Swimming on Dry Land by Helen Blackhurst

She hesitates before stepping forward. Her hair is all over the place, she has no make-up on, and is still in the same pale blue dress she wore yesterday and the day before; this is a woman who prides herself on her appearance. And yet she looks more beautiful than ever. I stand behind her until she finally sits.
    â€˜Eat this and then we’ll go. I’ll drive us out along the Wattle Creek road. We can use the spotlight.’
    I dish up the food and sit at the other side of the table. ‘She could turn up … anywhere.’
    Caroline pushes her plate to one side. ‘What else haven’t you told us?’
    I take another sip of wine. ‘If I’d have known … I didn’t think it mattered.’
    She jumps up, jerking the table, spilling wine. ‘Two people disappear and you don’t think it matters? My God, Eddie, you’re a heartless bastard. And there was me thinking you might actually feel something.’
    â€˜That’s not what I meant. I didn’t want to scare you, not before we’d found her. Listen to me.’ I try to reach her but she pulls away. ‘I love you.’
    When she turns back, her face has set into a pyramid of dark lines. ‘Twenty-three women spent today searching for Georgie, and yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. We’ve been searching for two weeks.’
    â€˜The police will find her.’
    â€˜Two detectives with dogs? They’re out twelve hours a day. How long do you think it’s going to take?’
    â€˜They know what they’re doing. Come on, eat before it gets cold and then we’ll go.’ She hasn’t eaten properly in days, or slept more than a few hours at a time. You can’t expect to think straight like that.
    She sits again, out of exhaustion by the looks of it, and watches me eat. I cut a chunk of steak and offer it to her on my fork, but she refuses. In the kerosene light, her face glows. I do really love this woman.
    â€˜Have some wine.’ I push the glass towards her. ‘Where are you going?’
    â€˜Out.’
    â€˜You’ll need some warmer clothes. I’ll get you some. Wait here. Why don’t you take a shower? You’ll feel better. I’ll get you something to wear and then we’ll go.’
    She stops at the door, turning to face me. ‘This is your favourite, not mine,’ she says, gesturing towards the plate.
    â€˜Wait,’ I say.
    I think about the tiny blue vein pulsing in Caroline’s neck as I rush out through the shop.
    It’s cool outside. A constant drone of cicadas shivers through the air. There is a stark quarter moon. The wine has made me feel weightless; my feet skate along. When I pass the truck, I get an idea. I open the shed, pull out the gear and load up the boot, just in case.
    The caravan seems to shrink as I approach. Someone has left the door open. I flick on the light and sort through a pile of clothes for some jeans and a long-sleeved blouse. I pick out a few blouses for Caroline to choose from. They smell of her. For a while I forget what I’m doing, even think of lying down and closing my eyes, and then I catch sight of Georgie’s clogs. I abandon the clothes on the bed and bend down to pick one up. It’s so small, it fits in the palm of my hand, engine red, black laces, like a doll’s shoe. My strawberry girl.
    I drop the clog, scoop up the clothes, and head out with the smallness of that clog inside me. When I’m halfway across the tarmac, the darkness seems to close in on me. I can’t see. I start to run head first. I keep running until I reach the shop. Only when I open the door do I realise how terrified I am.
    Caroline is standing by the window in a towel. Her hair is wet. She looks annoyed. ‘What took you so long?’
    I hand over the clothes and sit on the settee. My cine-camera is out of its case. Monica must have been playing with it. I check the controls and