Rosa and Mariel walked ahead of us and in front of them, Con and Kevin, walking with the aid of branches, stopping to look in drains and behind large boulders that were submerged at high tide.
âYou're coping well,' Dad said to me, quite casually.
âWe'll find them,' I replied, watching where I was stepping, feeling the cold mud that had come up over the top of the boot. âMaybe not here, but . . .'
âMaybe not at all,' Dad said.
I was quiet for a few moments. âI know that too.'
âYou know how these things go. You've heard enough of what I've told Mum. Sometimes things happen, nasty things. And what I'm saying is . . .'
âI know.'
âCan you imagine how worried me and Mum would be, if it was you?'
âI'd be okay.'
Silence. Dad messed my hair. âMaybe you would be.'
âIt doesn't matter. We'll find them.'
Dad knew there was no more he could say. Sometimes you just had to wait for the storm to pass before you could work out where to start cleaning it up. âI called about that rego number,' he said. âWe'll know later. You haven't thought of anything else that might help? Anything? Someone acting strange?'
I thought of Doctor Gunn, his jackal head growing bigger by the minute. I knew I should say something, but couldn't. Couldn't tell Dad what had gone on in the library, or how Doctor Gunn had seemed so interested in Janice on the afternoon of our cricket match. But I felt I'd have to say something soon. I was worried that it might be important, the very thing Dad needed to know. And what if something happened to the Rileys, and the doctor was responsible, and it turned out I could've helped them? Me, Constable Page, the investigating detective . . .
Instead, my thoughts turned to Kevin Johns. I watched him trying to lift his legs, and wondered about the afternoon I'd gone to his house to tell Janice about Himmler the air-conditioner man. âI don't think it's anything,' I said to Dad, âbut that day we had our air-conditioner installed, when was that?'
âI can't remember, why?'
âJanice had slept over at the Johns'.'
Dad looked ahead, at Kevin Johns, dressed in football shorts, T-shirt and police boots; at his legs, white and marbled, hairless, although why anyone would shave their legs . . . at his short fat neck, joining his head to his body like an O-ring, his greying hair, shaved close up the sides of his head, fat arms poking out of his body like chicken wings, his drooping shoulders and sagging belly.
âI went looking for her,' I continued, âand when I went to Mariel's house, it was just him and Janice.'
Dad looked at me. âWhat do you mean?'
âStanding at the door. He was behind her, with his hands on her shoulders, sort of, massaging her.'
Dad looked at Kevin again. He noticed the bandage, still on his arm, and wondered. âAnd how did Janice seem?' he asked.
âQuiet. She didn't say much.'
âWhere was Mariel?'
âIn bed. I can't remember.'
Dad bent over and picked up a pair of swimming goggles. He tried the rubber strap and it broke. âIt doesn't sound like Janice.'
âAnd she didn't move. Just stood there, letting him do it. Which is funny, cos she wouldn't let me touch her. And she hardly knows him.'
Dad lifted his leg and it pulled out of the boot. He slipped his foot back in, grasped the boot and pulled it free. âWhat else do you know about Kevin Johns?' he asked.
âNothing. Except, he coaches the basketball team.'
âAt school?'
âYes, they used to play Tuesday night and train on Friday.'
âYou watched them?'
âA few times. Janice and Mariel did most of the work. The others just stood there.'
I could remember Kevin Johns walking around the court, showing them where they should be and who they should be watching, clapping his hands and whistling when they scored, quietly waiting and watching between plays.
âI know they all went to Mariel's place a few times. For their break-up, I think.'
âAnd Janice never said anything else about him?'
âNo.'
âCome on.' Dad ploughed through the mud at top speed and I followed him. Soon we'd caught up with Mariel and Rosa and Dad asked, âHow are you managing, ladies?'
The suck of mud was enough of an answer. The clouds were starting to break up and the sun was warming our swamp. Rosa held a handkerchief under her nose as methane and carbon dioxide bubbled up through the silt. My clothes were damp and mud had dried birdshit-white on my legs.
Dad looked at Mariel. âHenry says you play basketball with Janice.'
âShe's our goalie.'
âAnd your dad is the coach?'
âSort of. He just gets us organised. He doesn't know much about basketball.'
âWhat I was wondering, Mariel, is if there's anything you could tell us, anything that might help us explain . . . what I mean is, something Janice said, or did, or somewhere she was planning to go â a friend's place?'
Mariel pressed her tongue against her cheek as she thought. âYou know she asked me to go?'
âTo the beach?'
âYes. I rode past them when they were walking to the station. She wanted me to come but I wasn't allowed.'
âWho did you ask?'
âI went home and asked Dad. Then I rode back to the station to tell her.'
âThey were waiting for the train?'
âThey were just getting on.'
âThe Semaphore train?'
âYes.'
We walked on silently for a few moments. Bert waved from the other side of the river and called out, âAnything?'
âNo,' Dad shouted back.
Bill was walking ahead by himself, Liz and Mum following a few feet behind, talking, as Bert brought up the rear. I don't think anyone expected to find anything. What would they be doing here? There were better places to go, or be taken. Secret places. Scrub, only an hour from town, that stretched out to the horizon. A Coober Pedy mineshaft. A shack within hearing distance of the Peterborough express. But still we searched. What was the alternative? Sitting at home and thinking the same thoughts a thousand times?
âHow was your break-up?' Dad asked Mariel, slyly.
âWe had a pyjama party,' she replied. âOur team came last, but Dad said that didn't matter. He cooked a barbecue and bought a crate of Coke. Then we stayed up watching . . .' She clicked her fingers.
â
77 Sunset Strip
,' I said.
âThat's it.'
