Jellicoe Road (16 page)

I turn my attention to the two newspaper articles. One is small and looks older than the other. It’s about the disappearance of Xavier Webster Schroeder. Just fifty words or so. Is that all he was worth? When I think of the screaming headlines of the teenagers who have gone missing over the years, I can’t help wondering how many words they would spend on me if I disappeared. It mentions the Jellicoe School and calls for any information to be forwarded to the police station and I’m not surprised to see the Santangelo name there, back when Chaz’s dad was a constable. I pick up the second article but can hardly read the print. It’s as if the words have faded with too much sun, but the photo and the headline are clear and they send a chill right through me. Because
looking straight at me, thinner in the face, younger by almost ten years, is the Brigadier. But it’s not the photograph that shatters me the most. It’s the headline above it.
KIDNAPPING CHARGES DROPPED.
I feel woozy and nauseous and for the first time in four weeks I accept the fact that Chloe P. and Jessa might be right about the Brigadier and that I may never
ever
see Hannah again. I feel a sob rising in my throat, but suddenly a hand is placed over my mouth.

“Are you insane?” Griggs whispers in my ear. When he feels me relax, he lets go and I pull away. I put everything back in the box and pick it up, ignoring him.

“You can’t take that,” he whispers loudly, turning me to face him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in clothes other than his fatigues. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a long-sleeved South Sydney football T-shirt. He looks exactly how I feel. Like shit.

“It’s mine,” I manage to say.

“Why would the Brigadier have what’s yours?”

“Because it’s Hannah’s.”

“Then it’s not yours.”

“Well, it’s not his,” I say as forcefully as I can but I feel sick at heart. I take a few deep breaths, still
clutching the box and the manuscript. “I need to go,” I say, turning off the flashlight. He tries to take my hand.

“Don’t,” he says.

But I pull free again. “I need to go, Jonah.”

“They must have a history, Taylor. It has nothing to do with you.”

I switch the flashlight back on angrily and thrust the box in his hand, pulling out a photo and holding it up to his face.

“Would you say this has something to do with me?”

He puts down the box and takes the photograph out of my hand, looking at it carefully. All of a sudden I see the look on his face that says it’s not so simple anymore.

“What if I told you that I think the Brigadier is the serial killer and Hannah knew and he’s done something to her?”

“Jesus, Taylor! Please don’t be crazy.”

“Maybe I am,” I say, nodding, and I’m trying so hard not to cry but my voice keeps cracking. “What if I told you that some kid who looks exactly like me is probably my father and probably dead and I think
he comes visiting me at night and I’m going crazy because he’s trying to tell me that something bad is going to happen.”

I grab the photo out of his hand. “What if I told you that from when this photo was taken until I was ten years old I didn’t exist? There is no proof of my existence. I didn’t even go to school, so no school records, no school friends.”

“You have a mother.”

“Just say I made her up? Just say she doesn’t exist, either? Where’s the proof? Where’s my birth certificate? Where’s my father? Where’s Hannah?”

I try to control myself, attempting to concentrate on something else. A thought occurs to me and I move away, yanking open the other drawers of the desk. “I bet I know his writing,” I say, throwing things out of the way. Griggs grabs hold of me and I pull away but I fall back against the chair and it tumbles, making a crashing sound and the manuscript and the box go flying. He grabs me again, pushing me against the table, trying to keep me still and I try to break free, but his grip is hurting me and his face is so close to mine that it’s like he can see inside my soul.

“What if I told you that if you took me to that train right now, I’d throw myself in front of it without a moment’s hesitation?” I whisper. “I swear to God I would, Jonah.”

Santangelo pokes his head through the flaps.

“Get out!” Griggs says forcefully, not looking away from me.

“Let go of her, Griggs.”

“I said get the fuck out!”

“You’ve got one minute and I’m taking her with me,” Santangelo says just as forcefully.

I’m shaking so hard and it feels like I’ll never be able to stop.

