The Game You Played (26 page)

He took three sips of his wine before answering. “I’ll concede that point.”

“Just like that? You concede my point? No argument?”

“Sometimes, you’re better off not entering an argument.”

“I want an argument.” I surprised myself. I never had conversations like this with Luke. Luke had little interest in talk that didn’t involve money and real estate. With Flynn, I used to stay up debating him until three in the morning, drunk on cocktails and concepts. I missed that like crazy.

“You. I like you.” Dash winked, drumming on the table with the fingers of one hand. “Okay, I’d argue that what attracted the farmer to his farm girl wife in the first place was her softness and beauty.”

“But concepts of beauty change, and they’re different from culture to culture. A Rubenesque woman used to be thought of as sublime. Or a tribal woman with six rings around her neck.”

“But it’s all still thought of as feminine.”

“What is
feminine a
nd what is
beauty
, if it can change so much?”

“You’re destroying my argument, girl.”

“Then my mission is complete.”

He smiled, gulping the rest of his wine. “I’ll give you something for free. I’ve been thinking of giving up the seminar circuit.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You do this a lot? The seminars?”

“It’s practically all I do. I think I’ve got burnout. And maybe I don’t believe everything my colleagues do. Maybe I’m just waiting for something to send me in a different direction.” He paused. “Or someone.”

I exhaled, downing the rest of my glass of wine, too. Trying to avoid his sudden intense stare.

“So, are you,” he said, “looking for a change?”

“My life is very . . . complicated.”

“Ah, the
complicated
word. Sounds legit.”

“I’m not just saying that.”

I heard him sigh under his breath. Eyeing me directly, he shot me a dry grin. “Let me guess the trajectory of your life.”

“Uh, okay.”

“You’re about thirty—”

“Close.”
Not yet. God, but close. Too close. Next year. I used to look young for my age. What happened?

“You did an arts degree in college, and you took a year or two off after that to travel. The usual tourist haunts, but places that are far enough off the beaten track to claim you went the road less travelled and have the photos look sufficiently quirky on Instagram. Then you pottered around the hipster crowd for years—acting in amateur theatre and maybe some slam poetry. You dated the men who excited you. Invariably, they disappointed you. Then you blundered into writing. But you’ll probably get bored with that sooner or later. You’ll decide at age thirty-two that what you need is to marry and pump out a couple of kids. You’ll take a year or two to find a man with assets and resources and pin him down. When the brats are old enough, you’ll enter the corporate world, and in your downtime, post sage and lyrical memes on Facebook.” A broad but cynical smile spread across his face. “How am I doing?”

I tried to conquer the tight feeling in my jaw and throat. I had to sit here pretending to have never had a child. His analysis was missing the sudden and unexpected injection of Luke when I was twenty-six. “Sounds like a feminist wet dream. Sign me up.”

He laughed.

We talked on for another half hour. I took more notes—enough to look convincing.

Moments of awkwardness followed the end of the interview. We’d had dinner, and I’d asked my questions. It was time to leave.

Dash had his eyes on me. “So, what happens now? You choose.”

“Uh, isn’t this where we shake hands and go our separate ways, each of us richer for the experience?”

“Hmmm. What if—
just say
—this was a date? Then what would happen?”

I thought for a moment. “I guess we’d have some after-dinner drinks in a quiet bar and have a bit of aimless chat. And then you’d ask me back to your hotel room, and I’d politely turn you down, and then after a weird silence we’d both regret the whole night, and I’d go home, and you to your hotel, and we’d each watch some unsatisfying movie and fall asleep before it ended . . .”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting prediction. And hey, you’ve got tickets on yourself, imagining that I’d ask you back to my room.”

“So, you wouldn’t?” Despite everything, I was enjoying bantering with Dash. It reminded me of the person I was years ago.

“I don’t know. Let’s try it. We’ll see what happens.” He half-winked.

“Unfortunately, I have to go. I enjoyed tonight.”

