Page 37

February 5th

One week.

Mum and Dad drive me to the airport, Dad talking nonstop about the deal he got on his new black Audi. Mum and I tune out, like how we used to before it all went wrong, before you, back when we were just an ordinary family. But I feel different today, as if I now have spine where before I was just skin. I’m leaving the old me behind.

Dad finally stops talking and Mum reads us the weather forecast for Athens from her phone. I stare at the wet roads.

‘I’ll go in alone,’ I say. ‘Check in by myself. That’s okaywith you both, yeah?’

I’ve agreed this with them already, but I need to confirm it. Mum smiles at me warily, but Dad nods solemnly as he glances at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘You won’t forget to water my plants?’

Another solemn nod. The plants are in the back seat with me, ready to go to his flat. I brush my fingers against their leaves and wonder if it’s possible to miss plants more than people; a veryyouthought. Then Mum starts up again with questions about the turtles and volunteers and the safety of the accommodation.

They still don’t know about your release date. It seems unreal that the prison kept me, and me only, on file for notifications. It’s like a sign.

I don’t let Mum and Dad come beyond the drop-off zone.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, as we get out of the car. ‘I need to do this.’

‘Let her be, Kristen,’ Dad says, and for once Mum listens.

Dad passes me my bag, his hands shaking. His watery eyes and his soft, hesitant voice almost make me stop in my tracks. He’s changed too these past years. I don’t know why everyone is so focused on me as the only one needing help; we’ve all been chipped away by you. You’ve got into us all, made us all less than we were.

‘Be safe…ah…Kate,’ he says. He always stumbles on my name now. He pats me on the head like I’m a toddler. ‘We’re proud of you.’ When I hug him, I hear him murmur, ‘Love you, girl.’

Those words are new from him, and my mouth jams before I can say them back. Almost immediately, he steps away awkwardly. My throat is so tight that I can only nod whenMum tells me, again and again, to be safe. When Dad places the biggest wad of cash I’ve ever seen into my hand, I hug him again. What has happened to me that I can leave them like this? Does it mean you’ve won? I feel as if I’m being torn apart as I step away from them, but I can’t turn around. If I do, I might run back into Mum’s arms and play the little girl. I must do this. It will be better in the long run, for all of us.

I think of Nick’s hard expression as he stood jammed in my doorway.

You can’t love.

There’s something missing.

I think of Rose and how brave she is to plan her last trip to somewhere she’s never been. I need to be like her now.

Before I step through the sliding doors to the ticket desks, I look back one last time. Mum is crying but trying to hide it. She even wraps her arm around Dad’s waist as she smiles at me. It reminds me of the last time we were all at an airport together. After you. After the court case ended and we were coming home. There were so many reporters; we were famous. I remember Mum pushing the cameras away as we headed through the crowds.

Now, as I wave goodbye, she buries her head into Dad’s shoulder, the way she used to. I wonder whether her confidence and positivity with me is just an act, whether she plays a part like I do. At least in this final image I have of them, they’re together. My leaving could be a good thing for them, too—the gift I give after taking so much.

When I get to Departures, I lean up against a pillar near the toilets, listening to kids screaming, a machine whirring and whirring, endless announcements. I’ve turned to wateragain—I’m made of rivers breaking their banks. I have no spine left. I can’t do this. But what else is there? Even if I turned left and took that flight to Athens, I’m not booked in at the turtle orphanage. So I turn right towards the Qantas desks.

‘To Perth,’ I say.

To you.

I will remember it all, this time. No one is holding me steady as I wait to board the plane, pretending I’m only drunk. I don’t throw up in the toilet. No one is leading me through the transit lounge showing a fake passport.

Last time, flight attendants gave us champagne. Do you remember that? I don’t, and it would’ve been my first taste. I only know about it from the court transcripts—celebrating,you’d said,newly engaged.Sixteen and drugged to the eyeballs, and not even a question? How did the staff not know? How did you get that kind of luck?

I keep my nerve as I board the plane, reminding myself that I have to do it, that Mum and Dad will understand. Anyone would. AlthoughThe Daily Mailwould have a field day if they saw me here. I can imagine the headlines:

Stockholm syndrome or masochist?

Back for more.

Victim still controlled!