Only Daughter Page 4

  “Can you describe the location of where you were held?” Malik, diving straight in there.

  “I didn’t really…” I pause for effect. “I didn’t really see the outside. It could have been anywhere. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Bec. Don’t pressure yourself. How much time do you think passed between your escape and when the police picked you up? You were picked up in Sydney, so presumably you were held near there,” Andopolis asks.

  I think about that last night in the cheap hostel at Kings Cross. It was only a week ago, but it feels like much longer. I’d counted my money out on the mattress, knowing I wouldn’t have enough, that I’d have to check out in the morning. I remember trying to sleep. From the window I could hear women screaming outside, bottles smashing, men swearing. I knew that the next day I’d be out there with them.

  “No. Not really, sorry.”

  It smells weird in here, like a hospital. I guess the toys have to be cleaned every time a kid picked them up. I look at the miniature chair and table, wondering if Andopolis ever sat down there with a child, asking them to use a dolly to play out whatever abuse they’d encountered.

  “I know this is hard, but we need you to tell us everything you can remember,” Malik says.

  I take a breath, getting ready to tell them what they’re gagging to hear. I’d planned it all out: torture chambers, men in masks, everything. They’d lap it up and I’d lead them on a wild-goose chase around Australia. But then, just as I’m about to begin, the photograph from the investigation room comes into my mind. Rebecca Winter, young and happy. Did I really want to make her fate so ghastly? I look between their waiting faces. I was being silly. Whatever I said had no bearing on whatever really happened to her. It was stupid to even think about that. It was my life now, not hers. I had to be smart about this. Of course, as soon as I tell them a story, they’ll start digging through it and finding holes. Less is more. The cleverest thing to do is to tell no story at all.

  “That’s the problem,” I say, quietly. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Nothing?” Malik tries to cover his frustration, but I can hear it there in his voice.

  “What about more recently? Do you remember who hit you? Who caused that bruise?” asks Andopolis, eyeing the side of my face. I look down, as though I’m ashamed of it. Really, the story is sort of embarrassing. I was running from a fruit vendor. I’d stolen two apples before I tripped and fell on the curb. No one hit me.

  “No.”

  “What about your arm?” Andopolis asks, softly. If he’s annoyed he doesn’t show it.

  I shake my head.

  “When I first came to see you,” Andopolis says gently, “you said that you hurt it when you escaped. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes.” No. I’d forgotten.

  “So you do remember escaping?” Malik asks.

  I take a breath. I’m going to have to give them something.

  “I remember breaking the window glass,” I say, remembering the bottle smashing in the bathroom. My body shudders at the memory, they notice.

  “My arm got caught, but I kept going. I just remember knowing I didn’t have much time.”

  “Why didn’t you have much time?” Malik asks, quick as a whip.

  Because I knew the cop outside was going to come in and check up on me. I wonder if there was some way of asking if she lost her job without seeming vindictive. Probably best not to.

  I wish I could press Pause on this situation. Go outside for a cigarette and have a real think on the best way to handle it. I was prepared for just one detective, and having the two of them on each side is intimidating. One question rolls out over the next before I’ve had a chance to think.

  “How long did you look for me?” I ask. I feel safer when I am asking the questions.

  Malik looks at Andopolis. He probably wasn’t even a detective back then, just a rookie in uniform.

  “The investigation went on for a long time. We searched everywhere,” Andopolis says slowly.

  The intensity in his eyes was starting to make more sense. He must have a lot of burning questions for me.

  “Did you have a suspect?” I ask.

  “We had a few people of interest.”

  “Who?”

  “Why don’t we start from the beginning?” interrupts Malik. “What was the last thing you do remember? Before the abduction.”

  He was putting the focus back onto me. My mind flicked back to the television show.

  “I was at work, at McDonald’s. It’s all blurry after that.”

  Andopolis smiles at me, that proud, lopsided grin. I got that one right. He puts the file down on the table between us and opens it. Inside is a spread of what looks like staff photographs, head and shoulders of five different people, all smiling in their McDonald’s uniforms.

