Rory

Rory and Emmet watched the nine o’clock news bulletin, heads close together. A politician who’d said something ignorant about transgender sport, a stabbing in broad daylight at Darling Harbour, a dramatic truck fire on the M1. Finally, it was their turn: ‘a family night out turned nightmare’ was the newsreader’s intro. Then the studio cut to the prerecorded media conference and there they were: a lopsided, incomplete family on Rory’s phone screen.

Rachel, with a pronounced quiver in her voice, which hadn’t been detectable at the time: ‘I was in the stands with my husband … We were unable to buy four of the same tickets.’

Rory and Emmet standing awkwardly with their buttoned-up shirts and expressions. In their attempts to contain emotion, they came across as callous and shifty.

‘We look guilty,’ Emmet said. ‘Everyone is going to think we’re deflecting attention from ourselves.’

Self-recrimination weighed in Rory’s stomach. He should have spoken. Emmet, too. They should’ve added their voices to Rachel’s, aired their sorrow and confusion. Internalising those feelings had made them appear cold and complicit.

‘We’re not actors. We don’t have media training. People understand that.’

Now he was talking shit. The public was notorious for taking things at face value, for making rash judgements and pointing the finger. Unable to buy four of the same tickets? What kind of excuse is that? And they were right. Bridie was clearly too young and inexperienced to be unsupervised in such a huge crowd. Emmet was barely older, barely more experienced: it was his first major concert, for God’s sake. Rory and Rachel had expected too much of them. They were guilty, to an extent.

Rory watched to the end of the segment, imagining his muteness being replicated on television screens across New South Wales. In his head were the words he should have said, the words he would insist on saying at the next media conference, if there was one.

We have done the unthinkable. We have lost our cherished, beautiful daughter. Please, please help us. We can’t survive this loss. We are meant to be four, not three. One of us is missing and we will never be complete or even able to exist without our beloved Bridie. Please, please help.

Rory was done with being quiet, with stepping back from the limelight, with acquiescing to others. He was ready to roar, to tear the place asunder, to expel every morsel of the rage, fear and guilt that he’d contained to this point.

~

The media conference had the desired effect. Within minutes of its being aired, comments and messages began to accumulate. Viewers had found their social media profiles and were reaching out; they could only hope that Crime Stoppers was receiving similar traffic. Ninety per cent of the comments were people expressing sympathy – no real information to offer, just their concerns, prayers, best wishes. The remainder contained suggestions, similar experiences, polite opinions or blatant criticism. Rory responded to each one diligently. It was all about algorithms; he could cope with the strong opinions and the trolls if it meant that the audience widened exponentially.

A new message request popped up, from Dean_the_truckie. The message was longer than any of the others and Rory’s interest was immediately piqued. A rant or some genuine information?

Hey, just saw you on the news. I’ve already called Crime Stoppers with this information but thought I’d contact you directly as well because police are so bloody slow to act sometimes. My information relates to something I saw on the freeway, about 1 am today. A car was stopped on the shoulder, which I noticed from some distance away. I slowed down on approach, just in case there had been an accident or something else serious. Someone was puking next to the car and from where I was sitting it looked like their hands were bound. I could be wrong – it was only a few seconds’ view – but the sight was odd enough to lodge in my brain. I guess most people who are vomiting get their hands out of the way? Don’t know if it was a guy or girl – they were wearing a hoodie. There was a second person there, but I was past them before I could register any further details. The incident happened a couple of kilometres before the Gosford exit. I’ve told police I have dashcam video if they need it. Good luck with everything. Dean.

Rory read the message for the second time, dissecting it word by word, picking holes in its assertions. Dean could be delirious from too many hours behind the wheel, imagining things that weren’t there. He could be an attention seeker, a drama queen, a time waster. Had the person’s hands really been bound? It was dark, he was passing at speed, even if he’d slowed down somewhat. He said it himself: he couldn’t be sure … And yet, something about the incident had prompted him to contact Crime Stoppers and to reach out directly to the family. Someone vomiting next to a car: travel sickness or drunkenness, nothing to see here. Someone whose hands were bound: an entirely different matter.

Rory closed his eyes, prayed to a God he hadn’t believed in for many, many years. Please don’t let it be Bridie. Please not my darling girl. Please let this truckie be mistaken. Someone else had been heaving the contents of their stomach onto the bitumen. Someone else may or may not have had their hands tied. Please God. Please. Please. Please. Because if Bridie had been near Gosford at one o’clock in the morning, she could be anywhere by now.

In another town. Or state. Maybe even another country.