The rip, p.20
The Rip, page 20
‘Jam?’ I ask Scott.
He nods, dragging out a chair, and surprisingly, he sits opposite me. I remember learning once from the yoga instructor who trained me that life is all but a reflection. If you are kind, people can’t help but be kind back. If you smile, they smile. If you frown, so do they. I feel it now. A mirror between us. Me scraping jam over the base of his croissant, me adding sugar, Scott sensing the sweetness and reciprocating. I suck the jam from my thumb and hand over his pastry.
‘Much cooler today,’ Scott comments. And perhaps he wants to pretend also. We’re on holiday, we’re happy and our children are asleep. It feels like a date and I’m tingling. I rip open my own croissant and butter it.
‘I don’t think we should come back here again in summer though. Too hot, don’t you think?’ I rub my lips together, noticing the ease with which I’m speaking. As though we have future plans together, holidays and family trips, and we always talk this way.
‘Autumn and spring are better months. Better surf too.’ He offers a small laugh and I smile. We still haven’t made eye contact yet. Just me busying myself with breakfast and him chewing opposite me.
‘Next time we should take Levi out surfing.’ I finally bite into my pastry. Not that I ever want to come back. But I need to pretend for him. ‘He’d love it with you.’
And it’s then that we meet. My mouth full. I stop chewing. He gulps down his mouthful and wonkily smiles. His eyes are special. I remember the way he used to look at me. On top of me, inside me, staring with a deep intensity that can only be described as love. Imagine if he knows what I’m thinking? Or maybe he does. He blinks away and takes a swig of coffee and I resume chewing.
‘Would you come too?’ he says, eyes down at his plate. He presses his finger into the crumbs to collect them and my stomach swells with a deep breath.
‘Of course.’ I nod, trying not to tremble. I quickly glance once more at Scott and he’s looking at me.
‘Mumma,’ a little voice mumbles behind. It’s Coco, cuddling her teddy, hair blonde, ruffled and soft. Her cheeks are pink and creased. She’s had a beautiful sleep. I move my chair to allow her on to my lap. Her bottom’s squishy and padded as she wriggles to get comfortable.
‘Good morning, my beauty.’ I sniff her neck and she holds me.
‘You had a peaceful sleep, didn’t you, Cocs?’ Scott stands and kisses her head. ‘I’m glad someone did.’ I feel his hand nudging my shoulder and I smile to myself. ‘I better go and check on Kav.’
I nod, kissing Coco’s warm cheek. ‘I’ll be over shortly.’
‘No rush,’ he says, collecting his coffee and his hat off the couch. ‘Enjoy the breakfast.’
A gushing warmth spreads into the room like the first sight of sun after a long, dreary winter. No rush, he says. No rush. Accommodating me. Just like before. There’s a fondness in his tone, a mellow lightness. It’s not perfect and it’s not like before – a kiss to the lips, hard and meaningful, a safety of knowing I love you and you love me – but it’s a drop of renewable friendship. A connection. A moment I can never let go to waste. I now have more riding on finding Edmund than ever.
Penny, 6.45 a.m.
A blanket of darkness covers me and I don’t know how to crawl out. Their voices are out there, timid and cautious as though they’ll wake the bear if she notices them. They’re burning toast and there’s the bitterness of coffee. Toasted dough. One of the greatest aromas. They aren’t disturbing me. There’s coffee to be drunk, toast to be spread, showers to be had. Outside, the golden sun is rising over the mainland, spreading buttery skies over the island. Rottnest Island will live on. Minute by minute. Coffee by coffee. Hour by hour. It doesn’t matter what’s happened to Edmund.
Tourists will appear concerned, gathering by the general store and lining in front of cafés. A missing boy, they’ll recount to other concerned holidaymakers. A widespread search. And they will discuss theories of kidnapping, possible parental abuse, and promise to search once they’ve ordered their long macchiatos and bagels. Then they’ll find a sunny spot at the top of the town, where they will spread open their newspapers, cross their legs and enjoy their breakfast with the picture-postcard water views. They’re not allowed to leave. They’ll make the most of their extended holidays. They’ll phone their bosses and families and pretend to care that they can’t leave the island. The police told us. And then they’ll resume flicking through the paper, glancing up every now and then as a group in bright orange suits walk past with the capital letters SES emblazoned across their backs. They’ll mutter to their partners, They must be here for the search. And then they’ll resume chewing their bagels, eyes zigzagging across the front pages.
