‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ he says. ‘About … you know. The bush hut. Are you ashamed of it?’
I think about that night, how Raf found every reason to keep shifting closer and closer to me on the rug, how a lapse in conversation prompted a quick glance between us that hummed with mutual attraction. When I asked, ‘Do you want to kiss me?’ Raf laughed nervously into his lap before leaning in, his tentative peck morphing into a kissing-until-our-mouths-ached, hands-under-T-shirts make-out session. It was the most satisfying answer to any question I’ve ever asked, and all I could think about was how much I wanted Raf to answer it over and over again.
‘No, I’m not ashamed,’ I say to him now. Then, in a smaller voice, ‘Are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone either.’
‘I didn’t want to get you in trouble,’ he says. ‘You’d already lied to Sergeant Doherty by the time he spoke to me, so I just said I’d been home all night in bed. I’ve never brought it up with anyone. I didn’t want to contradict your story.’
I sigh. ‘I never intended for you to be dragged into my lie. When Doherty started asking questions I panicked.’
‘Because of your mum’s curfew.’
‘She’d use it as a reason to stop me coming here. She’s looking for any excuse to put a more legal custody arrangement in place and take Dad to court.’
‘I get it,’ he says. ‘And honestly, it’s not like us lying about the bush hut made an ounce of difference to Henry’s whereabouts.’ He sits down on the picnic rug and gestures for me to join him. ‘So what are you doing out here?’
‘Searching for clues that might help me find Henry.’
‘I figured as much. That’s so you.’ Raf smiles. ‘Cool. I’m into it. Tell me what you have.’
I run through everything I know so far about Mason, the postcard, Henry’s possible Facebook account. Raf pulls out his phone and scrolls through all of the Henry Weaver profile pics. He tries entering some potential passwords, but to no avail. I pull Henry’s note from my pocket and unfold it, laying it flat on the sandy rock.
Raf cringes. ‘Sorry. I should have told you about that.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I thought it would upset you,’ he says. ‘Just how it’s worded … I knew you’d blame yourself.’
‘Well, you’re not wrong,’ I concede.
I show him the postcard and note side by side, explaining how Sabeen spotted the discrepancies.
‘You’re building quite a case here, detective,’ he says. ‘This isn’t exactly sounding like a runaway kid anymore.’
‘I don’t know what it sounds like yet, but I’m going to keep digging.’
‘Okay,’ he says eagerly. ‘I think I have a contribution in the clues department. Check this out.’ He moves to his hiking pack and unzips a side pocket.
‘You have it on you?’
‘This bag is a vault,’ he says, stroking it with affection. ‘Everything of value to me is stored inside it. Camera lenses, external hard drive. Phone and wallet. M&Ms.’ He pulls out the latter and tears the packet open, offering it to me.
‘Why do you store it all in that?’ I say, cupping my palm and holding it out. He pours me a generous handful and does the same for himself.
‘In case there’s a fire, mostly. That bushfire last year has been playing on my mind. If we had to get out quickly, I’d want all my valuable stuff close at hand.’
‘What about your cats? Which pocket do they squeeze into?’
He grins. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be carrying them out in a baby sling like the precious cargo they are.’
I snort and Raf tosses one of his M&Ms at me.
‘Okay then,’ I say. ‘Where is it?’
He tips his whole handful of M&Ms into his mouth, then digs around in the side pocket of the backpack. His mouth is too full to speak, so he simply hands me a triangular object, no larger than a postage stamp.
Switching my phone on again, I shine the light on the palm of my hand. ‘It’s blue.’
I have to wait for him to swallow before he can answer. ‘Careful. It’s sharp.’
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I think I might know. You tell me what you think and see if we agree.’
It’s smooth on the flat outer surfaces and porous in the middle. ‘Porcelain or something,’ I say. ‘A piece of broken crockery.’
Raf waits, coaxing me with his eyes to come to a conclusion.
‘It’s stoneware. A shard of Wedgwood plate,’ I say, more to myself than to him. ‘Like the ones Ivy Weaver collects.’
‘Bingo.’
