Katie offers me a cigarette, and I take it even though I don’t really smoke anymore. Maybe it will warm me up, because the bonfire isn’t exactly blazing. We huddle around the struggling flames in Brandon’s backyard, instead of retreating sensibly into the shelter of the house.
‘I never see you anymore.’ Katie and I pass a can of beer back and forth between us. It’s quite the juggle with the smokes and the can.
I flip my hood up, stamp my feet. ‘You wouldn’t believe the homework they give us. I can barely keep up.’
‘I got homework too, you know. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it though.’
I give Katie a quick one-armed hug. She’s a bag of bones wrapped in an oversized cardigan.
In theory I should be able to go to Balmoral and still see my Morrison friends on the weekends, but in practice it hasn’t worked out that way, I’m not sure why. I haven’t hung out with the whole group since Easter. It’s not really homework getting in the way, that much I know.
On the other side of the fire, Katie’s boyfriend Tim threads marshmallows onto sticks. Brandon’s mum is framed perfectly in the kitchen window, dish brush in hand. Brandon pokes the fire with a broken cricket bat and looks confused about the lack of heat, even though we always have the same problem at the start of every spring.
It’s a scene frozen in time from last year, the actors transported and arranged in almost identical positions. Nothing has changed with my friends, but maybe something has changed with me.
I’ve been trying all night, but nothing can hide the fact that I’m bored, and cold.
Brandon shoots me a slow, snaky look over his half-gallon man-cauldron. I think it’s meant to be seductive, but I can’t be sure. I turn to Katie.
‘Things still good with Tim?’
‘Yeah, guess so.’ Katie stubs out her cigarette on the sole of her boots, flicks it into the non-fire. ‘It’s been eighteen months, so we’re an old married couple, don’t you know.’
She’s joking, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the way it ends up, and for some reason that scares me, even though I like Tim.
Compared to Liana or me, Katie doesn’t really want much—she doesn’t want to travel, doesn’t want to study after school. She likes to keep things simple. She’s been made a supervisor at her cinema job, and they’ve promised to make her a manager as soon as she turns eighteen, so she’ll be able to make real money and buy the car she’s been saving for.
‘You look happy,’ I say, and she does. Old Katie used to be much pricklier than this.
‘I see Brandon hasn’t forgotten you.’ Katie gives me a pointed look.
I’m saved by hot breath in my ear; Liana collars me from behind and smooshes her cheek against mine.
‘Who can blame him, she’s such a babe.’
I slap at her head blindly and she wriggles away, not wanting her look to get ruined. Liana’s face is perfect as usual, her tan skin glowing, brows immaculate, eyeliner swooping in thick wings, highlighter making her cheekbones zing.
‘Although, so far this year he’s dated Teresa Vi Nguyen and Kristy Au, and made out with Glydel from Year Eleven,’ she continues, ‘so his yellow fever is real.’
‘Real and deep,’ Katie says to the bonfire.
‘Yuck.’ It grosses me out, but I don’t want to think about it. ‘You have to teach me how to do that braid.’ I tug on Liana’s hair. She’s wearing the same Fuzzy Peach perfume that she’s had since Year Seven.
‘Hate to break it to you Chlo, but that’s not all her real hair.’ Katie pops another can.
Liana refuses to rise to the bait. Her hair has been down to her bum since she was eight. We have a pact to keep our hair long until we’re eighteen. ‘When are you coming back to Morrison, seriously?’
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘Aren’t you scared of Doctor Calm, though? I swear, Chlo, I’m worried about you, all the time.’
‘They haven’t proved he’s connected to the school.’ I take the beer off Katie and drink until my smoky throat recovers.
Katie snorts. ‘Yeah, he’s connected! How clueless do they think we are?’
‘It’s wrong, that’s what it is!’ Liana’s volume ramps up. ‘They’ve got loads of money and they should be protecting you more. I can’t believe there aren’t security guards! If someone was snatching girls from my school, I’d get armed guards.’
‘Won’t matter,’ says Katie. ‘Because it’ll turn out to be one of your teachers, of course. The one you least suspect.’
There had been a lot of gossip going around about various teachers, but the police profile seemed to have put an end to it. It said that the offender might travel with his job, and would definitely be away from home or work regularly. That couldn’t be any of our teachers.