“Please don’t be crazy, Taylor,” Griggs whispers, leaning his head against mine. “Please don’t be crazy.” He kisses me, holding my face between his hands, whispering over and over again, “
Please
.”

It’s the pleading in his voice that calms my heart rate.

“Will you listen to me?” I whisper.

He gently pushes the hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ears and then he nods.

“I think he did something to my father and Hannah knew stuff about him and now she’s gone,”
I try to explain. “Remember when he picked us up in Yass and the same day those kids disappeared? Do you think it’s a coincidence he was in that town on the same day?”

“I was with him all night after we dropped you off. He drove me back to Sydney.”

“They could have been taken in the morning. Who knows how long he was out there before he caught up with us in the mailman’s van?”

“Taylor, he’s sat at my table and eaten with my family, in my home.”

“Your father was in your home and he ate at your table and he was your biggest threat.”

He is silent for a moment. “There are no similarities between my father and the Brigadier,” he says at last.

“I bet if I found his handwriting in this room it would be the same as the writing on Hannah’s note.”

“That only proves he’s a friend of Hannah’s.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s not. I remember the one time he was around her. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. He was all rigid and something else, like he knew that she was on to him.”

“Maybe they’ve got a…thing going. You’ve only seen them together once. Maybe they see each other when you’re not around. Sometimes he’s come to my house after being ‘out bush’ as he calls it. He’s more relaxed. Like someone’s calmed him down. Just say this place is ‘out bush’?”

“Is he relaxed out here with you guys?”

“No. Do you know who he reminds me of? You. Distracted and lost and whatever else. Has it occurred to you that the reason you both keep on meeting each other around Hannah’s house might be because you are both desperately missing the same person?”

I shake my head. “Why wouldn’t she have told me?”

“The same reason she hasn’t told you anything else. Maybe she promised someone she wouldn’t. I was there when they returned you to her that day, Taylor. She was crazy. I’ve seen that craziness on my mother’s face when she thinks something’s happened to me or my brother. You and Hannah are connected big-time in some way.”

“I’ve just found out that she’s my father’s sister. I think I’m all she has left. But I’ll never understand
why she wouldn’t tell me.”

“Knowing what you’ve told me about her, there would have to be a good explanation.”

I show him the newspaper article about the Brigadier. “Can you explain this?”

He takes a moment to read it. “No, but if I told you what the headlines were the day after my father died, would you think I was a murderer?”

Santangelo looks in again. “Let’s go, Taylor.”

I look at him and nod and he doesn’t move.

“Can we have a bit of privacy?” Griggs asks him, seething.

“Why? So you can make her go crazy?”

“Who was the dickhead who let her break in here tonight? Don’t think for one moment that I’ve forgotten that!”

Raffy pushes Santangelo out of the way and pokes her head in. “Someone is out here,” she hisses, “so can you both tone down the testosterone levels.”

I look up at Griggs and disentangle myself from his grip. “I’ve got to go,” I say, picking up the manuscript and the box from the floor and trying to grab as much of the stuff that fell out as possible. Under the table in the corner, out of my reach, I can see
some photos and I stretch to get them but Raffy is urgently beckoning to me and I can’t quite reach.

As I turn to leave, Griggs catches me by the arm. “You’ve always had it wrong about that day,” he whispers. “I had never seen the Brigadier before. He didn’t come looking for me, Taylor. He came looking for you.”

The next morning, Jessa comes into my room and climbs into bed next to me.

“It was on the news,” she whispers. “Two kids from Mittagong have gone missing.” She’s shaking hard so I hold on to her until I feel her heart stop racing and tell her the story of the boy on the stolen bike who saved the lives of those kids on the Jellicoe Road and became our hero.

I go to see Santangelo’s dad at the police station. He’s working with his head down and when he looks up, he is startled for a moment, like he’s seen a ghost.

“Who do I remind you of?” I ask quietly.

He grimaces, as though he regrets me seeing that look.

