”
“I’m not sure, though. I’m not sure I trust my memory …”
“I’m sure.”
“What about that stuff you said about me being the common denominator in all the weird things that’ve been happening?”
Sadie sighs, her breath a sharp blast down the phone. “I think we’ve both said some things we don’t really mean.”
“It’s still true, right? The common denominator?”
“Yes. But obviously someone else is a common denominator too. There’s got to be some other explanation.”
“Apart from me being crazy?”
“Tash,” she says, “you’re the sanest crazy person I know.”
I hang my head. “I’m really scared. I feel like I’m losing it.”
“Look, you’re not alone in this – you know that I always have your back. I’m going to borrow Mum’s van and drive up there. We’ll figure it out together, okay? What’s the address?”
As I give her directions, I squeeze the phone so hard I might break it.
“I’m leaving now,” Sadie says. “Eat some breakfast and take a shower. Just sit tight. Nothing bad is going to happen if you don’t leave the house.”
That’s the thing, though – it’s this house that’s the problem.
This is where it all started, so it stands to reason that this is where it all must end.
*
Taking Sadie’s advice, I try fixing some dry toast for breakfast, the only thing I can think of that might stave off more nausea. Without thinking I flip open the breadbin, which contains nothing but Rachael’s hastily stashed phone. My chest tightens as I pull it out, turning it over and over in my hands. I switch it on and it doesn’t prompt me for a passcode.
I scroll through her photo folder and find a few short videos of her at the beach and at school, some mucking around with her parents and Christopher at home. The most recent one is three minutes of birthday party footage at Kimchi. There’s nothing from the sailing club, no recording of my confession about Sparrow. Rachael was bluffing all along.
Or I’ve already deleted the evidence.
Pushing the phone away from me across the table, my gaze drifts around the kitchen. I stare at Margaret’s fridge magnet, mulling over what she said about not hearing a peep from Ally. So, that’s now two people I’m connected with that have gone missing.
I storm upstairs to Ally’s bedroom, tearing through her wardrobe and drawers for some kind of clue about where she could be. I don’t even know what I’m looking for when I stumble across a suitcase in the back of her wardrobe. It appears to be the same battered brown one she packed for last month’s yoga retreat. I remember it sitting by the front door.
I drag the suitcase into the middle of the floor to unzip it. Inside are Ally’s long floral skirts and earthy T-shirts, black yoga pants, a toothbrush and a packet of cigarettes.
Did Ally even make it to the yoga retreat? Or did she just not bother unpacking when she returned?
Staggering to my feet, I head into Ally’s study at the end of the hall. This was one of the rooms that remained locked and off-limits nine years ago. Today I throw open the door and sift through the junk on Ally’s desk without giving her privacy a second thought.
I leaf through Post-its and notepads, hunting for anything that might explain her current whereabouts. Underneath a pile of unopened mail is a spiral-bound weekly planner. A satin ribbon marks a weekend in March with my name written in ballpoint pen on three consecutive days. On the Saturday of that weekend, Ally’s written Life and Mind, Byron and circled it. I search for a scrap of paper to write that down, then change my mind and scoop up the whole book to take downstairs.
In the kitchen, I use my phone to google Life and Mind, Byron Bay. A business listing comes up as the first search result. I dial the phone number in the listing, relieved when someone actually answers considering it’s not yet eight o’clock on Easter Monday.
“Hello. My aunt attended your yoga retreat in March,” I tell the receptionist, citing the dates in the planner in front of me. “At least, she planned to attend. I just need to check if she actually turned up.”
“You can’t just ask her this question yourself?” comes her snippy reply.
Doing my best impersonation of Sadie’s polite-but-no-bullshit approach, I say, “My aunt is missing and I’m asking you for help. Are you able to tell me or not?”
The woman sighs. “Just one moment.”
She puts me on hold and I spend several minutes listening to pan flutes and trickling water. When she comes back on the line I hear the shuffle of papers.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m obligated to tell you we do not give refunds for no-shows.”
I sink into the nearest chair. “Are you telling me there’s no record of Ally Carmody attending?”
“That’s correct. However, we did try contacting her several times and we can’t be held responsible if she didn’t return our calls. It’s a prepaid event and refunds are only provi–”
I hang up and flip through Ally’s planner in the weeks leading up to my March visit. Her scribbles are either illegible or so brief I can’t make any sense of them. I go all the way back to the day she arrived on our doorstep in Port Bellamy, a whirlwind of bohemian fabric and animosity. There are two sentences scribbled on an angle across the page.
The first reads: GET KEYS BACK FROM RICH!!
And underneath it: PJ – 9 am. Corner Mavis and Lindsay Street, Cessnock.
The obvious thing screaming for my attention is the mention of PJ. As in Ally’s high school sweetheart? Peter or Patrick something? I’d assumed he was no longer in the picture. It seems he’s alive and well and living in Cessnock, if this is indeed the same person. When I was eavesdropping on Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen that day, Dad mentioned Ally was passing through on her way home from the Hunter Valley. So, was PJ the reason Ally was there?
Maybe he knows where Ally is.
She might be in Cessnock with him right now.
I snatch up my phone and google the street address, hoping for a residential directory listing with a phone number. If Ally won’t answer her phone, maybe PJ will answer his. The first search result is a grey Google Maps box with the address listed underneath. An arrow pinpoints a location.
Cessnock Correctional Centre.
Frowning at the screen, I hit the backspace button and key in the address again. The same result comes up.
Ally was at a prison at nine in the morning on the same day she turned up at our house? When she marched through our front door, I distinctly remember a person smoking in the cab of her truck. It seems like a distracting tangent complicating my search for Ally, which in turn doesn’t ease my concern about where Mallory is. But my instincts tell me this scrap of information is important.
I scour my memory for details about Ally’s former boyfriend, things she told me right here in this kitchen. He was a runner or something. On the school athletics team – the Pocket Rocket. Peter Jones? Patrick Jones? Patrick Jonas? Yes! Patrick Jonas.
I google “Patrick Jonas” and “Cessnock Correctional Centre”. The first search result is a newspaper article.
Holding my breath, I click open the link.
38
THEN
The Shore Observer | Archives
Section: News
Date: 28 February 2008
GLOUCESTER, NSW – Gloucester man sentenced to eleven years for methamphetamine trafficking.
Patrick Michael Jonas of Gloucester on the New South Wales mid north coast was sentenced to eleven years in prison on Wednesday for the commercial supply of methamphetamine, commonly known as ice.
Jonas, 36, was arrested on 16 January after the NSW Police drug squad executed a search warrant at his Roberts Road unit based on an anonymous tip. Police seized a set of digital scales, $825 in cash and multiple clip seal baggies containing a total of 215 grams of a clear crystal substance. The substance was tested and found to be methamphetamine.
Jonas will serve eleven years at Cessnock Correctional Centre in New South Wales with a non-parole period of nine years.
39
NOW
Nine years.
The last two words of the newspaper article are like beacons in a black mist.
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