Misplaced Read online

  Misplaced

  For Florence Bloise, who disappeared February 2003 in France.

  With love Florence, wherever you are.

  Lee Murray

  Misplaced

  Leapy Sheep Books

  PO Box 6133

  Tauranga 6146

  This edition published 2013

  ISBN print 978-0-473-26600-4

  ISBN epub 978-0-473-26601-1

  ISBN mobi 978-0-473-26608-0

  Copyright ©2013 by Lee Murray

  http://www.leemurray.info

  Cover design by Romilly Brown

  Photography by Diresh Dodanduwa

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except for brief quotations used in reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  This book was written with the support of Graeme Lay and the New Zealand Society of Authors (PEN NZ Inc) Mentor Programme, which is sponsored by Creative New Zealand.

  The author has used UK spelling and punctuation conventions.

  “Misplaced is a gripping, poignant narrative of family loss and teenage discovery. The characterisation is outstanding. An exceptionally well-conceived and executed young adult novel.” Graeme Lay, author of more than 40 titles, including The Mentor, The Fools on the Hill, the acclaimed One-Foot Island trilogy for young adults, The Wave Rider, historical novel Alice and Luigi and, more recently, The Secret Life of James Cook. http://www.nzlf.auckland.ac.nz/author/?a_id=91

  “From the very first pages, readers are drawn into the tragic and unfathomable mystery facing Adam, a likeable teen struggling to cope with the unexpected disappearance of his mother. In his battle to deal with her disappearance, he calls upon the strength of friends and family only to discover his own inner strengths and love. Told with compassion and touching humour, this intriguing mystery pulls the reader on a tense and totally unforgettable journey.” Susan Brocker, author of Restless Spirit, Saving Sam, The Wolf in the Wardrobe, Brave Bess and the Anzac Horses, Dreams of Warriors, The Drover’s Quest, and many other best-loved titles. www.susanbrocker.com

  Chapter 1

  The make-up girl has a silver nose ring and hair streaked psychedelic orange.

  ‘Almost done,’ the girl says, puffing his face with powder. She has bony knuckles like cauliflower stalks. Holding his breath, Adam wills himself not to fidget as she deals to the fresh eruption of zits on his forehead. Right now, a few spots are the least of his worries.

  ‘There, that’s put some colour in your cheeks.’

  Adam opens his eyes, stares at the mirror, and doesn’t say anything. Even with the powder, he’s as pale as Colgate. There’s fuzz on his chin and dark bags under his eyes. He looks like a druggie, a metal-head on a bender.

  The Powder Puff girl selects a lipstick from a tray which, held vertically, could be a Connect Four player board.

  Resolution Red.

  With a practised twist, she pushes up the tube.

  ‘Pucker up, now,’ she coaxes. ‘Give me your sexiest pout, the one the girls love.’ But Adam clamps his mouth shut, pursing his lips in a thin line, and shakes his head. No lipstick. This isn’t an audition for American Idol.

  ‘But...’ The Powder Puff girl puts on a pout of her own.

  ‘No!’ he says, with more vehemence than is warranted.

  The girl shrugs, rolls her eyes. ‘Whatever.’ She packs up her Connect Four box and leaves him there.

  ‘One minute, people!’ the floor manager screams. Through the scramble of movement, Adam is aware of Dad, shuffling about on the spot off to the side of the make-shift set, a man out of his comfort zone. Six days a week, Dad’s natural habitat is Creighton Cars, the yard that he runs. On Sundays he mows the lawns, then slumps in front of the telly, cold beer in hand, watching whatever sport happens to be on.

  Adam notices that Dad’s tugging his earlobe again. Dad always does that when he’s out of sorts. It’s a good thing the clients haven’t cottoned on or he’d never sell any cars. Lately, he’s pulled that lobe so often it’s a wonder he isn’t mistaken for a tribesman from Borneo.

  Not that Adam isn’t uncomfortable. He wishes it hadn’t come to this. The thing is, the news people insisted a public appeal could make a difference. They said it’d made a difference in other cases. But Dad couldn’t face it, so Adam had agreed to do it instead. At this point Adam would agree to car surf down Auckland’s Queen Street in the wrong direction at rush hour, if there was a chance it would make a difference.