  “Do you remember these people?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Of course. But…you know. It’s been a long time.” My heart is pounding and the T-shirt squeezes under my arms, making me sweat. This feels like a test.

  “Do you remember her?” He points a finger at a young girl. She’s very pretty, even in the ugly uniform. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail and her eyes sparkle. I realize I do recognize her; she was in most of the pictures on Rebecca’s wall.

  “She was my best friend,” I say, and then I remember the father’s words from earlier. “Lizzie.”

  “And the others?” Malik asks. That must mean I got it right.

  “I remember Lizzie. The rest… I know that I know them…” I try to look upset. “I hate being confused like this.”

  “It’s okay, Bec. We’ll take it slow.” Andopolis’s voice is soothing. “These are the last people who saw you before you disappeared. This is Ellen Park. She was your manager.”

  She looks like she’s in her midtwenties maybe, with a look of premature worry in her eyes.

  “This is Lucas Masconey.” He points to a good-looking guy in his early twenties.

  “And Matthew Lang. He was the cook.” This guy is big and beefy with a bunch of silver rings through his ear. “Do you remember him?”

  “Kind of,” I say.

  “Anything specific?” Malik presses. This Matthew guy must have been a suspect. Trust the cops to go for the most obvious person.

  “No,” I say, a little too harshly.

  I look down at my hands and force myself to breathe. I had to do something; I was already breaking character. I couldn’t be anything other than a victim, not even for a moment.

  “So, how long until you gave up looking?” I ask.

  Andopolis looks up at me, something dark passing across his face.

  “It’s not that we gave up. The investigation just went cold.” He averts his eyes as he continues and I realize what he’s feeling: guilt. “Every lead was followed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  I see the guilt there again, even though he tries to hide it.

  “Let’s try to concentrate on that day,” says Malik. “We were talking about your last shift at McDonald’s.”

  I had to get rid of Malik. I could see he was a good detective, yet he didn’t seem to have much of an ego. He just saw this case as his job and I was an important part of it. But that’s all.

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. If that’s okay,” I say quietly, looking at Malik.

  “Okay,” he says. “Won’t be a minute.”

  As soon as the door clicks shut I lean forward.

  “I don’t like him!” I say in a panicked whisper.

  “Why?” Andopolis asks, surprised.

  “He scares me. I don’t feel right when he’s here. Can’t it just be you?”

  I can see Andopolis’s chest swell ever so slightly. Idiot. He didn’t like him either; he probably didn’t want to share his case with some new hotshot.

  “I trust you,” I add. “Please?”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  He pushes himself off the
couch and walks out of the room. I wonder what conversation they’re having behind the mirror right now. I force myself not to look.

  After a few minutes Andopolis comes back with a cup of tea and the tiniest trace of a triumphant smile on the corners of his mouth.

  “Okay, Bec, it’ll just be me from now on.”

  “Thank you!” I say.

  “It’s fine.” He puts the tea down on the little table next to me. “If you ever feel upset or uncomfortable I want you to tell me. I’ll do everything I can to try and fix it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, giving him my best innocent eyes. He thinks we are on the same side.

  “Great. Now, when you’re ready, we really do need to talk about that night. The night you were taken. Anything you remember would be so helpful in finding who did this.”

  He was treating me like a fragile child, which was exactly what I wanted.

  “I do remember something,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.

  I stare into the middle distance for a while, counting to ten in my head, letting the heavy silence fill the room.

  “I was cold and scared,” I say when I reach ten. “Everything was black.”

  I talk slowly, letting the suspense build. “I remember hearing sirens. They were getting closer and closer. I thought I was saved. But then they kept going. They got quieter. I knew they weren’t for me.”

  I look up at him and his face is twisted with guilt and shame. I have him.

  “I’m tired now. And I’d like to see my parents.”

  As the father drives us home, I want to fall asleep in the back seat. I really am tired.

  “Do you mind if I have a little nap before they get in?” I ask. I’ve already forgotten the brothers’ names.

  “Of course. You must be exhausted.”

