There was a breakthrough six days into the investigation into Eric’s disappearance. A truck driver reported seeing a blond man who looked like that bloke from Home and Away at the Cataby roadhouse. The police drove north to speak to the staff and so did the news crews.
‘Aye, that’s your man,’ confirmed the shift manager, Orla, a nurse from Galway who had been working her way around Australia until she met a farmer from Dandaragan. ‘Nice fella, very clean. He said he was an accountant and had a job up north. I remember him because he wanted a fancy iced coffee that we don’t stock.’ She smiled into the camera as her long-lashed eyes filled with tears.
‘She remembered him because he was cute, not because of the brand of coffee he drank,’ Belinda said when we saw her on the news.
The police took the roadhouse CCTV and transaction records but neither revealed any sign of Eric. The police also questioned every cash register attendant and short-order cook from Cataby to Derby and came up with nothing. If Eric had been north of Perth since his granny’s birthday, there was no evidence of that apart from Orla’s word.
For a while, I entertained a fantasy that Orla was right: Eric had been at the roadhouse during her shift and had travelled on to Weymouth, where he was hiding out in one of the small holdings outside the town. In my mind, Eric had used his contacts to engineer his own disappearance. The contacts, of course, included my father, whom Eric had met at my apartment once when Dad was still coming to the football every other weekend. The fantasy built on my forensic evidence theory. Eric was being pursued by the underworld – I wasn’t specific about who – and needed to lie low somewhere out of the city. The only person he knew in the country was my dad, who put him in touch with one of the families who run the market gardens outside Weymouth. They arranged to pick him up in a truck they use to transport produce to Perth and brought him back to Weymouth on the return trip. That’s when Orla saw him, using cash to buy iced coffee after spending three hours in the back of the otherwise empty truck.
Seduced by my own imagination, I found reasons to travel home at least once a month over the past year. I’ve spent weekends watching my dad, waiting for him to drop hints, or even suggest a trip out to the hills. In my mind, he would need to make an unscheduled visit to a friend. We’d pull into a dusty driveway flanked by Doric columns and chipped concrete lions, and drive past the main house to the rows of greenhouses at the back, my dad tight-lipped about the friend’s name. The workers would turn around, surprised by the unexpected visitors. One of them (I pictured him wearing dark blue work shorts and a surf brand t-shirt and holding a white hose) would frown and then his face would split apart as he realised. He would drop the hose (still running and sending a dark stream of water through the red dirt) and run to the car, where he would gather me into his arms and tell me how much he had missed me. Dad would beam at the two of us. Later I would chastise him about keeping secrets and he and Eric would drink beer and refuse to tell me how they did it. It’s best if you don’t know, Fran, Dad would say.
I was undecided how the happily-ever-after would play out after the initial reunion. In one scenario, I would take an accounting job with the local council (the first one available, way below my paygrade, but I wouldn’t mind, as long as I could be with him), sell the apartment, and buy a house on a remote cliff north of town.
In another, we’d conduct a long-distance relationship until we found the perfect hideaway in the South West (also on a sea cliff) figuring that Weymouth would be too obvious. We’d let James in on our secret and he’d quit the public service and join us to establish our own (wildly successful) market garden and teach us both to surf.
James went surfing on the weekend, Belinda tells me via Microsoft Teams on Monday morning. I have my laptop open on the kitchen table where I can look at the sea. The reception cuts out every now and again, making James and Belinda freeze with their eyes half closed, but otherwise I could be back in the pod. James asks me to flip the screen so he can check the swell.
‘It’s a bit small in this part of the bay,’ I tell him. ‘There’s too much reef. You have to go north to the river mouth.’
‘Still looks pretty good though. How come we’ve never cracked an invite to Joe’s place?’
‘I didn’t know you were interested.’
‘How could you think we’re not interested? Maybe we’ll just come up anyway when he’s better. Some weekend that the Eagles have a home game, so we’ll know you’ll be in Perth and the bedroom is free.’