“Maybe we can try this again? As a date.”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

His eyes became completely serious for perhaps the first time tonight. “Can I ask why? Do you have a husband? A kid?”

I was about to lie and answer
no
when I realised that
no
might be the truth. I didn’t know for certain whether I had a husband or a child. I existed in a kind of limbo.

“I just . . . want to keep this professional,” I finally answered.

When he nodded, I could see that his earlier cheer was gone.

Saturday night

ZIPPING MY JACKET UP TO MY neck, I paid the cab and jumped out in a quiet street near the Southern Sails Café.

The salty punch of the harbour swept past my face in a dark breeze. I ran into a quiet alley, pulling the cap over my head and tucking my hair in. Next, I wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck and up to my mouth then put on my thin hooded raincoat. It would be difficult for anyone to recognise me now.

I slipped the sheathed knife into the pocket of my jacket.

Now I was ready.

Had Dash gone straight back to his hotel room, or had he gone to a bar by himself? I guessed he hadn’t gone back to his room—he had too much wiry energy. I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself at dinner with him, but I had. More than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t right to enjoy myself while Tommy was still missing. I had to focus.

I began walking up a block that ran parallel to my own block. Kate, and a few of the neighbours, had said they usually saw the man between nine and midnight. If I didn’t spot him, I’d have to steal inside number 29. And wait.

That house had featured in my nightmares for years. And now the nightmares were back.

A rush of fear pricked the back of my legs.

I made my way around four blocks in my neighbourhood. I’d seen joggers and lone men and families bustling from their cars into their houses—trying to avoid the cold—but I hadn’t seen the man. I knew his body shape and his walk. I knew the intense feeling I’d had last time I’d seen him.

I could hide myself in a neighbour’s yard and wait and see if I could spot him. But if anyone saw me, they’d call the police. I could hide in Luke’s parents’ yard, if not for the fact that it was so damned neat, with its low, two-foot-high hedges and rows of flowers. No trees or overgrown shrubs to conceal myself behind.

There was nothing else to do but to steal inside number 29.

I rounded the corner and stepped past the houses where Kate and Pria lived. Then on past my own house and Luke’s parents’ house.

Bringing my arms in close to my chest, I hurried in through the gate and along the path of number 29.

I unlocked the door and replaced the key exactly in the same place under the mat. Once inside, I locked the door behind me.

The house was dead dark. I could see nothing.

Immediately, I wanted to run out again. Flee.

Any sane person would.

The room felt so cold. Colder than the street.

I had to force myself to stay here. In the darkness, with the odours of age and mildew and death in the air. Maybe I imagined I could smell death, but it was as much a part of this house as the wood and the walls and the vintage furniture.

I found my way to the sofa, almost jumping out of my skin at the feel of a cold arm. I sucked in a quick breath. The arm belonged to the store dummy. Of course it did. I’d put the dummy here, so long ago.

Don’t be scared of this house, Phoebe. You and Sass, Kate, Pria, and Luke made it what it is. Bernice too. Whatever it is, you all created it.

Positioning myself behind the sofa, I knelt where I could see over the dummy’s arm.

Minutes passed, measured in breaths and heartbeats.

Then came the sound of a key at the front door.

I held my breath.

A figure entered, but I could barely see their outline.

A dim light flashed on. Some kind of LED lamp that gave off a white glow.

I could see him. The man.

He carried a garbage bag in his hand—filled with bulky things.

The floorboards creaked underfoot as he crossed to the stairs. He glanced back over his broad shoulder towards the living room. And stopped.

I edged back.

What was he looking at?

From the corner of my eye I looked down at the floor. My body was casting a faint shadow. And I made that shadow move when I’d pulled myself back.

My fingers felt weak as they found their way into my pocket and unsheathed the knife.

What was he doing now?

Slowly stealing over towards me?

Waiting for me to show myself?

Did he have a knife, too?

