The Vanishing Moment Read online

  This is Mrs Jackson. Maureen. Auntie Mo. The sharp, beaky nose; the raspy voice; those words, My lovely boy.

  And the child Jason is Jasper. Yes. Yes. He looks exactly like Marika’s drawings.

  At any moment Mrs Jackson may remember the little white-haired girl who played with her children. Arrow curses her hair. It’s so distinctive. Why couldn’t she have been wearing a hat?

  She could run. Sprint up the path. Yell at the old couple in the garden to phone the police. Where is the nearest police station? Berry? Kiama? It would take the cops twenty minutes, half an hour to get here.

  By then Mrs Jackson would’ve long gone, taking the boy with her.

  With a chill, she remembers that she told Jason her name. Mrs Jackson would certainly remember that. The boy would be a liability to her now. What would she do to him?

  She thinks of the knives in the tackle box, of the thin, flexible blades slicing through fish, through flesh. After what seems like an eternity, she crouches next to Jason.

  She has to make sure.

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ she says. ‘My real name is Alyssa.’

  He peeps at her through thick, dark lashes. ‘My real name’s Jasper,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t tell Auntie Mo I told you, or she’ll growl.’

  Arrow shudders.

  ‘I won’t,’ she promises.

  She picks up a handful of shells, tiny as beads, lets them spill through her fingers. She has to think quickly. Make a decision. Make the right decision. How do you get little kids to do what you want? Make it a game. Make it fun.

  She smiles at him, trying to appear confident and cheerful. ‘You’ve got such long, strong legs. I bet you can run fast.’

  The boy beams. ‘Very, very, very fast!’

  ‘Faster than me? Come on, I’ll race you to the top of the path.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He scrambles up, reaches for the bucket.

  ‘Leave that. It’ll make you too slow. We’ll come back for it.’

  Arrow looks over her shoulder.

  Mrs Jackson is staring at them. Standing up. Dropping the fishing rod.

  Arrow grabs Jasper’s hand. It’s sticky and sandy.

  ‘Ready, steady, go!’

  They run.

  Shoes sinking in thick layers of crumbly shells.

  Over two black, bumpy rocks. Over some rusty piping. What’s that doing here?

  Sprint to the bottom of the track with its hollowed-out footholds, tufty grass.

  Up the track. Up. Up.

  Avoid brown roots, knotty as old shoelaces.

  Hope not to slide on pebbles smooth and treacherous. He’s doing his best, but he’s not fast enough. If she was bigger and stronger, she could just pick him up and carry him to safety.

  Nearly at the crest of the hill. Nearly. Nearly. All around is blue sky. Bright and clear. Achingly beautiful.

  With a little cry, Jasper stumbles. She pulls him up, glancing over her shoulder.

  Mrs Jackson is pounding towards them, knife raised.

  Arrow’s screaming now, shouting at the couple in the garden to help.

  The old woman is frozen, her hands up to her face, but the man runs forward, wielding a spade like a spear.

  Mrs Jackson is nearly here. Arrow can hear her panting, the breaths fierce.

  Arrow falls, tucking Jasper under her. As her body wraps around him, she feels the knife strike her back. At first there’s no pain, just a dull thudding shock. She gasps. But she will not let go of Jasper.

  30. MARIKA

  The magnolia trees are flowering – pink, deep purple, creamy yellow. The blooms are exotic globes. Most spectacular are the ivory white blossoms etched against the cloudless blue sky. As Marika strolls under the trees, breathing in their fragrance, she fingers a less showy, but still pretty flower, a fuchsia. Shaped like teardrops, the four red petals hang down, and only when she lifts up the stalk does she see the flower’s hidden secret – a set of tiny purple petals clustered in the centre. It makes her think of Arrow – all that potential that had been waiting to be discovered.

  Steve is sitting on a bench nearby, his eyes closed, his face raised to the sun. He sighs, gets up heavily, and takes her arm. ‘Shall we go in?’

  They walk in silence along the path to the Magnolia Chapel, which is situated in vast peaceful grounds in Sydney’s north. Signing the attendance book by the door is Mr Jackson, saggy and wrinkled in an ill-fitting suit. With him is Bob. Without Frankie by his side, he seems incomplete and lost.

