The Golden Child Read online

  DEDICATION

  For all the teenage girls in my life – past and present.

  And in memory of Emma James (1971–2015).

  Hoping you’ve found calmer waters, little sister.

  EPIGRAPH

  ‘She sat beside her daughter a long time, watching the soft placid signs of her breathing, thinking how innocent the child looked, how free of the dark, terrible instincts that were in her; then all at once she felt these things were not true, that the things the child had done could only exist in her own imagination; but she pulled herself up sternly and said, “I’m imagining nothing. It is all true.”’

  William March, The Bad Seed

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One Beth

  Beth

  Beth

  Beth

  Beth

  Sophie

  Beth

  Charlotte

  Part Two Andi

  Sophie

  Charlotte

  Andi

  Sophie

  Beth

  Andi

  Charlotte

  Beth

  Charlotte

  Sophie

  Sophie

  Andi

  Andi

  Sophie

  Andi

  Part Three Andi

  Beth

  Andi

  Charlotte

  Andi

  Beth

  Andi

  Charlotte

  Andi

  Beth

  Andi

  Beth

  Andi

  Beth

  Andi

  Part Four Sophie

  Andi

  Charlotte

  Beth

  Sophie

  Beth

  Beth

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Back Ad

  Praise

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  IT COULD HAVE BEEN A WHOLE LOT WORSE.

  Through it all, Beth holds on hard to that thought. She’s such a glass half-full girl, Beth, though it’s been something of a struggle lately.

  For one thing, it could have happened in New Jersey. She hates to think what might have unfolded had they not been back in Australia. Oh, she can see it, how even in the rarefied air of their particular Garden State village – wealthy, middle class, predominantly liberal – the whole situation would have been far more public. There’d have been no containment, no way to damp down the conflagration. There’d have been no old connections leaned on, no past favours to call in, no possible way to keep things quiet.

  In her worst nightmares, it would have been a full-on media circus, with both perpetrator and victim in the spotlight: the story syndicated in umpteen newspapers; experts on child psychology enlisted to speak on every prime-time talk show – deliberating on possible causes, offering up their professional insights into the case, pontificating on everything from the sorry state of contemporary childhood to the pernicious influence of the internet, from the increase in malignant narcissism and sociopathy to irresponsibly overindulgent parenting.

  And their parenting, her parenting – that’s the thing that would have become the hot issue. Her family would have been put under the microscope. She can imagine the interviews – hadn’t she seen them in so many other cases? – with so-called ‘friends of the family’, with teachers, coaches, people who’d served her in the grocery store, even her hairdresser. There was always something odd about them, they’d say. Those parents gave that girl everything, did everything for her. She didn’t know how good she had it, didn’t know right from wrong. And they’d have asked the questions she’s asked herself endlessly, to no avail: How could this have happened? What went wrong?

  She imagines public agitation for new laws – petitions, even – that would ensure both child and parents could be charged, convicted and punished. They would have been forced to listen to the solemn utterances of some public figure – a senator, say, or district attorney – assuring a fearful, appalled citizenry that, regardless of the final outcome, the matter would be taken seriously, that it would be investigated to the full extent of the law. And Beth can see, terrifying even in her overheated imagination, the crowd that would have gathered outside her front gate, once their name had become public property. The press, concerned locals, curious passers-by – relatively benign; and then the out-and-out toxic – all the nutty vigilante types with their placards and banners, calling for the immediate reinstatement of the death penalty for minors.

  And the virtual world. Oh, the virtual world would have been nightmarish – the links, the comments, the never-ending barrage of unfiltered public opinion. Perhaps Beth’s online self would have been identified and her little blog community – her haven – would have been breached. She would have finally received enough views to think about sponsors, might even have inspired a Twitter trend – but for all the wrong reasons.

