came home.
Fuck it. I was going to read the whole thing in the morning. I owed it to her.
90
I finished my toast and sat down to read what Caitlin had given me. It was what I both hoped and dreaded – a detailed description of everything she remembered of her kidnapping, captivity and afterwards.
Every memory was preceded by a line of key words across the top in bold, a chilling summary of what was to come. Names, feelings, sounds and specific injuries.
My heart grew cold as I read, wondering how she'd come to write those lines. As if she'd thought, "I dreamed he broke my fingers and raped me," then searched for those words to add to the memory of breaking and brutality... oh God.
There was far more than I thought she'd remembered and my first instinct was to call her, to start asking questions. I hesitated a moment, before I realised I should read it through to the end before I started asking anything else. I couldn't call her – I didn't know if she had her phone or even if there was mobile access, wherever she was. My questions would have to wait.
One page had her handwriting across the top, above the line of bold words:
Not in the police transcript
Of all the pages, this one I kept returning to, as if rereading the words would somehow change the past they described. I ripped the page free of its fellows and read it again:
Beach – Stars – Sand – Shots – Surf – Chris – Nathan – Numb
I was floating. No pain – nothing holding me down, anymore. Something cold touched my face and I opened my eyes slowly. I recoiled from the dark shape hovering over me.
"It's okay. I'm just washing your face," said a voice I barely recognised.
I shivered in what felt like a cold wind. It couldn't be. I looked around fearfully. I looked up, and saw the contrast of pinprick stars on the darker black of the open sky. "Where are we?"
"We're at a beach, out of there, away from them." His voice sounded different, that was why I didn't recognise it immediately. More abrupt, more certain. More authoritative. "There's something I have to do here."
"You got me out. Thank you, Chris!" I felt a surge of joy well up, bringing tears to my eyes, barely able to believe it was possible.
He was silent, and I looked at him to see the reason for it. I was shocked to see he held my hands in his – I couldn't feel his touch, and they didn't look like my hands – they were twisted and swollen, dark with blood to well past my wrists. As he held my hands, he said, "Can you trust me?"
"Okay." I was surprised that he'd bothered to ask, after all that had happened.
He suddenly turned to face the dunes, looking worried. "Wait here. I'll be back." He got up and jogged off into the dunes, leaving me alone. "... First aid kit..." were the only words I could discern as he took off.
I tried to move, but my body wouldn't respond. There was no feeling left in my legs, and my hands were numb from the wrists down. I tried to call out, to tell him to wait, not to leave me alone like this, but even my voice wasn't strong enough. Just as I started to panic, I heard footsteps approaching me across the sand.
I struggled to sit up, realising too late as I managed it that I was wrapped in a blanket, which slipped off my shoulders, exposing most of my top half to the freezing wind. I clumsily attempted to pull it back up again with my numb, mangled fingers, but failed miserably.
Somehow, I collapsed on the sand again, my head spinning. So cold already, I barely felt him rip the blanket away from me and toss it aside.
I should have fought, but it was like moving through cold water and I was so tired, so tired! "Sadistic prick," I mumbled.
I couldn't even feel the pain any more. I heard a voice, but I didn't care enough to focus on what it meant. I closed my eyes, drifting into sleep.
A sharp pain woke me and I cried out, opening my eyes as I struggled to sit up, convinced I'd been stabbed.
He pushed me back down, his voice an unintelligible sound that I couldn't focus on, but I fought him now, desperate to see if I'd dreamed it.
Then he was gone.
A gun in my hands. I couldn't feel it, had to touch it to my face to be sure I had it.
"End it," I murmured.
A gasp. No.
Tugging, snapping, took it from me. The gun was gone.
Shots.
"Wake up, angel."
Nathan, saying, "It's over."
"Chris..." I mumbled.
"It's all right, he's dead," Nathan replied.
91
I read it for what might have been the hundredth time, then dropped the page and closed my eyes. I wanted to erase my memories. I wanted to erase hers. I wanted no one to know what I'd done. But some things can't be undone.