Dad trudged ahead again. He caught up with Con and Kevin and I arrived just in time to hear him ask, âKev, hear you're a half-decent basketball coach?'
Kevin Johns smiled. âThere's worse, I suppose. You gotta keep 'em running, Bob.'
âAnd Janice, she enjoys her sport?'
He looked at Dad, unsure, and then replied, âHer and Mariel are the only decent players. She doesn't hold back.'
âNo, that's Janice. Gives her all, eh?'
âShe does.'
âHer and Mariel are best friends?'
âMariel's got lots of friends. There's always kids in and out of our house.'
âReally?'
Kevin stopped. He didn't know why Dad was asking so many questions. At last he said, âDo you think I can help you, Bob?'
Dad shrugged. âNo. Mariel said she hadn't seen Janice for days before they . . . disappeared.'
Kevin stared at him. âWell, like I said, she's got lots of friends.' He spat dirt from his mouth and wiped his lips on his sleeve. âIt beggars belief, doesn't it? How they could just vanish? They'll have to turn up somewhere though, eh?'
Dad didn't answer. He was staring at Kevin. I watched him, and wondered what he was thinking; how he'd learnt to work people out, to pick their minds without them knowing, to set traps, to stand back and let them stumble in. And then to work out whether it was all just in his own head, or a child's imagination, or a set of circumstances that made things look worse than they really were.
âI wonder why they didn't ask any of their friends to go with them?' Dad asked. âMariel would've loved to go.'
âThey asked me,' I added, thinking I was helping Dad's story.
âWho knows?' Kevin sighed.
âI suppose they were in a rush,' Dad guessed.
âShe was a good goalie,' Kevin explained, looking at Dad. âShe is.'
âShe is,' Dad agreed.
Janice had told me about their break-up. About eight girls sitting in their pyjamas on the lounge-room floor, and Kevin, hunched over the dining-room table, soldering wires onto flashlight contacts, watching them, laughing, smiling, referring to everyone as âlove' and making popcorn. And, I suppose, helping them with their sleeping bags, packing day clothes into their duffle bags and lending them his wife's hair ties. Helping them to brush out knots.
âMariel did see them,' Con said, out of the blue.
âWhen?' Dad asked.
âShe came riding up onto the platform. She talked to them as they were getting on the train.'
âWell there you go.'
Dad smiled at him. âWell.' He turned around and called to Mariel. âYou saw them when they were getting on the train?' he asked.
âYes,' she called. âI had to tell them that Dad wouldn't let me go.'
âWhere?' Kevin barked, suddenly indignant.
âTo Semaphore.'
Kevin looked at Dad. âI can't remember that.' And then called back to his daughter. âMaybe it was your mother.'
âIt was you.'
âWell, maybe my mind was on the cricket . . .'
âShe was the only one on the platform,' Con added. âExcept Doctor Gunn. He was standing out the front of his shop. He might have waved to them, or said something. But that's not much help, is it?'
âNever know,' Dad replied. âI'll talk to him. They might have said something.'
I looked down at the mud as I walked. I could've sunk into it, slowly, without a word. That's what I should do, I thought.
âDid Doctor Gunn know Janice?' Dad asked me, and suddenly I was the suspect, being out-talked and outmanoeuvred by my own father.
âYes,' I replied. âBut not very well.'
A glimpse of Janice's batting style, Gavin sulking on the gutter, Anna in the outfield.
âIt doesn't really matter,' Dad added. âWe know for a fact that they got on the Semaphore train, eh, Con?'
âAt 9.05.'
âWe need to know what happened later, don't we, Kev?'
Kevin tried to smile. âThat's the hard part, I reckon.'
âExactly. The hard part.' Dad looked at Kevin and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that could be taken a dozen different ways. Kevin kept trudging, his head down. âWe're nearly at the flour mill.'
âMaybe the river wasn't a good idea,' Dad said.
I was silent, imagining my photo stuck to a blackboard in Jim Clarke's caravan, with the words scribbled underneath, âWorking with George Gunn'. With a photo of the doctor beside me. And Kevin. And the man in the blue bathers.
On the opposite bank, which was harder, more like soil mixed with shell-grit and sprinkled with crumbled concrete from piers and demolished factories, homes and hotels, Bill continued alone, his head down, mumbling to himself. He held a length of wire that he used to pick up broken objects. He found a leather-bound book, in good condition. He knelt down and leafed through a few damp pages. There was an abstract, and graphs, and tables of figures, but nothing that could help him find his children.
He continued.
âBill, slow down,' Liz called.
âCome on,' he replied. âIf we finish here, there are other places.'
âBill . . .'
âIt's not a bloody picnic.'
Bill remembered driving back to Adelaide. He was holding his steering wheel in the ten-to-two position. It was a thin, hard ring of plastic, sculpted to fit his fingers, but sweaty and slippery when it was hot. Where are they now? he was wondering. Lost, dead? He could hear Janice screaming out for him. He could see her, staring into a stranger's eyes, trying to work out what he was thinking, or what he was about to do.
Another twenty miles to Port Wakefield, he thought.
âBill,' Mum called. âWe can't keep up with you.'
âI shouldn't have gone,' he replied.
Mum looked at Liz.
Bill loosened his tie as he drove. He was still in his suit, and hot. He felt his shirt sticking to his body and he could smell himself. He fiddled with the radio but there was no signal. Paddocks of stubble rolled on endlessly towards the sea. There were silos pinned down along service roads and old, deserted homesteads surrounded by pine trees and rusted machinery. He saw a farmer repairing a fence and a boy unloading pig rations in front of a shed. But mostly just emptiness. Emptiness that wouldn't buy linen, no matter the discount.