  Back home in Australia, these things are approached more cautiously – in a more civilised manner, as her mother would, and indeed has, put it. Here, it has all been . . . not precisely brushed under the carpet, but discretion has been, and will continue to be, maintained. Though the hushing up – because that’s what it is – has been as much for Sophie’s sake as Charlotte’s. What parent would want the details of such an act looming over their child’s future? Slightly to one side of all the surface concern and sympathy, Beth suspects there is a level of judgement, too: what child, other than one who is already psychologically suspect, emotionally damaged, would submit so readily to such bullying? Looked at coolly, realistically, isn’t Sophie’s desperate act indisputable proof of that child’s mental instability, just as much as it is evidence of her own daughter’s wickedness?

  Beth is well aware that public discretion is only a politesse, a ramshackle facade, and perhaps only a temporary stay at that. Privately, the news will have spread like wildfire among the school community, and beyond. Of course all the people she knows, and so many others that she doesn’t, will be avidly discussing what has happened.

  She’s grateful, too – she’s so much more than grateful; there’s no word that expresses the magnitude of her feelings – that Sophie is still alive. And her gratitude that Sophie is alive is, she knows, the one thing that should overwhelm all the other sensations – fear, anger, defensiveness – that are threatening to engulf her. It’s a matter for considerable thanksgiving on her part (on all their parts) that the child is still breathing.

  But despite all the positives – these not so small mercies – Beth’s finding it hard to maintain her usual optimistic outlook. From where she’s standing, the glass is looking ominously empty.

  DizzyLizzy.com

  Who is Lizzy?

  Lizzy is an Aussie gal, formerly a journo, now a mother of two and ‘trailing spouse’, transported from the sunny shores of Sydney town to the colder climes of Somewhere, USA, via Elsewhere, Canada, and Overdaire, Ireland. She’s mostly enjoying the experience – even if it has left her feeling a little disoriented.

  Writing this blog is a way to ensure that Lizzy’s communications skills stay honed. It also keeps her sane.

  The Parental Bogeyman Goes Trick-Or-Treating

  Surely, C insists, she’s old enough to go trick-or-treating without me. After all, she’ll be twelve in a few weeks. And twelve is a teenager, practically a grown-up. We’re on our front porch (where so many of these boundary-setting negotiations seem to take place), just about to join a small troop of neighbourhood kids as they head out into our tree-lined suburban street in search of treats.

  Up until this year, Halloween has been a family affair: sometimes a school friend might join
us, but usually it’s just been our little trio – C, her older sister, L, and me. D stays home, ready to appease any visiting demons with candy. This arrangement suits me – I’ve always found Halloween slightly disturbing, one of America’s stranger traditions. I mean, why would anyone choose to send their babies out alone on the one night of the year when the Hellmouth, as they call it in the Buffyverse, is most likely to be wide open? And frankly – those grinning pumpkins freak me out. That orange glow makes every house, even my own, seem sinister.

  But this year is different: L is trick-or-treating with a friend, and C and I have planned to join up with the neighbourhood kids. It’s different in other ways too. Instead of the usual cutesy parent-approved outfit, this year C has devised her own Halloween costume. She’s a zombie: which means her face is plastered white, her undead eyes have been blackened, and there are frighteningly lifelike gashes of red at her temple and around her mouth. She’s rather terrifying to behold.

  ‘It’s lame, you coming,’ she says. ‘Everyone else gets to go on their own, without their parents. Every year. And they’ve all survived.’

  ‘So far,’ I say darkly, trying hard not to think of all the possible ways they might not survive.

  The look she gives me is murderous (admittedly her emotional range is limited), and she stamps down the stairs and out the gate. I follow slowly, clutching my pumpkin-shaped bucket, my devil’s ears headband, the little red tail that clips onto my jeans pocket.

  I Google on my phone as I walk: At what age should children trick-or-treat without an adult? One mother with the same worries as me – and a few others I hadn’t considered – volunteers online that she reluctantly let her eleven-year-old out alone, conceding that the constantly hovering parent may be the biggest bogeyman of all. I swallow my anxiety. By the time I meet C, who has joined the small tribe of monsters gathered at the park across the road, I’m almost ready to give in.