  Lying down between Rebecca’s sheets, I wonder for a moment whether they were changed. Or whether these are the same sheets that she had lain in, eleven years ago, on the morning that she would leave her house and never return. They must have been changed, surely.

  Soon, I hear the front door opening and then two male voices. Her brothers must be here. They’ll expect me to go down and greet them, but the idea of getting up again seems impossible. My arm is throbbing. The bandage feels too tight. I’ll go in a minute, I decide. Let the mother be the one to fill them in on the details, on the memory loss and my arm.

  Turning over, I realize I don’t care if they changed Rebecca’s sheets or not. They feel warm and silky soft. Having my own bed in the hospital had been good, but this was amazing. Feeling so safe and comfortable made the week that had just passed feel unbelievable, like some sort of nightmare.

  When I wake it’s starting to get dark. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I pull myself out of bed, a foul taste in my mouth, brush my fingers through my hair and open my bedroom door. I have to face them sooner or later and the longer I put it off the harder it will be. Walking down the stairs, I notice the house is strangely quiet, but all the lights are on. For a moment I think maybe they’ve gone out, but surely they wouldn’t have left me here alone so soon.

  I hear very faint movement on my right. I turn toward it and the kitchen opens up in front of me. There they are. The mother, the father and the two brothers sitting around a circular kitchen table. Dirty plates are in front of each of them. They must have just had dinner. No one is speaking or even looking at one another.

  I hesitate for a second in the doorway, waiting for them to move, to notice my presence, but they don’t. They sit together in silence with straight backs but empty eyes and lowered heads. I guess it’s been a tough day for them, too. Still, something feels strange, slightly off, about this sparkling image of family. But I have bigger problems right now, so I ignore it and walk in to join them.

  4

  Bec, 11 January 2003

  It was almost one in the morning when Bec finally closed her bedroom door, slipped between her bedsheets and switched off the light. She’d been too tired to move quickly. Standing in the shower for almost twenty minutes, she scrubbed the grease off her arms and tried to get the smell of burnt meat out of her nostrils. She groaned with relief at finally being horizontal. The cotton sheets felt clean and soft against her skin. She considered telling Ellen she didn’t want to do closes anymore. One hour of extra pay wasn’t worth this aching, overtired feeling.

  Her mind was moving too slowly to think about it now. Tomorrow was her day off anyway; she’d decide then. A whole day to do whatever she wanted. It would be great. Lying down in her own quiet room felt too exquisite to ruin it by worrying. The hot weight of the cat, Hector, pressed against her leg as he stretched, his bell jingling softly.

  Something shifted. That’s what woke her. The creaking sound of shifting weight. There was someone in her room.

  Bec was too afraid to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see what was there. It was enough just to feel its presence, that heaviness of the air that meant another person was breathing it. Underneath the warmth of her sheets, her skin prickled cold. It couldn’t be happening again.

  She listened. Seconds flicked by. Not a sound. Maybe it was a nightmare.

  Bec knew she should open her eyes. Just to check. Just to be sure. A sound rose from beneath the silence, so soft it was barely audible. The gravelly hum of the cat’s purr. Very slowly, she opened her eyes.

  The first thing she noticed was that Hector wasn’t on her bed anymore. She could see the small pear shape of his furry back. He was sitting in the corner, looking at something, purring. Bec knew she should laugh at herself; it was just the cat. But her limbs were still frozen. Something wasn’t right.

  As her eyes adjusted she had to hold in a gasp. There was a shadow in the corner that shouldn’t be there. She could only just see it, onyx against charcoal, a splodge that didn’t belong. Her heart slammed against her ribs as it began to move.

  Very slowly, it twisted. Limbs stretching. Growing bigger in a way that wasn’t human. She clamped her eyes shut, a scream trapped in her throat. Bec didn’t want to see what it looked like when it stepped out of the corner. She didn’t want to see its face.

  Ice-cold fear soaked through her as she waited for the shadow to touch her. To feel that cold hand on her cheek again. She held her breath, just waiting.

  The door squeaked.

