Under the Midnight Sky

  For my dear Selwa,

  courageous and wise,

  always inspiring . . .

  I’m so glad you’re on my team!

  I am the flame and I am the dry bush.

  And one part of me consumes the other part.

  Kahlil Gibran

  1

  The night sky faded into dawn as I ran along the deserted road. My breath puffed little clouds in the cool autumn air, though my skin was hot and damp despite the chill. By the time I reached the forest edge on the outskirts of town, the sun had crested the horizon and was flooding silvery light over the distant mountains. But as the sky grew lighter, the shadows that swarmed around me under the roadside trees only seemed to darken.

  Nearly there.

  While I ran, I let my thoughts range free – the new column I was working on for the Express, or what repairs needed doing at the cottage, or when my brother, Duncan, was going to stop sleeping with random women and settle down. I even pondered what I’d have for breakfast when I got back, even though I always had the same thing: toasted fruit muffins dripping with butter and washed down with milky tea.

  Mostly, though, I thought of her. The twelve-year-old girl who still haunted my dreams. Her infectious giggles, her round pixie face, her soft brown eyes. Twenty years had passed, any reasonable person would have forgotten her . . . but not me. Abby, my brother was always lecturing, you can’t blame yourself for what happened; you were just a kid. When are you going to give up your stranglehold on the past and get a life?

  ‘When I find it. When I can prove it was real.’

  I touched the map in my pocket. Two years of searching, and I had nothing to show. All the trails I’d followed, the rocky overhangs and toppled trees I had explored, only to return home every day empty-handed. But I couldn’t stop looking. Not yet.

  Veering off the highway, I ran downhill along an overgrown dirt road. The damp air was heavy with the scent of gum leaves and rotting vegetation, and as I breathed it in my pulse kicked up a notch. Magpies flitted through the treetops above me, their shadows swooping and soaring, their melodic calls echoing eerily in the dimness. When I reached flat ground, I slowed to a stop and took a swig from my flask. Here at the edge of the reserve, ribbon gum saplings huddled together as though seeking safety in numbers. Deeper into the woodlands, where I was headed, everything became more extreme: gum trees towered like giants along the lip of the gorge, and boulders rose up like monsters’ skulls; blackthorn and tea-tree grew in prickly walls that were so thick I’d have to fight my way through.

  Once, the Deepwater Gorge Reserve had been a Mecca for campers and hikers who travelled from all over the country to marvel at its wild beauty and trek along its convoluted walking trails. As a child I had picnicked at the remote Pilliga’s Lookout with my family. It was a steep hike, but the views over the river made our sweaty pilgrimage worthwhile. I had loved to stand with my father on the bluff, the wind trying to grab my hat as I gazed across the hills. Spellbound by the endless trees and granite rock formations that made the park so appealing to visitors.

  Tucking my flask back in my pocket, I pushed into a run again and continued along the track. Soon I reached the abandoned campground. Staggering to a stop, I surveyed the weedy barbecue area. A burned-out brick shelter cowered behind two gutted fire pits. Nearby, a derelict concrete picnic table was on the verge of toppling sideways. Shadows shifted in the surrounding trees. The dense bushland beyond seemed to be holding its breath. I stood very still, listening.

  When a branch creaked behind me, the hair on my arms prickled. Crawling my hand to the pepper spray in my back pocket, I eased out the slim canister. Popped the cap. Nothing else moved. At least, nothing I could see through my suddenly tunnelled vision. I turned in a slow circle.

  Breathe, Abby. Breathe.

  Then, a splash of colour. Blood? A big red blur on the other side of the campground in the shadows of a soaring ironbark tree. My jaw went rigid. Had someone shot and skinned a kangaroo?

  But it was too red. And too glittery.

  Putting away my flask, I hastened over.

  A girl lay in the dirt, curled like a foetus, her face tilted to the ground. Blood oozed from a wound on the side of her head and congealed in her dark hair. She wore a bright red jacket, adorned with sequins and out of place in the dull green shadows of the bush.

