Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

Again the questions start and Drury raises his hand, calling for quiet.

“Please, I will leave time for questions. For the moment, can we let Mr. and Mrs. Hadley speak?”

He pushes the microphone along the table. Dale Hadley leans forward.

“First of all, I want… I mean, we want… we want to thank the public for its support and kindness. We also want to offer our condolences to Natasha’s family and say how sorry we are that she didn’t make it home. I know they never gave up hope.” He takes Sarah’s hand. “Neither have we. That’s why we’re appealing for your help. Whoever did this has torn my family apart. So if you do know something, if you suspect someone, if you have seen or heard something suspicious, please pick up the phone.”

The flashguns are firing, revealing every tic and tremor, pain measured in micro-expressions. Sarah takes the microphone. There is something cold and brittle about her, like ice forming into crystals. The search is what sustains her. It is the sinew that holds her together. Everything else might crumble, but not her desire to find Piper. She will not rest. She will not sleep. She has to know the truth.

I have experienced that sense of certainty. When Gideon Tyler kidnapped Charlie. When he knocked her from her pushbike and chained her to a sink with masking tape wrapped around her head and a breathing tube in her mouth. When these things happened, I remember how my throat tightened and my bowels liquefied and panic carved through my soft organs. But I knew one thing for certain. I would never stop looking until I found her.

Sarah stares directly into the cameras. “If you’re the person holding Piper, if you’re listening to this or watching this, the time has come to let her go. Let her come home.”

Questions come again, shouted from the floor.

“Do you blame the police?”

“Will you consider taking legal action?”

“Have you talked to Natasha McBain’s parents?”

“What makes you so sure Piper is alive?”

Answers become shorter. Yes. No. I don’t know. The media conference is curtailed. Police officers flank the family as they leave through a side door. Phoebe has almost been forgotten. She lowers her head and follows her parents, running to catch up.

The family pauses inside the rear doors of the station, waiting for their car. Phoebe looks up and notices me.

She smiles. “Are you going to find Piper?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Do you think she’ll still like me?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Mum says that she’s still with us. That’s why we hang up Christmas stockings and set a place at the table and have a cake on her birthday, but that scares me a little because she’s like a ghost. There’s an empty chair and an empty bed, but she’s still here.”

“People cope with loss in different ways.”

Phoebe nods and looks at her parents.

“Is anything the matter?” I ask.

She shrugs. “They just seem different.”

“In what way?”

“They become different when they talk about Piper.”

“They’re just concerned about her.”

Phoebe puts her hands over her face and rubs her forehead with her fingers.

“So I should stop worrying.”

“Yes, stop worrying.”

She notices a stain on the sleeve of her dress and tries to rub it away with her thumb.

“I hear them coming up the stairs at night,” she says. “They brush their teeth and turn off the light, but they don’t talk.”

“What is it you want, Phoebe?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “I want them back.”

My gums are bleeding.

Mum always said I’d get scurvy if I didn’t eat my fruit. Now I’m not eating anything-not since yesterday. I’ve decided to go on a hunger strike until he lets me see Tash.

I’m not going to wash. I’m not going up the ladder. I’m not going to let him touch me.

He can beat me. He can hose me down. He can turn off the lights. He can take away my blankets. I’d rather starve or freeze to death than go on without Tash.

The only thing I’ve ever been good at is running. I used to imagine that if I could run fast enough, I could catch a glimpse of my future. I might round a corner or crest a hill and see myself disappearing into the distance. I can’t do that when I’m stuck down here. I can’t glimpse the future. I can’t imagine one.

Lying on my bunk, I remember happy times like the day we went to Tash’s uncle’s place and he let us drive his old station wagon around the paddocks, bouncing over the potholes and squashing the cowpats. We drove with the windows down and the music cranked up, pretending we were cruising along that famous road in the South of France with the clifftops and tunnels-the one where Grace Kelly died. Another tragic princess. I grew up listening to fairy tales where everyone lived happily ever after, but in real life princesses die in car crashes or get divorced or flog diet products.

Tash once told me that most people settle for second best, but maybe there’s a reason for that. Second isn’t so bad. I came second in the nationals. When you come second you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder or worry about inflated expectations.

I had a nightmare that George came back with Emily. He must be watching her. How else would he have her photograph? He said he was watching Tash before he kidnapped us, but I don’t remember seeing him until that night.

Reaching beneath my pillow, I feel for the bamboo satay skewer. I took it from the table the other day when George wasn’t looking. I slipped it under my dirty clothes. Now my fingers slide along the wooden shaft and touch the sharpened point. I have a weapon.

It probably won’t kill him, not unless I stab him through the eye or through the ear. Maybe I could wait until he is sleeping and then do it.

I remember the broken screwdriver. Tash had the same idea. She was going to stab him in the neck. That’s when she came back with bloody thighs and curled up on her bunk. That’s when she gave up hope.

Lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling and try to steady my breathing. Slow it down. Not a hunger strike. I need my strength if I’m going to escape. I’ll eat, but that’s all.

Slipping out of bed, I go to the cupboard and find a can of baked beans. The can opener is blunt and it takes me twenty minutes to peel back the lid. While it’s heating up, I take a spool of masking tape and use my fingernail to lift the sticky end. I carefully wrap a length of tape around the skewer, leaving the sharpened end protruding.

The tape is a handle. I hold it in my fist and make a stabbing motion. I don’t feel very confident. I try again. Then I picture Tash lying on a bunk, curled up in pain. This time I stab easily at the air. I think of Mum and Dad and Phoebe and Ben and the baby sister they had to replace me-all the time stabbing at the air.

I play the scene over and over in my head, imagining how I plant the skewer in his back. How I push him down through the hatch and call him a sadistic prick and he looks up at me, surprised, hurt, scared.

I’ve never done any serious violence to anyone, but I’m going to make an exception for George. I’m going to hurt him. I’m going to pay him back for what he’s done.

Explain something to me,” says Grievous, beating out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Why do people always talk about how fast a car can get from naught to sixty? I mean, what’s the big deal about sixty miles an hour? It’s like people think aliens are going to land and only be able to do fifty-nine. They’ll suck out our brains unless we can do naught to sixty in less than ten seconds.”

He pauses, expecting a response.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I say.