He pointed to a little brown-brick motel with a proud sign out the front that declared it had air-con, which – if this was the best they could sell their rooms on – didn’t say much for them. Taxi took the phone off Coco, and went over to make calls and book the rooms.
I parked the car out the back of the petrol station, stepped out and stretched myself every which way, pulling my bones back into position. Relieved not to be driving anymore. Not that I’d tell Taxi that.
‘I’m starving,’ Coco said, lifting her arms and curving her back like a cat, then flopping her arms back down her sides.
Enron was getting the wheelchair out of the boot for JC.
‘I wouldn’t mind going for a walk,’ I said. ‘I think my legs have cramped up. Do you think we can take Him with us? Or should we leave Him in one of the rooms?’
Enron shrugged.
‘He should come with us. The Mover said He’d be fine.’
The Mover had a theory about wheelchairs that he’d told us the night before.
‘People in wheelchairs are invisible. Spend a day in one and you’ll see how anonymous a person can be.’
He’d sounded kind of bitter when he’d said it, which wasn’t like the Mover at all. Joke.
Enron lifted Jesus out of the car and settled Him into the wheelchair, re-jigged His legs, arranged His arms.
‘Okay, so let’s see how you go flying under the radar, JC,’ I said, patting His shoulder.
The good news is, Jesus had no problem flying under the radar.
The Mover had been right. No one looked at Him. We pushed Him down the street, into the cafe, ate our lunch, back out of the cafe and along to our brown-brick-with-airconditioning-motel without a single person coming up to us and saying, ‘Hey, isn’t that the Messiah of the entire Christian world you’re pushing in that buggy?’
Back in our motel room, while Coco was having a shower I secretly picked up the phone beside our bed and rang reception.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi,’ I said in my quietest voice. Not wanting to get sprung. ‘I’ve lost my phone, but I was wanting to check my messages. Do you know how I do that from a landline?’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Optus.’
‘Okay. So you first dial zero to get an outside line, then call 133 321, then your mobile number, and then your pin.’
‘Pin?’
‘You would have used a pin when you first set up your phone.’
‘Oh. Okay. Thanks.’
I put the phone down.
I wouldn’t have a clue what my pin was. Mum had organised the phones for Coco and me. Although.
I dialled zero, rang 133 321, then keyed in my number. And then I tried something that I wasn’t sure was going to work. The code for our computer at home was the same as the pin for Mum’s credit card, I sneakily happened to know. So I put in 241167 for the six-digit pin. Mum’s birth date.
And voila. Access granted.
Which is how I got to find out that all holy hell had broken loose in Melbourne.
‘Dodie, it’s me.’ Minty. ‘Just saw on Facebook that you’re going to Sydney. What’s going on? Call me.’
‘Dodie.’ This was Jools. ‘Sydney? For real? Ring me.’
‘Dodie … Facebook … Sydney?’
‘What are you doing …?’
‘… everyone knows …’
‘… what’s going on …’
Mrs Willis from school: ‘Dodie. Please call immediately. We’re very concerned to hear you and Coco are apparently going to Sydney. Is this right?’
And chillingly: ‘This is a message for Dorothy Farnshaw. I understand you’re in Sydney or on your way there. Please call Inspector McClellan on 0420 139 702 as soon as you get this message.’
Coco came out of the bathroom, towelling her hair.
‘Everyone knows we’re going to Sydney,’ I said to her, putting the phone down. ‘Even the police. It’s all over Facebook. I don’t get it.’
And then I knew. Just by looking at Coco’s guilty face, I knew.
‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Fuck.’
‘I only posted it to Amelia and Sooz, last night before we went to sleep,’ Coco said, panic streaking her voice. ‘Before he took our phones off us. It was just a quick little update. And then just for a second this morning on Taxi’s phone. I mean, shit, they’d have been worried. I didn’t think they’d tell everyone.’
I was going to murder her.