After the profile came out I thought it only had to be a matter of time before someone came forward, but nothing has happened. It’s gotten awfully quiet around the school this week, and in the media too. We’ve had exams, and everyone has been studying.
‘Listen,’ Katie says, ‘I heard that they’ve got new DNA evidence from an older case, and that they’re getting things together for an arrest. Have you heard about that? Tim’s cousin is in the police force.’
‘I don’t know.’ I give the can to her.
‘If you get taken…’ Katie sips. ‘The thing you’re supposed to do is breathe in real deep when you’re tied up, and then when you breathe out—bam! The ropes are loose.’
‘Did you get that email too?’ I can’t believe it’s travelled so far.
‘We want you back!’ The fire has finally caught, and orange light flickers across Liana’s face. ‘I always imagined we’d graduate together.’
I let her hug me. I imagined the same thing too, and that we could go to the same uni as well, even though Liana has been settled on Biomedical Science for ages and I have less of a clue than ever.
Katie wanders off to find more firewood. I’m left alone with Liana, so now’s my chance.
‘Hey, L, I was hoping you might be able to help me with an art project.’
‘Yeah?’ She looks interested so I plunge on. It’s not like Liana hasn’t posed for me in the past.
‘I’ve decided to do a portrait for my final art project this year, and I need a model.’
‘You want to paint me again?’
‘No, I’ve been concentrating on photography recently.’
She screws up her face.
‘I need to do something different,’ I say quickly. ‘Mix things up. I’ve already got enough sketches and paintings in my folio. Let me show you.’
I pull up some Bill Henson images on my phone, the ones that look like teenagers have had a wild night out, and Liana scrolls.
‘Nope nope nope,’ she says. ‘They’ve hardly got any clothes on! You want me to flash this butt around in public? On a car bonnet?’ She scrolls. ‘Mum’d have a heart attack and they will throw me out of the church choir.’
‘It’s more the light and the mood. You don’t have to show any skin at all, if you don’t want.’
In my folio I’ve pasted Henson images alongside Vermeer paintings as examples of the light and mood I’m trying to capture, as well as all sorts of other things that have caught my eye. Advertisements featuring sleeping or reclining women, exposed and abstracted parts of women’s bodies, fairytale illustrations from falling-apart anthologies, newspaper snippets about missing women. I have no idea yet if any of it fits together.
‘I thought we could go out to the netball courts at sunset?’ There are rickety bleachers at the courts behind Meridian. If Liana sat right at the top, her hair might fly around in the wind, maybe the streetlights and the sky might combine to make something good.
Liana hands my phone back. ‘Sorry babe, you know I’m way too self-conscious.’
‘It’s okay.’ I half-knew she would say no. It would have been a nice excuse to spend more time with her.
‘Why don’t you stick to your drawings? They’re so good.’ Liana squeezes my arm. ‘I’ve still got every single one you’ve given me.’
I stare at the rising flames.
I know Katie and Liana say they miss me, but no one has asked me about anything but the kidnapping. And while they’ve filled me in on the Morrison news, they don’t seem that interested in what’s going on in my life. I could tell them how I’m avoiding Dad’s calls or that Arnold got in a fight with Ron and Pearl’s cat or that I think Mum has a crush on someone at work but I can’t figure out who.
‘Shit!’ Tim hops around the circle swearing. Dirty grey smoke plumes off his shoe. Brandon picks up the esky full of ice and instead of tipping it on Tim’s foot, tips it over his head. Tim swears even more and starts swinging furiously at Brandon.
Liana immediately rushes towards them, getting the situation under control like she always does. In the kitchen window Mrs Barrie moves like an automaton, between bench and sink. She doesn’t notice the chaos outside. I realise that I can’t go back to Morrison, and I don’t want to.
It’s impossible not to be affected by the shiny, revving Balmoral girls who plan to climb confidently to the top, to be engineers and lawyers and surgeons and diplomats. They know they can be anything they want to be. Being around them has made me think differently about my own life, and what I expect from myself.
I remind myself about the outrageous levels of privilege my new classmates have, the money and opportunities thrown at them every day, not to mention that, despite their advantages, they seem overwhelmed half the time with eating disorders and anxiety and expectations, but I still feel like a traitor.
