Tom stood on the grass beside the back steps, swirling the dregs of his tea as he gazed at the sunny garden. Abby had left early to visit Lil and Joe and then go into town for supplies. She’d phoned a while ago to say that Lil had recovered from last night’s escapade. Aside from a couple of scratches, she barely remembered her trek through the bush. Joe, on the other hand, was still shaken.
After Lil’s vanishing act, and the Glenlivet or three Tom had drunk with Joe afterwards, Tom should have been feeling fuzzy-headed and hungover. But his mind was clear and his body primed – as if he’d been drinking wheatgrass shots rather than whiskey. He should be at his typewriter working, but jeez, it was nearly the weekend.
He found a bucket in the shed and filled it at the tap, then made his way slowly along an overgrown path to the north edge of the garden. The bucket had banged against his crutches and he’d spilled half the water down his leg, twice dropped the carryall with its soap and scrubbing brush, and almost tripped on a tree root – but none of that managed to put a dent in his smile, fool that he was.
Seeing Abby rush off into the reserve last night had done something to him – put a chink in his armour; rattled something loose. He kept reliving that moment when she’d looked at him in the torchlight, her eyes gleaming. That look had puzzled him, and he’d taken it to be a sort of wild elation. Now, on reflection, he suspected what it really was. She’d been afraid. Deeply afraid. But she’d gone after her friend regardless.
Watching her disappear into the trees, Tom had never felt so helpless. Never hated his injured legs more. And as he’d waited with Joe on the roadside, honking the horn at ten-minute intervals, praying that at any moment Abby and Lil would emerge from the darkness, he had made a decision.
Soon Lil would tell Abby the final instalment of her story. And then, once Abby had written her interview, she’d be gone. Back to town, out of his life. Maybe forever.
But how could he let her go?
Abby had gotten under his skin. All the hard work she had done, and without a murmur of complaint. All her attentiveness and good humour. The kindness she’d showed when he’d fallen, and the way she’d laughed when he confessed his schoolboy attempts to wake her up. She’d taken it all in her stride. It seemed to Tom that her efforts deserved more than just a boring interview and a few random photos of his ugly mug.
When he got to the orchard, he made a beeline for the derelict caravan.
He’d seen it the day he inspected the property, and almost immediately forgotten about it. But the other night at dinner, when Abby’s eyes lit up as she spoke about her love of travel, he’d remembered it. And then after her act of bravery last night, he had decided that the perfect way to show his esteem for her was by giving her something she’d love. Something that might make her less inclined to forget him.
His first job was to clear the swallows’ nest, which thankfully the birds had abandoned. It took until lunchtime to scrub the plywood walls clean of cobwebs, dirt and bird droppings. The teardrop shape dated the van to the 1960s, but its wood construction made him wonder if it might have been built as far back as the 1930s. It could use a coat of paint but otherwise seemed well preserved. Only one corner had a crack along its sloping rooftop. Nothing that a couple of brass screws and a tube of silicone wouldn’t fix.
Tossing the filthy water onto a flowerbed, he made his way back to the house, planning to return that afternoon with his toolbox and fix the split roof. He stowed the bucket and scrubbing brush in the shed, but as he approached the house, he heard Abby clattering about on the verandah.
She was sanding the kitchen windowsill, which had started jamming since the damp weather. Her cheeks were pink from the sun, her peaches-and-cream complexion dotted with freckles. And that hair. Inside the house it looked chestnut, but the sun turned it to dark liquid honey threaded with gold.
She saw him and frowned. ‘Where did you get to?’
She came over to the steps and shook her head at him, her hands on her hips. ‘How on earth did you get down the verandah stairs?’
‘With great difficulty.’
‘Why didn’t you wait till I got back? I could have helped.’
‘I’ve got something for you.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
‘A surprise.’
‘Oh.’
‘Let me guess. You hate surprises?’
She squared her shoulders. ‘Actually, Tom, I’m quite partial to anything that keeps life interesting.’
‘Then follow me.’
• • •
We made slow progress through the garden. Tom was covered in grime, his trackies wet and filthy, and his cast the worse for wear. Yet he was beaming, his smudged face glowing from sunlight and exertion. I was only mildly curious about his surprise, too preoccupied with what I’d spent the morning planning to tell him.
Lil said something strange last night in the forest, and it’s been bothering the hell out of me ever since. I mean, she’s one of the brightest, most together women I’ve ever met, but those turns of hers? Pretty damn scary. I think she mistook me for Frankie. She gave me the weirdest look and said she remembered me and that I was ‘all grown up’.
‘Tom? How much further?’
He glanced over his shoulder and winked. ‘Not far. You’re gonna love it.’
We pushed past grevillea bushes and tromped through high grass. Bush wrens chattered in the undergrowth and, overhead, a single swallowtail cloud drifted in an otherwise empty blue sky. I could tell by the way Tom’s bad leg dragged that he was tired, but his mood was positively buoyant. I smiled to myself. He’d been good with Joe last night, somehow knowing what to say at exactly the right time to put the old man’s mind at ease. It must’ve been terrifying not knowing where his wife was, but Tom’s solid presence had reassured him.
