The Cry (11 page)

When she woke, Alistair and his mother had left a note saying they were at the police station. Against Alistair’s advice, she went to Elizabeth’s computer and tried to log on to her Facebook and email accounts, but her passwords didn’t work. Alistair – or the police – must have changed passwords or cancelled her accounts. Probably for the best, she supposed, but she felt so bereft and lonely and longed for something familiar. If only her mum was alive. What she’d do to talk to her, to hold her, to tell her everything, to ask her what to do, how to get through this. Kirsty was the closest she had to family now.

Her mobile wasn’t in her handbag. In case the police hadn’t taken it, she rang the number several times from the landline, following the old fashioned brrrring brrrring until she found the handset on a dusty hard-to-reach shelf in the boiler cupboard. Alistair had hidden it. But he’d forgotten to switch it off. Ha! She checked Elizabeth’s car was still gone, and dialled Kirsty’s number.

In the past, Kirsty always knew exactly what to say. When her father ran off, Kirsty told her to take action; she phoned his production company office and forced Joanna to talk to him. Her dad said sorry, that he loved her, that sometimes parents grow apart, that he’d write to her, that he’d come and visit as soon as the next shoot was over, and that he’d bring her over to his new home in Canada. This conversation made Joanna feel better for a while, till she realised he wasn’t going to do any of those things. But Kirsty nursed her through. And when her mother was dying, Kirsty brought takeaway curries and books into the hospital for her and held her when she needed to cry.

This time, Kirsty said all the wrong things.

‘It was the fifteenth of February here when it happened,’ Joanna said when she called. ‘But it was the fourteenth of February for you, for the whole of the United Kingdom, where I belong. So I lost that day, the fourteenth. It went, just like he did. So you see somewhere on that plane a whole day disappeared and took him with it.’

Joanna’s weird ramblings made Kirsty cry more loudly. ‘Oh poor Jo. My poor Jo. I wish I could hold you. You mustn’t give up hope. Is Alistair looking after you? Is someone good there to look after you?’

‘Just talk, let me hear your voice.’ Joanna said, her only hope being that she’d stop with these words of misguided kindness, but Kirsty could only cry. She was so worried for Noah, so devastated for her wonderful friend, so guilty that she couldn’t be there for her. After the conversation, Joanna hung up feeling worse than she had before. She decided not to call her again and felt thankful that Kirsty couldn’t come over – her dad was having chemo – then she berated herself for feeling thankful. She’d become a monster.

Alistair returned to say there would be a televised appeal in an hour. He set to, preparing her for the ordeal.

‘One more time!’ he said, pacing the bedroom as Joanna stood, exhausted, in the corner, a hair brush acting as microphone in her hand.

‘I just want him to come home,’ she said flatly.

‘Say his name!’ A yell-whisper. He was getting good at those.

‘Okay! Noah. Noah. Noah. I want Noah to come home.’

‘Don’t stop the tears. Let ’em flow.’

The doorbell rang. It was time to go out there and face the world.

She’d felt like this before. Words on the tip of her tongue, itching to jump off.
I fucked a married man. I am in love with your husband.
There were cameras, journalists, neighbours and volunteers everywhere. A police officer stood either side of them.
I killed my baby.
She could just say it, right here, right now, and that would be that.

Alistair had stopped talking. He was handing her a microphone. She bit the tip of her tongue and the words there turned to blood.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘if you have seen our baby, or if you have our baby . . .’

Alistair squeezed her elbow.

‘I mean Noah. If you know anything – about Noah – could you please contact the police. We just want . . .’

She turned and looked at Alistair. He was letting ’em flow. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m too distressed to talk.’

Joanna was too distressed to talk for several hours, and was only jolted from her private torture when she heard Alistair yelling in the living room. He was screaming down the phone: ‘What kind of mother are you, letting a fourteen-year-old go on television? Why didn’t you speak to me first? How could you have let her use the words “when
they say
he was taken from the unattended car” as if . . . Can’t you see you are putting her in danger!’

Joanna rewound the news bulletin and listened to Chloe’s impressive plea. ‘My God, she is amazing,’ she said.

Alistair had hung up on his ex-wife, and turned his fury on Joanna. ‘She’s accusing us.
When they say he was taken . . .
She’s fucking accusing us.’

He stomped out the door, leaving Joanna smiling at the teenager on screen. ‘She’s amazing,’ she repeated to herself.

Joanna eventually fell asleep for an hour or so, waking to find that Alistair was not in bed beside her, but in the bathroom. He was sitting on top of the closed toilet seat, crying. She went in and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘I should have known,’ he said.

She knelt beside him.

‘I had him on my lap on the plane. I put him in the buggy, then in the car. How could I not have known?’

A bang outside interrupted them. Joanna looked out – couldn’t see anything – and shut the frosted window.

Alistair wiped his eyes and leaned into Joanna’s shoulder. ‘I should have noticed. I might have saved him.’

