by Rodney Hall
We had no choice. It was that full-on.
In any case the steel helmet isn’t the only thing. The steel helmet holds a helmet of bone. That’s the crux . . . because inside the bone helmet a tiny mind instructs the eyes to account for every detail, instructs the finger to remain on the trigger, instructs the guts not to fall out into the gutter. That was an explosion and a half! The whole front wall collapses at a tilt. Listen. Flat chunks of hotel roof dangle from reinforcement rods. All the air is sucked out and then blown back. Are you blokes still in one piece under there? The Moqtada duck for cover, flapping away. Too late for some. Tough luck on them. We trip over jagged chunks of steel plate. Eardrums numb and ripped. Choked by smoke. This is what gives. Watch your step! The whole street’s a floating cloud of dirt—right on the money—taking with it every last raghead sharp-shooter hidden on the rooftops. Fuck.
Here’s to victory and let’s get the hell out of firing range.
Tim arrives on the dot. He fine-tunes the Contraption. The news is that his job here is basically done, a rehabilitation team being scheduled to take over (physio and the counsellor), with everything laid on. Adam groans as the exo-skeleton, locked in support mode, lifts him to engage with his second day at home. His old grin-and-bear-it philosophy helps, but not much. Feebly though his nerves respond, they’re alive enough to yelp at the extent to which he has been shredded.
Time to estimate his progress. He tests the manoeuvrability of leg and arm supports. His brain takes charge, the silent command-centre, guiding one foot then the other to inch their way around the space prepared. Floorboards creak and knock under the walking, dragging patience of the thing. Tim stands back to watch, counting the number of steps aloud—eight, nine, ten—each one a singular achievement.
Bridget asks, ‘What did you say, love?’
Adam hacks at the whispered words, ‘I hate. Ar. This. Counting.’
‘Thank you, Tim,’ she covers.
It occurs to Adam in a rush of remorse how tenderly she understands him. Maybe she always did and he wasn’t aware of it, with his macho vanity getting in the way. So much of his life he kept from her when they were together. Private insecurities, no doubt. Whatever.
‘Pleasure,’ Tim wraps it up. ‘He’s doing good, your old man.’
That nails it: he was never her ‘old man’. He props to regulate his breath.
Hours later he asks Bridget, finally—guilty because he ought to have asked long before this, ‘So, love. What about your. Ar. Work?’
‘They’ve given me partial leave. At least for now.’
He nods.
‘A casual has been brought in . . . till my situation is . . . clearer.’
He nods again—this time because she has dared name her despair as a ‘situation’. Here it is, the chance to have everything out in the open, including the reasons for their break-up, the official mistake made by the Department in assuming (because their marriage had never been dissolved) that they were still together, the unremitting task ahead if Adam is to survive, plus the massive responsibility looming over Bridget when she lowers her guard for an instant. They know it. They want to talk. But neither knows how to begin. The moment passes.
He has an eye for beauty. Always had. She being proof. As was his style in the days when he turned surfing into an art form. The same could be said of speeding round hairpin bends—an incurable teenager—pushing the old Nissan sports to the limit, driving way too fast. As for the chance of getting back to some sort of normal life, it’s surely impossible. Though look on the bright side, don’t forget that most of my time in hospital I didn’t know that’s where I was. Took me I don’t know how long. Even to wake up that something’s wrong when you stay in bed all day. So this is new. And who’s to say?
*
Upstairs in her room Bridget cups the phone defensively to her ear. Listening. Meanwhile a voice, a very particular voice, reaches deep into her soul. She is besieged with memories and wild hopes. At one and the same time lifted by the surge of elation and shrinking from the chill shadow of déjà vu. So, despite his restless ambition, Ryan Liddicoat has not forgotten her! She keeps from going to pieces, stifling the sharp thrill of need, isolating each word he speaks as a gift he offers her—an object her hands seek to take hold of—urgently aware that tears must be avoided at all costs or he might guess more than she wishes him to know.
