Portraits of Celina (25 page)

“I think they’re wrong,” Mum whispers, the words spoken so softly, they seem to float away. “Something terrible has happened. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

She brings her hands to her face then, and cries.

Gran pulls her close and rubs her shoulders. Mum’s head lolls onto Gran’s chest. “Do us a favour, Bails?” Gran says, neck craning over Mum’s head. “Do some snooping on Facebook for me? The police said that would be the best place to get some information. She may even post something if she’s taken off somewhere.”

I nod, grateful for a reason to escape. I leave Seth asleep on the floor where he crashed out watching a DVD, and pad into the kitchen to my laptop. I don’t tell Gran that I’ve been glued to it all afternoon, looking for some kind of clue or lead.

I take another cursory glance, check the pages of some of Amelia’s friends from Cronulla, and consider whether I should try to friend some of her new Tallowood friends.

As I ponder this, I remember the email from Deb. I flick it open – more for a distraction than anything else. I am determined to keep my distance from Deb, at least for the time being.

Bud?

I don’t get much further – can’t get past the bit about Bud in town. Last night.

And now Amelia is missing? Could there be a connection? Please, no, there can’t be. I would never forgive myself if … I don’t even want to think it.

I read from the beginning again, trying to convince myself that it is a coincidence, nothing more, and then scan through the rest.

Deb waffles on for another couple of paragraphs, and it is annoying me so much, I am about to hit the delete key, when I see the word “sister” in a PS at the bottom of the screen.

Celina’s scarf?

Without thinking, I find myself traipsing up the steps and into my room. I close the door quietly behind me, my heart swelling into my throat. I remember leaving Celina’s scarf on top of the peace chest. And now it’s not there.

Why on earth would Amelia take the scarf of all things? She has done nothing but hassle me about wearing Celina’s clothes since we arrived. I can’t make any sense of it.

But it doesn’t matter. Because other things are battering away inside my head.

Bud in town.

Amelia in town.

Amelia wearing Celina’s scarf – looking like me. Looking like Celina.

Amelia missing.

Amelia, how could you be so stupid?

I ring Oliver immediately.

“Yeah?” He sounds sour.

“Have you seen Bud?”

“What?”

“Your pop. Have you seen him?”

“What has Pop got to do with this?”

I ignore the question and plough on. “Answer me. Have you seen him?”

“When? No. You’re psycho. I’m hanging up.”

His comment hurts, but I am past caring. “Did you see him at the Bowlo last night?”

“No!”

“In town?”

“No! And what if I did? You can’t seriously think he has something to do with Amelia.”

“Where is he now? At Lakeside?”

“I have no idea. I’m still in town, with Lee – looking for
your
sister.”

And he’s gone.

I glance at the time. It’s almost five-thirty. I don’t know what to do – but then my eyes are drawn to the peace chest. As usual, the hairs on the back of my neck rise and my veins feel as if they have been injected with ice water. Celina is with me and her presence is terrifying.

I slump onto the floor, close my eyes, try to settle the waves of nausea, but my mind jams with images.

Of Bud.

Bud and Amelia.

Amelia screaming.

Bud dragging her down some back alley and into his red ute. The terror in my sister’s eyes swirls round and round before me.

I jump to my feet. Shake myself free of the nightmare images.

Bud has Amelia
.

And I have no choice. Celina is telling me something and this time I can’t ignore it.

I pull on my joggers and steal down the stairs, slip into the kitchen without Mum and Gran noticing and out the back door. I skirt round the side of the house, and then behind the row of poplars along the southern fence line to the jetty. Then I hit the track and I am off.

I haven’t run all the way round to Lakeside before, but I reckon it must be about ten kays. In the days when I was running with Dad, and I was super fit, I could do ten kays in about forty-five minutes. Now, an hour should see me there easy – which means I should be there before it’s dark, and for some reason this seems important. What I am going to do once I am there and what I hope to find are another matter. But Bud has Amelia and the only way to help her without everyone dismissing me as a psycho is to prove it. I only hope I get there in time. And I don’t even want to consider what that means.

The boatshed provides solid cover. I lean against it, collecting my thoughts and trying to contain the queasiness that I always feel as soon as I step onto Lakeside.

My plan – rough as it may be – is to get inside Bud’s studio and poke around a bit. Not sure why, but something is telling me that this is what I must do.

Intuition? Lack of other alternatives?

I don’t think so. This time I am certain it is Celina.

I give myself over to her. She has my rapt attention.
Guide me, Celina. Please, show me what to do
.

A couple of hurried glances around the property don’t reveal much, except that the light is fading fast. It must have taken me longer to get here than I thought it would.

Oliver’s car isn’t in the drive. But there are at least two other vehicles – one, Bob’s four-wheel drive, the other a red ute. Bud’s – like in my vision. The lights are on in the main house, but the studio and old farmhouse are both in darkness. The tangle of barns and sheds tucked around back are obscured from view. I am aware of the faint waft of Spanish-sounding music drifting down from the main house, and I imagine Annie, pink-streaked hair gelled up in tiny peaks, glass of wine in hand, swaying to the music and preparing dinner. No sign of Bob or Bud or anyone else about. Perhaps they are inside for dinner. Makes sense.