They cried together for a long time. Joanna believed she could never feel closer to him.

Day one of the action plan and Chloe’s been to school and seems calmer. I’ve printed 300 posters and bought a bucket, paste and two brushes. We’ve decided to start where it happened and work our way out. On the ninety-minute drive to Point Lonsdale, Chloe says she doesn’t want to ring her dad. After his reaction to her television appearance, she doesn’t ever want to talk to him, or see him, again. Once this might have made me smile inside. It doesn’t. It makes my stomach ache.

Noah has been missing three days but there’s no sign in the town that anything ever happened. The area outside the milk bar is no longer cordoned off. A couple of people are chatting outside the hall across the road from the primary school. A smattering of locals are walking happily along the beach. Everything but the supermarket has closed for the day. We loop posters around the few light poles on the main street but the poles are too thin and it’s hard to make out what the poster says once we’ve pasted them on. We put one on the public toilet in the play park, one each on the front windows of the closed coffee shops, the bakery and the gift shop, and the lady in the supermarket puts two up for us. ‘We’re all praying for his safe return,’ she says sadly.

I’m surprised at how much Chloe knows as we wander along the quiet main street. That’s the house they rented. That’s where the person in a Japara was spotted. That’s where they were parked when he disappeared.

We don’t talk on the way home and I think that’s because the whole episode was so desperately depressing. On the road from Point Lonsdale to Geelong I see burnt land in the distance and dark half-trees like claws. This post-bushfire view matches our mood.

Day two of the action plan is even worse. When I phone the police they refuse to tell me anything. I’m tired after my shift at the shop and we don’t talk all the way to Geelong. We start putting up posters in the main shopping drag and in the streets leading towards Alistair’s mother’s house. But it feels pointless. Chloe sleeps on the way home.

Day three and the action plan officially fails. We’re back in Geelong and many of the posters we put up yesterday have fallen off. One has been covered with a missing cat poster. Herman, is the cat’s name.

On the way home Chloe says: ‘He’s dead. I don’t want to do this any more.’

For a week now, Chloe’s come home from school and shut herself away in her room to study. She’s grieving. I’m no longer worried about her doing anything dangerous or inappropriate. Alistair phoned twice more in the first week, leaving a message each time saying there’s no news and that he hopes she’s okay. He’s made no effort to see her beyond that and hasn’t called for seven days. I’ll never forgive him for it, no matter what he’s going through.

Chloe’s right: Noah probably is dead. Everyone’s thinking it. And as time goes on, people are becoming more suspicious of Alistair and Joanna.

The political blogger who always had it in for Alistair, James Moyer, has posted today that Labour is about to sack him. He writes:

‘Lonniebaby: The Evidence’ is indeed damning. Whoever’s writing it seems to know everything. It’s comprehensive and impressive, feeding new information each day, and posing questions that no one else seems to be posing. I scan the ‘Unanswered questions’ page, which gets longer day by day.

The questions posted today are frantic and angry:

The more I read the more I realise that the finger is being pointed at her, not at him. I find the barrage of hatred towards her very unpleasant reading, to my surprise, and decide to stop looking online.

My lawyer just phoned to say the custody hearing is still going ahead and she wants to meet me this afternoon to make sure we’re prepared. I wonder if they really think they should go ahead now, considering. It seems crazy, but typical of Alistair not to request a postponement. He won’t lose a battle, even if it’s because he’s fighting a much harder one.

The office is on the twenty-third floor of the Rialto Building in Melbourne. The lift is so fast and smooth it feels like magic. When I get out, I have to stand still for a few seconds till I’m certain there’s floor beneath me. I don’t like heights, so I walk along the centre of the corridor and stare at my feet all the way to reception, careful not to catch any expensive views. The carpet’s soft and unmarked. The background music’s annoyingly serene. I’m two minutes late, which Dad’ll have to pay for, bringing the total spend so far to $2,270. The receptionist is young and gorgeous. You can hear the meeting when they hired staff for this place:
Cute chicks with cleavages entice male clients
. If women had the money, they’d have Brad Pitt at reception.

‘Latte, Ms Donohue?’ It must be noted on her computer that latte is my hot beverage of choice. I don’t take it because they ended up billing me nine bucks for one the first time I came. The biscotto I didn’t ask for was three.

A minute later, my lawyer sits me down and asks me how I am but I’ve learned to avoid expensive small talk. ‘Fine. Is the hearing really going to happen?’ I have a list of questions on a notepad and I intend to demand direct answers to all of them.

‘I’ve not heard otherwise so we need to prepare as if it will take place. There’s no date yet, though.’

I move on to question two on my pad. ‘How will what’s happened to them affect my chances?’

‘Good question.’ She rocks her plush leather chair back and forth.

‘I know. Could you answer it please?’

