When the alarm under his pillow shrilled at five o’clock, Tom dragged himself out of bed. Pulled on his track pants and jumper, slid his good foot into his shoe, and moved as quietly as his crutches would allow along the hall to the kitchen. Made himself a pot of Darjeeling and managed to spill only half of it on the trip to his office.
Usually the graveyard shift got his brain working. Being awake while the rest of the world slept triggered his muse. But this morning, as he settled at his desk, the only muse that popped into his mind was her. She was proving to be a distraction. Or rather, her absence was the distraction. In a short span of time, he had grown accustomed to her clattering about in the kitchen, or padding past his office door. The house was somehow lonely without it. Why couldn’t she be an early riser like him?
While his tea brewed, he lugged himself over to the centre of the room and looked up. He estimated he was standing right under her bedroom. He pictured her peacefully snoring, her face obscured by that mane of shadowy hair.
Sliding his weight off one of his crutches, he hoisted it upside down so its rubber foot pointed at the ceiling. Good thing he was tall. Those ceilings were lofty ten footers. He tapped the rubber base against the plaster. It echoed nicely, a faint boom-boom.
He shuffled sideways and repeated the motion, this time a little more loudly, imagining her up there stirring in her cocoon of blankets, frowning into the dark, her dreams interrupted. Little wrinkles forming on her freckly forehead.
Whoa. That last rap on the ceiling had been a little too robust. He stumbled sideways, wincing as his knee took the brunt. Flinging out his arm, he made a wild grab for the bookcase. Stupid. His fingers snatched at thin air, but somehow he stayed on his feet. The extended crutch wasn’t so lucky. It arced across the room and struck his desk. As it fell it clipped the teapot, which upended onto the floor and shattered in a bomb of glazed ceramic.
Tom glared at the puddles of tea gleaming on his polished boards. ‘What a bloody mess.’
Footsteps thundered down the stairs and then along the hall. The door burst open. Abby stuck her head in, her face flushed. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt teamed with her favourite moss cardigan, and was barefoot. Her hair swam around her like a cloud of chocolate silk.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Hunky dory,’ he growled. ‘Now do you mind letting me get on with it?’
She eyed the fallen crutch, thinned her lips at the broken teapot and its puddle of tea leaves, and then retreated into the hall.
Good. Though he had to admit the room felt empty now that she’d gone. Well that’d teach him to be a dickhead and play childish pranks when he was supposed to be writing.
He nudged the fallen crutch out of the way with his cast. No more distractions. Hadn’t he already wasted enough time obsessing over someone who’d be gone in a day or so, and good riddance?
He sighed. The clock was ticking. His deadline inching closer – it was time to get busy. He’d get this novel written if it killed him. He’d be damned if he would let anyone stand in his way.
He started back across the room, navigating the tealeaf puddles, and had almost reached the desk when his solo crutch slithered from under him. He grabbed his chair, which slowed his fall but didn’t soften it. Much. He hit the floor with a grunt. A grey cloud descended. For a while he swam around in the haze, unwilling to surface. Knowing that when he did, the pain would be horrible. But then, unbidden, his senses came roaring back into focus.
She was by his side, her hands on his ribs as she gazed worriedly into his face, a lock of her hair fallen forward, tickling his jaw. ‘What have you hurt?’
Only his manly pride. What little remained of it. ‘I’m fine. Help me up, would you?’ She extended her hand and he grasped it, easing into a sitting position and then back onto his feet. Abby’s fingers lingered on his arms, her touch butterfly-soft, her brow creased by tiny lines.
‘Thank God you didn’t land on a piece of the teapot.’
He ignored this comment. His quota of indignity for the day – hell, for a bloody lifetime – had already hit the max.
Abby leaned near him, her face a breath away as she peered into his eyes. What was she doing now, checking for concussion? He opened his mouth to insist that he was fine, but then stopped. He’d never seen her quite this close. The navy rings around her grey irises. The delicate crow’s feet. The tiny freckles dancing on her nose. The wide mouth with its rose-pink lips pressed into a line that seemed too stern for a face like that.
Her fingers settled on his shoulder. ‘Feeling okay, Tom?’
No, he wasn’t. In fact, he was further from okay than he had probably ever been in his life. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’
‘You’re pale. You’ve broken out in a sweat. Where are your painkillers, can I get you some?’
‘Nah, I don’t need any. They mess with my head, I can’t think straight. Can’t write. Thanks, though.’
She gazed about the room, her brow wrinkling. Tucking the stray lock behind her ear, she quirked her mouth to the side, apparently thinking. Then she brightened. ‘Hey, why don’t I set you up on the verandah? It’s nice out there, the sun rising, a view over the garden. You said being cooped up indoors was making you crazy. I’ll bring the Remington out, and you can get back to work while I mop up in here.’
He stared at her. His fingers twitched and something uncurled in his chest, it felt a little like awe. Writing on the verandah, why hadn’t he thought of that? He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to . . . well, best not go there. Instead he settled for a half-smile. ‘You realise that’s an absolutely brilliant idea?’