I know how people act. Humans can be the most selfish creatures. I’ve seen it before and witnessed it first-hand. Concern followed by disregard. I bet most of our guests are pissed off and wanting to leave. They’ll be jealous of the other islanders here, the ones who don’t know us and therefore don’t have to search. The ones who are waking to a gorgeous summer morning, meandering on bikes, planning their days.
My eyelids are heavy and swollen. The pillow’s wet. Emptiness quickly leads to exhaustion. I’ve found myself bonded to the mattress, unable to open my eyes. It’s better to sleep it all away, anyway. Better not to replay every detail of what I was doing while my son had gone missing. Scott on the sand, washing glasses, welcoming guests, being the perfect host that I am. I scrunch the sheet into my fist and a few tears slip down into my ear.
I only need an hour. When Georgia knocked on the door, asking if I’d like a tea, peppermint or lemon, ginger or chamomile, I squinted through the darkness. The living area light blinded me. The yellow walls were too bright.
‘Nothing,’ I said and waited for her to close the door again. ‘Just an hour.’
But I know it’ll be longer. I don’t think I’ll be leaving this room. This is what will worry Kav and Georgia most. This missing son is the link to my broken past.
Eloise, 7.15 a.m.
Rosie has texted me Nico’s latest message: Tick Fucking Tock. 19 hours
And receiving it makes my cheeks heat with anger. She needs to delete this message and stop sending me more. No links to me, no links to her, no links to Nico. But I don’t know whether she’s following my orders and that dangerous photo taunts my memory. If she has these messages and that photo, then I’m more fucked than ever.
Coco’s hair detangles as I collect it in my fingers and brush it down her back. This simple routine steadies me for a moment, counteracting the anxiety over the tremendous act I have to perform. Ever since Rosie came to our door last night, pulling me into her mess, I’ve gone through rushes of adrenaline, crippling fear, to this – a block on emotions. I think it’s the only way the mind can cope with trauma.
Right now, I only have to focus on the wisp of hair, the silken ends, the brush dragging lines through her damp, strawberry-scented locks. Coco has been fed and washed, thankfully oblivious to the horror of the night. She’s just wanting to get on with her holiday here. Bike rides, sandcastles, swims. And Levi sleeps in until ten thirty most mornings, so I don’t have to worry about entertaining him for now. Scott and I have agreed to me keeping the kids here and away from the search. I can’t very well go off tracking the salt lakes with Coco complaining in the buggy. I don’t think Kav or Penny would expect me to either. Which is good. It means I can stay near the villa, walk the beach, snap photos of boats and eliminate the ones with usual activity. Across the road at 213, Rosie will be doing the same.
Scott comes inside with his empty coffee cup, cap shading his face, and shakes his head. Penny’s stuck in bed and won’t leave the villa.
‘She’s having some sort of breakdown,’ he says. ‘Kav’s really worried about her.’
I frown, finishing Coco’s pigtails. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Not that she’d want me anywhere near her after last night’s confrontation.
‘Apparently, she just wants to be left alone.’ He clears his throat and waits for Coco to wriggle off into the bedroom. Then he whispers, ‘In the meantime, the police are starting to question guests about where we were when Edmund went missing. Are you good to stay here with the kids while Kav and I go?’
I nod. I anticipated the questioning, but it scares me. Means they’re indeed starting to suspect abduction. ‘Sure. Have the police found anything yet?’
‘The dogs have,’ he says. I lick my lips and pick at a grape. What if they’re closer to finding Edmund than Rosie and me are? I crunch into the grape, accidentally biting my tongue. ‘Apparently, they’ve discovered a strong scent down by the beach.’
Good. That makes the most sense to me. Nico would have put Edmund on his dinghy and taken him out to the boat.
‘But because the kids were down there in the afternoon playing, it’s likely his scent will be everywhere along here,’ Scott adds. ‘And they’re saying that he may’ve walked to the cliffs and fallen. So, they’ve got divers going down to search the reef.’
