business what I do and where I go.’
Rage takes hold as I grab the laptop from her, yanking the plug out.
‘That’s my property!’ she screams. ‘I’m calling the police.’
She’s written a list of facts about Noah’s disappearance on a Word document: timeline, places, people, evidence, tweets, links to articles, quotes from news reports, Facebook posts.
‘I’m going to find out what happened to him,’ she explains, shaking in anger. ‘You watch.’
I shut the laptop lid and move towards her, guiding her trembling hand into mine. ‘It’s a good idea, writing things down,’ I say. ‘And I’ll support you with anything you think you can do to find Noah. But you have to tell me what you’re doing and if you want time off school, you have to ask me. Can that be a deal?’ Before I finish the sentence I scold myself. Can that be a deal? What a wimp of a mother I am. ‘That is the deal,’ I correct myself, turning our healing hand-hold into a sealing handshake.
15
ALEXANDRA
17 February
I take Chloe to the school gates and watch her walk up the steps. When I get home, I glue myself to the news. They’re about to make an appeal. Must be about a hundred journos at his mother’s house now. I pour myself a coffee and take my seat, almost excited, almost as if I’m at the movies and it’s gone dark and I’m about to be entertained.
The front door of his mother’s house opens. Joanna and Alistair walk out and stand on the veranda. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They dangle heavily at her sides, then anchor themselves in the pockets of her jeans. Her face is white. Her eyes are not red. She’s not crying. She should. It looks wrong that she’s not. In fact, she looks cold and hard and not very likeable. She doesn’t usually look like this. She usually looks pretty and approachable, the type of girl I would have wanted to be mates with had she not fucked my husband and my life.
‘Our baby, Noah,’ Alistair says, using all the skills years in PR and politics taught him, ‘was taken from our car two days ago, 6.50 p.m., fifteenth of February. He was wearing a white Babygro. He has dark brown hair and brown eyes.’ I can tell Alistair is upset that his son has no other features that might help identify him. No birthmarks, like the star-shaped one on the right side of Alistair’s neck. Nothing. This baby looks like every other baby. And is wearing what every other baby wears. A white Babygro.
‘The police are continuing to look into the sightings of a white Ute and a man or woman dressed in a dark coloured Japara. Please, if anyone has any information that might help, contact the police immediately.’
He holds the microphone for Joanna to take. She takes a while to get her hand out of her pocket and it shakes as she holds it.
‘Please, if you have seen our baby, or if you have our baby . . .’ She breaks off and glances at Alistair, who I notice is squeezing her elbow. ‘I mean Noah. If you know anything – about Noah – could you please contact the police. We just want . . .’ She again looks at Alistair, who is now sobbing like I’ve never seen him sob in his life. ‘I’m sorry,’ Joanna says, ‘I’m too distressed to talk.’ She almost jabs Alistair in the chest with the microphone then walks inside and slams the door. Alistair is visibly annoyed that she has done this. ‘My partner and I are in shock,’ he says to explain her behaviour. ‘Devastated.’ A tear falls down his cheek. ‘Please help us find Noah. Someone has taken him. Do not be distracted by ludicrous rumours that waste precious time. If you know anything, be brave, and come forward. If you have him, please bring him back to us.’ He gives the reporter to his left the microphone and walks inside, closing the door behind him.
*
My shift at the café starts at eleven. Two regulars from the hairdresser’s next door order coffees and yap loudly at the counter. I listen as I froth the
Rage takes hold as I grab the laptop from her, yanking the plug out.
‘That’s my property!’ she screams. ‘I’m calling the police.’
She’s written a list of facts about Noah’s disappearance on a Word document: timeline, places, people, evidence, tweets, links to articles, quotes from news reports, Facebook posts.
‘I’m going to find out what happened to him,’ she explains, shaking in anger. ‘You watch.’
I shut the laptop lid and move towards her, guiding her trembling hand into mine. ‘It’s a good idea, writing things down,’ I say. ‘And I’ll support you with anything you think you can do to find Noah. But you have to tell me what you’re doing and if you want time off school, you have to ask me. Can that be a deal?’ Before I finish the sentence I scold myself. Can that be a deal? What a wimp of a mother I am. ‘That is the deal,’ I correct myself, turning our healing hand-hold into a sealing handshake.
15
ALEXANDRA
17 February
I take Chloe to the school gates and watch her walk up the steps. When I get home, I glue myself to the news. They’re about to make an appeal. Must be about a hundred journos at his mother’s house now. I pour myself a coffee and take my seat, almost excited, almost as if I’m at the movies and it’s gone dark and I’m about to be entertained.
The front door of his mother’s house opens. Joanna and Alistair walk out and stand on the veranda. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They dangle heavily at her sides, then anchor themselves in the pockets of her jeans. Her face is white. Her eyes are not red. She’s not crying. She should. It looks wrong that she’s not. In fact, she looks cold and hard and not very likeable. She doesn’t usually look like this. She usually looks pretty and approachable, the type of girl I would have wanted to be mates with had she not fucked my husband and my life.
‘Our baby, Noah,’ Alistair says, using all the skills years in PR and politics taught him, ‘was taken from our car two days ago, 6.50 p.m., fifteenth of February. He was wearing a white Babygro. He has dark brown hair and brown eyes.’ I can tell Alistair is upset that his son has no other features that might help identify him. No birthmarks, like the star-shaped one on the right side of Alistair’s neck. Nothing. This baby looks like every other baby. And is wearing what every other baby wears. A white Babygro.
‘The police are continuing to look into the sightings of a white Ute and a man or woman dressed in a dark coloured Japara. Please, if anyone has any information that might help, contact the police immediately.’
He holds the microphone for Joanna to take. She takes a while to get her hand out of her pocket and it shakes as she holds it.
‘Please, if you have seen our baby, or if you have our baby . . .’ She breaks off and glances at Alistair, who I notice is squeezing her elbow. ‘I mean Noah. If you know anything – about Noah – could you please contact the police. We just want . . .’ She again looks at Alistair, who is now sobbing like I’ve never seen him sob in his life. ‘I’m sorry,’ Joanna says, ‘I’m too distressed to talk.’ She almost jabs Alistair in the chest with the microphone then walks inside and slams the door. Alistair is visibly annoyed that she has done this. ‘My partner and I are in shock,’ he says to explain her behaviour. ‘Devastated.’ A tear falls down his cheek. ‘Please help us find Noah. Someone has taken him. Do not be distracted by ludicrous rumours that waste precious time. If you know anything, be brave, and come forward. If you have him, please bring him back to us.’ He gives the reporter to his left the microphone and walks inside, closing the door behind him.
*
My shift at the café starts at eleven. Two regulars from the hairdresser’s next door order coffees and yap loudly at the counter. I listen as I froth the
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