  Anyway, it’s better Adam does it because, being younger than Dad, he’ll make the biggest impact, apparently. Adam knows this because he heard the camera crew chatting. They’d started off saying how Adam and Dad’s story was made for television, the kind of story that won awards. Then one of them said it was a bummer that Adam was seventeen. That’s when the guy holding the boom said, in these kind of cases, nothing tops a 7-year-old girl, especially a little blondie with dimples.

  ‘Trust our freaking luck!’ They’d laughed then, quietly amongst themselves, but one of them caught Adam looking and quickly shushed the others.

  ‘Hey, show a bit of compassion, will ya?’

  Maybe this is how his life will be from now on. People shushing each other or looking away. Feeling sorry for him.

  ‘Adam? We’re ready for you.’ The floor manager speaks quietly. Adam’s grateful. Right now he feels like the entire cast of Lost, like something awful is about to happen. Maybe it already has, maybe he’s living in a parallel universe and none of this is real, but whatever it is, Adam doesn’t get any of it. He gets to his feet and allows the floor manager to direct him to the lectern. Placing both hands on either side of the lectern, Adam steadies himself.

  This has to work. Please, let this work. Please.

  But Adam knows that even if it does, nothing will be quite the same.

  ‘In 5... 4... 3...’ The floor manager holds up two fingers, then one...

  The microphone makes a soft buzz as it’s switched on. Adam pauses, marvelling at how they actually do that, the holding up the finger thing.

  Oh shit.

  He’s on national television. His face spreads with warmth: the nasty-but-nice feeling you get when you pee in the sea. Great. His face will be red and blotchy now. He inhales deeply.

  Swallows.

  Stares directly at the camera lens.

  What if this is the last time he ever speaks to her?

  ‘Mum... Mum, if you’re out there, if you can hear this, please, please call and let us know you’re all right. Whatever’s wrong, Dad and me, we’re worried. Please, Mum, just come home...’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Adam.’

  Adam doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not right now. At long last he’s on Level Six. He’s gained access to the last quadrant: Morterain’s hidden trophy room. In just a few seconds, he plans to blast major evil dude Morterain to smithereens. It’s taken weeks for his hero to collect the sickle, the cloak and the bejewelled dagger of the fairy queen, Celestialle. There’s no way he can simply abandon the quest and allow Morterain’s curse to spread through the universe, creating chaos and despair. It can’t be allowed to happen.

  ‘Adam!’

  Mum’s voice blasts into the hidden trophy room. He shuts her out. Aims the magic dagger. Fires. Misses. Morterain vaporises, his gleeful laughter echoing from Adam’s computer speakers. Instantly, the game returns to the portal at the start of Level Six.

  Bugger.

  ‘Adam Creighton, this is the third time I’ve called you. If I have to come up there to speak to you, I’ll be confiscating that computer. Don’t think I won’t.’
>
  Adam grabs his headphones. Bungs them over his ears. Still seated, he rolls his computer chair back and pokes his head around the bedroom door. Mum is standing at the bottom of the stairs holding a plastic milk container. Adam pulls a headphone away from one ear and says, all innocence, ‘Sorry, Mum. Did you call me? I’ve been listening to my French.’

  ‘Good try, mate. Last time I spoke to your French teacher, she didn’t sound anything like an evil overlord plotting to take over the Empire.’

  Mum’s so archaic. She thinks every computer game is something to do with Star Wars, for goodness sake. He smiles sheepishly. One thing is certain though: Mum definitely didn’t come down in the last meteor shower. With both hands, he slips the headphones off his ears and around his neck.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. I was in the last quadrant before Level Seven.’ He pinches his finger and thumb together, holding them up in front of his face. ‘I was this close to being a Master Warrior.’

  ‘Well, when you have your Masters in French, then I’ll be impressed. Honestly, Adam, this is your last year. You really have to sort out your priorities and knuckle down, love. Dad has let you off working at the yard these past couple of months and he could really do with the help. This recession’s hit everyone hard. You know how late he’s been coming home. It’s up to you to make the most of the time he’s freed up for you to study and not waste it battling it out somewhere in the twilight zone.’