“Narnie Schroeder,” he says with a sigh.

“Why did they call her Narnie?”

He walks to the counter and leans forward. I like his face. I trust it.

“She told me once it was what her brother called her when they were toddlers. Couldn’t say Hannah; somehow it ended up being Narnie.”

I nod.

“What can I do for you, Taylor?” he asks, like he’s dreading the answer.

What can he do for me? He can tell me everything he knows.

“I know you’re not going to tell me where Hannah is because she’s probably made you promise not to, so I’m going to make this easy for you. I want to make contact with Fitz and I know you would know where he is.”

He’s shaking his head. The grimace is back but there is even more emotion.

“Please,” I say. “I just want to see him. I need to. Because I’ve worked out that my father is dead and Fitz knew him and Fitz would be here because he was a Townie and I want to know someone who knew my father. Is that so much to ask?”

“I can’t do that, Taylor.”

“Why
?” I say, and I realise that I’m close to tears. “Just give me
one
reason.”

He pauses for a moment and I realise that the tears aren’t just in my eyes.

“Because Fitz is dead.” Nothing comes out of my mouth but a shaky breath. I feel gutted, but these days that’s pretty normal.

“How?” I ask when I find my voice.

He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t because you don’t know?”

“Why don’t I call Raffy’s mum and she’ll come and get you?” he says, and I know he’s not going to give me the answers I need.

“Because I don’t want you to call Raffy’s mum. I want you to call my mum and I know you can do that through Hannah. But you can’t, or won’t, or would love to but not today, thank you very much. Not a good day to hand out information.”

He reaches over and touches my hand and I recoil. I’m embarrassed by my reaction but I keep my distance all the same.

“I promise you this, Taylor. Hannah’s coming back. Hannah will always come back for you. You are everything to her and Jude.”

Jude
. Jude’s alive. I feel relief for the first time in ages. Narnie’s alive as well.

“And Tate?”

He hesitates for a moment and then nods and for the time being that has to be enough.

I hear him dial the phone and I know he’s calling someone to come and get me so I turn to leave but then I see a poster on the wall. It’s old—I can tell by the edges—and it’s drawn by a child. Or chil
dren. There are two names at the bottom.
CHAZ AND RAFFY, 5 YEARS OLD, ST. FRANCIS PRIMARY, JELLICOE
. They drew trees, big ones, filled with animals and bird life. So full of colour and imagination and love for this place. I’ve seen this drawing before. My memory is like Hannah’s manuscript—distorted and out of sequence—but instantly I know that years before my mother dumped me on the Jellicoe Road, I had been in this police station.

Narnie and Jude sat side by side watching the police divers.

It was a week since Webb had disappeared and suddenly the focus was on dragging the river. Even the press were there and throughout the day Jude tried to get close to the action, if only to catch a word or glimpse of something constructive he could bring back to Narnie.

“Keep her away,” the young constable advised quietly. “You don’t want her around if we find him.”

“What makes you think you’re going to find him here?”

“Take her home, Jude.”

But Narnie wouldn’t budge. She watched the divers move gradually down the river with a creased concentration on her face, like she was trying to work out a puzzle.

Most of the time, though, they watched Fitz. He kept climbing a tree to the very top branch and throwing himself into the river. Then he’d swim to the surface and make his way up the tree again.

Once Jude thought he saw Fitz watching them from behind the branches and for the first time all day, he left Narnie and made his way up. Climbing had always been Webb’s forte, and both Webb and Fitz could do it with an agility that Jude lacked. By the time he heaved himself onto the branch at the top, the sound of his breathing was only surpassed by the sound of Fitz’s sobbing.

“Fitz? Mate, come out. Narnie and Tate need you.”

There was no answer, just a muffled sound like Fitz was forcing a fist into his mouth to stop himself crying.

“Come on, Fitz.” Jude straddled the branch and moved in closer until he was able to see through to where Fitz was crouched.

But the Fitz in front of him was almost a stranger—caked in mud, his hair matted with debris, his face streaked with dirt and grime.