  One of my neighbours, a grade-school teacher with three kids, all younger than C, waits with them in the gloom. Her T-shirt is embossed with a luminous skeleton; her hairclips are shaped like witches’ hats. ‘Are you going with them?’ I ask, hopeful.

  ‘Oh, no.’ She looks shocked. ‘They’d hate that. Parents worry too much.’

  I nod, give a weak smile, think about abductions, LSD-laced Twinkies, paedophiles. Guns.

  ‘Actually,’ her son, a boy aged around ten who is dressed as Captain America, pipes up, ‘some really gruesome stuff has happened to kids at Halloween.’

  ‘Oh?’ I try not to sound too interested.

  ‘We had to write about the meaning of Halloween at school, and I found this cool site with all the Halloween murders on it. There’s heaps and heaps,’ he smiles with ghoulish enthusiasm. ‘One time all these girls were kidnapped, and there was this kid that was shot. But the best one was this dad who actually poisoned his own kid. He put cyanide in all the kids’ Pixy Stix, but his son was the only one who died, which was actually what he wanted because then he could get the life insurance.’ Captain America shudders with delight.

  His mother beams. ‘Jackson just loves his history.’ She pats him on the head proudly.

  ‘So,’ says C, clearly reassured by this conversational turn, ‘you’re not coming, right? I can go on my own?’

  I mutter, look vague.

  The captain’s mother gives a cheery wave. ‘Off you go, then. Be good.’ She offers me a smile, heads back across the road.

  I wait until she’s tripping up the stairs to her orange-lit porch, then pick up my bucket, clip on my tail, straighten my ears. Parental bogeyman? There are worse disguises.

  52

  EXPATTERINGS:

  @AnchoreDownInAlaska says:

  I always thought Hellmouth was what happened after they’d eaten all those sweets ☺

  @BlueSue says:

  I’m afraid that the horror that is Halloween is fast becoming ubiquitous in Australia. Our house was egged last year when we refused to join in. It’s just another nail in the coffin of our free and independent nation. In another fifty years, we’ll be the fifty-first state.

  @GirlFromIpanema says:

  Halloween is for the fainthearted. You should see what goes down in Brazil during the Day of the Dead ☺

  WWW.GOLDENCHILD.COM

  THE GOLDEN CHILD’S TEN LESSONS FOR SUCCESS

  ABOUT: I’m a girl who knows how to get what she wants and likes to share ☺ What more do you need to know?

  LESSON ONE: SWEET REVENGE

  In my first year of grade school, there was this girl, M, who told me I had beautiful hair, who said she was my best friend, who shared her hummingbird cake with me every day for a week. Every day for a week we played together in the lunch break, we sat in a special corner of the courtyard and went through our favourite books, both of us pretending we could read. Her book was Brown Bear, Brown Bear, which I thought was the dumbest story ever. My book was Green Eggs and Ham. I had memorised all the words and could read it just like my dad. I did all the expressions, the same voices that Daddy did. The girl laughed and laughed and said I read it better than the teacher. She said I had beautiful hair. She said that I was the prettiest girl in the class as well as the smartest and that she wanted to be my best friend.

  But when we came back after the weekend M ignored me. She shared her cake with another girl. The two girls sat in our special corner and laughed at me, sitting alone on the losers bench. My teeth were too big, they said. I looked like a rabbit. I was ugly and stupid.

  The next day I opened her lunch box when she was in class and put dog shit in her sandwich.

  Lesson? Don’t let anyone mess with you.

  But if they do – act.

  COMMENTS

  @RANDOMREADER says:

  I thought this was gonna be about the movie, not dogshit sandwiches. But hey, whatever. You go, Goldie!

