The Child Who Was Silent

by Nicole Trope

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

‘I literally could not put this one down… I started this book late last night and I didn’t stop till I finished it at 4am. It was quite literally unputdownable!… Amazing… Impossible to stop reading… I absolutely loved it!’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Where is he? Where’s my beloved child with his father’s blue eyes and a halo of golden curls? My little boy is out there on his own. Please keep him safe, I silently beg, please, please just keep him safe. ‘Your son is missing,’ they say, and life as I know it is over. ‘Where would he go?’ the police ask. ‘Where would he be?’ my daughter begs. My heart races as images flash in my mind. The cabin we rent every autumn, surrounded by fiery red maple trees. Voices raised. Tears falling. A marriage falling apart. And worst of all my husband telling our child, Theo, to run. The rest is a blank in my memory. If I close my eyes I can almost see it. A betrayal that has left me alone, in tatters, grieving for what we had. It wasn’t meant to be like that. It should have been precious time as a family, with boardgames, walks in the mountain and pancakes for breakfast. Instead my little one is has vanished. ‘They are looking for him,’ the nurse told me, ‘but the storm is slowing down the search.’ The police think Theo has the answers, that he knows what tore our family apart. But I have no idea where he is. No clue if he is safe. I won’t survive unless I bring him home. But if I do, and the truth comes out, will I survive that? A completely gripping, beautifully written and totally heartbreaking page-turner, which examines what happens behind closed doors, and the secrets that can shatter a family. Fans of Jodi Picoult, Diane Chamberlain and Liane Moriarty will be totally addicted to this breathtaking novel. Readers love Bring Him Home : ‘ Incredible… An absolutely sensational read!!... I read this book with my heart in my mouth… Had me in tears multiple times… I cannot recommend it highly enough! 5 beautiful stars!’ BookLoverChryssie, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ The first thing that comes to mind is OMG. The second that comes to mind is fantastic. Then the third and last thing that comes to mind is loved. OMG this book is really fantastic and I loved it so much… This one tops the cake. I just loved this one so much. I can’t say a single bad thing about this book… I made it through this book so quickly. I read well into the night and until I could not see the words on the pages anymore.’ Blue Moon Blogger, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Ohh WOW!! Nicole Trope you pulled hard, and I mean hard on my heartstrings with Bring Me Home!! This is one unforgettable book that will stay with you after you finish it! It was very suspenseful, emotional, heartbreaking… Amazing.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ OMG... I was in tears… A touching, poignant and beautifully written tale… I couldn't swipe the pages quick enough.’ Confessions of a Bookaholic, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Wow! I absolutely loved this book!… This book is full of emotions… A fantastic read! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ My sleep was disturbed last night! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘This is a fast-paced thriller and it’s real edge-of-your-seat material… A complete emotional rollercoaster which had me in tears… Kept me guessing… Fantastic.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘A heartbreaking and unpredictable story…. It’s the best thriller I’ve read this year.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Stunning. Poignant. A tale that grabs you by the heart, that wrings your emotions, involves you, makes you care. Just wonderful and very highly recommended.’ Renita d’Silva, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

It was not Amber’s intention to get lost.

It was not her intention to find herself surrounded by gnarled, scribbly gum trees, their twisted, knotted branches reaching out to catch her hair and clothes. It is after 3 p.m. and black clouds are beginning to gather in the autumn sky. A storm is predicted. ‘One month’s rain in three days,’ the news site warned. Amber shivers in her hoodie. She should have a coat and a hat and a backpack carrying everything she could need should she get lost. But she really didn’t mean to get lost.

She was just going to walk in the forest, leaving the beautiful, perfectly named Dream cabin with its sandstone floors and soft leather couches for twenty minutes so she could at least see some of the surrounding bush before the rain set in.

She intended to walk for ten minutes one way and ten minutes back, and then, returning to the cabin, she would open the very expensive bottle of wine she had brought, fire up the spa and watch the rain come down over the gorge, where the trees bristled with the bright oranges and reds of autumn, creating a multicoloured quilt of beauty that would soon be obscured by water. It is the second-to-last week of autumn and she knows that soon the trees that celebrate the changing seasons will be bare, leaving only the evergreen trees standing proudly. The winter cold has, however, already arrived. She pulls the arms of her hoodie over her numb hands, realising how silly it was to have come for a walk like this.

When she returned to the cabin, she was also going to make herself a plate with the pricey Brie and wafer-thin water crackers she’d brought along. And when she was tired of the view, she was going to get out of the spa and binge-watch a season of something funny on Netflix.

