Now
They checked the stormwater drains for Henry first. Then the swollen banks of Shallow Reservoir. The previous night’s thunderstorm had been the biggest and wildest the area had seen for years. It dumped two months’ worth of rain and hail in half an hour, stripped trees of limbs and turned street gutters into rapids. Sheets of corrugated iron were ripped from the post office roof, and a mudslide took out the same section of Cutler Bend that had been scorched by bushfires only a year ago.
It was the kind of night that chewed everything up and spat it out again. None of us wanted to imagine that Henry might have been caught in its jaws.
We doorknocked homes and searched shops, checked the library as well as his favourite fishing spot. It wasn’t until early afternoon that somebody stumbled across a muddy mountain bike inside the train station’s waiting room. It was propped on its kickstand, the front wheel turned on a playful angle, as if to say, ‘What took you so long?’ At first it was a relief to realise Henry had made it to the station unscathed. He must’ve boarded the previous night’s final service, or one of the morning trains. It was just a matter of waiting a few hours until he came home.
But hours turned into days.
Days into weeks.
Now those weeks have somehow stretched into months.
Since January I’ve been reading everything I can about missing persons. Some people go missing intentionally, like running away or needing time out; others disappear unintentionally, like having an accident or suffering from mental illness. In some cases, such as abduction or homicide, people go missing because they are forced.
And when a person has been missing for more than three months, they are considered to be long term missing. Henry has been gone for two months and thirty days.
Tomorrow he will become a long-term missing person.
His fourteenth birthday is next Friday.
I’d never really thought about what happens when a teenager disappears. Most of those local teens you hear about on social media seem to turn up after a few days, a little worse for wear and with some explaining to do. Beyond a passing curiosity about why they chose to run away, I’d never given much consideration to the days they were actually missing, as though there was a black void between them leaving home and turning up again.
Now it’s all I can think about.
Where do these kids sleep? Are they warm enough? Do they have money for food? Can they shower, clean their teeth? Do they fall asleep easily or do they lie awake in the dark feeling completely alone?
One website explains that a missing person could be a victim of misadventure, which sounds almost silly, like a fun escapade that somehow veered off track. It reminds me of a conversation I had with Henry a couple of months before he disappeared. We were at the service station overlooking the railway line on Bridge Road, and Henry watched on as a train pulled away from the platform, gathering speed towards Sydney and beyond.
‘When I leave here,’ he told me, ‘I won’t be like you. I won’t keep coming back again and again.’
He said it like I had some kind of choice. I’d been bouncing around like a pinball for years since my parents’ marriage imploded, my dad agreeing to whatever custody arrangements Mum demanded because he didn’t want to end up in family court.
‘But this is your home,’ I replied, glancing up from the bike tyre I was filling with air. ‘Won’t you miss it?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Nup. It’s like when I get on my bike – sometimes I just wanna keep going and never look back.’ He ran a hand through his hair before pulling on his green Lucky-7 cap, casting his face in shadow. ‘You know those old black and white movies Uncle Bernie loves?’
‘Westerns?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘How the cowboy always gets on a horse and rides off into the sunset? And all the kids run to watch until he’s this tiny speck on the horizon, then they blink and he’s gone and they know they’ll never see him again?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘That’ll be me. Off on some new adventure.’
I was only half listening at the time. I may have even laughed or said something dismissive.
Then I blinked, Henry.
And now you’re gone.
* * *
I walk the full length of the train station’s waiting room and circle the patch of pebbled concrete where Henry’s bike was found. This room has been swept out regularly since January, probably mopped or hosed down a bunch of times too. Any trace of Henry has been scrubbed clean, the same way The Shallows was drenched and wrung out by that storm.
I don’t feel his presence here. Not in some psychic or spiritual way – I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. I’m all about facts and clues and tangible evidence, and making all the pieces fit together. I do, however, believe in gut instinct. And right now I’m struggling to imagine Henry’s wet footprints leading from the waiting room out onto the platform, in the same way I find it hard to accept he’s a runaway. Henry’s like a brother to me. He wouldn’t leave forever without saying goodbye.
Or maybe that’s just the guilt talking.
Moving through the doorway to the edge of the platform, I glance left and right along the rails. A small skink darts across a wooden sleeper into a tuft of dead grass. It’s a still afternoon. Limp and overcast. I close my eyes and try to recall the pitch black of that January night, the thrashing trees and sideways rain, the thundering wind as it pummelled buildings and moaned through cracks like a tortured soul. I know why I risked going out in that weather, but what was Henry’s reason? What happened that was so desperate he’d rather take his chances on the train, in the city, away from everything he’s ever known?
‘Afternoon,’ says a voice behind me.
I spin around to find an elderly man shuffling through the entry gate towards the waiting room. He touches his fingers to the tip of his flat cap and doesn’t seem to recognise me, even though I’ve smiled at him on the street since I was six.
‘Hi, Mr Milburn,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Chloe Baxter.’
He pauses, tilting his head back to examine me through his multifocals. It takes him a moment to reconcile the image of the sixteen year old who left here a few months ago with the one who’s returned. When he does, a flicker of his brows is the only acknowledgement that I’ve cut off my long, dark-blonde hair, revealing a mousy crop underneath. The summer glow in my skin has faded to pasty white, and I’ve ditched my light floral dresses for a sombre black shirt and jeans. I’m reminded that’s how it is in The Shallows – people pretend to mind their own beeswax and no one ever says anything to your face. Of course, when it comes to car boot sales and sausage sizzles, this small town reeks of community spirit. But as soon as there’s a whiff of trouble, nobody wants to get involved.
‘I have something for you,’ I say to Mr Milburn, hurrying to my suitcase near the station’s entrance. I slide a folder from the side pocket and tug out a piece of paper. Across the top of the page are the words STILL MISSING, with a large colour photo of Henry underneath. I’ve been plastering these flyers all over train stations and shopping centres for months.
Have you seen thirteen-year-old Henry Weaver? it reads. Henry is Caucasian, about 153 cm tall with a thin build, blue eyes and light brown hair. He may be wearing a green baseball cap and black sneakers, and carrying a navy and yellow backpack.