The rip, p.17
The Rip, page 17
‘But my boyfriend,’ I said, closing the nightgown across my chest.
‘You mean the older feller with the tattoos? We’ve arrested him for drugs.’ He shook his head again and I’d never felt so embarrassed. ‘How old are you?’
‘Old enough.’
‘Too young,’ he corrected me. ‘This is a blessing in disguise, trust me. Get yourself cleaned up. You deserve a better life than this.’ He phoned the police on the mainland and told them to meet me at the ferry terminal. Which could only mean one thing, I was about to be arrested or charged.
Barry waited outside for me to collect my small suitcase and dress back into my bikini top and shorts and then drove me down to the ferry with country music playing. Up on the villa balconies, smoke curled from barbeques and kids and mothers chatted. A pink sunset gave the water and sky a strawberry tint. Families rode past wearing helmets. Fathers took their sons fishing. And I stared down at my toe, weeping blood.
Penny, 1.20 a.m.
The staff on the island live in eco-friendly shipping containers that are spruced in black paint and decorated with click bamboo flooring. Once they’ve done their shift for the evening, they sleep there until the ferry arrives the next morning to collect them and sail them back to the mainland.
But Rob doesn’t lodge on the island. Like Barry, he lives here with about twenty other people who have never shifted from the rock. For twenty years, they’ve relinquished city life to be at one with this landscape. Any normalcy or hint of metropolis has vanished from their character and that’s why they don’t see their homes as squalors of rust and mildew. They aren’t fussed by the paper-thin walls, the pine-covered tin roofs splattered with blobs of bird poo. They can’t remember what it’s like to step inside a white-tiled shower, tasting water without metal. They are salt-crusted and worn, harsh and dry like this island.
‘He couldn’t possibly live out here, could he?’ Georgia asks as we meander under sagging gums, following the light of the moon. The path hasn’t been redone in fifty or so years. Shells, chunks of limestone rock and gumnuts now form a path through the darkest, eeriest part of the island. To the right of us is a golf course and to the left, the salt lakes. We’re under a forest of eucalyptus and Rob’s tin shed is out the other side.
‘I’ve only ever been out here once, many years ago.’
She doesn’t ask why on earth I would come here and I’m glad about that.
I don’t see any commotion in front though. No voices echoing under the gums, no lights. Are they even here?
‘Perhaps we should have gone back to the villa first, got our bikes and seen whether they were there?’ Georgia suggests, almost rolling her ankle in a ditch. I grab her arm to stabilise her. Perhaps we should have done many things. Perhaps Georgia and William should own two phones, instead of sharing one, so I could be using hers. But when you’re in this frame of mind, you don’t think logically. And Georgia’s right, we should have gone back to the villa, but we’re here now and I want to see whether Rob has been taken away.
He’s been hanging around too much, lurking in the shadows like an intruder, just waiting to take my child. He’s always been seedy, so he fits the character of a kidnapper. Drugs, porn, booze. Always had an uncomfortable manner about him, chatting to me like we’re long-lost friends. Too familiar.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ Georgia whispers, as though afraid she’ll awaken something evil.
It’s dead quiet here. Through the gumtrees, Rob’s rectangular boxed house is dark. My heart thumps. If they’ve found Edmund, perhaps that’s why they’re not here anymore. Perhaps they’re medically examining him, feeding him water and salty crackers like they do on crime shows.
‘If they’ve found him, they’ll have taken Edmund to the nursing post or police station,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s go there and check.’
But when Georgia states I knew we’d find him, something doesn’t sit right with me. I thought I’d lost Edmund. Lost him to the sea, the sharp boulders at the base of a cave, the rip currents that tug the water out from the bay. And there’s a haunting reason for that.
I still don’t believe Edmund is ever mine to keep.