‘You guys are not sleeping in my bed.’
‘You’ll never know.’
‘Dad won’t let you, and anyway there’s Matt’s old room.’
‘With a view?’
‘Yes, with a view.’
‘Alright. Hey, Bel, we’re going to Weymouth.’
I can see the back of Belinda’s head and her hand when she raises it to acknowledge the arrangement.
‘How’s the new office?’ I ask. They moved without me. Today is their first day.
‘Not much different to the last one,’ he replies. ‘We’re in the corner again, only now we face north’ – I watch him turn his head from side to side – ‘east. Ish. It’s warm, but we only get the sun in the morning, not the afternoon. Belinda has ditched the sunscreen.’
‘And the boxes all arrived?’
‘The ones from our floor. We’ve put yours on your desk, but we have to go back this week and get the last boxes out of the basement archive room. Apparently, a couple got left behind when we moved everything to Iron Mountain. But the server is up and running, and there’s a surprisingly adequate amount of filing space.’
‘See, I told you.’
‘That’s because we’ve used yours as well,’ Belinda chips in.
‘Yeah, right. Is Neil happy?’
‘Neil’s happy. He’s done his rounds already.’
‘And what’s the plan for today?’
‘I’m going to the north metro housing office with Belinda, seeing as you’ve skived off.’
‘What about the South West trip?’
‘We’ll get these done first.’
‘Cool.’ I watch him give me the thumbs-up and then slide sideways. Belinda’s head fills the screen.
‘Hey, Fran, aren’t you supposed to be going out with Meredith tomorrow?’
‘Damn, yes.’ I’d forgotten. ‘I’ll have to call her.’
‘Do you want one of us to go instead?’
‘No, I’m good, I’ll reschedule. It’s not urgent.’
‘Cool beans.’ She slides away to make room for James. I call her back, remembering Dave’s crack about the White Palace.
‘Hey Belinda, do we have that tenant occupancy data yet?’
‘We sure do. Duncan’s office gave it to us in one flat spreadsheet. I had to filter them by postcode. It was a pain in the arse.’
‘Can you send me the file?’
‘I’ll do it now before we leave. Anything else?’
‘No, I’m all good. Go do some work.’
I get another thumbs-up and a wave before she logs off. I decide to take a break from the screen and I’m in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when I hear the ping of the email. I bring my laptop to the kitchen bench to check it.
I love data. I love spreadsheets. Give me an Excel workbook full of numbers and I’ll be quiet for hours. By the end of the day, I’ll produce a set of charts and be able to give you breakdowns, percentages, trends, and insights into your government programme that you never thought to ask about. That’s exactly what I do for the next three hours. I don’t even register lunchtime coming and going or the sun drifting through the windows on the western side. I do hear the sea breeze, though, and when the windows rattle, I click save and call the hospital. Reception transfers me to the ward and Dave picks up on the third ring.
‘Well, well, well, Ms Geller, how are we feeling today?’
‘Fine thanks, Dave, how are you?’
‘Splendid. That was quite the show you put on for us on Saturday night. I forgot you could dance.’
‘I forgot you thought you could sing.’
‘Triple threat, me.’
‘You’re not, you know.’
‘Oh, I am though, you just haven’t seen the full me yet.’
‘How’s my dad?’
‘Joe!’ I swear he screeches directly into the phone and I pull my mobile away from my ear. ‘Joe, you there? Franny wants to know how you are. You OK down there, Joe?’
I wait for the dramatic pause.
‘He says he’s fine, Fran, but he’s very disappointed in you.’
‘Right.’
‘You know he never liked Jack.’
‘And you’ve given him a reason to not like him again.’
‘Not me, Francesca, you.’
‘It’s just Frances, actually.’
‘Yes, I know that Franola-Granola, I did it to get a rise out of you.’
‘No kidding. Is he up for a visit?’
‘From you, Fran, he will accept any crumbs. See you in ten.’ He hangs up on me. I shut down the computer, collect my bag, and head for the hospital.