Murder her.
‘What exactly did you write?’ I asked, restraint strangling my voice.
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Tell me,’ I said, clicking my fingers snip snap.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
I lunged at her, pulling her hair as hard as I could, satisfied with the hanks that I loosened from her scalp.
‘What did you write?’ I yelled.
‘Ow. Get off,’ she screamed, pushing me off her. ‘Psycho.’
‘You’re the psycho,’ I screamed back at her, both of us falling against the bed. ‘He said not to go on Facebook. There was one thing you weren’t allowed to do and it was go on Facebook. No wonder those guys knew where to find us. They didn’t guess – you told them. “Hi. Just off to Sydney,”’ I mimicked, putting on a Coco-voice. ‘What else did you say? Have you told them we’re in Rosedale as well? What room we’re in? What side of the bed you’re sleeping on?’
‘Get off me.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Dodie. Coco.’ Enron was speaking at the door. ‘What’s going on?’
Coco pushed me away from her and dashed for the door, pulling it open then hiding behind the guys for protection.
‘She went on Facebook,’ I said to them, dibber-dobber that I am. ‘She went on Facebook and told everyone we’re going to Sydney. That’s how those guys knew. They didn’t guess. Everyone knows.’
I shook my head and turned away from them, my hands over my face.
‘Fuck,’ I said to myself, to them, to her, to no one. ‘Fu-uck.’
‘What did you write?’ I heard Enron gently asking Coco.
‘I just wrote that Mum and Dad are missing,’ she said. ‘And that we were going to Sydney. And that I was scared.’
I looked at Coco and burst into tears.
‘And how bad does that make it sound?’ I said, my voice rising. ‘“I’m scared.” You’re not even that scared. I mean, what the hell?’
‘But,’ and her voice sounded small, ‘I am scared.’
‘It’s cool,’ Taxi said, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter. Is that all you wrote?’
‘When we went past Mediterranean Wholesalers, I wrote that I could go one of their jam tarts. But that’s it.’
‘Which is how they found us in Sydney Road,’ I said. Pissed off.
She nodded, face down at her feet.
‘I guess the one good thing is, that means they definitely think we’re going up the Hume,’ Taxi said. ‘How did you find out it was on Facebook anyway?’ Taxi asked me.
I bit my lip, looking down at the floor.
‘I just … checked my messages,’ I said.
Pot. Kettle. Black.
Coco and I lay on the double bed facing each other. The boys had gone back into their room, taking Jesus with them.
‘I’m sorry,’ Coco whispered to me.
‘Me too.’
I reached into the leg pocket of my army pants and pulled out the letter that had been in the envelope with Mum’s note, Dad’s messy script scrawled across the front of it.
‘He always said he should have been a doctor.’ Because apparently doctors have messy writing. I smiled, showing her the front of the envelope.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, patting her hair, hoping her scalp wasn’t too sore. ‘I always overreact. I wish I didn’t. It’s like I can’t help myself. Maybe I’m mental. I think you’re right: I am psycho.’
Coco put her arm around me, her nose tou
ching my cheek.
‘You’re not psycho,’ she said, a sweet grin on her mouth. ‘You’re a nutcase, but you’re not psycho.’
We held Dad’s letter between us and fell into a weighty-limbed sleep.
Coco and I woke up, still tight up against each other, just as the day was losing its sparkle.
I hauled myself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, unfolded Dad’s letter, pushed my hair behind my ear and started reading it out loud to Coco.
‘My Darling Girls,’ he’d written. Even those three words were hard to speak. I could hear my dad’s voice from over the years, calling us his ‘darling girls’.
No matter what we did, we were always his ‘darling girls’.
‘First of all, if you’ve found what’s in the basement, you’re probably wondering how He got to be here. Jesus in a basement in Melbourne. Not exactly what you expect, is it? Certainly wasn’t what I expected when your grandma told us to go down and make a decision about whether we wanted to take on what she’d been looking after all these years.