  I dropped to my knees beside her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Hey. Wake up.’ When she didn’t stir, I patted her arm. ‘You can’t sleep here. You need help.’

  Her clothes were filthy, her feet bare, her knees skinned through the thin fabric of her torn leggings. She looked as though she’d been here all night, although there was no smell of alcohol or pot, just the sourness of blood and body odour.

  ‘Come on, kiddo.’ I nudged her again. ‘Wake up.’

  I checked her breathing, then made sure her airways were clear. I held open her eyes and shone my iPhone light in them. The pupils constricted normally but the girl still didn’t move. The pulse in her wrist felt steady, but her skin was cold and clammy. Then I noticed her hands. Scratches covered the knuckles and one of her fingernails was broken and crusted with blood. For a long time I stared. She had fallen in the bush and hurt herself, that was all. But for a moment my imagination took off and I pictured her trapped in a dark hole somewhere trying to claw her way out—

  Just breathe.

  I got to my feet and ran across the site, leapt up onto the picnic table and thrust my phone upwards, but there was no signal, not even the SOS option.

  I went back to the girl and crouched by her side. I couldn’t leave her here alone. But it was too risky to try and move someone with a head wound. She might be concussed, or worse. Movement could cause irreparable damage. It could cripple her. Kill her. Besides, the main road was a couple of kilometres away along the bumpy access track. Carrying or piggybacking her there was out of the question. I had no choice; I’d have to leave her while I ran for help.

  Slipping off my denim jacket, I tucked it around her. Then, as an afterthought, I pulled my little water flask from my pocket and propped it by her side.

  ‘I’ll be quick, sweetie. I promise. Just hang on till I get back, okay?’

  Lurching to my feet, I staggered backwards, unwilling to take my eyes off her. Then, with a sound that was midway between a gasp and a sob, I wrenched myself around and sprinted back towards the road.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later the ambulance flashed its high beams and pulled up alongside me. I dived into the vehicle and directed them along the overgrown road towards the campground. As we bumped down the potholed track, I told them everything I could recall about the girl. Aged about fourteen, slim build, brunette with brown eyes. The red jacket and torn leggings. A description of her injuries.

  ‘She was all curled up, like she was trying to stay warm. And her poor head . . . All that blood—’ I reined in my babbling, knotting my fingers and forcing my limbs into a stillness I didn’t feel. Ahead of us the track narrowed as the trees crowded out the frail sunlight.

  ‘Did you recognise her?’ the driver asked. ‘She a local kid?’

  I shook my head. ‘No idea.’

  The offsider whistled. ‘You jog out here alone?’

  ‘Most mornings.’

  The driver shot me a look. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere. Local, are you?’

  Straightening my shoulders, I looked at the driver. He was a beefy thirty-something and his square face seemed vaguely familiar. Had I known him at school, and consequently relegated him, along with the rest of my childhood, into the abyss of things best forgotten?

  ‘I’ve been away for a while.’

  We hit a pothole
and the driver cursed. The other ambo looked at me.

  ‘Hey, I remember. You’re Duncan’s sister. Duncan Radley? Gail, isn’t it? Abigail?’

  ‘I’m Abby Bardot now.’ I flashed the wedding band, even though my divorce had been and gone years ago. I still wore the ring to ward off unwanted interest, and – since being back in Gundara – to curb awkward conversations about my name change. I was about to ask if they knew my brother from the hospital but then the campground came into view.

  ‘There,’ I said, jabbing my finger at the black-trunked ironbark. ‘She’s over there.’

  As the vehicle approached the tree and slowed, the medics exchanged a look. I shoved open the door and leapt out, dashing across the uneven ground. When I reached the ironbark, I spun in a circle. My drink bottle had fallen over in the dirt. I went a short way into the bush, then returned to the big clearing and raced over to the brick shelter. Examined every shadowy corner of its burned-out interior. Then I ran a lap around the campground, looking under bushes and behind fallen logs, scanning the surrounding trees. Finally, I returned to the ironbark and gazed about, bewildered.