  ‘It’s good you could come,’ Marika says to him.

  ‘I liked her. She reminded me a bit of my sister.’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘It was in another life,’ he says, his face sombre.

  Ah. Interchange. ‘Let’s sit together,’ Marika says.

  The chapel is beginning to fill up with a lot of young people, their arms around each other. Marika glimpses Arrow’s parents making their way to the front, and sees a sorrowful old man wheeling a red aluminium walker up the aisle. That must be Mr Watts. Arrow had told her how he was the one person who didn’t think she was just hopelessly lazy.

  The newspapers have been full of the details of the murder, describing how the old man had to beat Mrs Jackson off with a spade. And how she howled, ran down the path, across the sands to the rocks and threw herself straight into the sea.

  Her body was found days later, snagged under a rock shelf further down the coast. Who will be at her funeral? Marika wonders. Who will grieve for her?

  Details, too, are beginning to emerge about Mrs Jackson’s life in a modest bungalow in a small town south of Shelley Beach. On TV, a neighbour says, ‘She was good-hearted. She took her little nephew in when his parents were killed in a terrible car crash in Coffs Harbour. Poor little boy – I sometimes heard him crying for his mummy and his daddy.’ Another neighbour says, ‘She was a polite woman. Quiet, kept to herself, but nice, really nice.’

  So nice, Marika thinks, that she stabbed Arrow seven times in the back and sides. Arrow had sheltered Jasper, kept him safe, given him back to them. To her mother, to Steve, to her. When she heard of Jasper’s rescue, she’d felt like one of Chagall’s flying people, floating with joy and happiness. But her joy is tempered with grief and rage at the unfairness of it all.

  She’s swamped with sadness now as the service begins: prayers, music, tributes and reminiscences from family members and friends.

  Marika hears Steve groaning when Arrow’s father recites a couple of lines from King Lear on the death of his daughter:

  ‘Thou’lt come no more,

  Never, never, never, never, never!’

  The words are so sad, so final. Arrow’s mother flings her head back, exposing her throat, as if she’s wishing it to be cut.

  Steve has asked for permission to speak, and he talks about Arrow’s courage and his family’s gratitude.

  ‘She returned our son to us. We will never forget her.’

  Bach’s ‘Ode to Joy’ washes through the chapel as an enormous screen shows photographs of Arrow from child to teenager – she’s doing cartwheels on the beach, she’s chasing her laughing mother with a piece of slimy seaweed, or burying her father in sand. In others she’s larking around with three children. Fergus, Rose and Daisy, Marika guesses. The pictures are so funny and endearing that Marika feels the tension drain out of her. Other people, too, are smiling, even laughing a little as they wipe their eyes.

  Afterwards, friends and relatives mill around under the magnolia trees, waiting to pay their respects to the family. Behind them is a clump of frangipani trees, their bare stumpy limbs reaching up the sky, as if in supplication.

  Marika walks a little way with Mr Jackson and Bob. They are driving straight back to the coast.

  ‘If I hadn’t rented her the house, this might never have happened,’ Mr Jackson mourns.

  And then we might never have got Jasper back, Marika thinks. She hugs Bob. ‘Look after yourself. By the way, where’s F
rankie?’

  ‘He’s staying with Sheree for the day.’ He looks gloomy. ‘I think she’s got her eye on me.’

  Marika grins at him. ‘Poor Bob. By the way, Arrow’s father told me that she’s going to be buried on the hill, next to Fergus and the girls. Perhaps we can visit her grave together?’

  ‘Let’s all go,’ says Mr Jackson with an effort. ‘I’ll bring Miko and the baby. We’ll celebrate her. We’ll drink a toast to that brave girl’s life.’

  He fumbles in his pocket and brings out a pair of pink bunny ears. ‘I retrieved this from the house. I didn’t think Arrow’s parents would mind.’ He holds it out to Marika. ‘Would you like it? It belonged to Rose, and it was very special to Arrow.’

  Marika fingers the soft fluffiness. ‘Thank you. Yes, I’d like to have it. Very much.’

