Game Theory (21 page)

‘Jamie, I just need a statement from you . . .'

‘Don't call this number again,' I said. ‘Please.' I hung up, but almost immediately it rang once more. I moved a few paces closer to out-and-out terror. How could I not answer my phone? Even
if there was only a one per cent chance it was the call we were waiting for? I put it into my pocket but its vibration against my leg was indistinguishable from agony.

Then I heard voices from the front room. Mum had flung open the door and admitted a blaze of light. I caught sight of a group of people but they were silhouettes against a backdrop of car headlights. A dozen voices were speaking at once. I went to join her.

‘Mrs Delaware. I'm sorry to disturb you but . . .'

‘Do you have a statement to make, Mrs Delaware . . .?'

‘Jamie, is there any news of your sister . . .?'

‘Ms Delaware, have you heard from the kidnapper yet . . .?'

Mum and I stood shoulder to shoulder, too stunned to say anything, washed in light and a babble of words. My phone continued to ring. Finally, Mum raised her arms and the voices immediately stopped. I caught a glimpse of microphones being thrust forward. A few flashes popped and Mum flinched as if wounded.

‘I have nothing to say,' said Mum. ‘There is no news. But I would ask you to give us privacy. As you can imagine, this is a difficult time.' I was staggered by her understatement and also impressed at her self-control. I'd expected her to explode like one of those flashes. ‘In particular,' she continued, ‘I would ask you please, do not ring our phone numbers. When we're ready to make a statement then we will do so through the police. Thank you.'

She made to close the door, but the questions redoubled in volume.

‘So are you saying there's been no contact with the kidnapper yet, Mrs Delaware . . .?'

‘Jamie, Jamie . . . you were there when she was taken. Can you . . .?'

Dad pushed his way past us. Even out of the corner of my eye I could see his face was flushed an angry dark. It occurred to me that his chest pains could be a symptom of something really wrong – that there might be a bomb inside his chest that was ticking. Then again, the whole family was surrounded by ticking bombs.

‘Have you people no shame?' he yelled. ‘What part of “we have nothing to say” don't you understand? Now piss off, the lot of you. You are trespassing and I'm calling the police.'

He slammed the door so hard the glass in one of the panels cracked. A young reporter at the front nearly got her fingers trapped between the door and the frame and I was almost disappointed she didn't. Judging by his expression, Dad felt the same. But it worked. There was a murmur of conversation and then the sound of people retreating down the path. I moved to the curtains and peered through. Some of the reporters got into cars and drove off. Others milled around on the street, just outside the boundaries of our property. Someone handed round cardboard cups of coffee. A young woman started preparing for a television report. A colleague set up a floodlight and someone
else unloaded a camera from the rear of a van. I let the curtains fall.

‘They could be here for the long term,' I said.

At least my phone was silent.

Mum rang Gardner, and he assured us we wouldn't receive any more calls from the press.
Not on my mobile, at least. He was sorry the news had leaked, but he told Mum that it had only been a matter of time, anyway. This wasn't the kind of thing you could keep quiet for long. And maybe it wasn't such a bad development. News coverage was an effective way to gather information from the public. More people would come forward.

Gardner sent a policeman round to guard our door and we returned to what had become our normal state of affairs, sitting or pacing in the front room, the television silent. One part of me wanted to check out the news, but I didn't think any of us could bear it. Now that it was doubtless on television, I guessed it would be sensible to use social media – at least we might have some control over that – but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The thought of Phoebe's face shared on strangers' Facebook pages, mingling with inspirational quotations and videos of cute cats made me feel sick.

It was close to two in the morning when the three of us started to talk. Mum had finally stopped pacing and sat next to Dad on the couch. He hadn't said anything since his outburst to the reporters, but his face had regained a colour bordering on
normal, and his breathing was regular. I sat on the rug in front of the blank TV screen, facing them.

‘Do you remember when she was born, Jamie?' said Mum.