  ‘The last quadrant.’

  ‘Adam!’ She sets her hands on her hips, the milk container still hooked in her fingers.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Mum, I know. I’ll study. I promise.’

  ‘Just so long as you do.’

  She throws Adam a stern look. Adam responds automatically by dropping his head down, his bottom lip protruding, brown eyes unashamed under his eyelashes. Mum always says you could sweep the floor with Adam’s lashes.

  Mum laughs. ‘Don’t you give me that look, young man.’ Adam’s famous hang-dog look never fails. ‘Look, honey, I’m doing a rice pudding, and we’ve almost run out of milk. Could you pop down to the dairy and grab me some?’

  Adam bats his lashes. ‘Well, I could pop down to the dairy, or I could use my time more profitably, for example, by conjugating the subjunctive of the verb se détendre.’ He starts conjugating. ‘Je me détende, tu te détendes...’

  Mum smiles. ‘I walked into that one, didn’t I?’

  Adam nods, grinning. Mum heaves a sigh, but she’s still smiling.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go. I could do with a bit of a walk. Blow away the cobwebs. So long as you keep on conjugating whatever that verb was and not subjugating some subversive on the computer.’

  ‘‘Course, Mum.’ Another hang-dog look.

  Mum snorts. ‘I won’t be long. If your father comes in while I’m out, make him a cup of tea, all right?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  But Adam is already rolling back towards the computer. Morterain awaits.

  Chapter 3

  Adam hears the crunch of gravel as a car pulls up in the driveway.

  Dad’s home.

  Adam pulls his eyes away from the screen. The dark of his room is startling. At this time of the year, the sun disappears around six in a blaze of orange sequins slipping swiftly behind the Kaimai ranges to the west, but today, absorbed in his game, Adam missed it. Now his room is cheerless and chilly. Adam scoots backwards and flicks the light switch, blinking as the corners of his room flood yellow.

  ‘That you, Dad?’ he calls.

  ‘Yep.’ Dad shouts back. ‘Where’s your mother?’

  ‘She went out for some milk.’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. The dairy would’ve closed half an hour ago. What time did she leave?’

  ‘Um. I dunno. A while ago.’ Reaching forward, Adam puts his headphones on the desk. Then he links his fingers and extends both arms over his head in a good long stretch. ‘Just give her a call,’ he bellows.

  ‘No point. Her phone’s still here on the kitchen bench.’

  Adam stands and hooks his fingers over the door jamb, dropping his bodyweight into the stretch. He pokes his head forward and looks down the stairs at Dad. ‘Want me to go look for her?’

  ‘No, no, you stay here. I’ll go. I left a car from the yard blocking the drive. I probably drove right past her on the way in.’

  ‘You’ll be in for it if you did,’ Adam quips. He swings casually in the door frame.

  ‘Lucky for me I’ve got broad shoulders. I’ll duck out now and pick her up. In the meantime, I think she’s left something in the slow cooker. My money’s on steak and kidney. What say you check on it, set the table?’

  Half an hour later, Adam is putting the salt and pepper on the table when he hears the car pull into the driveway. Soon afterwards, Dad comes through the back door, pulling off his leather sports jacket—a reject from the eighties that would pass for retro if only Dad wasn’t wearing it. Adam swivels about, but Mum isn’t following. By the time Adam turns around again, Dad has thrown the jacket over a kitchen chair and dropped the car keys on the bench. Out of habit, Adam notes the key fob design. Standing lion. Peugeot.

  ‘I drove up and down the road between here and the dairy half a dozen times. There’s no sign of her,’ Dad announces.

  ‘Maybe she went to the supermarket. It’s open ‘til late.’

  ‘I thought of that. Drove down there, made a quick dash through the aisles. It’s possible I missed her, but I don’t think she went there. It’s too far without the car, and she would’ve had to carry the milk home. It doesn’t make sense for her to do that if the dairy was still open.’