Katie couldn’t care less about Tim’s smoking foot. She rattles the empty beer can at me. ‘You little cow. You drank it all.’
Mum is surprised when I get home. She puts down the fat crime novel she’s been reading and pushes her empty chocolate wrapper between the couch cushions.
‘I thought I was going to have to wait up until at least midnight worrying about you.’
‘I’m tired.’
And hungry. I go to the kitchenette and grab a bag of rice crackers.
‘How’s everyone?’ Mum yawns.
It’s nice to see her relaxing for a change, on the couch in her sloppy tracky daks and old Nirvana t-shirt. She’s taken the next week off for annual leave and already has a stack of library books waiting for her.
‘Fine.’ I can barely talk around a massive crunchy mouthful of cracker. I check out her library haul on the bench as I chew.
Every crime novel has the same cover. Dark backgrounds with bold all-caps titles in white, blue or yellow. A surprising amount of them have dead girls or about-to-be-dead girls on the front cover. The blurbs speak of unhappy wives who drink so much they can’t tell if they’ve seen a murder or not, women whose pasts have come back to haunt them, and promising young girls who’ll never get to realise their dreams. The titles tell us how lost, how alone, how trapped all these lovely girls and women are.
Even though the photos are supposed to show something raw and horrible, they’re actually incredibly polished and posed and digitally altered. I look closely at Blood Sisters, which has the best cover. It fits right in with all the reference images I’ve been collecting for my project.
‘Are you planning to elaborate on that?’ Mum asks.
‘Not right now, no.’ I hold up Blood Sisters. ‘Can I borrow this for a few days?’
I sit on my bed with my earbuds in, listening to music and flicking through the photos I took at Brandon’s tonight. Selfies of Katie, Liana and I with our faces squished together. Was being at Morrison High the main thing we had in common? Is that all it takes to end friendships, a change of habit or routine? I thought we were stronger than that.
A hot whoosh of air rises through the vents in the floor and I realise that Sam has sneakily turned the heating on even though I tell him all the time we can’t afford to turn it on every night.
When I go to the control panel in the dark hallway to turn it off, something shifts in the very corner of my vision, in the shadows.
My heart leaps for a brief moment, before I realise it’s Sam, shuffling slowly out of his bedroom. A white smudge in the dark corridor, arms dangling by his sides. His eyes are open but he doesn’t see anything.
I catch up to him in the middle of the living room, swaying uncertainly.
‘Back to bed, Sam.’ I take him by the shoulders and try to steer him gently back towards his room.
‘I saw him,’ he mumbles. ‘Hiding…’
‘You’re sleepwalking, buddy. Come on.’
I walk him back to his room and tuck his covers around him after he lies down. I switch his old nightlight on, still plugged in at the socket, and stars made of light oscillate around the room.
The sleepwalking started just over a week ago, around the time the media started calling Yin’s abductor Doctor Calm. The name has invaded Sam’s brain, we don’t know how, because we’ve made sure he doesn’t watch the news. They’ve probably been talking about it at school.
We keep finding Sam in random locations around the house, asleep and confused. He’s fine during the day, but at night he roams.
I return to my room and check the latest news reports—my sick new ritual before going to sleep each night.
After four weeks most of the information is old. The only new thing is a sketch of a house that police say could be Doctor Calm’s, made from evidence given by Karolina Bauer.
It’s disconcerting how ordinary the house looks.
The bedroom has a double bed, two bedside tables, matching lamps with yellow lampshades. Striped drapes, tan carpet. A door to an ensuite bathroom.
White and tan tiles. Shower over the bath, half-screen door. Sink and vanity, wall radiator. Small frosted window up high, too high and too small to climb through.
It could be anyone’s house.
Maybe there was a time when I thought the police had a chance of finding Yin, but if this is the best they’ve got—this, an identikit of someone in a balaclava and a pretty vague profile of an imaginary man—then there is no chance at all.
I lurk outside the art rooms like a super-creep. My folio is tagged with pink notes. The last week has been a frenzy of sketching, finding visual references and trying to make my ideas gel. I feel like Arnold when he’s got the scent of something at the park and can’t let it be.
All my other homework has fallen by the wayside. I can only hope my concept makes sense, and that I can get Bochen excited enough about my project to help.
I can’t believe I’ve finally settled on an idea I like.
