Annabel calls Jez, Adam and Dougie. Then she calls Liam, James and the two Matthews. The confusion and concern in their voices makes it evident: they’ve no idea where Daniel is either. She leaves messages for the ones who don’t pick up.
‘This is Annabel, Daniel’s mum. We’re worried about him. Please call us back if you know where he is.’
It takes all her self-control to make it sound like she’s only mildly worried when she’s actually beside herself. Exactly how much – and what kind of – drugs can $400 buy? Will Daniel blow it all at once? They’ve tried to limit his access to cash; his wages from the pizzeria are – were! – lodged directly into his bank account, and Annabel keeps his ATM card so he can’t make withdrawals without her involvement. It didn’t occur to her that he might steal from his family, from his little sister. But isn’t that what drug addicts do? Lie, manipulate and thieve so they can get what they crave so badly? Now she feels stupid for not predicting that this might happen, and for not ensuring that Mia kept her money in a safer place.
Jarrod has driven the length and breadth of Manly, Daniel’s usual haunt. Having no success from the driver’s seat, he parked and went on foot up and down the Corso, checking the laneways and darkened doorways, calling Daniel’s name. He gave up, came home, and now they’re standing in the kitchen, unsure what to do next. It’s after 11 p.m. Where is he?
Annabel’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number.
‘Mrs Harris?’
Just from the way the woman says her name, the overly professional tone, she knows immediately that it’s a police officer, or a social worker, or someone else of that ilk.
Don’t let this be bad news. Don’t let this be a phone call that I’ll replay over and over for the rest of my life.
‘Yes.’ A lump of dread is wedged in her throat.
‘This is Janine Egan. I’m a nurse at Northern Beaches Hospital. Your son’s been admitted to Accident and Emergency. Don’t worry, he’s not in any immediate danger ...’
She clasps a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’
‘What is it, Annie?’ Jarrod asks frantically. ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’
‘He’s in A&E ... They said he’ll be okay.’ Then she asks the woman, whose name she’s already forgotten, ‘What happened to him?’
‘He’s taken a combination of amphetamines and cannabis.’ The woman’s tone is unsurprised, implying she’s seen it all before. ‘Then he got beaten up by a gang of youths.’
Annabel’s mind is spinning, finding it hard to keep up. ‘What?’
‘It happens more often than you think. When you’re in that state, you’re vulnerable to crime – assault, in particular.’
‘We’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Annabel promises hurriedly. ‘We live quite close by.’
She passes on the details to Jarrod: amphetamines, cannabis, assault. They look at each other, stricken, for what feels like an eternity. How did they get here? How do they navigate this? Their suspicions have been unequivocally confirmed: Daniel is experimenting with other drugs.
‘I’ll go,’ she decides, because Jarrod’s face is a worrying shade of grey. ‘You stay here with Mia.’
‘I’ll wake her up. We’ll all go. The three of us.’
His voice is faint, lacking in authority. The last few months have sapped him.
’No. Mia sees enough. She doesn’t need to be exposed to what happens on Saturday nights in Accident and Emergency.’
Annabel briefly thinks of Grace. She could ask her or Tom to come over and watch Mia while she and Jarrod present a united front at the hospital. Grace is probably in bed by now, but Annabel knows that won’t matter. Her friend would be here in an instant, given the chance.
For some reason, Annabel doesn’t give her that chance.
She pecks Jarrod on the cheek. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get there. It’ll be okay ... They said he’s not in any immediate danger ... We’ll get through this, Jarrod. I know we will.’
Where has that bullshit come from? She knows no such thing.
This is what she finds at the hospital.
Her sixteen-year-old son with a swollen face, a couple of cracked ribs and a bandaged hand – apparently, a deep laceration on his palm required stitches. Her sixteen-year-old son compulsively scratching himself, swearing under his breath, his pupils so enlarged he looks like a stranger. Her sixteen-year-old son unremorseful for his actions, blaming his woes on the ‘gang’, bridling with hostility as soon as he sees her.
