Free At My Door by Deb Fitzpatrick Page A

it
My
?
Mee
?’
    â€˜I think you’d pronounce it
May
,’ the policewoman says, and bends down to the child. ‘Hello,’ she smiles gently. ‘I’m Jan. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Mei!’ the child wails, eyes wide, and then calls, ‘Mama, mama,
mama
!’
    â€˜Okay, well that’s a start,’ the policewoman says, turning to the others.
    â€˜Where do you live, Mei?’ she continues. ‘Where’s your house? Can you show us?’
    â€˜
Mama!
’ Mei just cries even harder.
    I feel sick seeing this. How scary would it be to be in someone else’s lounge room at eleven o’clock on a Monday night without your mum anywhere nearby? I’d be scared, and I’m ten! Where
is
her mum?
    The policeman says, ‘We’ll have to call in Family Services.’
    The policewoman nods. ‘I’ll take a photo of her and email it over to Missing Persons, in case somebody’s already registered her as missing.’
    She swipes her phone into camera mode and squats down. She smiles again and says, ‘Mei?’ and the flash goes off, adding to the weirdness of this whole thing. Not exactly happy snaps time.
    Mei is clutching her green blanket and crying loudly.
    â€˜I’ll put the kettle on,’ Mum says going out, and then she returns to the room, to Mei. ‘Would you like some milk, love? Some warm milk?’
    â€˜Mama,’ comes the sobbing reply.
    â€˜Milk?’ Mum says, holding up the milk carton and shaking it a little.
    Mei cries so hard it hurts to watch.

I war-crawl back along the corridor, getting carpet burns on my elbows as I go.
Notepad!
I instruct my memory.
    Once safe inside my room again, I make sure the door stays wedged open a crack so I can hear what’s going on. I’m so glad Harry’s not buzzing, because I want a chance to write a few things down in my notebook. I have lots of notebooks. I love them. All stationery, I love.
    I go through a couple of karate moves while I’m thinking. It helps me focus. It’s sort of like concentrating through moving. I like karatea lot. After a moment I fall onto the bed to scribble down some thoughts.

    Then I lie still on my bed, straining to hear as much as possible.

    I can hear the sounds of teaspoons in mugs, like the
ding ding ding
of the triangle when we do music with Mrs Stone. She’s a hippie and the triangle is in everything we play, even in hip-hop.
    In the lounge, they’ve stopped talking.
    Harry buzzes rudely.
    â€˜
Shhhh
!’ I hiss into the intercom. ‘They’ll hear you!’
    â€˜What’s going on, Flop? Your reports are insufficiently frequent. I need an update – now!’
    I don’t reply.
    â€˜Flops? It sounds like R2-D2 is in the lounge – what
is
that?
    He’s getting nothing. I let go of the button.
    â€˜FLOPPY! I neeeeeed you,’ he whines, trying a different approach. ‘I can’t leave my room without being seen by everyone – I’m relying on you for intelligence!’
    Ha!
I think in his direction.
    Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,
Harry buzzes.
    I press my receive button, but stay silent.
    â€˜Okay, Pops, okay, I get it, it’s a P thing. P-PP-Pops. Popster. Poppy Pop Pop. Can you give me an update – please, little sis?’
    I take a breath. ‘The police are here.’
    â€˜The cops?’
    â€˜Yes, the cops! They’ve got those radio thingies – I think that’s what sounds like R2-D2. Mum’s just made them tea.’
    â€˜That’d be right. Have a cup of tea, even in the middle of a massive drama. So, hang on – why are the cops here?’
    â€˜Some baby – a girl – really small – has beendropped off here, on her own. At the front door. Without her parents.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I guess she’s been … abandoned. Or maybe she ran away? I’m going back out