‘He arrived from Nicaragua in the eighties. Each time He’s moved, it’s always to the place you’d least expect to find Him. And I guess the basement of a family in suburban Melbourne certainly fits that criterion!
‘The story, as I understand it, goes like this:
‘After He was crucified, He was buried in a tomb that belonged to a man called Joseph of Arimathea.
‘Then the rumours started that He’d been seen in Jerusalem, wounds and all. After a couple of months a group of soldiers went to His tomb to check on the truth of the rumours and found Him lying there – still warm to the touch and perfectly preserved.
‘Unsure what to do, they brought Joseph of Arimathea to the tomb, who realised immediately the High Priests would do everything they could to destroy His body once they found out He was still perfectly preserved. So he arranged for the Body to be smuggled out of Jerusalem. This breakaway group called themselves the Soldiers of Arimathea and they pledged to keep His body in safekeeping until such time as He could reveal Himself to the people. And they’ve been moving Him ever since.
‘The last move saw Him ending up in Grandma’s basement. She was always a shocking hoarder, but this is ridiculous.’
Coco and I both couldn’t stop laughing at this, simply because it was the epitome of our dad. To make a stupid joke right at the moment that everything was most serious. We could even hear the exact way he would have said it, his voice rising and twisting the second syllable, ‘ri-DONC-ulous.’ So Dad.
‘And now, here we are, New Year’s Eve.
‘Every New Year’s Eve Mum and I write this letter, and every New Year’s Eve we fight about it. It’s the only time we ever disagree. This whole business with Jesus was your grandma’s thing, and I’m of the opinion that when she died we should have had Him moved on. It’s not that I’m afraid of the responsibility, I just don’t like the idea of risking my family for Him. But Mum wanted to look after Him. She felt like it was the least she could do for Grandma. It made her feel like Grandma was still around in a way.
‘So here we are: New Year’s Eve, writing our annual letter to you two.
‘By the way, I’m hoping you never read this letter, but I must admit I like writing it in a funny way. Thinking back over the year we’ve just had, the funny things we’ve done as a family, the crazy things you girls have done over the past twelve months (and believe me, they’re getting crazier as you both get older). It’s a nice discipline to write it all down. And we keep all of them. Every one of the letters we’ve written over the past six years we’ve kept, so if you ever do have the misfortune of having to read this one, you’ll find all the others in the top drawer of my bureau.
‘I love watching you two girls together. Mum and I are proud of how well you get along, and we know that if anything ever happens, you’ve got each other, which is the most important thing. We feel just a tinge of smugness, to be honest, at having raised two such beautiful girls, although it’s probably more a case of starting off with two brilliant kids to begin with and not messing either of you up too badly.
‘I’ve enjoyed the hours in the car with you, Dodie, learning to drive, even though you’ve aged me dramatically through the lessons! And this year, Coco, you’ll be getting your Ls as well. Be kind to your old man is all I ask!’
It sounded a bit confusing, Dad talking about Coco starting driving lessons, when she’d been having them since May, but he’d written this letter at the beginning of the year, so he hadn’t had the pleasure yet.
‘If there’s anything I wish, I wish I could have gotten to know every single thought you’ve ever had. I wish I could have stopped you both from hearing cross words from your friends and having your feelings hurt. I wish I could still snuggle up with you on my lap, but unfortunately it would be kind of creepy if I still had you sitting on my lap now that you’re both nearly grown-ups. Sometimes I get startled by how much like your mum each of you are becoming. I regret any harsh word I’ve ever spoken, but feel pretty sure they were only ever uttered because you bloody well deserved them.
‘As for this year: Dodie, work hard. It’s your final year and while it’s not the be all and end all, if you do well this year you’ll set yourself up for your future. If you don’t study hard it doesn’t matter so much, you’ll still do well in life I have no doubt, but life is always easier if you don’t start from behind the eight ball. I know you’re not exactly sure what you want to do, but don’t worry about it. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do till I was in my early twenties – you’ve got plenty of time.