Eloise, 2003
I’ve been an imposter in our relationship since the day Scott and I met. Six months earlier, after Old Man Barry kicked me off the island, I’d deserted my whole life. Friends, habits, behaviour, flat. I moved back in with my mother, a waif-like woman, who chain-smoked, binged daytime soapies and lived weekly off a measly pension. My mother was the absent, neglectful type. She never asked about where I’d been for three years or who I’d been seeing. Had I finished high school? Was I working? No. She just accepted me back into her flat like I’d only just stepped out for milk. She asked me what I wanted for dinner, meatloaf or sausages? I told her I’d cook. This new-found me hated meat, it would be vegetable stir fries and salads from now on.
I’d left my no-hoper friends, my drinking, my drug-taking, my self-destructive behaviour, and joined a yoga class with three older women who believed I was training to be a teacher. They taught me how to hold a handstand scorpion, to interpret the Tao and to drink green tea to aid digestion. I got a job there cleaning the bathrooms and yoga mats. I worked at night and saved what I could, scrubbing sweat off the pastel-coloured mats with a coarse brush.
When Scott met me, he never asked about my ‘teaching role’ or my ‘changing careers’. I was twenty, able to lie freely, and his medical training was far more important than what I did, therefore we carried on that way. Me not needing to work, me spending days at Scott’s river apartment, cooking him vegetable pies and curries, practising yoga on the balcony as the yachts sailed by. I had a key to his spare car. And soon, my toothbrush had its own holder. This was a life I never anticipated living. Those families on the island, balconies hanging over the spiked grass, this was now me. My blessed life.
I vowed to myself I would never, ever, not in a million years would I ever return to my old life. Scott would never see that in me. Scott would only see what I aspired to become. A green tea, flexible, clear-skinned, white-nailed, natural blonde, soon-to-be-bride that I was.
Our honeymoon to Europe was a gift from Scott’s parents. Five weeks in London, Paris and Italy. Five weeks in his Christmas break from med school. He’d be graduating mid-year, and the party at his parents’ was planned six months ago. His mother had sent out invitations, booked the caterers and redone the guest bathroom. Things like graduating from university were a big deal to Scott’s family. His sister was a dentist, his older brother already a doctor. They were a family of high achievers.
London was crisp, hand-holding weather, arms-around-shoulders weather, cosy cuddles in cafés kind of weather. Christmas lights blinked around us as Scott and I picked a spot for dinner, just down the road from Harrods and our hotel. It was a busy restaurant, with waiters dressed like penguins, balancing silver trays on their palms. They had no tables. They were fully booked. But Scott had a way of coaxing a table from the maître d’, a glass of champagne from a crowded bar, a candle from the flushed waitress.
He just had a way about him. People liked to accommodate him. And he lived to accommodate me.
‘Is this nice?’ he asked as we sat at our round brass table by the frosted window.
The candle glowed warm yellow across his cheekbones. We held hands and he kissed mine and the huge diamond on my finger sparkled like the Christmas lights outside.
‘This is perfect.’ I smiled.
‘Good,’ he said and kissed my knuckle once more. ‘Our whole life will be as good as this.’
And I believed him.
Penny, 2006
I wasn’t perfect enough for Greg, wasn’t living up to my title. And what would my mum or friends say if they knew? To be a perfect wife means a myriad of checklists that should be accomplished well before the husband comes home from work. You can’t be slack in your chores, or appear to be lazy in slippers, even if your baby has been screaming for four hours straight. Before putting dishes away, you have to scrutinise extra carefully for smudges around the rim. There should be enough milk in the fridge for his coffee, a fresh loaf of bread ready for lunch. The bed should be made with seven pillows arranged like a Bed and Bath catalogue. Your pussy should be waxed, your eyebrow hairs plucked, your legs shaved to baby-bottom standard. If you’re accomplishing this each day, only then can you say you’re doing a perfect job.
But it was five to six and Rosie was still finishing dinner, a simple spaghetti with store-bought sauce and grated cheddar. Spaghetti hung down her fork, flicking red juice over her dress and cheeks. The dress Mum had bought her. Fuck. And the floor hadn’t been vacuumed since breakfast. A peanut-butter crust had jammed itself under the stool. And my underarms weren’t shaved, and the baby was again starting to fuss on the bouncer while the cartoons irritatingly screeched about kindness and respect towards others. There were diced onions still on the board, burning my eyes, and not enough pasta for Greg’s bowl. He usually liked garlic bread, but I’d forgotten to get to the shops that day. I’d poured myself my fourth glass of red wine and my lips were stained, my teeth were stained, and a perfect round dollop of red blush had stained into my white dress. The one I planned to fuck him in later. He liked me in dresses. Said I had a youthful quality about me. But now I’d have to change.