I wince. ‘I hope not. But what about his biological parents?’
Scott’s brows pull together and he adjusts his cap. ‘They’ve been found.’
Part of me wishes they weren’t. At least having the spotlight on them for a while meant Rosie and I could go about planning without scrutiny.
‘What about a boat?’ I ask Scott. ‘What if someone took him before we knew he was gone?’
‘That’s what I asked Kav. He said the yacht clubs back on the mainland have been contacted with their CCTV footage being checked. But he doesn’t understand why someone would go inside the villa while the rest of the kids are playing and take Edmund.’
That’s the missing piece that has them all believing Edmund rode out alone. And he did. But with Rosie’s permission and money to buy an ice cream. How can no other person on the island have seen him walking off alone at 8 p.m.? How can no one have spotted Nico taking him?
‘So, what’s Kav thinking?’ I ask, reaching for another grape. ‘Edmund’s lost?’
Scott mimics my actions and snaps a grape from the bunch. ‘Kav said he’s the type to do this. Wander off and not think about the repercussions.’
We’re talking like before. Before Levi, that was the best part of the day. Me up at the kitchen bench, wine glass in hand, Scott flipping vegetables in a heavy copper pan, our favourite music softly serenading us, garlic and soy and ginger infusing our new home and the daily gossip rattling off our tongues. I’m determined to change it, to fill him in, to include him in my daily life.
‘But how far can a kid ride?’ I’m asking questions as though I don’t know what’s happened to poor Edmund, and perhaps it helps me to stay sane. If I remember I’m involved, I want to vomit. 19 hours. Scott shrugs, crunching on the grape, and a group of bikes roll up outside our villa. The rest of the guests have arrived to search and soon we’ll all be called in to be interrogated. Coco is on the floor, dressing her baby doll and mumbling incoherently. I hear her say Mumma, which grips and twists my gut. I cannot lose her. Scott steps out again and the sun disappears. And I cannot lose him.
It feels shameful to be down here on the sun-streaked sand with Coco beside me, digging with her ladybird spades and buckets. Sand flicks over my thigh and I brush it off. Her little sunhat is a gleaming daisy and Coco squints into the brightness and finally asks, ‘Where Edmund?’
‘Good question, little one,’ I say, snapping twenty or so photographs of the boats in front of me. I hover the lens over the turquoise water to the boats further out. The bay is flat like ice today. Zooming my camera lens in, I thank the latest version of my phone, allowing me to view and capture the names, the faces, the colours a naked eye wouldn’t be able to distinguish. Small yacht with orange stripes has a man in underwear taking a piss off the side. He’s older. Not Nico. Streamlined white catamaran hasn’t had anyone outside yet. I make a note in my phone to check on it later. A boat called Lucky has two lovers eating breakfast, so I can swipe that one from my photo album. And it continues like this, a process of elimination, until I’m left with fifteen inactive boats who haven’t yet presented their occupants. Sleeping? Morning sex? Breakfast inside? Or hiding a young child? Rosie, who’s up behind me on the balcony with a bowl of cereal, is also keeping track.
‘Look, Mumma,’ Coco says, pointing to the sandcastle I built for her. It’s decorated with shells, bits of seaweed and spinifex grass. Coco kicks it with her chubby foot and giggles.
But her giggling isn’t distracting me. My phone pans across to the cliffs. A few divers bob on the surface of the ocean like seals. They’re wasting their time and resources and I quickly look away.
Coco waddles off to the water’s edge, where she collects a bucket. ‘Look, Mumma.’
‘I know, sweetheart. Clever girl.’
I zoom on to a boat further out.
‘I want Edmund,’ she calls from the water.