  When Marika and Steve get home, Jasper is asleep, his cheeks flushed. Her mother is pale with exhaustion.

  ‘He’s screamed and cried for hours. He doesn’t want me, he only wants his dad.’

  Steve puts his arms around her. ‘It’ll get better, love, just wait and see.’

  ‘Will it?’ Marika’s mother wants to be comforted, but Marika can tell she doesn’t really believe it will change.

  It’s true that Jasper only wants his dad. His clings to Steve like a koala. Only Steve can bath him, feed him, read him a story, put him to bed.

  And he won’t sleep in his own bed. He sleeps in his parents’ king-sized bed, his arms and legs spread out like a starfish so that there’s no room for his mother. If she tries to squeeze in, he kicks and hits her until she gives up and retreats to the sofa.

  ‘He doesn’t trust me,’ Marika’s mother says.

  ‘Or me,’ says Marika. She tries playing with him, enticing him with noisy, rough-and-tumble games. She persuades him into playing his favourite game – hiding under bed and tables, behind the curtains, around a corner. But when she catches him and pretends to smack him – something he used to revel in – he screams and screams and won’t stop.

  Once, at breakfast, when he’s dipping fingers of toast into his boiled egg, he looks around and says, ‘Where’s Auntie Mo?’

  They have been careful not to question him too much; they want him to raise things if he needs to.

  ‘Did you like Auntie Mo?’ Steve asks, his voice gentle.

  ‘Sometimes. She drew faces on my egg. She’s a good drawer.’

  ‘I’m a good drawer, too,’ says Marika. ‘Shall I show you?’

  Jasper nods, so Marika draws a smiley face with naughty eyes and sticking-up hair.

  ‘That’s you,’ she says.

  ‘Me,’ he says. He picks up his teaspoon and cheerfully batters the shell to smithereens.

  For the time being, Jasper is not going to Day Care, and Marika hasn’t yet summoned the courage to offer to take him out. When her mother needs a break, she lets Jasper play in her studio, making little animals out of clay while she immerses herself in books of paintings.

  ‘Marika,’ he wails now, ‘my piggy’s tail’s fallen off!’

  ‘Easily fixed,’ she says, and shows him how. ‘I like the way you’ve made each pig different.’

  ‘Say the rhyme,’ he orders.

  ‘Let’s say it together.’ And they recite:

  ‘This little piggy went to market,

  This little piggy stayed at home,

  This little piggy had roast beef,

  This little piggy had none,

  And this little piggy went wee, wee, wee,

  all the way home.’

  When Jasper’s stopped shouting with laughter at the word ‘wee’, Marika asks, ‘Which one do you like best?’

  ‘This one,’ he says, curling his hand around the piggy that went home.

  Later, Marika goes back to her books of paintings. At the moment she’s besotted with one of Paul Gauguin’s later works, a massive painting of vivid colours and thick brushstrokes. In the corner of the canvas are three questions: Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going? These questions are going to inform her sculptures from now on.

  She’s working again on Echo. She adds a head to the torso, the nape of the neck tender and defenceless. The head is smooth, featureless. Where the eyes should be there are just holes so that the viewer can peer into the darkness; into the mystery of existence.

  One night, before she goes to bed, she checks her emails. At long last, there’s one from her dad. It’s a sweet message, saying how relieved and happy they all are that Jasper is safe and well. He asks, too, about her artwork, and says he wants to catch up with her soon when he comes to Sydney on business.

  She doesn’t reply. She will, but not yet. She cares about her father, but she no longer feels she has to please him. With a feeling of freedom, she deletes the vicious little story she’d written about the crocodile-girl.

  One day she might do a sculpture of the girl, but it will be crafted out of love and empathy, not revenge.

  She switches off her computer, tries to sleep. She feels she should have talked to Arrow’s parents about Interchange. If Bob is right, another Arrow might well be alive and happy in a different universe. But how would that help her parents? Their Arrow is dead. She’ll come no more. Never, never, never, never, never!

  31. BOB

  This is now:

  When he gets back in the late afternoon, Frankie is stretched out, dozing at Sheree’s feet. She’s hunched, frowning, over a pile of books at her kitchen table.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Sad.’ He picks up one of the books: 2 Unit Maths for Years 11 and 12. He raises an eyebrow.