I pinch it between my fingers, avoiding the sharp point. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘The Weavers’ kitchen floor on the morning after the storm. Once Doherty finished asking us all questions and everybody left, Tom and I hung around for a bit, had a cup of tea.’
‘Lucky you. I’m not allowed past the front door.’
‘As I pulled out a kitchen chair to sit down, I spotted this on the floor. Here’s the weird thing,’ Raf says. ‘Apart from finding this, the kitchen was the cleanest I’d ever seen it. You could practically eat off the floor, and it never looks like that.’
‘That is weird.’
‘That’s not all,’ he says, taking back the piece of broken stoneware and holding it up. ‘That fancy plate cabinet of Ivy’s? Nowhere to be seen.’
‘What do you mean?’
Raf makes a poof noise with his mouth, wiggling his fingers like a magician. ‘It’s vanished,’ he says. ‘Just like Henry.’
Four weeks before the storm
21 DECEMBER 2018, 18:02
Henry: Merry Christmas! I’m a bit early. Last chance before the library closes.
Missy: Thanks! Merry Christmas. What are you doing for it?
Henry: Not much. My mum doesn’t like it.
Missy: No turkey? Christmas crackers?
Henry: We go to our friends’ house for that part. Sally makes a huge lunch.
Missy: She’s a good cook.
Henry: You say that like you know her.
Missy: Sorry, forgot to add a question mark.
Henry: Yeah, she is good. What do you do for Christmas?
Missy: Usually pretty quiet, just me and my mum.
Henry: And the ballerina.
Missy: Who?
Henry: Your sister.
Missy: Oh, yeah. Of course.
Henry: What about your dad?
Missy: He’s not around. I’d rather not talk about him.
Henry: Fair enough. We all have secrets.
Missy: Even you?
Henry: I haven’t told anyone I’m looking for my dad.
Missy: What about that girl you’re always mentioning?
Henry: Chloe? I haven’t told her yet.
Missy: Why not?
Henry: She worries about me a lot. She’ll take over and tell me what to do.
Missy: She sounds bossy.
Henry: Nah, not really. She’s sort of like a cop. Asks a lot of questions.
Missy: She’s thorough.
Henry: Yeah.
Missy: No offence, but she sounds boring. Sometimes you need to be spontaneous.
Henry: Like going to Sydney?
Missy: Exactly! Life’s too short. You gotta take a risk once in a while.
Now
The sun has almost sunk into the horizon by the time I steer my bike off the road and bump over the kerb into the Weavers’ driveway. The tops of nearby eucalyptus trees glow golden, while everything at ground level is a gloomy blue-grey as evening encroaches. The weatherboard bungalow is overrun with long grass and weeds, some almost as high as the windows. Several wooden palings are missing from the front steps, and the gutters sag with neglect. It has the feeling of a house abandoned, an empty shell of the warm family home it might have been many decades ago.
Mason’s car isn’t here and there are no lights on behind any of the front windows. The verandah seem
s somehow larger than I remember, perhaps because the last time I stood here it was crowded with people. I recall the look that passed between Mason and his mother that day. There was so much frantic chatter going back and forth between us all, and yet Mason and his mother had very little to say.
What were they hiding? What happened in this house that caused Henry to take a chance out in that storm?
At the front step, I realise the door is ajar.
‘Hello …?’ I say, trying to peer inside. I tap my knuckle against the door. ‘Hello?’
A crunch of gravel on the driveway draws my attention to the side of the house. Ivy appears from the brick carport holding an empty garbage bin in one hand, the other fiddling with her bra strap under an ill-fitting tank top. She must have been in the backyard when I arrived. She trudges up the wooden steps, moving easily around the broken ones as though she doesn’t see them. Her pale hair is scraped into a thin ponytail, emphasising the hollows in her cheeks.
‘What do you want?’ she says.
‘Hi.’ I shift my weight awkwardly from one leg to the other. ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone was home.’
‘And?’
‘I mentioned I’d bring some of these over.’ I slip a hand inside my bag and pull out a small pile of MISSING posters, holding them out to her. Ivy doesn’t take them but her eyes are drawn to Henry’s photo. She tilts her head and the hard line of her mouth softens.