And all of that would make up for the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be here alone. She was supposed to be with Finn, celebrating their two-year anniversary and maybe, just maybe, getting proposed to.

She feels ridiculously naïve when she thinks about this now.

Finn – blonde-haired, blue-eyed, funny and fabulous Finn – is now with Melody. Melody, who works in IT at the advertising firm where they are all employed. Melody, the quiet, sensitive boyfriend-stealer.

As Amber tramps over the thick green and brown layer of damp leaves, she wishes on them both winter colds that linger. She stops and looks around her again but cannot see any evidence of life, although she can hear rustling leaves and movement in the undergrowth. She feels bad about wishing a cold on Finn but only for a moment. He has completely and thoroughly broken her heart, and she only left the cabin because she thought the chilly air would help her stop crying. It did, at first, but now she’s lost and she feels tears spilling and her nose starting to run.

‘Why go to the cabin alone?’ her best friend, Martha, asked. ‘It will only upset you.’

But Amber insisted on going. It was her birthday present to him and she’d already paid for it. She thought it would do her good to get out of the flat and just be somewhere else for a bit. But now she is not so sure.

Walking forward a few paces, she pushes aside the tree ferns with her knees and lifts her phone into the air where a small gap in the canopy of fig trees appears, but she cannot get a bar of service.

She had stepped off what appeared to be a well-trodden path to look at the leaves on a Japanese maple that seemed more pink than red in the afternoon light, but somehow she couldn’t find her way back. It happened so quickly it was almost as if the bush had closed in behind her, hiding the path and forcing her to turn in circles as she tried to judge a way out.

She knows that she can’t be far from the cabins that make up her resort or from another collection of cabins. They are scattered all over the place here on Mount Watson in the Australian Blue Mountains.

She looks down at her phone again as the wind whips up, blowing a few strands of loose hair across her face and into her mouth. She spits them out, irritated.

‘Help,’ she says. She doesn’t shout it, feeling too embarrassed.

She walks for another minute as the clouds sink lower and the noises of the bush taunt her. She knows there are snakes around, and who knows what else – although there may not be snakes out in the cold, in which case she has no idea what could be making the noises she’s hearing. She starts walking a little faster, making more sound than the creatures around her, and suddenly she turns right, just to go in a different direction.

As she steps around a giant fig tree, she sees the edge of a roof. Her relief makes her giggle. She hopes that whoever is there will help. They may have a landline inside so she can contact the sour-faced owner of her cabin and beg to be fetched.

Once she gets to the cabin, she realises that it is part of her resort. It was one of the cabins she considered renting for a couple of days but it was already booked.

‘We have regulars in there,’ Irene, the owner, told her, sounding annoyed that she had even asked. ‘Anyway, it’s got three bedrooms and you said this was for a couple.’ Irene had finished her sentence with a sucking noise that Amber now knows was the inhalation of a cigarette. She’s seen Irene twice since she got here and both times she was sucking deeply on a cigarette. Amber is glad the woman left her post at the front office to go away for a few days. ‘Just put the keys in the box out the front of the office when you leave. I won’t be here. Make sure the place is tidy or you’ll be charged an extra fifty dollars on top of the cleaning fee.’ Irene is definitely in the wrong profession. She seems to hate tourists. Amber shakes her head – Irene won’t be there to come and fetch her even if she does get hold of the office. Hopefully someone will answer her call or perhaps the occupants can point her in the right direction.

She steps over a large fallen branch as she makes her way to the cabin.

It’s a lovely timber-clad building with two levels and a small window in the triangle roof. There are flower boxes out the front filled with banksias in pink and red and orange. The timber is painted in a deep red that catches the last rays of the sun, reminding Amber disconcertingly of blood. Outside the cottage, a black Mercedes station wagon waits to be driven.

Amber steps up onto the timber porch and knocks on the front door. As she hits her knuckles against the scarred wood, she is surprised to feel it swing open a little. ‘Excuse me,’ she calls through the partially open door, ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I’m lost and not sure how to get back to my cabin.’

She waits but only silence and warm air from a cedar-smelling log fire come from the cabin. Amber chews on her lip. She could just leave and find another cabin. She is sure to stumble across another one soon. But then she looks behind her and sees that the light is disappearing fast, a far-off rumble of ominous thunder alerting her to the incoming storm. It will be here soon. She doesn’t want to be walking through the bush at night, in the darkness and the pouring rain. She doesn’t even have a torch on her and she is already shivering in the cold air.