She listens. He has gone up in the world since they were together. No longer a part-time model for designer swimwear. He hosts his own television show. Of course, she is all too aware of that. She has seen him on air, polished and glib. And here is his voice, spinning pleasantries for her alone. She spools them away. But sooner or later she’ll need to respond. She cannot fail to put a stop to this. He must be warned that Adam is back.
He asks about her. He seems concerned. He sounds sensible and friendly. She answers with evasions to keep him guessing, to keep him talking, as a cover for her confusion. Apparently he seems willing to play the game, till suddenly he seizes the chance to introduce a new subject. ‘As a matter of fact’—his hesitancy is perfectly managed and combined with a well-rehearsed silkiness of tone—‘my reason for calling . . . that’s to say one of my reasons . . . presumptuous of me . . . but I’m sure you understand . . . start again . . . my producer . . . I’m ringing on her behalf . . . hopes to set up an interview. All official and above board . . . this time!’ he chuckles riskily. ‘Because Adam’s in line for a medal . . . plus nomination for Australian of the Year . . .’ He seems to interpret her silence as encouragement. ‘We’re hoping to provide the public with some context, filming a brief piece on his survival. You know—as a casualty of war and an example to others, a hero . . . according to army sources it’s an amazing story. Exceptional. And now that you two are back together again . . .’
‘What!’ Bridget shrieks.
‘I beg your pardon. I’m sorry, Bridge. No offence meant. I’m not forgetting we had our good times. We did, didn’t we? But he was off the scene then . . . as I understood it.’
The truth sinks in. The blunt intrusion of the media—in the person of Ryan, of all people—poised to invade her life. Meanwhile private hopes have been laid bare by the sound of his voice. All to no purpose. Incoherent elements slot into place. She arcs against the offence.
‘So, Ryan, are you calling me? Or him?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘Well you’ve no idea how he’s changed.’
‘That bouncy kid, the way he was?’
‘Gone for good.’
It’s true, Bridget admits to herself, that Adam and Ryan did know one another. Slightly. Also that she herself had met Ryan at the gym, where all the girls noticed him.
‘The show’s called I Survived . . .’
Huge implications begin draining the blood from her heart.
‘Why television?’ she whispers, horrified at the thought. ‘What can you possibly want with him? Do you have any idea? He looks shocking.’
‘We know. We’ve been fully briefed. His regiment and the Department of Rehabilitation are showing a special interest.’ His voice becomes tiny because she holds him away from her ear: ‘. . . nothing if not thorough . . . he’s been chosen for the royal treatment.’
Unnerved and unprepared, Bridget comes slap up against her own guilt. Truth be told she has often thought of Ryan. So maybe she has somehow conjured him. Now what? Is he on the level? Or is he just angling to see her again, using Adam as a pretext? Or does he have bigger fish to fry? One thing for certain, there’s no way he can know about the state she is in. Cornered because, by some mischance, she already seems to have put her life on hold.
‘Such a strong human-interest story, with him in his prime. A tragedy. Plus the chance to pay tribute to a brave man. Perfect. Right down our alley.’
Bridget is in turmoil. Not only does she face surrendering her life to Adam’s
needs, but now she has to cope with Ryan gatecrashing. Instinctively she lets go. She doesn’t care. It’s out of her hands. So, is this hope? Need outraces guilt. What’s more, she’s safe from being overheard (and no one can detect what’s in her heart). Reminding herself that though she and Adam split up, she and Ryan never did. She and Ryan didn’t ever call it quits. He more or less lapsed because, perhaps, he wasn’t so very interested. Till now.
‘Really, Ryan, you can’t imagine . . .’
Despite a tangle of doubts her voice changes tone beyond her control.
‘Obviously we won’t expect Adam to come to the studio,’ he assures her, hearing her give way. ‘The segment can be shot at home. All done and dusted before you know it. Kept to a minimum. Just a short grab. There’ll be two other survivors on the show. Three stories is our weekly format.’
‘But I don’t think . . .’ Bridget objects at last.
