twenty-eight

Nancy came awake slowly, as if emerging from a sticky fog. Her mouth tasted stale and her head was spinning, bringing memories of long-ago hangovers at university, when restraint was simply a word in a dictionary. She struggled to move upright in the bed, for a moment unsure of her surroundings. Then she noted the familiar and the safe; the colours of home and the comforting silence. Even though mostly semi-conscious in the hospital, she had been all too aware of the constant rush of footsteps, of murmured voices and the clank and buzz of equipment.

The clock by the bed read 11:45 am. She’d been asleep only a short while but if felt longer. She sat forward, allowing her head to settle. Something had penetrated her sleep, tugging her out of the chasm she’d fallen into, but she couldn’t pin it down. A sound. Something alien. Probably just a car outside.

She closed her eyes again, allowing the darkness to envelope her.

Beth.

The memories came rushing in, and with them a surge of guilt. She sat up, engulfed by a wave of nausea. How could she have not remembered the second she opened her eyes? What kind of mother was she? She threw back the covers in irritation. She had to speak to Gina or Ruth … even the American, Vaslik. One of them might tell her if anything had happened. All she could remember was running a bath, then feeling overwhelmed by heat and humidity, and … nothing.

She heard a low buzzing noise. Intermittent, it was coming in bursts from somewhere nearby. The sound was familiar; she remembered now. Like an angry bumble bee caught behind a net curtain. Softer, yet just as insistent.

It came again, three short bursts, then silence. Not a bee. Something electronic.

The dresser.

She slid out of bed, putting on her slippers and pulling her dressing gown around her shoulders, waiting while the room tilted, then righted itself. Don’t move too fast. Take it easy.

She stood up and took the three steps towards the dresser, instinct making her tread softly, one ear cocked for movement outside her bedroom door, which was closed.

She pulled open the second drawer down. Her undies drawer as she called it. Her one indulgence whenever she could afford it, which wasn’t often.

She burrowed down through the thin layers of silk and lace, and her fingers encountered something solid. She flicked aside a couple of folded bras and found the slim, glossy black shape of a cell phone.

What?

She took it out, the feel of the device strange, the balance lighter than her own phone, which was downstairs in the kitchen drawer. The screen was on and the message icon was blinking. She pressed the View key.

It was from Michael.

Her fingers began trembling so much she almost dropped the phone. She wasn’t sure if it was the journey from her bed to here or the excitement and relief of seeing his name, but she felt a rush of relief followed by a drumming in her head.

The text message was simple:

Text me at noon. Use a safe word that we both know to show you are alone and not under pressure. I need to know what is happening. I will explain everything. Delete all messages and hide this. M

She slumped against the dresser, her legs going weak, and managed to get back to the bed where she fell back against the pillows. Her face was wet with silent tears and her head bursting with questions, wondering why Michael was communicating with her this way, so cold and disconnected. If he could text, why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he come home? She felt a burst of anger at the remoteness of his words, but pushed them down somewhere deep inside. Anger was pointless, she knew that. Michael called it a wasted emotion, and that hard resolve was so much better. She had never got round to asking him what that meant, adding it to the various topics they had never discussed fully during their years together, like the Safeguard contract. But that was for another time. As always, she trusted him implicitly, and felt guilty at her brief surge of doubt. For now she had to continue trusting him, knowing that he would do the right thing, and that they would eventually be safe—and together.

She dried her eyes and face and checked the time. 11.55. Just five minutes to compose a text, but it wouldn’t take long. Considering she had no-one else to communicate with in this way, other than the regular and uniform messages to Michael, it was something at which she was fairly adept.

She began pressing the keys, using alternate thumbs in a rapid-fire way to tell him what had happened so far, one ear cocked for Gina making one of her periodic checks. As she typed, she was thinking about a safe word to use; one that only she and Michael would know, and would fit into the text if an outsider saw it. Somehow she knew Michael would use one in return. She didn’t question why he was doing this, only that it was necessary because he said so. She looked around her bedroom, hoping for inspiration.

Then she had it. Beth’s favourite teddy; it was sitting on the end of her bed.

… you must be Homesick, she typed. The capital letter was deliberate, to catch the eye. Michael would see it and understand. She fastened on that thought, wiping away all other fears and doubts.

Michael was alive and safe. That was all she needed to know. Everything would be fine now.

The response from Michael came within twenty minutes, and Nancy felt elated by the simple words. Words of reassurance, of hope. Contact at last.

He texted, “Don’t worry. They won’t harm her.”

“They? Who they?” she responded.

“Not sure. Best not trust anyone.”

“Not Cruxys?”

“No.”

“But you said call them.”

“Yes. Things have changed.”

“Why Beth? I don’t understand.”

“One day you will. For now you must stay strong. For Beth. For me. For us all. Delete this. M. x.”

He was gone, the remoteness of his words burning into her brain. It hadn’t sounded like Michael, and she wondered if it was the need to conserve words that made him come across that way. She deleted the texts as instructed and switched off the phone. As she returned it to the drawer, slipping it beneath her underwear where it would be safe from discovery, it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked Michael how the device had got here. It hadn’t been in the drawer yesterday—of that she was certain. The thought made her flesh creep.

Someone had been in their home.

In this room.

As Nancy slipped back beneath the covers and closed her eyes, a black 4WD entered the end of the street. It stopped at the kerb a hundred yards away, beyond the reach of the CCTV camera at the front, beyond Gina Fraser’s watchful eyes. The driver was on the phone, listening to instructions. After a few minutes, he did a three-point turn and disappeared back the way he had come.