‘And you, Coco my girl, work a bit. That’s all I ask. Just put a bit of effort in. I know you think it doesn’t matter, that it’s boring and it’s only year ten and who cares anyway, but Mum and I care. For the same reasons we want Dodie to work hard, we want you to as well. It just makes life easier if you put in an effort. Like we’re constantly telling you, whatever you put in, you’ll get back in spades.
‘But here I go getting all serious and nagging you about working hard. Why do I do that? I’m not like that with anyone else. With everyone else in the entire world I’m happy to let them do their own thing. But you two girls: I feel like I’m constantly pushing you, but it’s only because you’re so important to me. I want you to have every opportunity that’s available to you.
‘Boys. Coco, they’re not as important as you think. They’re just human beings. You’ve got plenty of years to be in relationships – enjoy hanging out with your friends and don’t worry so much about what boys think of you. Believe me, they will be thinking you’re pretty gorgeous if they’ve got even half a brain in their head. Dodie: Matt’s a good guy but I worry that he’s maybe not motivated enough for you. I know you think it doesn’t matter, but it will in time to come. You don’t need to worry about it too much, just don’t let him take up too much of your headspace.’
‘Well, at least Matt’s one problem he doesn’t have to worry about anymore,’ I said to Coco.
‘He’s making out like I’m obsessed with boys,’ Coco said, propping herself up on her elbow to listen.
I raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t say anything.
‘And there I go again,’ I went back to reading, ‘lecturing. Sometimes it’s so boring being a dad. Not being a dad – I love being your dad. But I hate the way I sometimes revert to this hectoring manner, almost wagging my finger at both of you. It’s just that I see so much potential in you both, I don’t want it going to waste.
‘And now, it’s getting late, which probably explains why I’m getting maudlin.’
‘What’s maudlin?’ Coco asked.
‘Kind of depressed sounding.’
‘Mum always insists we finish this letter before the year is up, and it’s getting on to ten o’clock now. Mum and I are going back upstairs now to drink a toast to how clever we’ve been to have two such beautiful daughters. Which reminds me – where are you both? Coco, I want you home just after twelve. Do
die, I suppose you’ll come home whenever suits you. And tomorrow morning I’ll sneak into both your bedrooms and look at you as you sleep and thank my lucky stars that of all the kids in all the world, you were the two that I got.
‘We love you both very much,
‘Love Dad and Mum xxx’
Fat, slow tears welled in my eyes and I lay back down beside Coco.
Enron came into our room just before six o’clock.
‘We’re going to order some room service,’ he said. ‘You wanna come in and get something?’
‘Yeah. Sounds good,’ I said.
I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, the coldness of it feeling fresh against my bed-warm face.
As I came back out I noticed the phone on the bedside table. So easy to just pick up and check my messages again.
But instead I opened the door and walked out to the room next door.
Coco, Enron and I were all over the news.
‘Nice photo,’ Jones said to me, bits of wood flicking onto the carpet-tiles as he worried the chock of wood with his big knife.
He was right – it was a shocker. Me in my school uniform with my pigtails neat down either side of my face. Thanks, whoever gave that one to the media. Coco’s wasn’t much better.
‘Police are concerned for the safety of two Melbourne schoolgirls and their parents,’ the newsreader said, e-nunc-iating each word in that crisp way of female journalists, ‘who have been missing since yesterday afternoon. Their mother’s car was found in a side street in Port Melbourne earlier this morning. It appears they have been taken to Sydney and that a classmate – Ronald Nichols – may be involved in their disappearance. Police have warned anyone who sees them not to approach, as Nichols is considered dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’ Jones said, raising his eyes. ‘Hardly.’
Coco pushed at Enron’s arm with her foot, her concern masked by the casualness of her move.
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