I thought. To be honest, most of it was lost now. I had been nine years old and I could recall the sense of excitement, but few of the details. Going into the hospital and seeing Phoebe for the first time. I remembered that. She was so tiny, with this faint covering of hair, like the fuzz on a peach. I remembered putting my little finger into her hand and feeling her clasp down on it. That was special. Some of the early stuff, too, when she was a baby. Most of it seemed to involve her crying at all hours of the day and night. Poo figured prominently, as well. I guess I only paid attention when she became a human being, when I could recognise the dawning of her personality. When she became . . . Phoebe. When I became something more to her than a shadowy presence and she started to love me. All of those sensations, feelings and memories came back and I had to clamp my jaws together not to cry out.

Mum's question, it turned out, was rhetorical. She started talking. The little details that I'd never learned or paid attention to. The influenza when she was three. The time she had turned blue and had to be rushed to the hospital. No one knew what had caused that, but it made Mum and Dad paranoid. Dad smiled when she said that.

‘You didn't sleep for months,' he said to Mum.

‘Neither did you,' she replied. ‘Not really. We took it in turns, Jamie. I'd grab a nap when I could and your dad would do the
same. We felt that if we took our eyes off her she'd stop breathing.' ‘Remember her first day at school, hon?' said Dad. ‘I couldn't bear it. She was so tiny and it was like we were giving her up, putting her into the system, you know? A system that would swallow her and we'd never get her back. Not the same child, anyway.'

‘I came home and sobbed for three straight hours.' Mum slipped her hand into Dad's. ‘You cried for four, I seem to remember.'

I smiled as they shared their memories. They became lost in the moments, living them again. The fear and the joy. Mum and Dad talked for twenty minutes, holding each other's hand. There had been no time to consider this, but I suddenly knew their marriage was in danger, that in enduring this they had been split apart, each of them locked into their own individual pain. Now, sharing the past, they were happy and together, but I knew the present was lying in wait, and suffering was only one word away. The word was ‘Jamie'. I had lost my sister. I was responsible for all this.

‘Do you think he will kill her, Jamie?' Dad said.

I glanced at Mum. She didn't avoid my eyes. The expression of a thought we all harboured wasn't terrible, she seemed to be saying; in some ways, it was a relief. My brain instinctively phrased a lie, but I stopped myself in time. Mum and Dad deserved better than a trite reply. It wouldn't have fooled them anyway.

‘I don't know,' I said.

They both nodded as if my comment was an echo of their own thoughts.

‘If he does,' Mum said after a moment, ‘I will find him and I will kill him. I will tear his heart out with my bare hands. That is a promise.' I knew she would. The truth was embedded in her tone. Quiet, almost matter-of-fact. Under other circumstances I would have found it chilling. Dad smiled after she said it.

‘You'd both have to get behind me in the queue,' I said.

Mum nodded. A few minutes later their hands had slipped apart and they stared past me at the wall, each retreated into a private space where I couldn't follow.

No one said anything else.

At three in the morning I shimmied down the drainpipe outside my bedroom window.
Dad had gone to bed just after two, but it was unlikely he was going to find sleep. I think he wanted a physical space to match his mental space. A place where he could explore Phoebe's life without distractions.

I understood. Our house seemed steeped in desolation. The silence was filled with an unbearable longing, but there were also echoes of other emotions if you listened closely: fear, obviously; anger, without doubt. And there, far in the background, that faint tinnitus of recrimination. I wasn't sure who created it. Maybe it was only me, but I didn't think so.

The night was cool and clear. Trees stood out in silhouette
against a milky sky. I edged my way around the side of the house and looked towards the street. Most of the reporters had gone home but there were still a few cars parked outside, and I could see the shadows of people in them. Through the passenger window of one I caught the glow of a cigarette butt. A wisp of smoke coiled from the partially opened window. I found it difficult to understand. Did they really expect something to happen at three in the morning? Even if it did, was it
that
important to be the first to hear or see it? Everyone, it seemed, wanted a piece of Phoebe now. She had become important. The difference between them and us was that she had always been important in our family. For them, when this was all over, she would dissolve into insignificance. They would move on to the next fleeting moment of drama. Chasing smoke.