‘What are you doing?’
Natalia pops up at my left elbow, chewing gum and staring with those uncanny blue-green eyes of hers. She’s finally joined the herd and switched to winter uniform. I want to throw back a childish ‘none of your business’, but I don’t.
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘You’re always so cryptic, Cardell.’ She peers around the art room door, assessing the small group of girls inside. ‘Curiouser and curiouser. Who are you waiting for?’
I can see that she’s not going to let me be. I’m pretty sure Natalia is similar to Katie. If you resist her too much she’ll go out of her way to cause you trouble, but if you give her just enough info to satisfy her, then she’s more likely to let it drop.
‘I need a model for my art project. Someone with a certain look.’
‘One of them? Which one?’
‘Bochen.’
‘Why? She’s so strange looking.’
Bochen has long, straight black hair like Liana. I want the picture to be dark, mostly black and white with small accents of red. Snow White colours. Snow White is supposed to have dark hair and pale skin, and Bochen ticks both of those boxes.
‘She’s got an interesting face.’ And you’ve got no imagination, I want to add. Bochen belongs in an elegant woodcut from the nineteenth century.
‘Her mouth is so small I don’t even know how she can eat.’
‘Why do you have to always say stuff like that?’
Natalia’s mouth falls slack. ‘Uh, because it’s true?’
‘Plenty of things are true, it doesn’t mean you have to say them. You do have a choice.’
Natalia’s face is blank, like she really doesn’t understand what I’m saying. And she wonders why people call her names behind her back.
‘She’ll never do it,’ she says.
An exasperated huff escapes me.
‘I know she won’t,’ Natalia insists. ‘Show me what you need and I’ll suggest someone.’
Natalia snatches my folio out of my hands before I even realise what she’s doing. She slouches against the wall—she makes even our spinsterish winter uniform look like a deliberate fashion look—and flicks through my jumble of ideas.
I’ve added some crime novel covers and sketched out how I want the photo to look: a maybe-sleeping girl in a forest, or somewhere else, I haven’t decided yet. She could be asleep, or unconscious, or even dead. There’s an air of something supernatural, or slightly magical, about her. I might use fairy lights to create that atmosphere, or maybe even paint colours over the photo, like I did for my self portrait. I want the viewer to be confused about whether they’re looking at a fairytale or a crime scene.
I can’t read Natalia’s face at all as she turns the pages. ‘Can I have it back, please?’
‘This is kind of twisted, Cardell.’
I hold my hand out for my folio but Natalia hoists it above her head.
‘Come and get it.’ She dances backwards.
‘You do realise that I’m a foot taller than you, don’t you?’ I try to grab it but she jumps away. ‘I can take you easily.’
I grab again and Natalia shrieks like a child having a really amazing fun time and somehow my folio ends up spilling its guts all over the floor. I crouch down and try to stuff the pages in. Natalia tries to join me but I give her such a dirty look she steps back.
‘What’s going on?’ Bochen stands in the doorway of the art room. ‘Are you two spying on us?’
‘No,’ I say, at exactly the same time Natalia says, ‘Yes. Yes, we are.’
Bochen laughs. ‘Now I don’t know what I think.’
‘Chloe has something to ask you, Bochen.’
If I could make Natalia spontaneously combust using the power of my furious mind, I would. But there’s no way of avoiding it now.
‘I need help with my project.’ My voice squeaks and I swear Natalia smirks. I swallow and continue. ‘I need to take photos of someone and I think you’d be perfect for it.’
The smooth, casual things I’d planned to say to Bochen to persuade her to pose for me have fallen out of my brain.
‘So, would you do it? It’d be one afternoon of your time. They’re not close-ups. You’d be…lying down…’
My cheeks are flaming. Bochen looks surprised, pushes her glasses back up her nose.
‘Oh, not me, Chloe. You need a pretty girl, maybe Cherry. You should ask her. She likes to show off.’
I don’t need a show-off. That’s the last thing I need.
‘You’re pretty too.’ I don’t know who I’ll ask if she doesn’t do it.
‘Sorry, Chloe!’ Bochen gives me a big smile but I can tell she’s trying to escape. ‘You’re so talented! You’re going to beat my ass at this prize!’
‘It’s not for—’ I dribble out, but she’s gone. The heat from my cheeks spreads up my face and heads for my tear ducts.