‘Off you go, then.’ She made a shooing motion. ‘I’ll be out in a tick.’
He went to the door, then looked back at her. He’d been a stupid jerk trying to wake her up. To her credit, she’d handled the whole disaster like a champ.
‘Listen, when you’re done, grab that photo album over there in the bookcase. Bring it out and we’ll have a look.’
• • •
Carefully collecting the teapot shards, I wrapped them in newsprint and binned them, and then mopped up the tea. I found Tom’s battered red photo album in the bookcase, a black ribbon tied around its bulging pages. Smiling to myself, I trailed my fingers over its worn cover. What secrets lay within? I placed it on top of the Remington, and manhandled the big old typewriter into my arms, but then a neat bundle of typed papers caught my attention.
I put down the typewriter and studied the bundle.
What if it was the novel he was writing about Deepwater? I glanced over my shoulder at the door. If it were my first draft, I’d hate someone to read it without asking. I should definitely leave it. Resist temptation; do the right thing and walk away.
I picked up the papers and flipped through them, scanning the typewritten lines. I was right; it was the Deepwater novel. Settling onto Tom’s desk chair, I started to read and was quickly absorbed. Tom told the story from the viewpoint of one of the victim’s mothers, describing her life before the abduction, and then her break-down as she crumbled under the weight of her grief. When I read her vow to find her daughter’s killer whatever the cost, my eyes filled with tears.
Over the years, I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to Alice’s mother. I had met her, of course, on those rare days she came to collect Alice after school. All I remembered was her mousiness; the stringy hair that was neither dark nor light, the baggy clothes that swamped her slim frame, and the round pixie face so like her daughter’s – except for the deep frown lines that carved between her eyebrows. But now, sitting in Tom’s office with his fragment of novel on my knees, the understanding struck me. If Alice still haunted me, then she must haunt her mother a million times more. Visiting her in dreams. Inspiring bouts of panic, of dark regret. Stirring up memories that she would dissect and replay, over and over, until they wore thin and began to fade like snapshots in a dusty old album . . .
I jumped to my feet. How long had I been sitting here? Tom must be on the brink of sending out a search party. I placed the typewritten pages onto the Remington, balanced the photo album on top, grabbed a couple of other things I thought Tom might need, and hoisted the clunky pile into my arms.
Out on the verandah, Tom got to his feet and took the typewriter from me. While he positioned it on the redwood table, I got busy arranging things around it – the jar of pencils, a fresh typewriter ribbon, a bottle of white-out.
Tom picked up his pile of papers and flipped through them. I glanced at him through my lashes. Could he tell I’d read them? Did he have a sort of sixth sense that his private writings had been violated by someone else’s eyes?
He made a grumbling noise and shook his head, frowning at the pages. Then he tossed them onto the table and looked at me. ‘What did you think?’
Heat flooded my neck. I started fussing over the jar of pencils, but then I sighed and met his gaze. ‘It was pretty good, actually. For a first draft.’
‘You think I got the tone right?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Nah, me either. I keep stalling with the mother’s point of view. It needs sensitive handling, but I’m not quite finding her voice.’
‘She’ll be a hard nut to crack,’ I agreed.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure this is my story. I’ve been working on it for over a year, and it’s just not happening. I’m not one to complain about writer’s block, but this one’s got me stumped.’
I settled onto the seat opposite him. ‘Have you been to the gorge?’
‘Not for years. I was planning a trip there, before . . .’ He gestured to his legs.
‘When you’re off the crutches, wait for a rainy day and head out there.’
‘A rainy day?’
I nodded, rubbing my arms. ‘Start with Pilliga’s Lookout, the views are stunning. Deeper into the reserve, it gets a bit, well . . . wild. It’s . . .’ I groped around for the right words to describe it. ‘On sunny days, it’s magical. Sunlight fans through the trees, and waterfalls sparkle near the river. Granite cliffs shoot up taller than skyscrapers and then plunge into dark ferny gullies. The walking tracks take you into a fairyland of mossy stone outcrops and ancient beech groves. But when it rains . . .’ I picked up the jar of pencils, suddenly fascinated by the loose shavings in the bottom. ‘You said you were there years ago?’
‘Yeah.’ He was watching me, frowning. ‘A camping trip with my dad. It’s what inspired me to be a writer.’
Abandoning the pencil jar, I sat up straight. ‘Oh?’
He opened the photo album and gestured for me to move closer. I shuffled my chair around until we were side by side, my arm gently bumping his. Tom turned the pages until he came to some photos of a young boy and a twenty-something woman. In one, the woman wore an elegant shift and had pinned her hair in a high bun reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. I touched the page, wanting to see.
‘That’s Mum,’ Tom said. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she? Unlike the pint-sized wretch next to her.’
‘Not a wretch,’ I murmured. ‘Just a normal little boy.’ Normal, although perhaps cuter than most. In one picture he stood in his school uniform with a skinned knee and black eye. In another his mother held his grubby hand – somewhat gingerly, it seemed – at the gates of a posh private school. There was another snap of a very muddy Tom grinning from ear to ear, one arm in a cast, the other cradling a football.