  She shrugs. ‘You didn’t think I was going to stay a waitress for the rest of my life, did you?’

  He tickles Frankie with the toe of his shoe. ‘Come on, old feller, time to go home.’

  The dog stirs reluctantly and clambers to his feet. He licks Sheree’s hand.

  ‘Thanks for looking after him on your day off,’ Bob says.

  ‘Anytime. And, in return, perhaps you could explain probability theory to me?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Thanks, Roberto.’

  Her smile is so genuine, so without affectation, that he finds himself smiling back.

  As he and Frankie walk slowly home, he thinks back to the funeral. The boy is found, but Arrow is dead. Is the other Bob alive and safe? Did he find work, somewhere to live, someone to love? Someone to love him? The other Bob will also be remembering everything.

  He has stolen that Bob’s life. He feels guilt, but, if he is honest, not regret.

  The boy is found, but Arrow is dead. In another world, is she alive, well? He prays it is so.

  32. ARROW

  Arrow yawns, just her cold nose poking out of the doona. From the kitchen she can hear the clatter of dishes, smell coffee and toast. The sea is roaring. It’ll be windy on the beach, the sand stinging. Just as well they’d decided to go to a restaurant for Rose’s birthday rather than have a winter picnic.

  Her mother knocks on the door.

  ‘It’s nearly twelve. Better get a move on.’

  Arrow hops out of bed, showers and dresses.

  Her mother is lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. She’s not wearing her woolly cap. Her hair is growing back, soft and fluffy as a dandelion. Arrow’s heart contracts. Her big, comfy mother is shrinking. Soon she’ll be as gawky as me, she thinks.

  Arrow kisses the top of her head.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘At the university, packing up. He’s going to miss his students.’

  Arrow’s father is a lecturer of philosophy at Wollongong University, but his department is closing down. These days students are far more interested in studying law or communications.

  ‘Will you be all right while I’m gone?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry. And give Rose my love.’

  Arrow squeezes carefully onto the sofa next to her. She can feel her mother’s bones, sharp and fragile.r />
  ‘Mum, thanks for letting me have this year off.’

  Her mother pats her hand. ‘Have you decided yet what you want to do?’

  ‘I think so. Something to do with psychology.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense. You’ve had a lot to wrestle with, what with me and Mrs Jackson.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m trying to understand myself better. But I’ve seen how Mrs Jackson struggles. It takes real courage for her just to get out of bed in the morning.’

  ‘Poor woman.’

  Neither of them say what they are thinking: And poor Mr Jackson, poor Fergus and Daisy and Rose.

  ‘They love her, you know,’ Arrow says.

  And they do. On her bad days, as well as her good days.

  Arrow’s mother sighs. ‘It was so fortunate that you told me years ago – do you remember? – that she left the children alone at night and that they were scared of her.’

  ‘I felt bad at the time, dobbing her in. Fergus was furious with me.’

  ‘If you hadn’t, who knows what might have happened…’

  Arrow gives herself a little shake. She doesn’t want to think about it.

  Her mother glances at the clock. ‘You should be off. They’ll be waiting for you.’

  Arrow inches off the sofa, but, still, her mother winces.

  ‘I’ll bring you back a slice of cake. Chocolate mud cake. Rose’s favourite.’

  Her mother shuts her eyes. Arrow tucks the blanket around her, makes sure she’s got a glass of water and the telephone in reach.

  ‘Love you, Mum.’

  But already she’s asleep.

  Mrs Jackson is sitting on a milk crate in the front garden, basking in a patch of sun. She’s still in her dressing-gown, but her hair is combed and she’s wearing a touch of make-up on her eyes and lips.

  She pats her stomach, groans. ‘We had an enormous birthday breakfast – bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms. Don’t know how you lot are going to manage lunch as well.’

  ‘We’ll do our best. Fergus has got hollow bones, as you know.’

  ‘Greedy thing.’ Mrs Jackson shakes her head in mock despair.

  The screen door bangs open: Fergus, Rose and Daisy all fighting to be out first.