The Rip by Holly Craig

Author:Holly Craig [Craig, Holly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2024-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

Penny, 11.20 p.m.

We leave Geordie Bay because Barry, the island’s old cop, says we need a plan. He’s no higher than Wallis in rank, but his age, experience on the island and demeanour demands a level of respect that Wallis seems to respond to. I don’t. The man is arrogant, an old wanker who I can imagine never lasted in a marriage because he drinks and farts too much and spits out derogatory comments. Maybe he doesn’t. I haven’t heard him say anything disrespectful. But he’s hinted at my bad parenting, he dresses like an Australian cliché, and he continues to avoid my questions like he doesn’t suffer fools. And I’m no fool. I’m a panicked mother, trying to remain composed, smartly realising if I show my true feelings, they won’t permit me to search here with them. So, I don’t like him. Even if he’s helping to look for Edmund. I asked if he has children, he says he doesn’t, therefore he doesn’t understand the intensity of emotion one experiences with their offspring. When Edmund has a headache, I know to feed him 5 ml of paracetamol and to lay a cold flannel on his forehead. He won’t want bright lights, loud noise or pungent smells. He’ll want to rest until the painkillers kick in. This man knows nothing. How can he earnestly search for a kid without any emotional attachment to him?

That’s why when Barry says we’ve had enough in one bay, door-knocking, scouring the beach and sand and rocky cliff, disturbing partying families who sit on their balconies with beer bottles, bathers and hanging towels flapping over the railing, presenting his photograph to the pitying faces, asking them to contact the station if Edmund shows up, I don’t believe him. It’s not enough of anything. I could spend five hours in this bay and still not be satisfied.

I hate that this bay is on holiday. I hate their drifting laughter. I hate the water and moon on it, portraying a picturesque setting. What if it was your kid? I want to yell at the mother who I glimpse quickly checking on her sleeping baby. I’m envious of this party, this family, their sunburnt, peeling shoulders and reggae music. This was us only four hours ago. And I want to return to that moment.

Instead, we’re stuffing our bodies into the ute and Wallis is starting up the engine and I’m no longer in the front, I’m in the back beside the constable, whose starchy uniform is scratching my arm.

‘Once we’ve got a plan, the guests can be useful,’ he tells Wallis. ‘There’s no point in random searching. We need a coordinated grid-pattern approach to save time. Most of these people have probably never even visited the island. The toffs prefer to travel to Europe than their own backyard.’

He’s talking about my guests, referring to me and Kav as snobs, and I’m starting to get beyond tired and cranky. We’re travelling along the ocean. It’s calm when I expect it to be choppy.

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