‘Look at what you’ve done to yourself,’ she says sadly.
‘It wasn’t fucking me. It was them.’
‘You made yourself a target.’
‘I was going along, doing nothing, and this guy pushed into me. He said, “This is him,” and next thing five or six of them were on top of me.’
She sits down then. Takes a moment to collect herself. ‘Are you saying you knew them?’
‘No, I’m saying someone set me up.’
‘More like they saw what state you were in and took advantage.’
‘Fuck’s sake, you never take my side.’
In the next cubicle, there’s a man groaning in pain. Somewhere else there’s a baby crying, a mother crooning in response. These people have a right to be here – it is through no fault of their own that they’re not feeling well. Unlike Daniel, whose pain is completely self-inflicted. She is angry with him for doing this to himself, for directing precious resources away from legitimate patients, for being so selfish and self-destructive.
‘You took Mia’s communion money ... That was pretty low.’
He shrugs. Then scratches his neck. He has a cut there. From the beating or the constant scratching, she’s not sure.
‘Did you spend all of it? So you could end up like this?’
Once again, he doesn’t answer and she has to accept that she isn’t going to see any remorse from him, at least not tonight. Maybe tomorrow when he’s sober and has had some time to dwell on things and face up to his little sister.
She tries a different tack. ‘What happened with your job?’
At least this time he answers. ‘The boss was a dickhead.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us that they’d let you go?’
She knows exactly why he didn’t tell them. It suited him. They thought he was at work when he was really somewhere else, doing something that he shouldn’t be doing, something that was destroying him and destroying their family.
A nurse – young, pretty – pops her head around the curtain. ‘So, you found us, Mrs Harris. I’m Janine.’
‘Yes, thanks. Hello, Janine.’ Annabel has no idea what to say to this young woman. Other than apologise for her son. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
Janine gives her a gentle smile. ‘It’s nothing you’ve done.’
How can she be so sure about that? They could’ve been more vigilant, attentive, strict. They could’ve said no to the job at the pizzeria, locked him in his room at night.
Janine takes Daniel’s pulse, moves her stethoscope around his chest, writes on his chart.
‘Can I have a word?’ Annabel asks, awkwardly getting to her feet.
‘Sure.’ A flash of that pretty smile. ‘The tea room is usually quiet.’
Annabel follows Janine, trying not to stare at some of the Saturday-night ‘clientele’. A girl, not much older than Daniel, screeching uncontrollably. A young man in handcuffs, flanked by police officers.
‘Come in. Sit down ... What can I help you with?’
Annabel gets straight to the point. ‘We’re at the end of our tether with him.’
Janine walks towards the back of the room, where there is a large brochure holder mounted on the wall. ‘There’s information here. Out-reach programmes. Counselling services. Contact details for social workers .’
Annabel nods, clutching Janine’s selection of pamphlets in her hand. She and Jarrod have tried to deal with this themselves. They’ve tried reasoning with Daniel. They’ve tried pleading with him. They’ve tried being tough. Nothing has worked. Their son is in A&E. He has graduated from cannabis to speed. He is angry at the gang, not at himself. It’s time to throw more resources at the problem.
‘You look like you could do with a cuppa,’ Janine says kindly. ‘Daniel won’t be going anywhere for the next few hours, there’s plenty of time to have one.’
Annabel makes a strong cup of tea. Helps herself to a packet of the complimentary biscuits. Sends a quick update to Jarrod.
Battered and bruised. Some stitches on his hand. Not the slightest bit sorry.
Then she settles down with the pamphlets. In the middle of them she finds a flyer for a parents’ support group.
Is your teen taking drugs? Do you feel helpless, ashamed, frightened and unable to cope?
She feels all of the above. A sob escapes, then another. She thought they’d hit rock bottom at the restaurant. She was wrong. Receiving that call tonight. Seeing Daniel so bashed up yet so unrepentant. Holding this flyer in her hand. Knowing she’ll be calling some of these numbers on Monday morning. This is what rock bottom is.