‘Look, Bridge, I promise. I promise to keep this low-key. Respectful. Nothing too personal. I’m in charge. I’ll be doing the interview. Can I take that as a yes? Please?’
Bridget urgently needs time. The mobile presses hot against her ear. Though desperate to escape, escape the room, escape the house, she is paralysed. She baulks at what she might be letting Adam in for.
‘Are you there?’ says Ryan’s voice. ‘Bridget?’
‘——’
She holds back her tears. She wants to protest against being shackled to the responsibilities of carer. She wants to protest against being eaten alive by duty, endlessly tending the monstrosity poor Adam has become. She wants to be free of him. She wants her life back. She wants to escape the nightmare of the bathroom routines. She wants to escape the snicker and whirr of that sinister machine. Yet the gallant Adam of old survives in his eyes. Despite everything the war could throw at him he hasn’t lost his bounce.
‘I’ll ask,’ she concedes.
She has the presence of mind to switch the phone to silent before clicking it off. Altogether off. And. Now popping it in her pocket—she is neat—she slips quickly downstairs. Eager to have this over and done with, because who is she to deny Adam the chance of telling his story in public, she takes the plunge. She can confine herself to bare facts and deal with the detail later.
‘Guess what? Your welcome home has made the news.’ She finds she is telling herself by telling him. ‘And now someone from television has been in contact with your regiment.’
‘Lucky them. Ar. What for?’
‘You won’t know the Ryan Liddicoat show. But he wants to interview you. He just rang me to ask. I told him it’s your decision. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I should have refused,’ she apologizes. Hesitant, on the cusp of escape because the outside door, the actual door (the door to freedom), stands open. She scoops her keys from the glass bowl in the hall. Tall and straight, concealing her hopes and hurt, she needs to appear calm even while her mind seethes with possibilities. ‘The army seems keen.’
She faces inevitable refusal.
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Ar. Why refuse him?’
He seems unsurprised, detached, almost indifferent.
Fresh hope ignites her heart. In particular because, when she dared mention Ryan, he didn’t flinch. No. But of course, she never actually named anyone’s name in that email she sent him in Iraq—confining herself to the news that she was in a new relationship. The fretwork pieces begin to fit a pattern. A great weight lifts. Urgently she needs space. She needs to get out. To go somewhere—anywhere. She has everything to think about. Mostly Ryan.
‘I dare say the public will be fascinated,’ she warns Adam bluntly, paradoxically offended that he seems so unsuspicious, ‘with what’s left of your life.’
‘And. Whether or not. I can still. Get it on?’
She had not expected him to offend her, but this does.
‘What you say is up to you.’
The truth is that, however she may twist and turn, she cannot win. His injuries will always put her in the wrong. And his decency also. The decency is one thing, but the helplessness gives him power. His suffering vastly outweighs her own. Overnight she has been reduced to a shadow. She reminds herself about the mess they made of marriage. They were so young and unprepared.
Still standing on the tiny doormat of sunshine Bridget retaliates. ‘It’s your decision. But it’s worth asking yourself if that’s the sort of stuff you’re willing to parade in public.’
‘Well it seems I can’t. Ar. Parade much in. Private.’
Even as a joke the brutal truth is unmasked between them. Too late to be taken back. And he knows it isn’t funny. His heart cries out in anguish. He sees her with poignant clarity: his beautiful, intelligent, brave, vulnerable, fallible wife—sees her fully—maybe for the first time. Her loyalty. Her tenderness. Her anger. Her bewilderment.
Sensing a change, she absorbs the wound.
‘So will it help, do you think . . . to put your scars on display?’
He disengages his hands from one another to consider the possibility.
‘Question is what’s. Ar. In it for them?’
‘The media?’
He flexes aching limbs: this arm then that arm, this leg then that leg.
‘No, the. Ar. Army.’
Bridget is surprised to find his concerns so different from her own. She shrugs it off.