‘Accident prone, even as a kid?’
Tom made a clearing sound in his throat. ‘I much prefer “adventurous”. But yeah, I had my moments.’ He turned another page. ‘Ah, wait. This is my favourite.’
Tom looked about twenty, long hair to his collar, a fresh-faced young man with wild hair and woolly sideburns, and an unguarded green gaze. He had his arm around an older white-haired woman who shared Tom’s striking features. She had angled her face up to look at him, her smile wide and warm, her eyes gleaming.
‘That’s my gran,’ Tom said. ‘She’s still going strong. Lives in Melbourne, she’s a botanical artist.’
‘Talented family.’
‘Hmm. You’d like her, she’s had a fascinating life.’
‘Does she loathe being interviewed, like her grandson?’
Tom rasped out a laugh. ‘Knowing Gran, she’d give a limb to have her picture splashed all over the newspapers.’
‘Maybe I should be interviewing her.’
He slid the photo from the plastic sleeve and passed it to me. ‘Make a copy and get it back to me.’
‘A copy?’
‘Might add a nice touch to your interview. I know Gran’d be tickled.’
‘Aw, Tom. That’s really generous of you. A childhood picture will create a great buzz with my readers.’ In my eagerness to take the prize from him, my fingers brushed against his and I fumbled. Tom picked up the photo and placed it on my palm, and when he noticed me gazing at him, he winked. Suddenly, my heart was a galloping mess. While I sat very still trying to rein it back in, Tom went back to turning pages.
He came to some photos of two men. Tom would have been about seventeen, the other man in his late forties, and they were standing next to a tent that didn’t seem to want to stay upright. Behind them, tall, skinny ribbon gums flanked a track leading down to the river.
‘You and your dad? At Deepwater?’
‘Yeah, check us out. A real live couple of dudes, eh?’
Tom’s father was a square-built man with a red face, wearing jeans and a new-looking flannelette shirt. Tom wore an identical outfit, and his usual cheeky grin. Cute. The man smiled too, but his eyes were lost in shadows.
‘Where’s your mum? Did she take the shot?’
‘No, we propped the camera in a tree. Mum was never a big camper. Hated it, actually. I don’t blame her. Dad and I were both as hopeless as the other. This trip’—he tapped the photo—‘our tent fell down the minute we crawled into it, and we spent half the night trying to wrangle it back up. Next morning, Dad suggested we trek to the other side of the gorge. By mid-afternoon, we were lost.’
‘How did you find your way back?’
‘We eventually stumbled on our original trail, almost by accident, then retraced our steps. I gotta say though, navigating the wilderness is not for the fainthearted. I never thought I’d be so relieved to see our saggy old tent.’
‘So getting lost that day is what inspired you to write?’
Tom shifted in his seat. ‘Not getting lost. This was September 1996.’
A chill trickled along my spine. ‘Oh.’
He nodded. ‘A couple of months after we got back to Sydney, they found the body near the campground. A local girl, wasn’t she? It was all over the papers, I read everything I could get my hands on about it. Learned about the two unknown runaways they found the year before. Those girls haunted me. I saw them every night in my dreams. I couldn’t get the vision of a girl trapped in the dense bush of the gorge out of my head. A girl buried in a shallow grave. That’s why I wanted you to ask me where I got my ideas, what inspired me. Because long after our camping trip faded to a blur, that one image stayed with me. It’s what drove me all those years.’
‘And this is the story you can’t write about?’
He raised his palms and shrugged. ‘The human brain is a pretty crazy place sometimes.’
We sat in silence, both of us gazing at the open album with its patchwork of childhood memories. Tom’s revelation about his camping trip and his consequent obsession had struck a chord in me. Tell him, a little voice urged. Tell him what you found. No one else seems to care all that much . . . but maybe he will?
‘Tom.’
‘Yeah?’
‘About a week ago I was running at the old campground. I go out there most mornings. It’s a pretty trail. Anyway, I found a teenage girl. She was injured, lying unconscious under a tree.’
Tom sat up and regarded me. ‘Was she okay?’
I swallowed. ‘I ran to the highway and called an ambulance, but by the time we got back to the campground, she’d gone. So she must have recovered enough to make her way home. At least, that’s what I hoped. But then yesterday in town, I visited a woman whose daughter has run off. I described the girl I found, but she didn’t seem all that worried. I went to the cops, too, but because I’m not definite about the girl’s identity, they can’t do much. They want to wait for a family member to come forward, which the mother won’t do because she thinks the girl is with her dad on the coast.’
‘You reckon it was her at the campground?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then where is she now?’
‘I wish I knew.’ I let out a ragged sigh. ‘It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? It might not be the same girl, I might just be overreacting.’
‘But you’ve got a feeling?’
I sagged, nodding.
Tom reached out and rubbed my arm with the back of his fingers. ‘Sometimes you just know, don’t you?’
I nodded again. My legs began to jiggle.
‘Abby, are you okay? You look pale.’
‘All this talk of the gorge, and . . . you know. It’s given me the yips. I think I’ll go for a bit of a wander and get some air.’