She reluctantly reaches for them. ‘It’s a good photo.’
I sense her thawing slightly. It won’t be enough to get me inside, though.
‘We have to hope he’ll find his way home,’ I say.
Ivy’s face hardens again. ‘Wouldn’t hold your breath.’
‘Why do you say that?’
She looks at me like she’s already grown bored of this conversation. ‘People tend to walk out of my life and never come back.’
She steps around me and moves into the house, turning to close the door behind her.
‘Oh. Um … Henry borrowed a book of mine back in January,’ I say. ‘I was hoping I might be able to get it back.’
It’s weak, I know. I couldn’t come up with anything else plausible enough to gain entry. I’m banking on Ivy having no real idea which books are Henry’s and which aren’t. Most of them were gifted to him by me anyway, and the others were second-hand sci-fi and fantasy titles Tom put aside whenever they got donated to the shop.
To my surprise, Ivy holds the door open and jerks her head for me to come inside.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m—’
She walks away from me, into the kitchen.
Guess I’m on my own. Which suits me fine. I know which bedroom window is Henry’s from outside, so I orientate myself and head towards the first door on the left. I’m tempted to follow Ivy into the kitchen so I can confirm what Raf revealed last night about her missing Wedgwood plates, except she’ll question what I’m doing. Maybe I can ask for a glass of water on my way out.
Henry’s bedroom is not very large, with some built-in bookcases taking up most of one wall. It means the furniture is a slightly odd configuration, with the single bed jutting into the centre of the room. His bed has been made with straight edges, neat tucks and precision corners, and I struggle to picture Ivy or Mason being responsible. It seems so small and lonely, a forlorn piece of furniture wondering when its owner is coming home.
Something is poking out from underneath the pillow. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Ivy’s not close by, then reach over and pull it out. A white envelope, stamped and addressed to Henry. I flip it over to find the back blank. But I know who it’s from. It’s Henry’s birthday card from his father – he sends one every year. There’s something really heartbreaking about him mailing this year’s knowing Henry isn’t here to receive it.
This jolts me.
If Wayne Weaver posted his son a birthday card, then surely Henry can’t be in Sydney with him.
I hear Ivy moving around across the hall, so I slide the envelope back again and hurry over to Henry’s bookshelves. I pretend to scan the spines of the books, but instead my eyes dance over the wooden figurines and china animals, a small stack of school exercise books and a half-assembled New York City skyline made from Lego. It’s a special set we all put money in for at Christmas, under the guise of Secret Santa at the Nolans’ place. Henry and Mason told us once they’d never had any Lego as kids. It’s the first Lego set Henry’s ever owned.
Ivy appears in the doorway with her arms crossed. ‘Find it?’
‘Still looking.’
And I am looking, letting my eyes scour the walls, the shelves, the floor in search of anything that might support the idea that Henry ran away.
Or didn’t.
‘Maybe Henry took it with him,’ I suggest. ‘He had his backpack, right?’
Ivy leans against the doorframe. ‘A backpack, toothbrush and the clothes he was wearing. Maybe another T-shirt or two. Hard to tell. Doesn’t seem like anything else is missing.’
‘His green Lucky-7 cap,’ I add. ‘The one from his dad.’
Ivy scoffs. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘He bought it with last year’s birthday money. From the card.’
‘What?’ Ivy says. ‘Wayne’s had nothing to do with Henry since the day he left.’
I frown. ‘You don’t know about the birthday cards? Henry gets one from his dad every year.’
Ivy stares at me like I’m delusional.
‘I just assumed you knew,’ I say quickly, ‘because you put this year’s under his pillow.’
Ivy strides past me to flick the pillow aside. She snatches the envelope off the bed, scrutinising it front and back.
‘No postmark,’ she says, holding it up to prove it.