I went into the back garden and hopped over the fence into the neighbour's property. Then I went into the next. I would have gone into the third but the fence was too high, and I couldn't remember whether or not they had a dog. If the reporters were looking anywhere it was at our property, so I slipped past the far side of the house and into the street. There were trees on the nature strip and they provided some cover. Even so, I didn't relax until I'd turned the corner of our road. I pulled out my phone and called a taxi. They had no problems picking up a lone male from the street at three in the morning. It seemed dangerous to me, but maybe I was just looking at the world differently now.
Everywhere and everyone was coloured with potential tragedy, but I guess it hadn't always seemed that way.

Summerlee's house was in darkness.
Party time was over. I rang her and she picked up on the second ring. Within two minutes I was sitting at her kitchen table, twirling the neck of a beer bottle between my finger and thumb. I didn't want a beer, but I needed something to fiddle with. Summer sat opposite, smoking with an air of desperation. She sucked the smoke into her lungs as if afraid a single tendril might escape. When she finished one cigarette, she lit another from the end and crushed the old one into an overflowing ashtray. Every movement was charged with violence and helplessness.

‘No news?' she asked. I shook my head.

‘Not from the kidnapper. But the media are onto it big time. They're camped outside our place. I guess it won't be long till they track you down here.'

‘Fuck 'em. They'll get nothing from me.'

‘How are you doing?' I asked. She tapped her cigarette hard against the side of the ashtray. There was no ash to get rid of, but she did it three times anyway.

‘I'm not stoned,' she replied. ‘And I'm not drunk.'

‘Makes a change,' I said, but I grinned slightly to show I wasn't being nasty. She didn't pay attention anyway. All of her attention was focused on the cigarette and getting rid of non-existent ash.

‘I thought being out of my head would help. You know? Deaden things. But it didn't. It just gave everything an . . . edge. I hated it. So I got straight.'

‘You feel better?'

She glanced up at me. ‘Nothing can make me feel better. Except getting Mouse back.' She welled up then, brushed impatiently at her face and lowered her eyes.

‘Summer, I . . .'

‘Do you want to hear something weird, Jamie?' She looked up again. Held my eyes, continued without waiting for a response. ‘I was thinking about old Mrs Morris, today. Remember her? That crabby old bat of an English teacher. I had her in Year Nine, I think. You had her as well.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘She could strip paint at ten metres with one glance.'

‘What a bitch,' said Summer. ‘I hated her. Then again, she hated me. Couldn't blame her, though. I was
so
rude to her. Even by my standards, I was really rude.'

I didn't say anything. Wherever Summer was going with this, I knew it was important to give her time. She lit another cigarette and coughed.

‘And I remembered something from one of our lessons. A poem. Fuck knows what it was. As you know, I never paid much attention. Especially to poetry, which seemed like the biggest waste of time in a continual waste of time. Something stuck, though.' She gave a thin smile and examined the glowing end of
her cigarette. ‘No matter how hard you try to let it all wash, some things stick. Education, huh? They screw you one way or another. Anyway, this poem. The only thing I remember was a line. Maybe it's two lines. And it goes something like, “We need to be kind to each other, while there's time”. She looked up at me and it was almost like she was pleading for something. ‘What do you think?' ‘Doesn't ring a bell,' I said.

‘“We need to be kind to each other, while there's time.” It's been going round and round in my head all day. Like a song lyric, you know? A lyric you hate, but it just keeps looping in your ears, buzzing away like an annoying insect.'

I smiled.

‘Hey,' she continued. ‘I know what you're thinking. I think it too. I'm a walking fucking cliché. Not appreciating anything until it's gone. But, I dunno, Jamie.' She ran a hand through her hair. I could see her widow's peak and it was dark where it was growing out. The old Summer was still there, but it had been bleached away. Maybe in time she could grow back.