She knocks again, causing the door to swing open further. ‘Maybe they’ve gone for a walk,’ she mutters. She supposes she could wait or she could just dart in and use the landline, which she knows they probably have as her cabin has one.

Looking at her phone again, she sees it seems to have a tiny bit of a signal, though not enough to place a call. The wind scatters some dead leaves at her feet as she pushes open the door and walks into the living area of the cabin.

She focuses on the fire first, where the wood has burned down to grey-white logs, and then she looks at the leather couches, studded with brass buttons and softly moulded by many comfortable nights. And then, as she searches for where the phone might be, she finally sees the tableaux behind the sofa.

On the red and cream rug – which she will later understand was only cream to begin with – is a woman.

Her eyes are wide and nearly black with dilated pupils as she stares at Amber. Her skin is pale and her hair is an unnatural-looking inky-black. She is crouched next to a man who is lying on the floor. In her hand is a large kitchen knife, the blade smooth and suitable for easily slicing through meat and vegetables. The knife the woman is holding is covered in deep red blood. The man is wearing a pale blue shirt, blood spreading across his chest. His eyes are closed.

Amber feels her mouth open and close. She cannot quite believe what she is seeing. Taking a step back, she gets ready to run. Her heart rate has ramped up and her skin is tingling, her breath coming in pants as though she is already running. Instinctively, her body knows she needs to move.

She looks back at the woman, who is absolutely still, as though she has been posed in that position. ‘Are you… what… he-hello,’ Amber attempts, her voice trembling, but the woman doesn’t move. Amber understands quickly that this is not a game or a joke, that what is happening here is so far beyond what she can deal with that she cannot even begin to think about what to do. She needs help.

Taking a step closer to the open door where the cold wind is drifting in, Amber lifts her phone, relieved to see that it has finally found signal. Her hands shake as she dials 000. The woman on the floor is unmoving, a staring statue. She is holding the knife up, as if to show Amber, but she doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

Stepping outside, Amber trips clumsily down the stairs, meaning to put as much space between her and the stone woman as possible but knowing she needs to maintain a signal on her phone. ‘Help,’ she croaks when a man answers, and she falls to her knees, mud splattering. ‘Help.’

Around her the wind whistles, disturbing small piles of damp brown leaves. Their rotting smell catches Amber at the back of her throat and she swallows to avoid throwing up. Above her, a giant fig tree creaks and groans.

Amber knows that she will never be able to rid her mind of the image of the woman, deep red blood glistening on the knife she held over the man’s body. It will change her forever.

‘Stay away,’ the man on the phone tells her, not that she has any intention of going back into the cabin. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

‘But the woman, she’s holding a knife,’ she replies breathlessly.

‘Stay away,’ the man instructs again. ‘Help is coming. Are you safe? Is she threatening you?’

‘No, she hasn’t moved. She’s not moving at all.’

‘Help is coming,’ he repeats.

It is only minutes until Amber hears the screech of police and ambulance sirens, and the whirring roar of a helicopter that competes with the rolling thunder that foreshadows the rainstorm to come. It is only minutes until someone wraps her in a blanket and there are police everywhere, moving quickly and shouting with guns drawn. Then Amber watches as the woman, her gaze fixed on something only she can see, is led out to a waiting car, followed closely by a policewoman with a large brown bag that Amber imagines contains the bloody knife.

I run, I run, I run. Cold air, cold air. I run, I run, I run.

I can run. I can always run. ‘He likes to run,’ Mum always says. ‘He likes to run more than anything.’ I use my body to run but running takes me away from my body as well. Running takes me away from everything. My brain wants my body to run. My brain is autistic. My brain is different. My brain is me and I can run.

I run in the cold air, the wind rushing past my ears, louder than my breath.

I step on leaves and in dirt and on sticks. Leaves, dirt, sticks, leaves, dirt, sticks, leaves, dirt, sticks. Sometimes I feel something under my foot but I still run.

I had to run. I couldn’t stay. ‘Run,’ said Dad. ‘Run!’

The sky rumbles. There is no sun.

There are leaves and trees and noise and pain. Pain when I run. No shoes. No shoes. ‘Where are your shoes, Theo?’ Mum always says. ‘Please put on your shoes. You like your blue shoes, don’t you?’ Mum doesn’t understand about shoes. Shoes itch and hurt and squeeze. I can’t wear shoes.