I suppressed a scream as I heard his footsteps rushing my way.

He stopped suddenly and then walked in the opposite direction.

The door slammed.

He’d gone?

Or had he just pretended to leave, to make me come running out?

With panting breaths, I crawled to the window and peered out.

The man was walking away. Fast.

I had to follow him—the man who had just terrified me.

Shoving the knife back into my pocket, I ran out after him.

The street was already empty. I craned my head, scanning the street both ways.

Not knowing which way he’d gone, I decided to head down the hill. Breaking into a run, I reached the docks within a couple of minutes.

A shuffle of footsteps made a muted scraping sound behind me.

I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see one of the homeless men.

There was no one.

I kept walking, sensing that someone was following me, but each time I turned, I couldn’t see anything.

Crouching to the ground, I pretended to adjust my boot. With my head angled down, I raised my eyes and peered along the docks.

A stone dropped in my stomach as a tall shadow slipped behind a Moreton Bay fig tree.

The man I’d been trying to follow was following
me
.

I sprinted to the tree.

“Who are you?
Who are you?
” I demanded, my hand in my pocket, clutching the knife handle.
I have a knife, and I AM afraid to use it.

I circled the tree.

There was no man.

Not even a shadow.

Sunday midday

THE MORNING SUN COMING THROUGH MY bedroom window was warm, as though the coming spring had found a pocket to spill into.

In contrast, Nan’s house felt too dark and enclosed.

Looking for clothes to put on, I picked out tights, a short dress, and a thigh-length jacket. Usually, I just pulled on one of two pairs of jeans. I didn’t know why I’d chosen something different today. This was the kind of gear I used to wear when I lived in London. I hadn’t worn the dress since those days. Maybe the dinner with Dash had woken a dormant part of me and reminded me of my former life.

I headed downstairs. Nan sat watching a morning variety show. Two presenters were discussing funeral plans. Morning television was filled with advertisements for funeral plans and life insurance. The advertisements must seem like a constant reminder for someone nearing eighty, like Nan.

“There’s porridge in the pot,” she told me.

“Thanks. I’m not hungry.”

She shot me a brittle look. “Are you going out again?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d—”

“With the new man?”

“No, Nan. I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Oh? It didn’t go well last night?”

What if I needed to make the excuse of having dinner with him on another night that I wanted to watch number 29?

“It was fun,” I answered. “I just meant we’re not dating. It was just dinner.”

“So, just what sort of thing is it?”

“It’s not a thing.” I exhaled, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’m going out for a walk. Do you need anything?”

“Bring back some bread. Light rye. None of that stuff with seeds in it.”

“Okay. I’ll grab some.”

Stepping outside, I began walking.

I found myself down at The Domain. I walked through the wide pathways of the park. Bright displays of flowers punctuated the expanses of grass.

Parents tugged small children along, the children clutching balloon animals. There must be some kind of event happening.

Jazz music saturated the air. I remembered then seeing a poster for a coming jazz festival.

I used to take Tommy to the outdoor festivals in the city. Didn’t matter what it was. Tommy just enjoyed the music and people and energy. He used to be one of those children nursing a balloon animal.

Tommy’s tiny bare feet had once walked here. He might have walked in the exact spot where I walked now, on his dimply toddler legs. His eyes used to open in round wonder at the sound of the St. Mary’s church bells pealing. He’d danced on the pavers to the tunes of the street buskers in his uncoordinated way—he couldn’t decide whether to clap or to bob up and down or to wiggle his bottom like Beyoncé. So he’d do all three at once.

A couple strolled towards me with an exuberant little boy running alongside them.

Involuntarily, I held my breath.

Tommy’s size.

Hair like Tommy.

Not Tommy.

I averted my eyes like a priest stepping through a bikini parade.

I didn’t want to see any more happy parents and their happy toddlers.

Threading my way through the crowds, I found an out-of-the-way spot on the grass. I sat myself down.