She’s not shocked at my bluntness. I was a human rights lawyer, before Alistair dragged me to the motherland. A lawyer and a friend and a happy person. I couldn’t practise over there and haven’t been able to get back into it since coming home. The job isn’t exactly single-parent-friendly and my head isn’t exactly working again yet.

‘I can’t imagine anyone would think it’s a sensible time for them to take over the care of Chloe. There are a lot of rumours about them. She doesn’t come over well at all: the affair, leaving him alone in the car. A website has been set up which is devoted to the alleged evidence against them. Lonniebaby: The Evidence. It’s getting over ten thousand hits a day. But on the other hand, it may increase their sympathy vote. And of course it depends if things are still okay at home for you and Chloe?’

‘Things are fine,’ I say, deciding that two days off school after a tragic event is nothing to be concerned about. ‘This is a reference from my boss.’ I pass her my reference, which is the third piece of information I need to convey. It’s from Giuseppe at the ’Burg Café saying I have worked there fifteen hours a week for twelve months now and that I’m honest and reliable.

‘Nice place to work?’

‘It is.’ I move on. ‘I’m making this scrapbook.’ I put it on the desk in front of her. ‘There are photos of us doing things together, tickets to events we’ve attended, birthday cards, pictures and little notes she’s done for me, things like that.’

The lawyer takes it and begins leafing through. She’s going to take too long. I grab it back from her. ‘I thought you could use this in court.’

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Sure, give it to me when you’re finished and I’ll take a look.’ I’m not sure she’s as impressed with this book as I am. I move on again.

‘Alistair rang Chloe on the sixteenth of February and left a message saying he would phone her again and arrange to take her out somewhere. He left two messages after that in the first week but hasn’t been in touch since. Chloe doesn’t want to talk to him or see him. Make a note of that. Is there anything else I need to do?’

She explains that a social worker will visit me in the next day or so to assess my home situation. They won’t give a time: surprise is key to the assessment. She hands me a consent form to sign, which will allow the social worker to contact Chloe’s school and my GP. I’d normally ask more questions about this, but Mum and Dad can’t afford it, and I have nothing to hide.

‘What are my chances?’ I ask.

‘Eighty per cent your way, unless something happens to change that.’

‘Like what?’ I ask.

‘Like if Chloe changes her mind and doesn’t want to live with you. She’s still firm about that?’

‘More so than ever.’ I think I’m telling the truth.

‘Or like they become official suspects, which is possible. It’s hotting up against them out there. I know a police officer in Geelong who said there’s talk of searching the mother-in-law’s house, which was never done.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘No idea. But there must be a reason. And if the police officially suspect them, you’re home and hosed. So unless something happens that makes you seem like an even worse mother than Joanna – which would be damn hard – you have nothing to worry about.’

I sign the consent form, say thanks, tell her that was five minutes total without latte or biscuits and leave before she can ask me where I got my shoes.

By the time I get home, something has happened that makes me look like a worse mother than Joanna. Two police officers are at the door and my drunk fourteen-year-old is projectile vomiting onto the driveway. Instead of going to school, they inform me, she hitch-hiked to Geelong, drank a half a bottle of vodka on the beach, and was caught trying to break into her grandmother’s house. The officers are from Geelong and they’re very understanding about it, driving her all the way home (with the window open). One of the officers is a fairly young Vietnamese guy in plain clothes. I’ve seen him on the news in the background. His name’s Phan, and he seems kind. Chloe told them she thought the house was empty and ‘just wanted to have a look inside’. Joanna was home, asleep. She didn’t want to press charges.

Before I manage to get the door open, I hear a man’s voice say: ‘Mrs Robertson?’ I turn around and a third professional is on my porch. He flashes his ID: ‘I’m Tim Shaw . . . from Social Services.’

I can imagine the report he’ll write for the custody hearing, this twenty-two-year-old who’s never been alone with a child for more than an hour, let alone tried caring for one full time. (Yes, the first thing that came out of my mouth was: ‘But . . . Really! How old are you?’ and yes, I should not have done this because, you’re right, it was insulting and judgemental and will result in an even worse assessment than the one my puking daughter and the two police officers were already ensuring.) It was probably his youth that gave him the energy to do so much in the hour it took me to get home from town, mind you. He’d phoned the lawyer and asked her to fax the letter of consent I just signed allowing him to get information about me and Chloe from relevant professionals. He’d phoned Chloe’s school, and knew she’d missed three days without permission, and that she had been behaving so badly in five out of eight classes (which I didn’t know) that a special inter-departmental meeting was being held about her tomorrow. He’d also phoned my GP, and would like to talk to me about that once the police are gone and Chloe has been cleaned up and put to bed.

‘If she runs away again, phone us straight away,’ Phan says as he leaves.

Oh God.

On the tram home I’d planned to change into a floral dress and bake an earth-mothery cake in case the social worker visited. I’d imagined Chloe coming in from school and feeding her animals and giving me a hug and generally demonstrating a most excellent home life.