‘It’s not safe to be outside in the bush alone, Theo. Stay inside. Stay safe.’ Mum wants me to be safe. But I wasn’t safe with her. I had to run.

‘Run,’ said Dad. ‘Get help.’

I stop. I breathe in and out, in and out, slowly. I can’t run anymore. Boom, boom, boom goes my heartbeat in my ear. I can see the sky. I can feel my breath. Cold. I stop. Scrunch, wisp, growl. Scrunch, wisp, growl. There is something here in the bush, something alive, something that will bite or scratch. Snakes and rats and wallabies live in the bush. Spiders crawl and insects sting. Too much. Too much. I run.

But here is a cabin. Is help here? I don’t know help. Boom, boom, boom. Too much noise. Too much.

Here. Here I can hide under, crawl under. Wait. I can’t run anymore. I should wait. Dad will come. I wait.

‘Shelter in place, Theo – do you know what that means? It means that when we are at the cabin, if you ever get lost, you just wait. Find somewhere safe and wait and we will come and find you. Shelter in place, Theo. If you get lost, you must shelter in place.’ Mum said shelter in place and Dad said shelter in place but then Dad said run. I didn’t know what to do. I did run but now I can shelter in place.

This is a place. This is a place where I can shelter. Old wood, cracked and broken, piles of bricks and the smell of smoke. A small cabin with space underneath. Leaves and dirt and sticks and stones. I can shelter here.

I crawl under. I move my feet and a spider runs away. I make lots of noise with my body to scare away the biting, stinging things.

Cold, cold, cold. My jumper stretches, itchy, itchy. ‘Theo, don’t put your jumper over your knees, it will stretch out.’ My jumper stretches.

Above my head there is a thump, thump, thump. ‘Quiet, you creatures,’ shouts a cross voice. I am scared of the cross voice. I stay still so it cannot find me and get me.

I rock, I rock, I rock. Darkness creeps into my safe place. It is night. ‘It’s night-time now, Theo, time for sleep. Here’s your blanket.’

My blanket is soft, soft, soft. Where is my blanket? Where is my bed? Where is Mum? Where is Dad? Dad said, ‘Run, Theo, get help.’

I cannot close my eyes. I am scared of the noises, scared of the dark, scared of the cross voice.

I rock in the dark and I cover my ears. But then I hear singing. I let go of my ears and listen to the words. I hear the song, my song, our song, Mum’s song: ‘This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine…’

Mum sings to me. I am her little light. I am this little light. But that’s not Mum. Mum’s voice is soft and low and quiet. Mum’s voice is peace and calm. This voice crackles. This voice is high. Not Mum. But it is our song.

My eyes get heavier and heavier. I am small, I am a ball. I am a ball in my bubble. I am round and safe under here. I cover my ears, but I still hear the song. Everything else is silent. My eyes close, close. I am in a bubble now, my bubble. No one can touch me in my bubble. No sound can get to me, only our song is in my ears. I am bubble-safe and I am a little light. I am…

‘And another thing,’ mutters Rose to the picture of her sister, Mary, sitting on the polished wood buffet. ‘I am sick of these city people tramping all over my land. I found two of ’em just this morning. “Private property,” I said, and the one fella, the little one wearing a blue beanie, he just laughed at me. “Gosh, sorry,” he said, “we thought this cabin was abandoned. There isn’t a fence or anything!” Cheeky bastard. I saw them off quick enough, waved my rake at them and they just ran.’

She puts her cup of tea down on the large oak table and picks up the hand mirror she keeps there. The table used to sit in the house she grew up in, right in the centre of town, with a large kitchen and three small bedrooms. The table was the only thing her family took when they had to move here to this cabin, where the rent was affordable for a woman on her own with three kids. The table fills the whole living area but Rose doesn’t want anything smaller. It’s full of burns from the cooking pot and scratches and some gouges from her brother, Lionel. Lionel got angry sometimes, anger he couldn’t control, and if no one stopped him, he would grab a knife and go at the table. The wood was strong enough to take his anger, anger at everything he didn’t understand and couldn’t control because of the way his brain worked.

Rose touches a deep gouge, her brother’s face coming to her. She misses him and Mary every day. There are parts of the table that she has worn smooth with her cloth because she always sits in the same spot to eat, the spot she has sat at since she was a little thing, barely able to see over the top. It is the table where they gathered to eat and where she and Mary did their homework. Its large turned legs are strong and still beautiful even though the varnish has worn away.

