by Emily Paull
‘It’s not her.’
It took me a moment to realise what I was looking at. The front page of the paper was a photograph, the same one I had looked at many times over the past two decades. Her school picture, a smiling face against a generic blue background, her back straight and her hair freshly cut. The headline—‘Where is she?’
My head felt light. ‘I don’t understand …’
He took the newspaper back from me and opened to the page with the full story. ‘Detectives have today confirmed that the body found last month in connection with a high-profile missing persons case is not the body of a young woman who went missing from a bus stop near her school almost twenty years ago.’
I had put the car into reverse, but I hadn’t moved. Someone was waiting for our parking spot. They honked their horn and I startled, slamming my foot first onto the accelerator and then onto the brake so that we shot back about a foot. Steve threw his hand up to grab the handle by his head, shouting ‘Jesus!’ I put the handbrake on, still hanging out of the parking spot and bowed my head over the steering wheel. I didn’t know that it was possible to cry so much so suddenly.
Steve threw the paper onto the back seat and wound his window down, yelling to the impatient driver behind that we weren’t leaving. He undid his seatbelt and ran around to my side, taking the keys from the ignition and pocketing them. He was tired and hungry and probably wanted nothing more than a shower, but he knelt in the dirty car park and held my hand until I was calm enough to swap seats.
As soon as we got home, I went straight to bed, and for the first time in more than a month, I slept deeply and dreamlessly.
When I woke, it was past dinner time, and Steve had left me a note, telling me that he’d gone to the pub to have a meal with some mates.
On my bedside table, tucked under the corner of my lamp, was Jacinta Greenway’s card. I picked it up and carried it with me through to the kitchen. While the kettle boiled, I turned the bit of card over and over in my fingers and stared out the window, forcing myself to look at that hole in the ground. The phone rang against my ear.
‘Greenway.’
‘Hello … um … this is Maggie Turner.’
There was a pause. ‘Good evening, Mrs Turner. Is everything all right?’
I leaned my head against the windowpane. ‘I see that you have ruled out Louisa Jones as the girl you found in my yard.’
There was more silence on the other end of the line. It felt like time was a piece of bubblegum being stretched between us.
‘We did.’ ‘I just … I just wondered if you could tell me who she was.’
The detective sighed. ‘You and your husband might be called as witnesses in the trial. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything at the moment.’
There was something about the way she said this, and for the first time, I wondered how Jacinta Greenway felt about cases like these. Did she feel like she had a connection to every victim, to every missing girl? What I had been through in the last month—did Detective Greenway go through it every time?
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But whoever she is … I’ve lived beside her for eight years without knowing. I want to … I wish that there was something I could do.’
In the background on the other end of the line, I could hear voices. She was still at work, though it was after six. She sighed again, and I heard her take a sip of something.
‘I think sometimes, Mrs Turner, that you’ll find it’s better not to know these things. Have you ever heard of survivor’s guilt?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps look it up. And Maggie?’
‘Yes?’
‘None of this was because of you. There was truly nothing you could have done. I’m sorry, I have to get back to work.’
She hung up, but I kept the phone to my ear, staring at the backyard until the last bits of sunlight had gone, and the light in my house was too dim to see by.
That night, I dreamt of a fair-haired girl. She was running through my backyard, the ends of her hair gone green and filled with sticks. She was smiling, but someone, just out of sight, was chasing her.
NANA’S HOUSE
I ride my bike fast through the orange orbs of light cast by Northbridge streetlights, and after a while, it begins to feel as if I’m at a rave. Lights flashing all around me, blood rushing in my ears. I’m going so fast that it feels like I’m falling.
The lights here are a different colour to the streetlights in the city. Those give off white light, surgical, like the glare from fluoro lights in the office buildings. But out here, just the other side of the train station, nothing is uniform. Old houses and youth hostels sit next to stores that sell records, coffee shops that sell second-hand bicycles, and Chinese restaurant upon Chinese restaurant. In the centre of it all, the TAFE sits like a boulder around which the rest of the suburb has had to divert.
Most of the businesses are closed this time of night— no-one really comes out here but backpackers and the occasional local looking for a cheap bar to drink at. On one street alone, there is a sports bar, a trendy live music venue, and a nightclub with blacked-out windows and a name that seems to change every week. The only way to find it is to follow the steady throb of dance music.
It’s early November, but already the temperatures are in the high thirties. Perth is renowned for its sunshine, but no-one ever seems to warn the tourists about our relentless heat, and the fug that seems to set in between November and March each year.
Earlier this afternoon, I saw an ambulance pulled up outside a café. An older woman had fainted. The poor old duck was wearing a cardigan. She reminded me of my nana, who never felt fully dressed without her arms covered. She’d once upon a time refused to leave the house without a hat, even when it was overcast or blowing a gale. It wasn’t ladylike to go outside without one’s head covered.
The year I shaved the under layers of my hair off, she just about went into a fit of apoplexy. ‘But Catriona,’ she said, in a quiet voice, as if my missing hair were a secret and not something everyone could see. ‘How are people supposed to know you’re a girl?’ I wanted to tell her I didn’t care if strangers could work out what gender I was, but I reminded myself that Nana was from a different time, and that she’d probably grown up with a nana who wouldn’t let her wear trousers and made her put her hair up once she was married. Things change.