  Had it gone? Bec wanted to let out her breath, but she felt like fear had paralyzed her. Then something heavy slammed against her knees. She scrambled out away from it, the sheet wrapping around her ankle so that she fell onto the carpet with a thud. Pain spread down from her shoulder but she tried to ignore it, reaching up to turn on her bedside light.

  For a moment the light blinded her. And then she saw him. The cat, Hector. Sitting in the middle of her mattress, blinking at her. She picked him up, swearing, and he howled at her. The noise seemed piercing in the silence. She held him against her, the feeling of his tiny heartbeat against her chest calming her enough that she could get up and close her bedroom door again. She wedged her chair under the handle.

  Something had been in here; it wasn’t just the cat. She was sure of it. Her hands were still sweating and shaking and adrenaline raced through her veins.

  Bec picked up her phone; she needed to talk to someone. To tell someone what had just happened so she didn’t feel like she was mad. The last time was probably just a nightmare, but this time was real. It was past three in the morning, though. Lizzie would be pissed off if she woke her up.

  She looked at herself from the outside for a moment. Lizzie would probably laugh at her, like she was a little kid afraid of ghosts. How lame. She wrote a text instead: There was something in my room. I think my house is haunted. She put the phone back on her bedside table.

  Just before she turned the light off she noticed the little silver bell was gone from Hector’s collar. A ghost couldn’t do that.

  Perhaps he hadn’t been wearing it before, she told herself, and wrapped herself in a ball under the blanket.
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  It had taken her a long time to get back to sleep. When she had, her dreams were feverish and violent. She woke up with a start, slick with sweat. Checking her phone, she saw it was quarter past eleven. There were three missed calls from Lizzie and two messages. The first: Ha-ha scary. Then after the missed calls: You okay? Bec texted back: Yep. Still on for the city? I’ll tell you all about it.

  Her room looked different in the morning light. Peaceful and entirely her own. Johnny Depp’s and Gwen Stefani’s faces, photographs of her and her friends, Destiny’s Child posing together perfectly. The slats of her closet doors, the shelf of books above her bed; everything was so warmly familiar. Last night’s nightmare seemed exactly that: a nightmare. Not something that could have really happened in her own bedroom. But when she closed her eyes, Bec could see the dark shape again, bending in that unnatural way in the corner. That was a real memory, as clear as mopping the floors at work and walking home from the bus stop.

  Her phone buzzed, Lizzie: One hour, Silver Cushion. She pushed herself out of bed and had a look at her shoulder in the mirror. There was a pale grey bruise from where she’d fallen out of bed last night. That bloody cat.

  She’d thought the house might look different, somehow. As though some kind of trace would be left behind by the extra presence that had been there last night. But no, everything felt exactly the same as she opened her bedroom door. The cream carpet had the same velvety feel between her toes as she padded down the hallway.

  Peering into Paul and Andy’s room, she wanted to laugh. That was definitely the same: clothes and Legos strewn all over the floor, sheets on the two single beds twisted into heaps. She remembered how much of a scene they’d made when her mom suggested it was time one of them move into the spare room. She pulled their door shut. The sweaty old socks were starting to reek. You could smell puberty approaching.

  The white wooden banister felt as smooth and warm under her palm as it always did. Her bare feet made squeaking sounds as she walked across the polished floorboards of the bottom level. The sound of giggling came from the kitchen; the boys must be home. She checked her parents’ room; their precisely made double bed alone in the middle of the spotlessly empty space. The spare room next door was filled with plastic tubs of winter clothes. Her mother’s writing desk propped in the corner, still unused. She looked into the laundry. Behind the washing baskets was a door that continued on to their garage. It was slightly open. The garage was the creepiest part of Bec’s house and none of them went in there if they could avoid it. Dark and dank smelling, crammed with piled-up cardboard boxes and a dirty concrete floor. They didn’t even park their car in there anymore. She was sure the place was infested with spiders. The blackness of the room seemed to spill out from the crack in the doorway, the dark of nighttime trying to recapture her and pull her back into the nightmare. She pulled the door shut.