I hadn’t noticed that. Before I have a chance to stop her, Ivy shoves her finger under the envelope’s back flap.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘You can’t—’
She tears it open and yanks the card out, letting the mangled envelope drop to the floor. When she flips open the card, an orange twenty-dollar note flutters out and lands on the bed. Ivy scans the card quickly, then thrusts it towards me. I fumble to grab hold of it as she reaches down and snatches up the twenty dollars. Beneath the card’s printed message are three words in black felt pen: Love from Dad.
‘Wayne didn’t write that,’ she says. ‘Looks more like Mason’s handwriting.’
She tucks the twenty dollars into her bra and walks out of the room. I follow close behind.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘How do you know?’
‘Wayne cut ties years ago,’ she says. ‘His new wife saw to that. She’s somehow got him convinced Henry isn’t his biological son. Wayne called me after the police got in touch with him about Henry disappearing and he told me he doesn’t want to get involved.’
She lets loose a few swearwords to describe her ex-husband. The realisation sinks in that all those birthday cards to Henry were from Mason. I feel a tug of regret at how I spoke to Mason in the post office, but it’s also difficult reconciling such a thoughtful gesture with the image of Mason pushing Henry into the reservoir.
And it reveals another issue: did Henry really head to Sydney in search of a father who wants nothing to do with him? It seems doubtful that he made contact with Wayne at all.
‘See yourself out,’ Ivy says coldly, reassigning her anger at Wayne to me. She jerks her head at the front door, still open, and walks away.
I take one last scan of Henry’s room, then pause near the kitchen doorway as Ivy shuffles slowly to the table in the corner. If the kitchen was spotless three months ago, it certainly isn’t now. Dirty dishes are stacked high on the draining board, congealed food suggesting they’ve been there for some time. Crumbs and dirt have accumulated along the skirting boards, random food items spread out across the workable surfaces like nobody can be bothered putting anything away.
There’s no sign of a glass cabinet or any collectable plates.
Ivy half-turn
s her head in my direction as she lowers herself into a chair. ‘You still here?’
‘Sorry.’ I duck my head and take a few more steps towards the front door before pausing. I open my mouth and it just slips out. ‘Why do you hate me so much?’
Ivy reaches for her cigarettes and lighter, taking time to place one between her chapped lips and get it lit. Only once she’s taken a long drag does she answer. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do,’ I say, wondering how I’m finding the spine to do this. It’s been a long time coming. Maybe it’s because of the way she stole Henry’s twenty dollars just now. It’s riled me up. ‘I’ve racked my brain and I can’t figure out why you resent me so much.’
She gives me one of her half-lidded stares. I’m tempted to turn away but I hold my ground and she surprises me by softening her expression and tilting her chin.
‘How old are you?’ she says. She slides a white ceramic ashtray across the tabletop towards her. The Criterion Hotel logo is printed on the side.
‘Sixteen.’
‘My parents died when I was seventeen,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t learned a single thing from my mother. I didn’t know how to wash clothes or cook meals. I couldn’t drive or run a household. My older brother expected me to step in and take over our mother’s role before she was even cold in her grave.’
I swallow and hold eye contact. I don’t know where this is going but it’s the most Ivy Weaver has ever spoken to me.
‘Mark spent all the savings our parents had put away. Pissed it all up the wall. I couldn’t finish high school because I had to get a job. Mark was never home, and my friends stopped calling me because we had nothing in common anymore. My boyfriend told me to stop being such a miserable cow all the time.’ She taps her cigarette over the ashtray and returns it to her lips. ‘When I told him I was pregnant, he gave me a black eye. Three weeks later my brother buggered off to Bali and never came back. I gave birth alone. Brought that baby home alone. Raised him for six months alone until my deadbeat boyfriend came crawling back on my nineteenth birthday.’
I do a quick calculation and realise this means Ivy isn’t even forty yet. She easily looks a decade older.
‘So I’ll tell you something,’ she says, pointing her cigarette at me. ‘Once upon a time, before all of this—’ she gestures vaguely around her, ‘—this house, this life … I was you.’ She slides her gaze away from me to an empty corner of the room, staring at it mournfully as though there’s something missing. When she finally speaks, her words have lost their edge. ‘And it’s hard not to feel resentful about that.’
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