Anna Snoekstra - Only Daughter

“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.