‘Bochen is failing maths and her parents are threatening to bring her back home if her grades don’t improve.’
I turn my head away from Natalia and blink fast. ‘Why are you telling me this? No, actually, why are you still here?’
‘She doesn’t have time to help you, she’s cramming. It’s nothing personal.’
‘I’m not taking it personally!’ I say, too loudly. I stomp down the corridor. I feel foolish for not knowing the first thing about Bochen’s life, despite our friendly conversations, when apparently Natalia knows everything about her. She even tried to warn me, which only makes me feel worse.
‘Your folio is really good.’ Natalia follows me. ‘You’ve done a lot of work.’
‘Doing a lot of work doesn’t matter if your ideas are shit.’
‘Who said your ideas are shit?’
‘Shouldn’t you find your minions? Or are you coming to the tuckshop with me?’
She ignores my questions. ‘Turn to that page with the crime books.’
I hold my defiled folio tighter. ‘I know the one you mean.’
Dead Girl Walking. When She Left. The Wife You Knew.
‘They remind me of that TV show, Devil Creek? Do you know it? My minions love it.’
I’m quiet but listening. I slow down.
‘Devil Creek is totally dead girl porn. A bit like some of those covers. We should watch it together some time.’
I let that weird invitation slide. But the name, Devil Creek, sounds familiar.
‘What about me?’ says Natalia. ‘I’ll be your model if you ask nicely.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
Too posey, I think, too obvious. I think of the dark and delicate and subtle things I want to express and Natalia is not any of them. I jangle my tuckshop money in my skirt pocket as we walk. ‘Why do you want to help me?’
We stop and I stare at her innocent angel face, which hides the personality of a demon. I try to figure out if she’s making fun of me.
‘It’s not about helping.’ Said as if it’s a dirty word. ‘You’re going to do this thing, it’s going to win the art prize, and I’ll be part of it. I’ll bask in your glory, or whatever.’
‘I’m not doing this for the prize.’
‘What? This is going to be good, I can tell already. You should go for gold.’
We’re on a collision course with Sarah and Marley, linking arms near the stairwell down to the tuckshop. Ally is practising some seriously filthy dance moves on the banister. She looks like obscure European royalty but she doesn’t always act that way.
Natalia fixes her supernatural eyes on me.
‘I don’t know if you’ve got the right look.’ I bite my lip. Who am I kidding? My vision for the photo keeps dissolving every time I try to grab onto it.
I try to look at Natalia objectively, and mentally adjust what I’ve been picturing.
‘You look otherworldly enough…but too dangerous for what I’ve got in mind. It’s supposed to look like a fairytale gone wrong. You’re more of a mean pixie type, or the old sort of fairy. The kind who tangles mortals in wishes and promises, and tricks them into eating fairy food so they can’t return to the human world.’
This alone should be nerdy and insulting enough for permanent excommunication, but instead something flashes inside Natalia, an extra spark of interest. Up until now I could have sworn she was playing with me.
‘All of those girls come from in-between places.’ She points at my folio. ‘Dead and alive. Heaven and hell. Or some other place and the real world.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say with shock in my voice. That’s better than I could have described it. Maybe that’s what I’m aiming for.
‘Give me your phone, Cardell.’
She calls herself on my phone, while still keeping a close eye on her friends.
‘You know what makes me sick?’ she says. ‘Everyone skating along the surface and not talking about what’s really happening.’
She’s lost me. ‘I need to think about it more. I’ll let you know.’
She hands me my phone. ‘Well, when you decide yes, I’ll be waiting.’
‘Right,’ I nod. ‘Okay.’
She joins her friends and they pour like oil through the corridor in the way that they do.
Mum beckons for me to join her in the lounge room. The six o’clock news is just starting, and the anchorwoman is saying something about Yin.
My heart stops. ‘Did they find her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I sit close to Mum on the couch, my heart beating again.
Yin’s parents appear on screen, looking a little stunned. They’ve both aged in the last five weeks. You can tell from the camera flashes and the clusters of microphones that the press conference is jammed full.
This time it isn’t Mr Mitchell that speaks. Yin’s mum reads from a sheet of paper held in shaking hands. The faintest trace of an accent runs through her words.