“Fitz,” Jude whispered. “Where have you been? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Fitz stood up on the branch and looked at Jude through bloodshot eyes. Barely balancing, he leaned towards him.

“Listen to the sound, Jude,” he said in a hushed voice. “Listen.”

And he threw himself over the side. Jude watched as Narnie waited below, like she did every time, for Fitz’s head to emerge from the water. When Fitz reached the bank, he looked up to where Jude still sat.

“Did you hear that, Jude? Did you?” he called out.

Jude looked down at Narnie again, who was now standing, waiting for what would come next.

“Did I hear what, Fitz?” he called back, confused. To his dismay Fitz began climbing the tree again.

“No. Stay down there, Fitz!”

But Fitz was back up on the branch with Jude. There was blood on his forehead from where he had hit the riverbed.

“I went back,” Fitz whispered. “I went back, Jude.”

“Back where?”

“For the fifth tin,” he answered. “The one I missed. Ping Ping Ping Ping. Remember I missed the fifth tin?” Fitz laughed. His normal crazy laugh. “That’s almost a rhyme.”

Jude’s blood went cold. “What are you saying, Fitz?”

“And when I walked away, I heard something hit the water and I thought I must have killed a fucker of a bird. I looked but I couldn’t see anything.”

“Fitz? What are you saying?”

“Do you want to hear the sound it made?”

Jude lunged, trying to grab him before he went over again, but it was too late. He looked at Narnie, still staring up at him, and started to make his way down the tree.

“When is he going to stop?” Narnie asked quietly after he had sat with her for a while.

Jude didn’t answer.

“Fix things, Jude. Tell him to stop,” Narnie implored.

“I can’t. Let’s go home, Narnie.”

But Narnie shook her head. “I don’t have a home.”

So they stayed. Long after the police divers had gone. Long after the photographers had packed up and disappeared. Long after the Cadets and Townies and Jellicoe kids had headed home.

Watching Fitz. Jump from the top branch. Wade to the bank. Climb up the tree. Jump from the branch. Over and over again. Ten times, fifteen times, his grunts and sobs as he pulled himself out of the water were unbearable. Then Jude realised that he was himself crying and the pain of it was like nothing he had ever experienced. But then Narnie stood and made her way into the river, wading towards Fitz lying exhausted in the shallows. She pulled at his wet clothing with all her strength, the bulk of him hard for her to manage. Then Jude was beside her, dragging them both onto the bank, where Narnie cradled Fitz in her arms, rocking.

“Shhh, Fitz. Shhh.”

He shivered uncontrollably, but Narnie held him close.

“Narnie,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, Fitz.”

“Forgive me, please. Please. Please. Please. Please.” The words were pouring out of him, soaked with tears and phlegm and spit and blood, as she continued rocking him, while Jude held onto them both.

And at that moment Jude thought something that he would never forgive himself for.

He wished that he had never met any of them.

When I was fourteen years old, I met the Hermit who lived at the edge of the property at the end of the Jellicoe Road. Before I met him, I sensed him, watching. Sometimes I’d call out, but nobody would answer. But on this day, there he was. When I looked into his eyes I saw genuine love. Not guarded love like Hannah’s or crazy erratic love like my mother’s. I saw the real thing. I don’t know why I felt no fear. Maybe he reminded me of the illustrations of Jesus Christ from Raffy’s bible.

I sat with him and he showed me how to make a placemat out of thistles. We let the thistles prick our fingers to make them bleed because they made us feel alive.

Then we spoke about our dreams and how we
always felt safe in them, no matter how bad everything else seemed. He told me it was one of the best days of his life and then he took out his gun. A .22 rifle. And he leaned forward and whispered, “Forgive me, Taylor Markham.” Before I could ask him how he knew my name and what I was to forgive him for he said, “Take care of my little girl.”

And then he told me to close my eyes.

And I think I’ve been frightened to do just that ever since.