Emmet

He hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep himself warm. It had rained again about an hour ago, a short furious shower that had wet him through. He deserved what he got. He deserved the cold, the discomfort, his parents’ anger, the guilt that was eating at his insides.

Where are you, Bridie? What happened?

He kept going over it in his head, retrospectively examining her state of mind, her motives, what the hell she’d been up to. Her expression – innocent or conniving? – when she said she desperately needed the toilet. Her refusal of his half-hearted offer to accompany her. What had she said, exactly? The queues will be bad. Just enjoy the end of the concert. See you at the meeting spot. Had she been plotting something all along, relying on his selfishness to pull it off? What could she have been plotting? Ditching him to meet up with someone else? Drinking or taking drugs? Whatever it was – innocent or not so innocent – she should be done by now, ready to go home.

It was 2.15 am. The precinct was deserted. Not a soul left, not even the stragglers.

His phone pinged. Another text from his mum, checking in.

Okay to keep waiting there?

Mum and Dad were searching the Entertainment Quarter. He responded with a thumbs-up emoji. He’d stay here as long as necessary. Until Bridie was found. This was his punishment. The cold, the numbness, the fear that he’d be attacked, the growing need to take a piss.

At 3 am, he phoned Fitz. He needed to know something crucial.

‘Did you see Bridie at the stadium?’

His friend’s voice was thick with sleep. ‘What? You know I didn’t, bro.’

‘Were you texting her during the concert?’

‘Yeah, we sent each other a few messages, just saying how awesome it was.’

‘That’s fucken disgusting. She’s too young for you, paedo.’

‘I was just being friendly because I was such a dickhead before … Hey, are you saying she’s still missing?’

He hung up without answering. Fitz could draw his own conclusions. Fucken dickhead, leading Bridie on.

At 3.30 am his parents returned. They debated where to look next, their voices fraught and desperate in the otherwise quiet night.

‘Let’s check the parkland either side of the footbridge,’ Dad eventually decided. ‘I’ll do the right-hand side. Rach, you and Emmet can check the left.’

Emmet recalled the expansive rugby and football fields they’d passed on the way to the stadium. Now, most of the parkland was pitch black, the street lighting reserved for the main walkway and footbridge, and the light-rail station in the distance.

‘Emmet, come on,’ Mum said, touching his arm to get his attention.

He shrugged her off. ‘No. Someone needs to stay here. That’s my job.’

She sighed. ‘I’ll stay with you, then.’

‘That’s just a waste of resources, Mum. I have my phone. It’s safe – there’s nobody around.’

She wavered, lacking her usual authority.

‘Just go,’ he said, and gently turned her by the shoulders to point her in the right direction.

He watched his parents walk side by side towards the footbridge, before veering off in opposite directions, immediately swallowed by the inky darkness. Moments later their voices rang out, sporadically calling Bridie’s name, their calls becoming fainter and fainter.

At 4.10 am Emmet left the monument to urinate behind a tree. Then he walked a few metres to a water bubbler, washing his hands before bending down to gulp some water. He had a dull headache, probably caused by tiredness and dehydration. He deserved the headache, the tiredness, the compulsive shivering: everything he got.

Was Bridie tired, thirsty, cold? She had a hoodie and water bottle in her backpack, that much he knew. For the first time he wondered why she’d bothered with a backpack, and what else had been in it. More clothes? Toiletries? He stopped short. Was it possible that Bridie had run away from home? If so, why?

It was 5 am now, almost dawn. The sky was starting to lighten, black becoming dark grey, the area around him taking shape. The transport stands and toilet blocks, the enormous trees, which looked creepy in the muted light. A garbage truck rumbled along and began reversing, its beeping warning people to keep clear, even though there was nobody around. The sound of traffic carried from Anzac Parade and the motorway beyond. Soon the light-rail service would resume.

Emmet was meant to be at work in a few hours. Should he send Dax a heads up that he was unlikely to make it in today? Dax would be annoyed: Sundays were busy at the shop, even more so if Courtney was still sick.

He’d give it a little while before bothering Dax. Bridie would be easier to find once the sun was fully up. Maybe she was somewhere ridiculously close – asleep, oblivious.

Emmet still couldn’t decide if she’d made an innocent mistake or a calculated move, or was the victim of a crime.

The only thing he could decide was that he wouldn’t leave this spot until she came back.