Once I felt strong enough, I’d walk home again. It was stupid coming here, where there were so many people.

I remembered then Luke telling me that Detective Gilroy had been trying to contact me. I took out my phone. There were four missed messages from Trent.

I returned the call.

“Hi, Phoebe,” came Trent’s voice over the phone.

He sounded normal. I was right—there was nothing out of the ordinary that he had to tell me.

“How are you,” he asked, and he sounded like he cared.

“I’m doing well. It’s Sunday again. We seem to be making a habit of these Sunday catch ups.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll be off at a family barbeque later, but I’m just chilling now. So, still no more sleepwalking?”

“No. No sleepwalking.”

“Good to hear.”

He seemed to be lingering on the phone. It began to make me uneasy. If enquiring after my health was all he’d called me for, he should be winding things up now.

“Phoebe, you know that we have a team continuously working on Tommy’s case, right? That process hasn’t stopped since December.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the team has brought something to my attention. A phone call.”

“A phone call?”

“A call that you received. According to our data, it was right at the time Tommy went missing.”

I froze in the silence that followed.

“Phoebe?”

“I don’t know about any call.”

“It’s right there on the printout in my office. I can show it to you on Monday. In the exact space of minutes in which Tommy disappeared, you answered a call. I don’t have any record of a call in your statement to us, but small things are easily overlooked when you’re dealing with traumatic events. There was a woman at the scene who told a reporter that she witnessed you on the phone. We dismissed it back then. Reporters sometimes throw things in that aren’t exactly true, just trying to find a different angle for their story. But, in the end, it checks out.”

“But, didn’t you talk to that woman yourself and she denied it? I don’t remember her name.”

“Elizabeth Farrell. She was the first person to call the police and report that Tommy was missing.”

“The red-haired woman with the baby.”

“Yes, that was her. When we interviewed her back then, she said you and Tommy had been in her view just before she saw you running around looking for him. She didn’t mention that you’d taken a phone call. But after our team checked your phone records, just yesterday, they found the call. I paid a visit to Elizabeth personally, yesterday afternoon. She had a slightly different story.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She told me that the reporter was correct. You had been on the phone. She was distressed, saying that she’d held back telling us that before because she felt sorry for you. She didn’t want you to look like a . . . bad mother. She said the call was super short. That your son shouldn’t have had time to wander off during such a short call.”

“Who was the call from?”

“Well, we were hoping you could tell us that. We’ve been unable to track the call. You only spoke to this person for around a minute.”

“I don’t remember this at all. I didn’t even have my phone—”

“As far as I understand, you lost your phone sometime that day? You told me that’s why you weren’t the one to call us first—because you’d lost your phone?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, you must have lost it sometime after that call. I’d like you to have a think on who it was. It’s probably not important, but we’d like to know.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

When I finished the phone call to Trent, my mind was churning.

I had been on the phone when Tommy disappeared?

God. I’d let myself become distracted by a call?

Who was it?

No one had come forward to say they’d been talking to me that day on the phone. It couldn’t have been Sass or Kate or Pria. Trent said the call was just a minute long. Had it just been a spam call? Some salesperson selling timeshare apartments or life insurance? Even the big banks spammed you. One of those calls could account for the short duration of the conversation and why I’d forgotten it.

Trent said it was probably not important, but why would he call specifically to ask me about it?

Prickles ran along my arms. Could the person on the phone have been the kidnapper?

Were they on the phone to me when they took Tommy, deliberately distracting me?

I gazed up at the canopy of trees.

Think.

I pictured the phone I’d had back then. It had a deep-green, diamond-patterned protective case. And a ring tone that was from David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.”

And then there it was.

A memory.

A memory of me taking my phone out at the park that day. Of me answering a call.

My lungs squeezed down, clogged with dust from the past.

Whose voice was it on the other end of the phone?

Think.

It wouldn’t come to me.

I needed to go back to the beginning of that day.