And by the time we were in bed together with the baby asleep for all of forty minutes, max, and Rosie asleep with the fairy lights spinning around her pink room, I was exhausted, dry between my thighs and nowhere near wanting to be touched, kissed, thought of as sexy, nor youthful.
But I had to do it. Because we hadn’t had sex since the baby was born and to be perfect meant pleasing your husband.
‘What’s up?’ Greg asked, unbuttoning his business shirt. It wasn’t a kind What’s up, my darling? It carried a cold tone. Like I was already pissing him off.
‘Nothing. Come here.’ I reached out like a baby needing to be picked up and he softened into the mood I was pretending to create. Nuzzled down into my neck. I did not want to have sex with him.
It started with sticky kisses, below my ear, trailing down my neck to my leaking breasts. And the whole time, my jaw was clenched tight, gritting with unease and awkwardness. I was stiff, trying to relax, because he’d notice and not want me. He’d already been showing signs. I’d caught him wanking in the shower one morning. And then there was the secret porn-watching at his desk. His fingertips felt like spiders crawling over my body. His breath was hot, too hot, and my face had a way of turning left and right to avoid his lips.
And that’s when he sat up, knees either side of my hips, and folded his arms across his chest.
‘We’re done,’ he said.
‘No, we’re not.’
‘You’re not into it.’
‘I . . .’ I wasn’t. But I needed his support, not agitation and disappointment.
‘And you’re drunk again.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Smell it on your breath.’
I turned my head away and he climbed out of the bed. ‘We’re done.’
But we weren’t, not just yet. Eventually, though, if I didn’t lift my game, we would be.
Eloise, 1.20 a.m.
Rosie’s hiding inside her villa, cross-legged against the wall, staring down at her phone with a box of cookies in her lap. The villa’s dark. Just her glowing blue face. She crunches loudly, like she’s never been taught manners. That or she’s too involved in what she’s watching to care. When she sees me, she gasps, flinching so her head knocks the wall like a coconut.
‘Who are you afraid of?’ I start. ‘Who’s watching you?’
She drops a cookie back into the box, sucks her middle finger. ‘Can’t say.’
I crouch beside her and fish in the box for a biscuit. ‘I have a plan.’
Rosie looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I tug out a cookie and sit against the wall beside her. Our elbows touch and I take two bites. I’m really hungry. Sick with nerves, but empty in the stomach. I act casual, in control, and eating this cookie is helping with the guise.
‘We find Edmund before anyone else does,’ I say, like it means nothing.
‘Why?’ Her breath is chocolatey. ‘What’s the point?’
I shrug, looking out the back down to the ocean. A cool breeze flushes the mugginess out of the villa. She needs deodorant. ‘I was thinking about it,’ I say. ‘If you tell me who’s taken Edmund, we can find them first and get him back.’
I wait until she’s not looking at me before I offer myself a sneaking glance. Rosie pokes her tongue against her cheek while I chew my cookie, waiting for her response. I’m acting calm, casual and in control. Inside, my throat constricts. I need her to trust and listen to me. I almost have her. I see it in the way she picks her toenail, deep in thought.
‘Eventually, your mum will find out what has happened,’ I add for greater emphasis. ‘And these people will return for more money, more threats.’ I swallow the biscuit and brush my hands down my thighs. ‘So, we need a plan.’
She quickly turns to me and she doesn’t look happy. ‘We have a plan. Fifty thousand dollars.’
I inhale and hold it. Fuck. I exhale and say, ‘I can’t get it for you. Not until you tell me who’s taken your brother. Or maybe you don’t want him to be found? Maybe this money is for you too.’
She scoffs, pissed off with me, and swipes her phone. ‘Well then, you know the deal.’ She’s about to finger the buttons, so, snatching her phone, I ditch it across the floor, until it slides, banging up against the kitchen chair leg.