I could slip into the studio now, or wait until everyone is asleep.

But I don’t have the luxury of time – Amelia’s terrified eyes fill my mind and my ears ring once more with her screams. The images of Bud dragging Amelia away are too real, too scary. They can’t be ignored. Every second counts. Bending low, I scamper to a rectangular rose garden, and squat behind the thorny bushes. My senses are hyper-alert and the perfume from the roses is sickeningly strong. I bolt up to the studio. I am not much good at this espionage stuff and my footfalls sound like a herd of elephants approaching, and are only rivalled by the crazy thumping of my heart against my ribs.

The studio is nothing more than a glorified shed, with glass sliding doors covering the side that faces out to the lake. The doors are closed and the place looks deserted, but I decide to err on the side of caution and head for the southern side, hoping for a smaller window to peer through, just to make sure.

And I am in luck; there are three windows along the wall. I crouch under the first window then slide up to peek inside. In the dim light, it’s hard to see much, but I am pretty sure the place is empty.

I sense Celina at my shoulder and instead of freaking me out, it makes me more determined. I edge around to the front, checking again that no one is outside, then try the door. It slides open and I step inside. Instantly, that awful chemical smell hits me, nearly knocks me over, and it takes all my resolve not to gag.

The room is cluttered and chaotic: several easels of various sizes are scattered about; numerous canvases lean haphazardly; tubes of paint, brushes, rags, large tins of solvent and glue litter a long table; crates filled with rocks, sticks, leaves, scrap metal and timber and all manner of junk cover the floor; and rows and rows of jars filled with God-knows-what line shelving on the back wall.

The rows of shelving grab my attention. While the rest of the room seems like a rubbish tip, the shelves are tidy: the jars arranged neatly, each carefully labelled. I step closer to see what’s inside them, reach out to touch one particular jar. It is labelled “COM” and is filled with fine greyish-white particles.

My fingers brush the label, when a door in the back corner springs open.

I snatch my hand away, and think about diving behind an easel, but there’s no point. Bud is already in the room.

Obviously startled, his step falters, his face contorting from surprise to confusion to disgust. Then he takes a couple of slow deliberate steps towards me.

I back away, stumbling on a stack of canvases. But he is on me remarkably swiftly. I think he is about to grab me, but instead he reaches for a notepad and pencil from the table.

I should make a run for it, but somehow, I can’t. Fear has me rooted to the spot. He scrawls something across the paper, then holds it up to me. His actions speak of anger, as do his words.

Get out of here. You have no right
. He motions with his arms, dismisses me, points to the door.

“No right? No right! Where is my sister?”

His face screws into an irritated frown.

Sister? What sister?
he writes.

“I know you have her. Where is she?”

He looks at me as if I’ve gone berserk, then he goes to write something else, but I steal the paper clear out of his hands.

“Speak,” I say. “I know you can. I heard you that night by the jetty.
Holy mother of God. Holy mother of God
. You said it. I know you did. I heard you.”

Bud backs away now. And for some reason I feel I have the upper hand.

“And I know about Celina,” I say, leading with my chin like a fool. “I know everything. What you did.”

Bud squints at me as he takes this in. He reaches for the paper, but I hold it away from him. “Speak,” I say again, but nerves have invaded my voice box and it comes out as a squeak. I try again, more forcefully this time. “Speak, you bastard. Speak.”

His hands ball into fists. He is so close, I can smell his rotten breath, feel it puff into my face, smell years of painting chemicals oozing from his pores.

“Watch out!” he shouts, a gravelly rasping shout. “Behind you.”

I am so startled, I turn around.

Something cracks across my skull. The pain is immense. I turn back to face Bud: glimpse the metal bar in his hand; the sick smile on his face as I feel myself falling, slowly, fluttering almost, like an autumn leaf. Then I hit the ground with a thud.

I am in a fug. A nightmarish fug, entombed by an aching head and an inability to move. And God, such a dry, dry throat. What I would give for a drop of water, even a whisper of cool breeze to moisten my mouth.

But my lips are fused together; I can’t pull them apart no matter how hard I try. I focus all my energy on instructing my mouth to work – groan with the effort of it – but it won’t open; it just won’t, and I am sent into a suffocating panic that has me gagging until I am flung out of the fug and into a painful reality. My eyes shoot open.

Bud. The metal bar
.

The memory makes me reach for my head, but my arms won’t work either. I want to scream with frustration.

And then things clunk into place and slug me fair in the guts as I become conscious of rope burning my wrists and binding my ankles, of tape wound across my mouth and around my head.

Fear devours me.

Slowly, as I take stock in the murky darkness, I realise that I am lying on my side on bare concrete, wedged into a tiny space surrounded by towers of crates and boxes.

The room is stuffy: the stinging smell of paint and glue, mixing badly with the dank pungency of decay. I try to stand up, but it’s useless. My hands and feet are tied to something behind me, which I can’t quite turn my head enough to see.

I wiggle and twist and writhe and thrash.