  PART ONE

  BETH

  SHE’S JUST SETTLED DOWN TO RESPOND TO COMMENTS ON yesterday’s blogpost – one on husbands and affairs (not that Beth has ever had to worry on that account) – when Dan calls her with the news. There’s no lead-up, no warning: ‘I’ve got news, Bethie,’ Dan says, his voice a little slower than usual, full of portent. ‘They’re sending me to Newcastle.’ He doesn’t wait for her response. ‘There’s to be some sort of merger – a takeover really – with DRP, that new engineering outfit. You know, that one I was telling you about. Those amazing young blokes, straight out of uni, set it up, and they’ve got some incredible projects already. And it’s in Newie. Isn’t that the most brilliant thing?’ Dan’s voice has gradually sped up, his excitement palpable, but now it slows again. ‘It couldn’t be better, could it? Home, Bethie.’ She can hear the wistfulness, the barely disguised pleading.

  ‘Oh. Newcastle. Not Sydney?’ Beth knows that this isn’t what he wants to hear, that it isn’t what she should have said, but it’s the best she can do. She knows that Dan will know what she isn’t saying, what she’s thinking: Your home, not mine.

  ‘Yeah.’ Dan’s voice is instantly flatter, more cautious. ‘I know you were hoping we’d be able to go straight back to Sydney, but it’s not really that far – only two hours on the freeway. A bit more on the train. And you know how much it’s changed, Bethie. It’s not so – or not just – industrial. It’s different to when I was growing up. Things are happening. And we’ll be able to live close to the beach there, which would be out of the question in Sydney. It’s a good place, Beth. You said yourself, last time we were home, that Sydney was crazy. All the traffic; all the people. And it will be great for the kids to be close . . .’ He pauses, quickly changes tack. ‘To be close to the ocean.’ She knows what he’d begun to say, what he didn’t say: that it would be great for the kids to be close to family. Meaning, of course, his family, not hers.

  Beth takes a deep breath, tries to sound brighter, asks the million-dollar question: ‘So, when do we go?’

  She spends the next hour writing, and then trashing, a blogpost an
nouncing the news of their departure, studiously avoiding thinking too hard about what a move to Newcastle might really mean, and keeping her disappointment under control.

  She knows her discontent is unreasonable and, to Dan, inexplicable. After all, they’ve discussed it numerous times, and she’s told him she’d be willing to go anywhere if it meant going home, that it didn’t have to be Sydney. She’d imagined Perth, Melbourne, maybe even Adelaide, but it had never occurred to her that Newcastle was a possibility. And it isn’t so much Newcastle itself that worries her – it’s a sizeable city, and a beautiful one in its own way – but the proximity to Dan’s family, specifically his mother, Margie.

  However hard she tries, Beth has never been able to rid herself of the sense that Margie disapproves of her. That she thinks Beth isn’t quite right for her only son. That she’s just that little bit too middle class, private school, North Shore, Protestant. That it’s somehow Beth’s fault that Dan moved so far away. If it wasn’t for you and your ambition, the imagined accusation runs, Dan would have been content to stay near his mother in Newcastle.

  Margie’s disapproval is well controlled, there’s not much Beth can put her finger on – just the occasional, and quickly suppressed, expression, the mildly barbed words that when mulled over later appear completely innocent of malice. Perhaps Margie’s behaviour is entirely unconscious, or perhaps it isn’t really directed at Beth personally; perhaps it was always going to be impossible for Margie to be enthusiastic about her only son’s wife, whoever she might be.

  Beth has never said anything; how could she possibly complain when her own mother has made nothing but the most cursory effort to disguise her disapproval of Dan? But somehow her mother doesn’t count: Francine’s disapproval is fairly universal – she doesn’t really approve of Beth, either. But Margie, Margie is different. Margie is – or so everybody says – lovely. Warm, generous, broad-minded, salt-of-the-earth Margie. If Margie doesn’t like you then most probably you aren’t worth liking.