  Where in blazes had she gone?

  2

  A loud banging shattered the stillness. ‘Abby, it’s me. You in there?’

  Groaning, I stumbled out of the shower, turbaned my hair in a towel and dragged on my terry robe. It was eight o’clock on Friday morning. My limbs tingled after my run, but today there was no happy glow. My head was full of nightmare images and my veins still pumped with adrenaline, none of which the scalding water had managed to dispel. I stumbled down the hallway, rubbing my eyes.

  The fist thumped again. ‘Abby, come on. Open up!’

  There was only one person who hammered like a cop instead of politely knocking.

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I ushered my brother inside. ‘Jeez, Dunc. You trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?’

  He thrust a brown paper parcel into my hands and barged past me to the kitchen, all lanky arms and legs, sandy hair raked into spikes. While the kettle boiled, he ransacked my pantry for chocolate biscuits – of which I had none – and loose-leaf tea. Holding up a packet of seaweed crackers, he shook them at me accusingly. ‘Seaweed? You’re kidding me, right? What happened to the girl who loved Tim Tams?’

  ‘She died and went to hell.’ I grabbed the crackers and elbowed him out of the way to stuff them back on the shelf. ‘Is there a reason you’re here, Dunc? If so, please tell me it’s a good one.’

  ‘I heard about your adventure at the reserve.’

  My shoulders sagged. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  The kettle began to shriek. Duncan switched it off and splashed boiling water into the teapot, gave it a swirl and shuffled from foot to foot while it brewed. ‘So this kid you found, what . . . she just hopped up and did a runner?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘Maybe she’d been partying the night before? Taken a fall and whacked her head. Some of the kids still hang out at the old campground, you know.’

  ‘On a school night?’

  ‘The wayward kids, yeah. We used to.’

  ‘You used to. I was long gone by then.’

  He filled a mug with tea, doused the weak brew with milk, tossed back the scalding liquid like a whiskey shot, and then winced. ‘I’m sure she’s home by now. Sleeping off a raging hangover.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Dunc. We searched all around, but there was no sign of her. I stayed after the ambos went. Walked down to the gorge then doubled back along the hill. She was just gone.’

  Duncan seemed fascinated by his empty mug. ‘Be careful, okay? Going out there alone every morning isn’t safe.’

  I glared at him. ‘Really? Because I’m a woman and it’s universally accepted that I’m a victim? Why is it always our fault when something happens to us? Maybe men and boys should just respect us, instead of everyone dumping all the responsibility on our heads.’

  ‘Jeez, Abby. You’re right, of course you’re right. But people are talking.’

  I folded my arms. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That you might have just got spooked. Thought you saw something and wigged out. You know. After what happened.’

  ‘I didn’t wig out.’

  ‘Yeah, sis. I get that. But—’

  ‘I know what I saw.’

  Duncan sighed, and pointed at the parcel still clutched in my hands. ‘You gonna open that, or what?’

  I tore off the paper. Inside was a framed photo of us as kids. I would have been ten, Duncan six or seven. We were standing with our parents at one of Deepwater’s lesser known lookouts, high above the river. The gorge yawned behind us, the distant blue-green hills lost in a haze of afternoon light. Mum had her arm around Duncan while Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder. Our battered picnic basket sat on the ground at our feet like a faithful old dog. The picture brought a lump to my throat.

  ‘Where’d you find it?’

  ‘On Dad’s lounge room wall.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Since our father’s funeral five months ago, Duncan had been clearing out the old house and it was taking forever. I didn’t offer to help, and Duncan didn’t ask. But he’d been bringing me little gifts every week, things Dad had hoarded for years that my brother, God love him, thought I might like. Dad’s compass, a battered copy of Great Expectations. Even a bunch of love letters Mum had sent in the early days. I’d burned those.

