Jacob allowed himself to be led away by this strange looking girl. His mind had barely comprehended what she had said, but she had a power in her eyes and face that impelled him to action.
It was funny how he had first thought her old. It was her grey hair, streaked and appearing thin and worn. And her clothes, appearing ragged and in the style of what an old woman would wear. But closer inspection gave the lie to her other appearances.
She was actually quite youthful, something approaching his own age. Despite her raggedy demeanor she was distinctly pretty, a pert button nose and sweet soft mouth. But most of all she had a look.
He struggled to place where he seen that look before. It was hauntingly familiar. At last it came to him. It was the look of Susan on that first day in court, a day when she should have been pleading for her deliverance and freedom. Rather she made a guilty plea with something like gloating mischief on her face. It was a look of sparkling vitality that she could not hide. In that moment he had hated her cocky joy in that place. It made him angry and in response he was determined to break it, to make her pay for what she had done. In that moment he had made himself the judge of her actions and had decided that his words would be the tool of justice.
Now he understood she had been the actress playing a deliberate role to turn the crowd against her own self, mocking the gravity of the court and refusing to bow to fear. So, despite her central role on a day of horrors, an ineffable part of her soul’s defiance had bubbled out into a look. This lady had it too, a willingness to look horror in the face and smile, unbowed.
In that second, as he saw this similarity, he knew what was missing from today. It was what had crumbled his desire to pursue her, Susan. The thing he hated in her was gone, gone was her defiance of the world. But, in losing it she had lost most of herself; her soul was missing. What remained now in her body shell was a simple kind person who had lost their devil spirit and with it their life’s fire. He knew of his hand in that loss and from thence came his shame. He had done his part in a thing which had destroyed her essence, broken an essential part of her humanity and being.
But this other woman who stood beside him, holding his hand in hers, still had that life force, the yin and yang of a full soul. With it came courage to look at the worst of the world and spit in its face. So he would go with her and hear her story. The story mattered, but it was the power of the life force in her soul that drew him in, he fed now on its power.
He looked carefully at this woman and she turned her face to him. If you put aside the raggedy hair and outdated clothes, she really was seriously beautiful. Their eyes connected and he felt a jolt, it was not lust. It was two souls sharing knowledge and pain, their own and others.
He said, “What did you say your name was again. My mind was inside my head until now and I did not properly hear what you were saying.”
She said, “Today most people call me Kate James, my few friends call me Cathy. But my true name is Fiona Rodgers. As I said before, I am one of the ‘Lost Girls’ in this story you and others have been writing. Today I came here to show my solidarity with this other Lost Girl, Susan, now called Jane.
“I sat quietly in the back of the church, unknown and unseen, and wished her a new joy in life after much horror. I intended to leave quietly, to slip away and return to my quiet unknown life, my story still unknown.
“In that moment when you tried to tear her story from her, I knew that there was another story that must be told. I decided, in those seconds of your confrontation and beating, to seek out her friend, Anne, to ask her to tell my story. She knows I am alive, but not where. I would have given her my story.
“But, when I saw you sitting in the gutter, beaten and shamed, I knew that it was you who should tell my story. You have been a seeker after truth, even if blinded by your own cleverness. Now you have understood the pain done by your former words, their ability to harm as well as heal, I think you are ready to take and tell my story, if you will.
“So I will tell it to you. You must find words to tell it to the world with kindness. It, like Susan’s story, is a story with power to harm. But my hiding it for so long has caused more harm. Now I know it must be told.”
They found a café where they sat for two hours and he listened as she talked. It was the life of an innocent young girl, trusting of her uncle. It told of her sister’s rape and suicide, of her own rape, then of her seeking escape in the selling of her body. She told of her flight from that life to Australia, then of her meeting the man, Mark, travelling with him for a week, first as friends then as lovers, though only for two nights. She told of a first wonderful night, when she had told him of her own awful childhood and he had held her and comforted her. In that night she had loved him and known he cared for her.
Then she told of a second wonderful night when she had joined her body to him and it seemed he had loved her in return, how he had told of his awful secrets, the killing of Isabelle to save her from the crocodiles, then the killing of Josie and Amanda. Despite knowing this she had loved him still.
Then she told of the awful realization that came to her in the early light of next morning that he was too dangerous to stay with, not for her but for her family. He slept still as she arose and quietly dressed, knowing she must leave him, to protect him from himself.
The knowledge had come to her in the darkest part of the night. At first she had not understood it. Now in the morning she saw it more clearly and it convinced her she must leave. She saw in him an uncompromising hatred of those who harmed small children, those who abused them or destroyed their innocence. In that moment she knew he would surely kill her uncle, her own abuser, when the chance arose. He had said it to her in the night. At the time he spoke, full of the rapture of love, she had not really listened.
His words were, “The only way to fix bastards who do things like that to little children is to kill them. I will fix him so he will never harm another.”
So, in the morning’s first light she had known, if she stayed with him, he would act on these words. She could not bear for him to further kill a part of the goodness in his own soul through killing another and, despite her hatred of her uncle, she did not wish for his death. It would only bring yet more pain to her family. So she fled, taking rides along the highway to Alice Springs. She left all her things in his car, except for her purse with a few hundred dollars which was in her hand as she got out of bed.
Once in Alice Springs she had stayed there, changing her appearance so no one would know her, finding a cleaning job that did not require identify papers, paid cash in hand. Now more than three years had passed.
She lived alone, in a tiny room with a gas burner to cook on, and mostly read books when not working. In the early mornings and evenings she walked along the sandy river bed and beside the red hillsides. As people thought she was old and slightly mad, no one troubled her.
Her only real friends were a few of the aboriginal people who also lived in the river and some who walked in the hills, collecting foods. In this way she had met Vic’s mother, Rosa, at odd times over more than two years.
Over time and story sharing she had realized that Rosa’s son Vic and Mark were friends so she had connected Susan to them through the story of Mark’s murder and the trial. Then, when Susan vanished, Rosa had told her how cut up her son was, searching for but never finding this girl. Then one day Rosa was smiling again. Cathy knew Rosa had a happy secret but did not probe. One day Rosa had told her, sworn to secrecy, that Vic had found Susan again and, a few months later, of the marriage plans.
So she had quietly come to the wedding, sitting alone at the back of the church, unknown to all but Rosa who had given her a friendly smile and waved her in past Buck, whispering, “Later you meet Vic and Jane.”
Instead of that meeting now she was sitting here, telling Jacob this story, saying that once she had talked to Anne, he could write it.
Jacob sat there listening, spellbound. He knew this story would bring him back to the top if he chose to tell it, the rediscovery of another Lost Girl, being returned to her family along with telling of the childhood abuse that had brought her to this place. But he was no longer sure he wanted to tell it.
Kate’s family, like Susan’s, had suffered enough pain. They needed to know their daughter was safe; she needed to have a family again. But what good could come from the world knowing of her childhood, of the harm done to her and her sister. It would not bring her sister back. It would not take away her pain and it would give new pain to her parents. Perhaps he could help her give her evidence to the police and that would prevent her uncle from harming others, perhaps that was enough, and in a small way this good may be a balance against past harm.
He told her of this and she nodded, saying, “Yes, I must tell my parents, but I am terrified. Would you help me do this please?”