The sanitised version of the day Tommy vanished began to disintegrate. The picture that I’d painted for the police and the media wasn’t real. Yet, I’d ended up believing it myself.

I remembered the morning, before we left for Nan’s house. I’d drunk two furtive mixer cans of bourbon from a stash I kept in the kitchen cupboard. Luke’s mother had rearranged the cupboards the day before, and it had taken me ten minutes to find the cans. She’d praised me for the way I’d dressed Tommy. Her constant praise was irritating, and I was glad to be going to Nan’s, even though taking a toddler to Nan’s was always a trial.

I remembered walking to Nan’s with Luke and sitting in her living room, watching Tommy trying to conceal the fact that he desperately wanted to touch Nan’s ornaments. And Nan getting cross with him. No, not with him. With
us
. In her eyes, Luke and I were lazy parents.

In my mind, I could see Tommy’s large brown eyes and his tufty blond hair that was so like Luke’s, all his dimply toddler beauty.

A dull ache had started in my head that wasn’t a headache. More like the boom of a drum. A slow, monotonous beat.

We left Nan’s house to take Tommy to the playground.

Luke had lifted Tommy onto his shoulders. “Well, we’ve got the grandma thing out of the way for this week,” he’d said.

“Don’t even,” I snapped at Luke, but in a lowered tone that diminished any power in my voice. I didn’t want Tommy to tune into the change of conversation.

Luke cringed. Actually physically cringed. He knew exactly what I was referring to. His mother—Tommy’s grandmother—had been staying with us for three weeks now.

“My mother won’t be at our house forever,” he told me. “Just until things are a bit better.”

“You mean, until I’m not crazy anymore?” I said under my breath.

“You’re not crazy.” Luke didn’t bother to quieten his voice. There was nothing in his tone that made me believe he really meant it. He sounded more like a parent trying to placate a child.

In Luke’s opinion, I was on the train to crazy-town. Especially after
the
incident
three weeks ago, when he came home to find me locked away in our bedroom with a bottle of scotch that one of his clients had given him. I’d been crying into my pillow, while Tommy was running loose in the house. The house was upside down, even more than usual.

Enter Luke’s mother. He installed her in the spare bedroom and set her function dial to cooking, cleaning, and childcare mode.

I was the one who didn’t cook. Or clean. Or look after the kid. Worse, I’d proven myself unable to cope with motherhood. The defective woman.

Luke’s mother—June—was bright and cheery, with her yellow-framed glasses and cruise ship clothing (floral shirts and white capri pants).

I was never at fault in her eyes. That sounded better than it actually was.

She’d gush that I was doing a
super job
if I had a shower. She’d stand behind me and whisper that I had
mother’s intuition
when I knew that Tommy was ready for sleep (the times that he started spinning in circles). She’d even tell me I was
a wonderful mother
if Tommy just survived the day.

All I could think was, no wonder Luke’s father drank. Living with her would be like living with Pollyanna on steroids.

“Look.” Luke gave a heavy, exaggerated, beleaguered-husband sigh. “We’ll set a time-frame. How about another week? My mother stays just one more week.”

I knew what would happen if I disagreed. He and his mother would gang up against me. His mother would never say anything nasty, but she’d beat me down with her cheery platitudes until I begged for mercy. Neither of them trusted me alone with my own son. Luke’s parents had come back three weeks early from an overseas trip just so that June could move in with us for a while and care for Tommy (and supervise me).

From atop Luke’s shoulders, Tommy yelled with excitement when he first spotted the playground.

Luke set him on the ground and let him run ahead.

A suffocating bitterness tightened around me. “Instead of her staying on, how about you change your work schedule so you can actually be at home with Tommy sometimes? So that I can go and do things? So that, oh, I don’t know, so that Tommy can get to know you and we can be an actual family?”

“You know we have to make sacrifices.”

I didn’t know when individual Luke and individual me had become
we
.