‘Oh, the army! Well, being Ryan Liddicoat, you can be sure he won’t ask anything that might leave them with egg on their faces. They’ll have chosen him because he’s Mr Smooth. And he promises not to be too intrusive.’
Adam stares with crowded eyes at the empty space between them. At last, when his broken voice comes, she recognizes that the expected jealousy is emerging at last. And she must deal with it.
‘I never knew. Him. Ryan Liddicoat.’
‘He trained at the gym with us. Remember the yoga class?’ She is ready to leave it at that, being cautious about the presence of a ghost in her tricky admission. ‘Middle height or a bit less. Male model. Typical narcissist. Pushy, but nice all the same. Quite nice. He’s the face of television these days.’
Adam’s silence becomes a further question. Although she regrets explaining too much, she can’t take it back. He breaks in on her thoughts.
‘Yoga? You hardly. Ever attended.’
‘I did, when I could.’
‘Not often.’
‘Often enough. Enough to notice him, at least. All the girls noticed him. Though maybe he’s not the sort of man other men take seriously.’ Having picked her way among the prickles she selects the car key from the bunch. ‘You can look him up on iview. His program’s called I Survived.’
‘Not too intrusive. Meaning?’
They share the moment, united against Ryan because, of course, hypocrisy is hypocrisy.
‘If I were you I’d forget the whole idea. He’s bound to try uncovering something.’
‘What’s left to. Uncover!’
Bridget has no way out now. She has touched on the risky past that Adam ought not to know about. Oh, she resents her own guilt.
‘I can’t help the way I feel,’ she cries, fully taking in the tragedy of his mutilated face. ‘For your sake I try, but I can’t.’ So now it’s out in the open. ‘I can’t.’
She has eyebrows. She has lips. How amazing she is. He doesn’t mean to hurt her. After years of isolation in hospital he has no time to waste. Long nights he spent on plans to kill himself. Now and then—but only now and then—he played the bullshit game of believing recovery might be possible. But even the least ambitious hopes turned out to depend on slippery calculations (weighing nothing against nothing, dividing emptiness by emptiness) to avoid the obvious, that he will always be an invalid. And it isn’t just his life in ruins. So, of course, she’s angry.
She closes the subject.
‘Now I have to show up at work, Adam
. I agreed to put in an hour or two a week. The rest can be done from home.’
‘You should go. Yes. Ar,’ he declares eventually, successfully propping himself on struts. ‘Go.’
‘Back soon.’
‘Leave the. Door. I like it. Open.’
He knows what his daily dependence costs her—whether it’s the bathroom routines or spooning mush or heaving him upright in his articulated tower or playing Scrabble with him to kill time—mere days since his discharge the succession of kindnesses, compact as a rock in his soul, sinks him deeper into despair. She’s gone. Everything about her departure painfully familiar, painfully dear. He watches her go, telling himself it’s just for work. With nothing settled, he feels her loss in the marrow of his bones.
2
MARIANNA
She now sees that her room gives on to a small stone-flagged terrace at the back of the hotel. So Marianna Gluck, testing a dodgy latch, opens the glass doors. Squeak of hinges as one hangs slightly crooked. She steps out into a flash of reflected light. The jungle, ablaze with tropical flowers, crowds right up to the rusty gate. Mingled perfumes fill the arches of her head—that’s how high the sensation is—as she settles herself on a wooden ottoman that overlooks the garden.
Her satisfaction is experimental. To her right a stucco wall flanks the carpark. This she realizes is the sun-warmed back of the stern old city, described in the travel brochure as having been built by British buccaneers to repel Cortés on his way through to Honduras. A baroque church tower, defiantly Spanish in style, thrusts up from within. She listens a while to the sociable babble of the market.
She is safe. Safe in a country so remote she has never heard of it.
Behind her the curtain billows, lazily lifted on a gust of late afternoon heat, to touch her shoulder. Gentle as a friend. But there is no escape from the turmoil deep in her heart. She dreads her secret being found out—and yet, as a fatalist, longs to have it found out. She knows that some day she will be forced to confront the past.