  Adam goes to the front window and pulls back the curtains. He peeks out. Across the road, black rooftops silhouette against the graphite sky. Further along, under the streetlight, a cat walks along the top of a retainer between two properties. The street is quiet and still. Adam lets the curtains swing back in a rustle of fabric.

  ‘It’s getting pretty late.’

  ‘It’ll be nothing. She’ll have popped in to one of the neighbours for a natter and lost track of the time.’

  ‘What if she’s twisted her ankle or something?’

  ‘In that case, she’ll be propped up on one of the neighbour’s couches while they offer her a therapeutic Chardonnay.’

  ‘Shall I call them, then? The neighbourhood watch list is in the cutlery drawer.’

  Dad massages his ear. ‘What say we give it another half an hour? Then if she still isn’t home, we’ll call. We don’t want the neighbours to think we’re sitting here strumming our fingers waiting on our tucker, do we? You know what, let’s just go ahead and eat. No point letting it go to waste. We can always put a plate in the microwave for Mum when she gets home.’

  They eat their steak and kidney on toast. After dinner, they fill in time clearing away the dishes and wiping down the kitchen table. Then Adam gets out the neighbourhood watch list, and he and Dad sit at the table and take turns calling the neighbours.

  No one has seen her.

  Adam glances at the oven clock. 9:42pm. Where is she? Getting up, he takes a couple of cups out of the cupboard and puts the kettle on.

  ‘Tell me again exactly what Mum said when she went out,’ Dad says, his eyes down, texting.

  ‘She said she was going for some milk,’ Adam says. He opens the fridge and lifts a plastic container from the shelf in the door. Holding it up, he gives it a swirl. ‘See? There’s hardly any left.’

  He tips the last of the milk over the teabags and pours boiling water into the cups. Then he gives them a quick stir and drops the teabags in the sink. As the grind of the waste disposer tails off, Dad’s ‘message sent’ beep sounds.

  ‘Who’s that you’re texting?’

  Dad immediately switches off his phone. He puts it on the table. Under the table, he wipes his hands up and down his thighs as if cleansing them of some contaminant.

  ‘No
one. A client. Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe your Mum was going to get the milk on her way home from something else. She might’ve had a meeting on. She probably told us, but we’ve forgotten. Could be it’s her PTA night.’

  Adam carries the cups through and sets one down in front of Dad. ‘She quit the PTA last year, Dad. Said after three years it was time for them to get new blood in. Remember?’

  ‘Hmm, vaguely. Oh, I don’t know. What about the Alzheimer’s Association then? That’s on a Wednesday, isn’t it?’

  Adam’s Grandpa has Alzheimer’s. Mum used to help Gran look after him until about a year ago when Grandpa got too bad and had to move into a rest home. Finding herself at a bit of a loose end, Mum had stepped up her involvement on the local Alzheimer’s committee. Dad’s right: their meetings are usually held in the evenings. That’ll be where Mum is for sure.

  ‘I’ll check,’ Adam says, eagerly. He steps across the kitchen and opens the cupboard door where the family events calendar, a Christmas freebie from a local real estate dealer, is thumb-tacked to the inside. The July page has fallen down, the hole torn. Adam holds it above his head as he checks the page for August underneath.

  ‘Nup. Nothing on the calendar for tonight.’ Using his head to hold the pages up, Adam flips through the next couple of months and examines the boxes. ‘It looks like the Alzheimer’s meetings are every third Wednesday...’

  ‘You know what?’ Dad says. ‘I’ll bet she’s at your Gran’s. What time is it?’

  Adam checks his watch. ‘Nearly ten.’

  ‘Mmm. Asking for trouble. Wynn’s likely to have a heart attack if we ring her at this hour and tell her we’ve misplaced your mum. You know what your Gran’s like. She’ll think the worst.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not likely to jump to conclusions if Mum’s there, is she?’

  ‘You’re right, son. That school must be teaching you something. I must remember to pay the fees,’ Dad chuckles, reaching out to ruffle Adam’s hair. Pushing his fringe back into place with both hands, Adam feels a frisson of alarm. Dad hasn’t done that for years.