Tom stopped walking and gestured for me to go ahead. I entered a clearing defined by a ring of fruit trees. Pear trees, weighed down by fruit, and autumn apples shiny red among the leaves. The grass was freshly trampled, and I guessed this was where Tom had spent his morning.
On the other side of the clearing, tucked into the shade of a weeping mulberry tree, sat a little vintage caravan. Its silvery plywood walls were wet; they looked newly scrubbed except for the blooms of frilly lichen still clinging to them. The curved roof glinted in the sunlight, and bees danced around its teardrop window.
‘Magical, isn’t it?’ Tom said.
He ushered me over and unlatched the door. I glanced about inside. It was pristine and cosy, a tiny table and booth seats, a miniature sink, all remarkably well preserved, but when I opened my mouth to agree with Tom on its adorable quaintness, a gust of cold, stale air flooded my lungs.
‘It needs a few repairs,’ Tom was saying, ‘to get it roadworthy. The inside could use some vamping up. Curtains, maybe a cushion or two. But it’s tiny, light enough to tow behind your Fiesta. I thought you could—’
‘No.’ I swallowed, shut my eyes. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to surprise me. He was being kind, and I recognised the lovely gesture. But how could I explain? Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to summon the words to describe what I was feeling. The way my throat closed up from the stale mustiness, the way my pulse began to fly at the sight of the shadow-infested corners. The way my spirit shrank inside me like a walnut withering in its shell.
Tom put his hand on my arm. ‘Abby, what is it?’
I shrugged him off. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
Leaving him alone in the clearing, I hurried back along the path. But when the house came into view, I couldn’t face returning indoors. So instead I veered past the old back shed and stumbled along another track, heading deeper into the trees as I tightened my shoulders against the flurry of memory.
• • •
‘I don’t know what it was,’ I told the officer, as I sat shivering in my pink jeans and torn blouse. ‘A cave or something.’
I was sitting on a plastic chair in Gundara Police Station, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. My scalp stung where someone had doused my wound with Dettol. The doctor was coming, they told me. I needed stitches; I would have to be brave. Even braver than I’d been the last three days in the bush.
A police officer crouched in front of me. ‘What sort of cave, Gail? Can you describe it?’
‘It was dark inside and very dirty. I mean, there was dirt on the floor. But underneath the dirt it was metal.’
The officer nodded and smiled again. But then she glanced around at her colleagues. Looks were exchanged, and I shrank into myself, hugging my arms about me. I began to rock in agitation, making the plastic chair creak. I knew what those looks meant.
‘Why won’t you believe me?’ I shouted.
‘How did you get into this cave?’ the officer asked. ‘Did you fall in?’
I frowned at her, trying to remember. My brother said I’d been gone for three days, but it felt longer. A year had crawled by, a lifetime. Which meant I was no longer twelve, but a hundred.
I looked down at my hands. My knuckles had raw patches. My fingernails were bleeding. Dirt stuck to the blood, making little black moons around the nails. My knees and elbows were skinned, my clothes torn in places, every other inch of me covered in scratches. Worst of all I was hungry, but it was a kind of sick-hungry. Soon after they found me, a man had given me hot cocoa from a thermos but it scalded my tongue and then I’d thrown up. I remembered the stale bread I had gnawed on in the cave, and the faint smell of cold bacon fat came back to me, making me gag.
‘Gail, did you hear me? This cave you thought you were in, how did you get inside it?’
I started crying. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Listen to me, Gail,’ the officer said patiently. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot. But we need to ask you some more questions. Rule out a few things.’
My father loomed in the doorway. ‘What things?’
The officer got to her feet. ‘Gail said she saw someone in the bush. A man holding some sort of weapon, maybe an axe. She got frightened and ran away and we’re just trying to—’
‘We already know that,’ my father boomed. ‘What are you doing about it?’
‘I assure you, Mr Radley—’
‘You’re gonna find this guy, right? Lock him up and throw away the key? Because if I have any say in the matter, there’ll be hell to pay for what my kid’s been through.’
The officer’s face remained calm. ‘I understand your concerns, Mr Radley. Your daughter’s been through an ordeal and you’re keen to get her home. But we need to determine whether or not this was actually an abduction, or just a scared little girl getting lost in the bush.’
• • •
Tom didn’t know how he found her. He imagined following the scent of her anger, a fresh, hot trail that crackled in the air like gunpowder.
She was under a gum tree with her head resting back against the trunk, her eyes closed. The dappled sunlight played over her face, making shadows of her eyelashes, and glimmering on her damp cheeks.
Tom’s fingers tightened around the crutch grips. If it wasn’t for the damn knee brace he might’ve knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms. Maybe have the courage to press a kiss against her hair. Anything to comfort her. But he just stood there, an intruder, awkward in his filthy clothes and crutches, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.
She wiped her eyes, then got to her feet. ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘Of course not. You okay?’
‘I guess.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
She sagged back against the tree. ‘Not really.’
‘It might help to talk.’
‘It was sweet of you to clean up the caravan for me. I don’t know why I reacted that way. It was just—’ She blinked back tears and stared up into the tree canopy.
‘It’s something I’ve said, isn’t it?’