The boat has a black shade over the back. It must be quite old. A build-up of rust and barnacles spreads over the hull like a disease. This owner isn’t boat-proud or concerned about its appearance, which is rare. I can’t catch the name, with the wind direction pushing the boat towards me, and I haven’t seen anyone on it. For some reason, I have a funny vibe. Most of the boats moored here are well maintained. This one is not. Why? Do its occupants only use it for quick trips, fishing? It doesn’t look like a fishing boat. It’d be about forty-five feet long, but the black covering conceals the back of it. Why? Most boats are open, allowing in the sea breeze, sunshine and views. I snap a picture and lower my phone into my lap. I don’t know why, but I feel like this one is a possibility. Far left of the bay. Behind the large yacht. Looks a tad dodgy. We’ll have to swim out later. Night-time is best, when he least expects it. I don’t know how Rosie will feel about swimming out at night, but it’s the only way we can do it without getting caught.
Glancing up at the balcony where Rosie sits, I know that inside Penny is suffering. I can’t even imagine how this must feel for her. That’s why we have to get him back. For her, Rosie, and most of all, for me.
Penny, 9.38 a.m.
Most of the guests have been questioned by police and I’m starting to lose hope. CCTV of the general store frontage, the shops around the village and pub show nothing but sandy, salty tourists. No Edmund coming, no Edmund going. It means Edmund’s probably wandered to the north side of the island. But according to Georgia, who keeps texting with news, the dogs didn’t strain on their leads in that direction. There are fewer bays with villas on the north side, more scrubland, more dangers such as higher cliffs and choppy seas with a strong current. The helicopter hasn’t found anything and after hours of scouring the island, the bays, the reefs, the water, it whirs back to the mainland to refuel. I’ve been slipping in and out of restless sleep, freezing with shock one minute and boiling with hot sweats the next. I’ve kicked off the bed sheets and replaced my soaking pillow.
Kav asked the police not to interview me yet. I’m too fragile, apparently. More than twelve hours since Edmund was found to be missing and I’m allowed to be fragile. It’s not looking good. Yacht club and boat ramp CCTVs along the mainland coast are being scrutinised for any sign of Edmund. That can only suggest one thing. Abduction. Here. On this quaint island.
I bunch the blankets into my fist and haul them back over me. The ferry remains stranded on the edge of the rocky jetty. No one is leaving until Edmund is found. At least, until a trace of him is discovered. I squeeze my eyes and let out a moan. A trace. DNA. They’ve even checked out our home. Why? Do they think we have something to do with this?
Another helicopter’s been hovering around too, the throbbing whine of it circling the bay, rattling the windows. Media. Hanging above us, reporting on my missing son. I pull the blankets over my head. I’ve been offered painkillers, sleeping tablets. I’ve received a knock on my door, an unfamiliar voice of an English woman calling me Miss. She’s the island nurse, coming to check on me. I’ve told them all to go away. Water gets left outside the door, a plate of toast, a cold coffee. I want nothing. I only want Edmund. And then . . .
‘Mum.’ A voice, so distant it doesn’t sound real. ‘It’s Rosie.’
Three tears trickle into the groove of my right eye. The neglected daughter. I can’t bear this pain. She calls me again and her voice is diminished, young, riddled with a tone of guilt that leaves her words shaky, defensive, always wary.
‘Come in.’ I almost don’t recognise my voice, deep and hoarse from crying. The door widens and a shaft of light blinds me. I squeeze my lids shut and she apologises. ‘Don’t,’ I say. I’ve encouraged this ongoing apologetic nature in her. And now I don’t want it. She makes me realise how much of a failure I am. How much a mother can screw up a child.
‘Can I make you a tea?’
I lick my rough lips and blink my eyes open. She’s shut the door and I can barely see her now. Only the outline of Rosie. But I wish I could see her. Once she was four and the love of my life. Where have all those in-between years gone? Our connection has dwindled, reduced to animosity, regret and guilt. We’ve been drenched in an oily substance where love can’t stick.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Mum,’ she says again.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t,’ I repeat.
‘I’m sorry for Edmund.’ I hear her voice cracking and I feel my body tense with control. If I let this come, this abundant grief, I’ll never get over it. I’ve been keeping it locked inside and yes, every now and then it presents itself to me. But I’m good at sticking the broken parts back together and wrapping it tightly. This is one thing I’m good at. But Edmund missing, this reoccurring nightmare of losing a child, is setting me back, and I can no longer be perfect or pretend to be. I’ve given up and given in. I don’t care who sees.