‘Yin was born on this day sixteen years ago. She was my first child and I was so happy to meet her. She was a perfect baby with a full head of black hair.’
Mrs Mitchell starts hiccup-crying. Her husband’s arm sneaks around her shoulders.
‘Oh, man.’ Mum grabs my hand and starts kneading it.
Mrs Mitchell swallows, continues.
‘Dad, Mum, Nelson and Albert wish you a happy birthday, Yin. Wherever you are. Tonight we pray that you will return to us soon. To the man who has my daughter, please be kind to her on this special day. I think you are a good man who can do the right thing. To the public—thank you for your kind words and thoughts. We announce that we are offering a reward of one hundred thousand Australian dollars for information leading to the return of our daughter. Please, we are begging you, if you know anything that might help the investigation, please contact the police. You can be anonymous. Help us find Yin.’
A reporter shouts a question, but a woman in a suit steps in and takes over the microphone. The footage cuts out and the newsreader takes over.
‘Police have released an updated photo of Yin Mitchell, which may be closer to her current appearance.’
The photo they show is more recent, maybe even this year’s school photo.
‘Again, if any member of the public believes they have any information related to Yin’s disappearance, they are urged to contact the hotline number below.’
A tear slides down Mum’s cheek. She wipes it away, pretends it wasn’t there in the first place. ‘Albert and Nelson? Those kids will be getting hell at school with those names.’
I give her a rueful smile as my phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s an unknown number.
‘Hello?’
‘Are you watching it?’
I can’t tell who it is. The person on the other end gets impatient. ‘It’s Natalia. From school. Are you watching the news?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’ I get up and go to my bedroom. ‘Did you know it was her birthday?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ Silence and uneven breathing.
I flop down on my bed. ‘A hundred thousand is a lot of money.’
More breathing, then, ‘The reward shouldn’t be for her return, it should be for information that puts that sicko away for life.’
‘She could still be alive.’
All of a sudden I’m afraid the reward will work. It’s been more than a month. What if it’s not about Yin’s safe return, but about finding her body? Maybe it’s better not knowing. I look at my neglected picture wall and everything on it seems so old, from a million years ago. Irrelevant.
There’s dead silence for so long I wonder if I’ve messed up.
After way too long, Natalia speaks. ‘So, do you want me to do the photo shoot with you, or not? I don’t do nudes though.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
She snorts in a humourless way. ‘Okay, so when do you want to do it?’
My brain spins, trying to figure out how soon I can be ready, or even if I want to be ready. I’m still not a hundred per cent sure this isn’t an elaborate plan to make fun of me.
‘How about the first week of holidays?’
That will give me time to plan the lighting and find a location and see what equipment I can borrow from school, and then time to edit the photo and paint on it and anything else I decide to do afterwards. If I’m lucky.
‘Nup, can’t do. We’re at the beach house that week. What about the second week?’
It seems as if everyone at Balmoral is going somewhere for the September holidays. The end of the holidays will be way too late.
‘That doesn’t give me enough time to finish it. How about the first weekend after we go on break? Sunday?’
‘You mean next Sunday?’
She’s right. How did the term get away from me so badly? ‘There’s a lot to organise…’
‘God, Cardell, settle down. You’re a massive geek, I’m sure you can pull this off.’
It’s difficult to know what to say to such a double-edged insult-compliment.
‘I don’t know. I’ve still got two exams left this week to study for. Let’s forget about it.’
‘Please.’ She sounds desperate, although I can’t imagine why. I’m the one that’s going to have a half-arsed Art project, and probably not be able to finish my homework for any other subjects as well.
Natalia sounds calmer though when she speaks again. ‘Don’t overthink it. I’m free on Sunday arvo, so pick a place, get some props or whatever and we’ll do it. I’ll sort out what I’m wearing and what I’ll look like. No stress.’
I’m quiet for a good few seconds. ‘Okay?’ I say, eventually.
‘You can do it,’ she says. ‘At least you’re doing something.’ And then she hangs up.
I wait until the next morning to call Dad.
‘Chloe, everything okay?’ is how he answers my call. He’s out of breath; he always seems to be out of breath when he answers his phone.
‘Yeah, nothing’s wrong. Just called to chat.’
This is not the truth. I’ve been sitting in my room for the last hour, looking at all the tests and due dates scribbled in my school diary.