  Duncan nudged my shoulder. ‘Cool picture, isn’t it?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Dad would have wanted you to have it.’

  I thrust the photo at my brother. ‘I dunno, Dunc. Why don’t you keep it.’

  He tucked his hands behind his back and stepped away. ‘I’ve got others. That one’s special. Check out your big smile. You used to live for our camping trips.’

  Familiar faces grinned back at me from the photo, the faces of people I recognised, yet felt I didn’t know any more. We all looked so happy. And in light of what happened afterwards, it all seemed wrong.

  Bundling the picture back into the paper, I went over to the bin and dropped it in.

  ‘Nostalgia’s overrated,’ I said with more swagger than I felt. ‘The last thing I want is a reminder of how royally Mum screwed everything up.’

  ‘Jeez, Ab.’ Duncan walked over and stared down into the bin. ‘There was a time when the four of us were happy together.’

  I busied myself at the sink, rinsing my brother’s empty mug under the tap, upending it in the drainer, tipping tea leaves from the pot into the compost pail. ‘Yeah, Dunc. Until Dad started on the grog and Mum decided she didn’t love him any more. Or love us.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘It’s true, though.’

  ‘Of course she loved us. We were just too young to see how things really were between them. It can’t have been easy for her. Dad was such a pisshead.’

  ‘He wasn’t always.’

  ‘I know you think she drove him to it, but you’re wrong. Dad’s brothers were all drinkers. He had booze in his blood.’

  ‘Mum broke his heart.’

  He shrugged. ‘Why can’t you remember how great things used to be? Mum was fun when we were little. You know, before it all went belly-up.’

  I dried my hands on a tea towel, ignoring the tremor in my fingers. Duncan was wrong. How could I remember the good times, when they were so darkly overshadowed by the bad?

  ‘She abandoned us, Dunc. You and me. Dad. Do you ever think how things might have been if she’d bothered to hang around till we grew up?’

  Duncan drew his lips against his teeth. ‘You still blame her, don’t you? For what happened to you at the gorge.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. You think that if Mum had stayed around, then you wouldn’t have been at the reserve that day. That’s what drives you out there every morning, pounding the track, looking for answers. Looking fo
r something that might or might not exist.’

  ‘It does exist.’ I lowered my voice. ‘At least, it did once.’

  Duncan shook his head. ‘You need to move on, sis. From all of it. Stop living in the past and start enjoying the now. Life’s too short to spend every moment obsessing over ancient history. It’s just making you miserable.’

  Grabbing my brother’s wiry arm, I steered him out of the kitchen and through the front door. ‘Thanks for the pep talk, but if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to get on with. And Dunc? I need a favour.’

  He shrugged me off then considered me with narrowed eyes. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ask around at the hospital. See if any teenage girls come in over the next few days with head injuries or concussion.’

  ‘If you promise to do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay away from that horrible place.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Seriously, Abby. What are your chances of finding it after all this time?’

  ‘Probably zero. But I have to keep trying.’

  ‘And if you do find it . . . what then?’

  I shuffled my feet and looked at my brother. I wanted to tell him that finding the place would change everything. Change me back to the girl I’d been before. Before the nightmares and moodiness, the crippling anxiety. Before the darkness had swallowed me whole and trapped me without hope of escape. Even now I could taste the foetid air, feel the cold dampness on my skin. Twenty years on, the place was still so clear in my mind. But only from the inside. In reality, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I’d probably walk right past it, if I hadn’t already.

  I sighed. ‘I have to try.’

  Duncan leaned in and kissed my cheek. ‘Just be careful, okay?’

  He climbed astride his bicycle and waved to me as he coasted down the hill in the direction of town.

  I stomped my bare feet on the steps, frowning after him. Neighbouring cottages along my street huddled behind pine-tree hedges, their chimneys trailing wisps of smoke. The sky was cloudless blue and the day promised warmth, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Retreating inside, I shut the door and wilted back against it. My legs were too rubbery to stand so I slid to the floor and rested my head on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.