Rachael's Gift by Alexandra Cameron Page B

bottle-o for Cam’s favourite sauvignon blanc and then I waited in a no-parking zone while the fish and chips sizzled in the deep fry. I saw us all sitting on the deck watching the sky grow pink and then purple and fading to black. Perhaps just for this one night we could forget about stuff and enjoy ourselves again.
    Down the side of the house, I called out but there was no answer. I dumped my board on the grass and the food on the deck; the back doors were closed. Mr Brown ran through the garden, raised his back leg and took a piss by the lone palm tree. The garden hose fizzed and spurted a stream of hot water, eventually running cold as I dunked my head under and then washed my feet.
    The house was silent. Dark. Curtains were drawn. I laid the dinner on the kitchen bench, put the wine in the fridge, hung up my towel, took a proper shower and threw on the shorts and tee I’d rescued from the washing line. My heart felt big and rushed with blood. Now that I thought about it, I was prepared to see things in a new light – let them handle it their way for now, give them some time and space. That was all they needed. I’d be more . . . what was the word? . . . understanding.
    Dinner was going cold. I took out a piece of cod and the tray of chips and went out into the still, hot evening and sank into the old man’s chair on the deck. Mr Brown danced on his paws and I threw him some fish.
    Crickets were out in full song. The night was a stinker; the heat had locked in, the promised southerly hadn’t arrived. After finishing my fourth beer, I started in on the wine; a few bones and cold chips were all that remained in the paper wrapping. I relit an old bunger and tried Cam and Rach’s phones again but both went straight to voicemail. A fat-bellied Mr Brown sprawled on his back, his grandpa eyes drooped, mirroring my own. ‘Where are they, mate?’ I asked him. It was late now. I stubbed the bunger out on the wooden rail, flicked it into the garden and went inside.
    A blade of light caught the silver photo frames and our three mugs smiled back. Years ago, Cam and I’d done some renos and totally gutted the place. Opened it right out as was the neighbourhood trend – open-plan living, dining, kitchen. Odd to think this had been my only home; I’d been glad to rid the place of my parents, but somehow they were still here – just dust in the woodwork.
    I stumbled through the house, searching the corners, looking for what I wasn’t sure. Where would they have gone? Her mate Sally’s? But why would both their phones be off? They couldn’t both have run out of battery, and if they had been going to Sally’s surely Cam would have told me. I checked my texts but there was nothing. I lurched from the dirty kitchen bench to the fridge, where alphabet magnets holding old invitations hit the floor like bullets. Rach’s room was a mess; clothes dumped on the floor, cupboards and drawers left open, the radio clock flashing the wrong time. A balding teddy bear lay on her bed, its one button eye staring back. All pretty standard.
    The harsh light of our bedroom made me blink. The built-in cupboard doors hung ajar, a pair of Camille’s undies was snagged on the edge of a drawer, and I caught my big toe on a discarded coathanger. Our room had been spotless when I’d left it earlier today. Looking up, I saw a gaping hole on the top shelf of the cupboard where we normally kept two big suitcases. Had we been robbed? But then nothing else in the house was gone. The wine made me feel dizzy. I sank onto our unmade bed. Shit.
    Had they really gone somewhere?
    Should I call Sally? Or Barry? One of the Rutherford mothers? I didn’t know.
    Was I just being paranoid? Maybe they’d just gone away for the night. But I sat there with my heart pounding in alarm. Would they take the big suitcases for one night? Seemed unlikely. There was one place I hadn’t checked yet.
    I twisted the key in the filing cabinet and slid open the drawer. I pulled