She looked up at him with wet eyes. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Tom. Most of what you say, I take with a grain of salt.’
‘Good. I think. So the caravan was a terrible idea?’
‘Not at all. But it seemed to spark a . . . memory.’
‘Ah, Abby. I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ Another tear leaked out. Catching it with the tip of her finger, she let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know why I’m having this reaction. I never get teary. I feel like a stupid crybaby.’
Her face crumpled again, the tears welling. It shocked him to see her like this – vulnerable, exposed, all defences down. He had the urge to crush whatever was causing those tears. Chase it down, stomp it out of existence. Except he feared the thing upsetting her was him.
‘God, Abby. I’m an arse.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I never meant to rattle you like this. I just wanted to do something good for you, after everything you’ve done for me. You’ve put up with my whingeing, my moodiness. You’ve been a real sport and I wanted to make it up to you—’ He winced, suspecting his jabbering was making it worse.
Abby slid down the tree back onto the grass, burying her face in her hands.
Tom swayed towards her. He let one crutch drop and then the other. Leaning on the tree, keeping his bad knee straight, he worked his way down beside her. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he drew her against him. He half expected her to jerk away, but she surprised him by melting against him, her body a warm weight. She pressed her face against his chest and fisted her fingers in his shirt.
Though she made no sound, no movement, he could taste her tears with each breath he drew in. Reaching down, he cradled the side of her head. ‘It’s okay, darlin’.’
A magpie alighted on a branch above them, sending down a rain of leaves. The bird began to warble, filling the air with its sharp, sweet song. Tom rested his lips on the top of Abby’s head, breathing her scent. Wanting to hold her this way forever, protect her, distract her from whatever nightmare she was trying to outrun.
The magpie ceased its song and flew away. Abby shifted to look at him. Her face was a breath from his.
His pulse began to hammer. Without thinking, he tilted towards her and brushed his lips over hers. Briefly, she kissed him back. Her lips tasted every bit as sweet as he’d imagined, and he wanted more . . .
She drew back, her eyes wide. ‘What was that?’
He winced. Not the response he’d hoped for. ‘I thought it might take your mind off things. Off the caravan and whatever it made you remember . . .’ He trailed off and tried to cover his embarrassment with a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. What was he, insane?
Abby gave a soft, uncertain laugh. ‘I guess it worked.’
Her face was close, and he felt the quickness of her breath on his lips. He leaned in to test his theory a second time, but Abby drew away and tilted her head, giving him a frowny sort of smile.
‘Jeez, Tom.’
‘What?’
Her gaze dropped to his mouth and she nibbled at her bottom lip. Then she laughed huskily and shook her head. ‘How the heck am I supposed to get you back on your feet now?’
‘Guess I’ll have to stay here,’ he muttered, his senses still reeling. ‘With you. For all eternity.’
‘Huh.’ Her smile widened. ‘Then you’re doomed.’
Untangling herself from his arms, she got to her feet and gazed down at him. She was inching back towards the old Abby, the one with her guard up. Tom didn’t care. He was still drunk with the memory of her in his arms. Of her mouth against his. Still intoxicated by those moments she’d let him hold her close.
‘Come on.’ She put out her hands to help him up. ‘Easy does it.’
It took an excruciating, pride-destroying millennium to get back on his feet, although it was probably closer to five minutes. But by the time he was standing and crutched-up, one thing was certain: something had happened to his heart. It felt squashed out of shape. Bruised. Fluttering and glowing like a candle flame in a windstorm.
Abby was right. He was doomed.
• • •
After dinner I slipped back to the garden. The air was cold and it seemed to clear away some of the cobwebs, leaving my mind empty. I retraced my steps to the orchard and stood for a long time in the gloom, staring across the trampled grass clearing at the caravan. No longer magical, it was just a dark blob crouching in the shadows, somehow sinister. I went over and placed my hand on its teardrop-shaped flank. The plywood was rough from the weather and vaguely warm. When I shut my eyes, it shapeshifted into something resembling a cave.
Can you describe it, Gail?
It was dark inside and very dirty. I mean, there was dirt on the floor. But underneath the dirt it was metal.
The cave existed. I was sure of that now. It wasn’t just a figment that haunted my dreams, but real and tangible. This afternoon when I looked inside the little caravan and breathed its stale air, a window in the back of my mind had opened and I’d slipped through. Just for an instant I’d been back in the cave, trapped in the dark, unable to breathe. Any lingering doubts about its existence had vanished. My cave was definitely a memory and not, as everyone back then had encouraged me to believe, a panic-induced invention.
But what if it hadn’t been a cave after all, but something man made?
I shut my eyes and summoned it again. The icy walls had shuddered under my palms, my fists, each blow echoing loud over my screams. All the surfaces I touched had been metal. But what sort of cave had a metal floor and walls—?
An owl shrieked overhead in the darkness and I sprang away from the caravan, shielding my face. My heart began to punch against my ribs, so I buckled over, hands on my knees while I caught my breath. And there in the shadowy garden, with my pulse thumping in my ears, another possibility revealed itself. There was someone who might know the whereabouts of my cave; someone who may have known all along.