As far as nanas go, mine was all right. She didn’t beat me, or tell on me to Dad—she just asked questions, and looked at the bald side of my head in a sad way, like she was wondering when the hair was going to come back. Thank goodness I never showed her my tattoo.
She’s gone now. Cancer. Grandad was only a few months behind.
The ride home from work takes me past their house in a roundabout sort of way. It’s quicker by about twenty minutes if I don’t take the detour, but I like to check in every once in a while. Today, after seeing that woman in the ambulance, I feel like I can’t not visit. I both hate and love the swoop of recognition I feel when I look at it. Everything the same, but different. My nana’s lace curtains replaced with wooden venetians that are stuck on one side, so it looks like the house is giving me the side-eye. It’s an old house, and by the time my grandparents died, it was in a pretty poor state because Grandad wasn’t really up to maintaining it. But he’d lived there for forty-odd years, and he insisted that the only way he’d ever leave for good was feet first.
I slow down as I reach their street. It’s darker here, quieter. There’s a big park across the road, and I can see people sitting by the picnic tables if I squint. Teenagers. They’re passing something around, a bottle, or maybe a joint—I’m too far away to see. The gears on my bike squeak as I ride past. I feel like I’m tiptoeing along some forbidden corridor. I don’t know why I feel this way. No-one has ever told me not to ride past, but I feel like I’m doing something wrong. I never know if I’m going to feel like crying after I visit.
Right away, I can sense something is different. My eyes are
tired, but I’m sure the spot where my nana and grandad’s house is seems darker than the rest of the street. I rub my eyes and wonder if it was such a good idea to have a beer with Andy before I left work. He’s always asking and I always say no, but after seeing that old lady with the respirator over her face, I’ve had this feeling all day like I’ve wanted to put off the moment when I’d be left on my own. Andy’s nice, but I’ve been seeing this South African guy on and off, and besides, I don’t like to date people I work with. I keep Andy interested, just in case I need company, but I don’t let him put his hand on my arm, and I don’t lean in when we talk. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.
I stop in front of the block where their house should be. Used to be. There’s a gap now between the two houses either side, and it looks like the street has lost a tooth. There are mounds of dirt everywhere, and a few wooden slats and pipes lying about, like the demolition team have left in a hurry. I feel my chest clench, and then I spy a pile of ripped-up carpet that I recognise from my nana and grandad’s bedroom.
The bike falls as I swing my leg over the seat and walk towards the carpet squares. I run my hand along the worndown fuzz and think of all the times I have lain down on this carpet, resting my head on my hands while watching my nana put her makeup on from below. I think about the feet that have walked on it—all the thousands of footprints of people I love, and the ones made by my own feet—and I know now that I am drunk, and that I never should have come.
The South African does not pick up when I phone him, and so I text Andy. I tell him that I have fallen off my bike, and if he’s not left work yet, can he swing by and get me? Then I wheel the bike over to the park and wait.
Andy turns up thirty minutes later, reeking of coffee, and I wonder if he hurried to sober himself up because I’d called. His car is a ute, and we sling my bike into the tray on the back with little care. Its bell dings an indignant protest as it hits the metal.
‘Wait,’ I say, as Andy opens his door. I hurry back across the road and pick out a small square of carpet from the pile. I put it in the back of the car with the bike and then slide into the passenger’s seat. He doesn’t ask me any questions.
Andy drops me off outside my unit, and gets the bike down for me while I wait, clutching my prize. Mosquitoes bite my skinny legs, and I dance from foot to foot, swatting them, while Andy makes a big show of checking the chain on my bike.
‘It’s really loose,’ he says. ‘No wonder you fell off.’
‘No, it came off when I fell,’ I say.
He looks at me for a minute. I know he’s noticed I’ve been crying. We’re on the evening shift together again tomorrow, but I’m already planning to call in sick.
‘Do you want me to come upstairs with you?’ he asks.
I shake my head. There’s a look in his eye like a kicked puppy. I want to feel bad, but I can’t imagine Andy in my bed. As soon as he drives away, I try calling the South African again, but his phone is off.
It surprises me how little I care.
* * *
I feed myself cornflakes for dinner, and then set my carpet square on a table under the window. I put a pot plant on top of it and scatter a few picture frames around, but it still looks like a carpet square I pulled off a scrap heap. I can see how dirty it is now that I’ve got the house lights on. Instead of trying to clean it, I turn off the lights.
When I was a little girl, on hot nights like these we’d eat fish and chips at Nana’s, and then she’d wash my hair over the side of the bathtub using a measuring bowl. The water would be cold, and my head would sting for a moment as it hit my scalp, before relaxing into the deliciousness of the temperature. Nana’s shampoo always felt silkier on my head than the stuff my mum bought.
After Grandad died, it was my job to clean out their house, and I’d found a bottle of Nana’s shampoo in the back of the cupboard, empty. I searched everywhere for a bottle of my own, but they’d either changed the packaging or they didn’t make it anymore. The closest I could find was in a salon, and even though I spent forty dollars on it, I still couldn’t get my hair to feel as sleek as it had when Nana washed it. I wondered why she’d kept that empty bottle in the first place.
