12

Edith bangs hard on the green door and waits. It’s gloomy under the porch, the rain is steady and the sky black with thunderclouds. There’s no answer. She recalls the visitors in the morning. The door was not answered then either so she bangs harder. ‘Hello,’ she calls. ‘Hello.’ The door swings open suddenly and a tall, bearded man with a stern look on his face stands before her.

Startled, Edith blurts, ‘Is she home yet?’

The man just looks at her and frowns. There’s the smell of beer around him.

‘The little girl. Have you found her yet?’

‘What?’ His frown deepens. There’s something fierce about him, something other than that frown.

‘Is she home yet? Have you found her?’

A crash of glass in the house sets off Edith’s startle reflex. The man looks over his shoulder, turns back to Edith and folds his powerful arms. ‘Love, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Edith blinks at the man, confused. ‘Sorry.’ She begins to back away. ‘I must have the wrong house.’

The man’s frown relaxes.

‘I thought Skye lived here.’

‘What? What about her?’

‘I’ve just seen the boy at the park. He said Skye is missing.’

It’s the man’s turn to look confused.

‘I assumed you knew. I thought she might—’

‘What the fuck!’

Edith is left staring at the door as the man bolts inside. She listens to his heavy footfall charge from room to room. ‘Where the fuck!’ he says again. Louder, harsher.

‘What’s happening?’ a woman calls.

Edith fidgets with a hanky in her coat pocket. She did not expect to be the bearer of bad news. She thought they’d know. She was just trying to be helpful but something about the way the man looks, something about the tone of his voice tells her she has made a mistake. She feels useless staring at the blank door. Surely they will want to know where she saw the boy. Surely they will want her to help with the search. A small child is missing and there’s a storm on its way.

‘Where are the kids?’ the man shouts. ‘They’re not in the house. Where the fuck are they?’

A baby cries out. Edith scrunches the handkerchief tighter.

‘Jesus! Fuck!’ There’s the sound of keys and the door opens. Edith catches a glimpse of a woman in a nightie. A woman with blood on her face.

‘Stay here. I’m going to look!’ the man calls over his shoulder. He slams the door and Edith moves out of his way. ‘Where’d you see the boy—Damien?’

‘At the park. Near the playground.’

He nods, jumps into the car, turns the key and gives the accelerator a couple of hard pumps. The car roars, smoke bellows, the wheels spin on the thin gravel drive as he backs out at speed and hurtles up the road toward the park.

Edith ambles to the gate, watches the back end of the man’s car snake off. What has she done? That was not the reception she was expecting. What was she expecting to find? A concerned parent? A distraught mother? The small child, Skye, back home, safe and sound? Her pink dressing gown buttoned up and warm slippers on her feet? She’s not sure what to do next. She thinks about the mother. Perhaps she can help her. She marches back to the house, stands on the front step and knocks on the door.

‘Hello?’ she calls. ‘Are you all right?’

There’s no reply—even the baby becomes quiet.