I opened my eyes, looking for where the paper had fallen, and realised she'd written something on the back, too:
Nathan, this is as much as I can remember. If you'd like to talk about it, I'll be at 47 Adelaide St in Fremantle at 4:30 pm next Saturday – two weeks after I gave you this.
I thought it sounded strange, but I'd go just to see her again. I had so much I wanted to say. Starting with "sorry."
Coward that I am, I wasn't sure if I could say it all. I started writing it down instead.
See, Caitlin? I could document my worst nightmares, too. And mine are as real as yours.
I sealed them in an envelope, wishing I could seal them as securely inside my head.
The week dragged like an insomniac snail, the only bright spot the day the newspaper photo of her arrived. A framed memory of Caitlin smiling at ducklings, as happy as I'd ever seen her. Now I'd never forget, either. I turned on the bedside light when I woke up in the dark, just so I could see her face again.
On Saturday afternoon, I drove up and down Adelaide Street, looking for the right number. After three tries, I gave up, parked the car and started walking. I couldn't find the number anyway.
So, at 4:30 pm, I stood outside an old church, which was where number forty-seven should be. A large wedding party posed for photographs on the steps. I stopped on the footpath, not wanting to get in the photographer's way. I searched the wedding guests for her, scanning faces.
The bride was Caitlin's opposite – tall and blonde with bloody big boobs, wearing a blue and white dress with lots of coloured pearls. Her husband looked at her as if he was hypnotised by bliss.
I bet they'd never had anything but smooth sailing, from first kiss through to wedding night – they couldn't have had as hard a time of it as Caitlin and I had. I could count the number of kisses we'd shared and I didn't dare even mention the possibility of sex...
At the happy couple's feet, a grumpy little flower girl in a miniature version of the bride's dress sat pouting at her toy fish on the steps. Most of the guests were Italian – plenty of dark hair, but none of them as beautiful as Caitlin.
I couldn't see her anywhere. I took a walk around the church, wondering if I was missing something.
The church door was open, with a sign beside it saying, Reconciliation Today. I stepped in through the door, wondering if Caitlin had gone inside.
It was dark in the foyer and while I waited for my eyes to adjust, I felt her fingers close around mine. She guided my hand into some cold water, then helped me draw a cross across my chest, my fingers still dripping.
Before I could ask why, she smiled and said in a low voice, "It's a reminder of your baptism, when all the bad things you've done are forgiven." She paused. "Were you christened, Nathan?"
"I think so," I answered, worried. "I was too young to remember and I don't think I've been in a church much since."
She smiled again. "Then perhaps it wouldn't hurt to spend a moment longer in this one?"
Maybe she was going to kill me and she didn't want me to die unforgiven, I thought in mounting panic. Did I have the right to deny her that? I couldn't deny what I'd done.
A calm spread across my mind as I didn't care any more. She was entitled to any compensation she wanted to exact from
me. I owed her far more than I could ever give.
She led me inside the church proper, into one of the pews close to the back. Her steps were light again, almost dancing like the first time I'd seen her. She wore a white cotton dress with light blue flowers on it.
"Were you christened?" I asked her.
She laughed. "Oh yes, first communion, confirmation, the works. Dad made sure I was brought up a good little Catholic girl."
She knelt down, looking at the front of the church, instead of me. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realised we were alone in the church. I ached to touch her, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to disturb her.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope that held what I needed to tell her. The words I could never seem to say. I leaned down and slipped it into her bag, praying that she didn't open it until I was out of reach. Maybe after she'd read it and cooled down a little, she'd speak to me again. Maybe even forgive me, at least a little.
I jumped at a sudden sound. Someone came in behind us, walked up the aisle and then stepped through an open door to the side, closing it behind him. He didn't even glance at us. I hoped he hadn't seen me with my hand in Caitlin's bag.
I looked askance at Caitlin, but she still knelt, looking at the front of the church or praying, for all I knew.
"He's going to reconciliation, Nathan," she said suddenly. "He'll express how sorry he is for the bad things he's done and the priest will tell him that God forgives him for them. Sometimes, you have to do a penance for them, too." She still wouldn't look at me.
I felt chilled. She was going to kill me and my last words