The night sky faded into dawn as I ran along the deserted road. My breath puffed little clouds in the cool autumn air, though my skin was hot and damp despite the chill. By the time I reached the forest edge on the outskirts of town, the sun had crested the horizon and was flooding silvery light over the distant mountains. But as the sky grew lighter, the shadows that swarmed around me under the roadside trees only seemed to darken.
Nearly there.
While I ran, I let my thoughts range free – the new column I was working on for the Express, or what repairs needed doing at the cottage, or when my brother, Duncan, was going to stop sleeping with random women and settle down. I even pondered what I’d have for breakfast when I got back, even though I always had the same thing: toasted fruit muffins dripping with butter and washed down with milky tea.
Mostly, though, I thought of her. The twelve-year-old girl who still haunted my dreams. Her infectious giggles, her round pixie face, her soft brown eyes. Twenty years had passed, any reasonable person would have forgotten her . . . but not me. Abby, my brother was always lecturing, you can’t blame yourself for what happened; you were just a kid. When are you going to give up your stranglehold on the past and get a life?
‘When I find it. When I can prove it was real.’
I touched the map in my pocket. Two years of searching, and I had nothing to show. All the trails I’d followed, the rocky overhangs and toppled trees I had explored, only to return home every day empty-handed. But I couldn’t stop looking. Not yet.
Veering off the highway, I ran downhill along an overgrown dirt road. The damp air was heavy with the scent of gum leaves and rotting vegetation, and as I breathed it in my pulse kicked up a notch. Magpies flitted through the treetops above me, their shadows swooping and soaring, their melodic calls echoing eerily in the dimness. When I reached flat ground, I slowed to a stop and took a swig from my flask. Here at the edge of the reserve, ribbon gum saplings huddled together as though seeking safety in numbers. Deeper into the woodlands, where I was headed, everything became more extreme: gum trees towered like giants along the lip of the gorge, and boulders rose up like monsters’ skulls; blackthorn and tea-tree grew in prickly walls that were so thick I’d have to fight my way through.
Once, the Deepwater Gorge Reserve had been a Mecca for campers and hikers who travelled from all over the country to marvel at its wild beauty and trek along its convoluted walking trails. As a child I had picnicked at the remote Pilliga’s Lookout with my family. It was a steep hike, but the views over the river made our sweaty pilgrimage worthwhile. I had loved to stand with my father on the bluff, the wind trying to grab my hat as I gazed across the hills. Spellbound by the endless trees and granite rock formations that made the park so appealing to visitors.
Tucking my flask back in my pocket, I pushed into a run again and continued along the track. Soon I reached the abandoned campground. Staggering to a stop, I surveyed the weedy barbecue area. A burned-out brick shelter cowered behind two gutted fire pits. Nearby, a derelict concrete picnic table was on the verge of toppling sideways. Shadows shifted in the surrounding trees. The dense bushland beyond seemed to be holding its breath. I stood very still, listening.
When a branch creaked behind me, the hair on my arms prickled. Crawling my hand to the pepper spray in my back pocket, I eased out the slim canister. Popped the cap. Nothing else moved. At least, nothing I could see through my suddenly tunnelled vision. I turned in a slow circle.
Breathe, Abby. Breathe.
Then, a splash of colour. Blood? A big red blur on the other side of the campground in the shadows of a soaring ironbark tree. My jaw went rigid. Had someone shot and skinned a kangaroo?
But it was too red. And too glittery.
Putting away my flask, I hastened over.
A girl lay in the dirt, curled like a foetus, her face tilted to the ground. Blood oozed from a wound on the side of her head and congealed in her dark hair. She wore a bright red jacket, adorned with sequins and out of place in the dull green shadows of the bush.
I dropped to my knees beside her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
‘Hey. Wake up.’ When she didn’t stir, I patted her arm. ‘You can’t sleep here. You need help.’
Her clothes were filthy, her feet bare, her knees skinned through the thin fabric of her torn leggings. She looked as though she’d been here all night, although there was no smell of alcohol or pot, just the sourness of blood and body odour.
‘Come on, kiddo.’ I nudged her again. ‘Wake up.’
I checked her breathing, then made sure her airways were clear. I held open her eyes and shone my iPhone light in them. The pupils constricted normally but the girl still didn’t move. The pulse in her wrist felt steady, but her skin was cold and clammy. Then I noticed her hands. Scratches covered the knuckles and one of her fingernails was broken and crusted with blood. For a long time I stared. She had fallen in the bush and hurt herself, that was all. But for a moment my imagination took off and I pictured her trapped in a dark hole somewhere trying to claw her way out—
Just breathe.
I got to my feet and ran across the site, leapt up onto the picnic table and thrust my phone upwards, but there was no signal, not even the SOS option.
I went back to the girl and crouched by her side. I couldn’t leave her here alone. But it was too risky to try and move someone with a head wound. She might be concussed, or worse. Movement could cause irreparable damage. It could cripple her. Kill her. Besides, the main road was a couple of kilometres away along the bumpy access track. Carrying or piggybacking her there was out of the question. I had no choice; I’d have to leave her while I ran for help.
Slipping off my denim jacket, I tucked it around her. Then, as an afterthought, I pulled my little water flask from my pocket and propped it by her side.
‘I’ll be quick, sweetie. I promise. Just hang on till I get back, okay?’
Lurching to my feet, I staggered backwards, unwilling to take my eyes off her. Then, with a sound that was midway between a gasp and a sob, I wrenched myself around and sprinted back towards the road.
• • •
Twenty minutes later the ambulance flashed its high beams and pulled up alongside me. I dived into the vehicle and directed them along the overgrown road towards the campground. As we bumped down the potholed track, I told them everything I could recall about the girl. Aged about fourteen, slim build, brunette with brown eyes. The red jacket and torn leggings. A description of her injuries.
‘She was all curled up, like she was trying to stay warm. And her poor head . . . All that blood—’ I reined in my babbling, knotting my fingers and forcing my limbs into a stillness I didn’t feel. Ahead of us the track narrowed as the trees crowded out the frail sunlight.
‘Did you recognise her?’ the driver asked. ‘She a local kid?’
I shook my head. ‘No idea.’
The offsider whistled. ‘You jog out here alone?’
‘Most mornings.’
The driver shot me a look. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere. Local, are you?’
Straightening my shoulders, I looked at the driver. He was a beefy thirty-something and his square face seemed vaguely familiar. Had I known him at school, and consequently relegated him, along with the rest of my childhood, into the abyss of things best forgotten?
‘I’ve been away for a while.’
We hit a pothole and the driver cursed. The other ambo looked at me.
‘Hey, I remember. You’re Duncan’s sister. Duncan Radley? Gail, isn’t it? Abigail?’
‘I’m Abby Bardot now.’ I flashed the wedding band, even though my divorce had been and gone years ago. I still wore the ring to ward off unwanted interest, and – since being back in Gundara – to curb awkward conversations about my name change. I was about to ask if they knew my brother from the hospital but then the campground came into view.
‘There,’ I said, jabbing my finger at the black-trunked ironbark. ‘She’s over there.’
As the vehicle approached the tree and slowed, the medics exchanged a look. I shoved open the door and leapt out, dashing across the uneven ground. When I reached the ironbark, I spun in a circle. My drink bottle had fallen over in the dirt. I went a short way into the bush, then returned to the big clearing and raced over to the brick shelter. Examined every shadowy corner of its burned-out interior. Then I ran a lap around the campground, looking under bushes and behind fallen logs, scanning the surrounding trees. Finally, I returned to the ironbark and gazed about, bewildered.
Where in blazes had she gone?