‘Oh, good, good.’
There’s a pause. My hope is that he can get me out of this Art project mess, because he does actually have some skills in this area, from the olden days when he used to help put on underground raves and events.
‘How’s school?’
‘A bit better now, I guess.’ I haven’t spoken to him since the week Yin disappeared, but I know Mum has probably been giving him updates.
‘Any news on the police front?’
‘Not really. There were rumours today that they’re interviewing teachers again. And some people’s dads as well. And bus drivers, that sort of thing.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘I guess. There’s a reward now, so…’
I don’t even believe the rumours that police are interviewing students’ fathers. People will say anything when they’re feeling desperate.
‘Listen, Chlo, I’ve been thinking. You know how Jarrod is an expert at Dim Mak? It’s a self-defence technique using pressure points. You can temporarily paralyse someone with one finger. Anyway, he’s offered to teach you, if you want.’
I rub my face. I haven’t gone to Dad’s house much in the eighteen months since he’s been back from Western Australia, it’s too far away. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to voluntarily spend time with Dad’s housemate who wears Thai fisherman pants 24/7. Or experience that much power in one finger, for that matter.
‘Uh, no. I mean, thank you. That’s really nice of him to offer. But we’re doing self-defence in PE.’
‘The offer’s there, Chlo. Or we can look into something else.’
‘Maybe.’ I take a deep breath. He’s taken me way off track. ‘Hey, so I’m calling because I need your help with something. It’s kind of short notice.’
‘Of course, yes! What do you need?’
I try to ignore how eager he sounds, practically panting like Arnold. I tell him about my project, as best I can, without getting into it too deep.
‘So, we need a location,’ he sums up, ‘and you need help picking up the equipment from school and driving it there and back?’
‘Yeah. And we’ll probably need to pick my friend up. Sorry. It’s a lot of work. I can’t ask Mum, with her roster and everything.’
‘It’s no problem, love. I’ve already got a place in mind. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you.’
‘Thanks Dad.’ I feel hypocritical but I remind myself that he probably owes me this. I’m allowed to ask him for things.
‘Let me take care of it, Chlo. Is little Sammy there?’
‘Nah, he’s at soccer practice.’
‘Oh, right. I should watch one of his matches, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yeah, he’d like that.’
‘Speak soon,’ he says, and we hang up.
After I speak to Dad I do my homework. Not all of it, because at this time of year it’s like a bottomless pit of things that should have been done a week ago. Balmoral runs on pressure, like a big steam train you can’t get off once you’re on. Every teacher thinks their subject is the most important, and they get annoyed if you haven’t paid enough attention to their set tasks. They’ve got no idea how much it adds up to across six subjects.
The house is quiet, with Mum and Sam both at soccer. I do my maths exercises and then make grilled cheese on toast with so much French mustard my tongue burns.
Natalia has sent me a link to the TV show she mentioned, Devil Creek. I realise that the billboard I saw on the way home from school just after Yin was taken was for the same show.
The opening credits roll: a girl runs barefoot through the bush at night, her legs and arms painfully scratched, the soundtrack built from driving drums and panic.
I decide I don’t really love it halfway through the first episode. Detective McManus is experienced and professional, but distracted by his messy divorce. His work partner Detective Burns is dedicated and cares too much, but keeps pissing off witnesses with her blunt manner. The people of Devil Creek all have secret lives, but nothing ties together, at least not yet. Everyone is white and every time it seems like the plot might go somewhere, they cut to a confusing dream sequence.
But Emily Blake, the victim, the town’s prettiest girl with the sordid secrets—she gives me chills. The music builds to something sinister when they find her body.
Her nightie is ripped low on her chest and a fly hovers around her face.
The camera zooms in on her pale lips, which are as cracked as the mud she’s lying on. A strand of hair snakes its way into the corner of her mouth, searching for a way in. There are droplets of blood along the actress’s forehead, as pretty as rubies, and her staring eyes wear the reflection of blue sky and clouds above.
Every time they show the autopsy photo, or show Emily Blake when she was alive, or give us her blueish body on a mortuary gurney, I can see the resemblance to Natalia, I see every fallen body on the cover of a crime novel, and I can’t help thinking that everyone wants their teenage girls ruined.