Rose remembers the first time she and her family saw this cabin. She was eight, Mary was thirteen and Lionel was only four. Their mother had hung on to the house in town for as long as she could, but the rent was far beyond what she could manage on her own. Their father had fled to Sydney, finding a son with problems too much to deal with. Rose’s mother, Dorothy – or Dot as she was called by those who knew and loved her – had brought the three of them up here on a sunny afternoon in the December summer, just before Christmas.

Rose remembers the way her mother smiled sadly as she showed them the run-down little cabin in the mountains, as though she understood that it was nothing at all like her children had expected.

It was essentially only one room with a small bedroom off to the side. The stove was old and blackened but at least there was a bathroom close enough to almost feel inside. The floorboards were rotting and there were gaps where the winter chill would creep in.

‘Now, chickens,’ her mother said, using her pet word for her children, ‘I’ll make it nice. You’ll see. Vincent from town is coming up to do all the repairs so we’ll have a good strong roof and the floor will be fixed.’ Vincent was the town handyman, able to repair or build almost anything. He’s long gone now. Most of the people Rose knew when she was a young girl are long gone. The worst losses were her brother and sister.

‘I can sew some curtains, Mum,’ Mary said, ever the peacemaker, as Rose ran her hands along a panelled wall, finding splinters and chipped paint. ‘I’ll make a little room for me and Rose, and you can have your own space. Lionel can sleep in the middle. We’ll be just fine.’

Rose tried to smile through her tears but she knew she would miss the little room with pink gingham curtains that she shared with her sister. She would miss simply turning on the light and not having to worry if the generator had petrol, and she would miss water gushing out of the tap because the water for the cabin came from a tank that needed to be kept full, and it had been a dry, dry year.

They made the cabin a nice place to be. Vincent had worked virtually for free, knowing of the family’s troubles, and the floor was fixed, the roof made strong, and he even sectioned off a room for Rose and Mary. The bathroom was enclosed and made part of the house, and between Mary and her mother, they turned the cabin into home. Before she knew it, Rose couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Now, Rose rubs her hand over the back of the hand mirror, loving the cool, gleaming surface. The mirror with its mother-of-pearl backing, flashing its multicoloured sheen, is the most beautiful thing Rose has ever owned. It was a gift from Mary for her twenty-first birthday. She looks in the mirror and chuckles. She can imagine that the young men she scared off earlier today thought she was a witch, with her white hair hanging down her back in a messy plait and her crooked teeth. She’s never been one for creams and fancy stuff. But her pale blue eyes still sparkle when she smiles, so there’s life in her yet. She pushes a piece of hair behind her ear and lifts her head, straightening her neck. ‘I was a beauty once, Mary, wasn’t I?’

Under the cabin a rustling sound alerts her to the possums waking up for the night. A rumbling in the sky tells her that rain will be here any moment, soaking into the ground and making it difficult for her to go outside. But she wouldn’t begrudge the farmers what they need.

There is more noise under the house, rustling and crunching. ‘Better get out and about before the rain comes,’ she calls to the possums. Any minute now they’ll be scampering over her roof and running down the drainpipes as they go out looking for food and fun. More crackling irritates her and she stands up and grabs her broom. ‘Quiet, you creatures!’ she shouts, more to let them know that this is her house than anything else, using her broom to thump on the floor a few times. ‘Humph.’ She nods. ‘That’s better,’ she says when they go quiet.

‘Silly possums,’ she laughs. ‘And don’t tell me that I should have been polite to those boys on my land earlier, Mary. It’s not my fault that all those cabins just grew up here overnight and now the city people wander in, no matter the time of year.’ Rose nods her head as she speaks, occasionally glancing at the picture of her sister as though the serene expression on Mary’s face may change in reaction to what she’s saying. It’s a picture of Mary and her husband, Bart, and their children, William and Nancy. It was taken when Mary turned sixty and is one of those posed studio images which Rose doesn’t love as much as the candid photos of her sister laughing or busy in her garden. But it is in a lovely frame and Rose likes to look at it and remember Mary, with her neatly coiled brown hair and kind smile.

‘I miss you, love,’ she whispers as she does every day and has done every day for the last five years since Mary left this earth. When she passed away, she was surrounded by her children and grandchildren, just as she wanted to be. Rose held her sister’s hand as her breathing rattled down to the last breath in the big, metal-framed bed she had shared with Bart her whole married life. Rose had felt a chill settle over her shoulders, knowing it was Mary’s last touch goodbye.

There were a lot of tears from t. . .