‘I have our photo backed up, Eloise.’ She pouts her lips for a second. ‘And if you smash or damage my phone, how will I communicate with them?’
Twisting around, I press my hand against Rosie’s mouth, pushing her head against the wall. It’s forceful, but I’m not intending to hurt her. I just want her to pay attention and listen. She doesn’t get it, but Rosie is as threatening to me as these kidnappers are to her. Teenagers don’t care about adults and their problems or families, they only care about themselves. And I can’t make this about me, I can’t mention what I could lose if she goes against me, because making this about me will only fuel her fire.
But my little girl is over the road, tucked up in bed with her teddies and sweet dreams. She needs me. My cuddles and kisses, our river picnics and playdates. And my beautiful growing boy, who’s as angelic asleep as he was as a baby. I need a future with him, to watch how he’ll turn out, to be more present and attentive. To guide his attention away from technology and back into sports, to champion him and watch and support him.
And our home, I can’t lose our home. Stone benchtops, fresh flowers, lap pool and shaded garden. There’s all of this and Scott. I’ve worked so hard to get him back and now maybe, after all this, I finally feel like he’s responding to me.
Rosie doesn’t see this, and because of her age, she won’t. But if she turns against me, I’ll lose everything.
Her eyes widen, terrified by my sudden aggressive behaviour. And maybe she needed this all along. To be scolded for what she’s doing. I lick my salty lips, as tears prickle my eyeballs. Her mouth is sweaty under my palm. I push her head harder against the wall.
‘Tell me who took him, and I’ll help you get out of this mess, whatever it takes.’
She blinks and nods and I release her mouth. It takes a while for her to compose herself. To wipe under her nose. And then she agrees and says, ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. But one word to Mum or the cops and they’ll be seeing that picture.’
Penny, 1.37 a.m.
My toes sink into syrupy sand, cooling my hot feet. Gentle waves ruffle over my ankles. It doesn’t matter what time of night it is, the lights from the mainland are always there, golden and twinkling. But because my eyes are swollen, my vision hazy, the lights spread as though they’re zooming by. The boats are black, the breeze has dropped, and they face various directions, as if confused and needing guidance. All the unfamiliar ones have been searched, apparently. And now, their owners sleep. I hold myself and shift further into the water until my calves are submerged. I want to just drop into it. So, I do. Water fills my lap and startles my tummy. I gasp, holding my breath, and then allow it to cool and soothe me. My dress floats around my ribs like a jellyfish and I wonder how long it’ll be before I hear the wings of stingrays flapping in the shallows.
Rob was not found with a kid. I sigh and throw a palmful of water over my face, splashing away the tears and tantrums. Gossip led us all to believe bullshit. I know everyone’s just trying to help, but sometimes having too many cooks spoils the broth and, in this case, too many ‘detectives’ are spreading rubbish theories.
The neighbours beside Brett and Sal’s villa are to blame. An old retired couple who are passionately eager about helping with the search. I’m sure she watches too many Agatha Christie shows. Their lives are so boring, they needed something like a missing kid to spice up their routine. Apparently, they spotted Rob walking the streets in the dark with a boy, who Rob later told police was his boss’s son. It’s been confirmed. That kid wasn’t Edmund. And anyway, Rob was at our villa at the time Edmund went missing. I should have known it wouldn’t have been Rob, but I grasped the gossip, hoping to have Edmund back.
Pearl and Edmund’s biological father still haven’t been found, which makes me think it’s her. Them. In it together. Apparently, police are now searching far and wide for them back in the city. But they’re here, I know it, the text they sent proves it.
Another palmful of water pools over my face, dripping down my neck and into my cleavage. Police have checked out the number and it’s been sent from a city payphone. But what if they’ve already taken Edmund back to the mainland?
I’ve asked for some alone time and told our guests to go and get some sleep while Wallis, Barry and the island police take care of things. I’ll stay here on the beach and wait until I see the police boats from the mainland arrive at the ferry jetty. They’re coming in earlier than planned because it’s real now.