Perhaps she’d thought there was still something left in the bottle that she could get out if she shook it hard enough.
But I’d tried. Anything inside was long gone.
* * *
I wake, unable to remember having fallen asleep. Skeins of dreams come back to me as I lie still for a moment. It feels like I am trying to recall something important, something that is just out of reach.
The blind is still open, and from outside, the sound of construction work wafts in on a warm breeze. I throw off my covers. My arms and legs are covered in a patina of sweat. I wonder if it’s from the heat or if I’ve had a nightmare.
I make coffee and take it over to my little desk under the window. I put in the call to work and tell them that my ankle has swollen to the size of a balloon. Andy must be on the lunch shift too, because he texts me within minutes, asking me if I’m all right. I ignore him, even though he’ll see that I’ve read his message. I don’t enjoy being unkind to Andy, but I think Andy enjoys my unkindness. He is the type of man who will always pursue women who treat him with disdain.
The whole day is open before me. It is the first time I have had a whole day to myself in a long time. I am paralysed with indecision. I sit awhile over my coffee, skimming through Facebook in between sips, one leg tucked up under me until it falls asleep. The carpet square looks wrong in the morning light. Eventually, I go back to bed and watch hours of nothing on television. At half past four, I reply to Andy’s text message.
Come over, I say. And he does.
Like the carpet square, he doesn’t quite fit in my apartment, with its scuffed wooden floorboards and threadbare couch. He is tall and serious-looking, his hair thinning at the temples, which is the only thing that gives away the age gap between us. He sits with his hands resting on his knees, like he does not know where he is allowed to put them.
I sit next to him, allowing a closer proximity between our bodies than I usually do. I am close enough to smell the subtle traces of his aftershave—a strong, spicy scent that makes my nose tingle. It is oddly familiar, and I wonder who in my life I have known who has worn this exact scent.
I shuffle closer to Andy on the couch. It must be me who makes the first move. It must be me who tests the water. When he turns to me, I realise how close our faces are. I can smell bourbon on his breath. Dutch courage.
‘I went to my nana and grandad’s house last night,’ I say. ‘Oh?’ ‘I didn’t really fall off my bike. I was going back to visit the place where they used to live.’
‘The demolition site?’
I nod.
‘That must have been a shock,’ Andy says.
His hand rises above his knee, and for the briefest moment, I think he is going to reach out and touch me. At the last second, he changes his mind and scratches his face instead.
‘I didn’t go to their funerals.’
He looks away.
I realise I should have offered him something. Tea, coffee, alcohol. But he’s sitting so rigidly upright, so aware of how much space he’s taking up on my couch, and I know the only thing he wants to be offered is me. I take a deep breath and put my hand on his leg, and his eyes dart to me, uncertain, as if it’s all a trick. I lean in and press my lips to his. Andy wraps his arms around me and leans in, pushing me back further into the couch. But it’s wrong. So wrong, I am acutely aware of the saliva between our mouths and his knee pressing itself between my knees, trying to wedge them apart. I turn my face to the side so he has no choice but to kiss my neck.
‘Stop,’ I say. ‘I don’t want this. This doesn’t feel right.’
I can see that he is disappointed, but he pulls back to his own side of the couch on command, this time his hands folded in his lap. His cheeks are flushed. He directs his eyes out the window, the oppos
ite direction to me.
‘Is there something you wanted to talk about?’ he says.
‘No,’ I say. I feel like the meanest person alive. ‘You need to go.’
* * *
I lie awake all night, and the next morning, an idea comes to me. I act on it before I have time to think, dressing and putting shoes on, and doing a perfunctory brush of my teeth. I’m on my bike and cycling along the road before I’ve even thought it all through.
My ride takes me to the other side of the river. It is the furthest I’ve cycled in a long time. Sweat pours off me, and I feel the back of my neck and the tips of my shoulders beginning to burn. The houses become more modern as I enter the suburbs, riding through streets lined with purple-headed jacaranda trees that are just beginning to douse the footpaths in fragrant blossoms.
He answers my knock quickly, head turned back towards the inside of the house as he finishes a conversation. It’s a Saturday morning, and he’s wearing a polo shirt with a football team’s insignia on it. When he sees me, he blinks for a moment, then smiles.
‘Hello, Dad,’ I say, wrapping my arms around him. ‘I’ve really messed everything up.’
He invites me in, and makes me a toasted cheese sandwich, which I eat in front of the television. The two of us sit in silence. The AFL match that afternoon is Fremantle versus Geelong, and while the Dockers play well at first, by the fourth quarter, my dad is yelling at the screen. I sink deeper into the couch cushions and allow myself to be surrounded by the sights and smells of home. My father does not ask me what is wrong. He knows that when I am ready, I will tell him. He does, however, say that I can stay as long as I need to. When my mother gets home a few hours later, her arms laden with reusable shopping bags, she says the same thing.
Later, ensconced in my old bedroom, I wrap my hands around a mug of hot Milo and listen to my parents talking in the hallway.