After the Lights Go Out

by Lili Wilkinson

  Peter indicates for me to follow him, and we go into the little kitchen behind the main hall. He places the mugs in the sink and puts the plug in before turning the water on.

  ‘In the past,’ he says slowly, ‘the holiest priests were the ones who kept themselves apart from the world. They formed monasteries in harsh, remote places. They saw only one another, and spent their lives devoted to prayer. This, they told themselves, brought them closer to God.’ He uses a tea towel to wipe the mugs clean. ‘I respect their devotion, but honestly I think that’s nonsense. Prayer brings me comfort, but it doesn’t bring me closer to God. People do. Hard work. Helping others.’

  ‘Even if those people believe something different? Or don’t believe at all?’

  ‘Being a Christian is neither a prerequisite nor a guarantee of being a good person.’ Peter winces. ‘That’s a lesson many religious organisations have learnt the hard way.’

  ‘So where does that leave me?’ I say.

  Peter stacks the mugs upside down on the draining board. ‘Do you know what jubilee means, in Christian theology?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s a special year of universal pardon. Slaves and prisoners are freed, debts are forgiven, and God is merciful. It’s supposed to be a time of solidarity, hope and peace.’

  ‘You think that this is a time of solidarity, hope and peace?’

  ‘I think it could be.’

  ‘Probably not for my dad, and the other men who died at Hansbach,’ I say weakly. ‘Or for Emma Zubek or…or Blythe.’

  I’ve tried not to think too much about it. There’s so much to do. I don’t have time for grief. Grace can grieve for the both of us.

  Peter ducks his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘A minister and abolitionist called Theodore Parker once said that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ He dries his hands on the tea towel. ‘Humans make mistakes all the time, terrible mistakes, but we learn, and we become better. Slavery and segregation were the birthplaces of the civil rights movement. The Holocaust led to a near-universal condemnation of eugenics. Is it right that minorities had to suffer in order for white people to learn those lessons? Of course not. The price paid was too high. I hope one day we’ll reach a place where the strongest of us can learn those lessons without our most vulnerable having to pay the price. But I do believe that humanity is slowly but surely inching towards justice, towards equality, towards love. Sometimes it can be hard to see it up close, but we have to believe we are always capable of being better.’

  ‘So you think what’s happening now is another human mistake?’

  Peter shrugs. ‘Honestly I don’t think it matters. The only thing that matters now is how we respond. Do we let ourselves be ruled by fear and greed? Or do we come together with kindness and compassion?’

  ‘There’s hope for me, then.’

  He smiles. ‘Action is eloquence.’

  I head out to Lake Lincoln and work with an old rotary hoe in the soft earth by the water, turning the soil over to prepare it for our next rows of crops. The wet season is ending, and while the extra sunshine is causing our crops to explode with new growth, we’ll have to start digging an irrigation system soon.

  It feels good to work like this. It’s good honest work, productive.

  The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I turn around to see Mateo, staring at me. All the dark rainbow colour has faded from his hair, and the shaved part at the sides has grown into a thick dark fuzz.

  For a moment I think he’s come here for me, to talk to me. But he looks surprised to see me, and he turns away to check on his water pump.

  I know it’s ridiculous to feel like this. Our relationship, such as it was, lasted only two weeks. Nothing, in the scheme of things. There is so much more to think about, to worry about.

  But I can’t stop remembering his face when he first saw the bunker. When he realised what kind of person I really am.

  I’m about to say something, to try to make a peace offering. But like a benighted bad-luck demon, Keller Reid appears.

  Despite the fact that I’ve been living with Keller for six weeks, I still seethe with rage every time I see him.

  The post office is drenched in him – his cologne which, despite the fact that the world has ended, he still seems to have an unending supply of, his clothes, his breath, his meaningless conversation.

  He acts like Blythe never existed. He smiles and chats and is as charming as always.

  I could not hate him more.

  I want him to acknowledge his role in Blythe’s death. He was the one who took that gun out of Dad’s trunk. It’s his fault, it has to be. Because if it isn’t his fault, then it’s mine, and there are too many other things that are my fault.

  I can’t understand why Grace wants to live with him. Every day, I ask her if we can move somewhere else – anywhere else. But she shakes her head, tight-lipped. I ask her why, and she walks away.

  I can’t say no to her, because she’s all I have now.

  ‘Lovers’ reunion?’ asks Keller.

  ‘Piss off, Keller,’ I tell him.

  ‘I thought you people were supposed to be great lovers,’ Keller says to Mateo. ‘Looks like you need to step up your game, mate.’

  Mateo ignores him, focusing on the solar pump.

  ‘I’m sorry, hombre, but I was talking to you.’

  Mateo closes his eyes for a moment, then straightens up. ‘I don’t talk to racists.’

  Keller bristles. ‘I don’t appreciate being called a racist. There’s such a thing as freedom of speech, you know.’

  ‘Sure,’ snaps Mateo. ‘You have the freedom to say whatever you like. And I have the freedom to call you out for being a fucking racist.’

  Keller’s eyes glitter. ‘Are you jealous because you got the dud sister?’

  I’m going to kill him.

  But before I can, Mateo punches him in the face.

  It’s not a very good punch. Keller ducks to avoid the blow and so it ends up sort of glancing off his ear. Keller straightens up and laughs at Mateo, and in that laugh is all the ugliness I’ve always known was inside him.

  I clench my fists and walk away.

  My heart is pounding as if I’ve used an epipen. I finger the one in my pocket, the one I carry with me.

  I have another one in my bug-out bag, which is in the post office. There were five more in the Paddock’s medical locker, and Clarita has them now. She made sure I carry one with me, but she doesn’t know about the other one, and I don’t want to tell her. There aren’t any other people with peanut allergies in town, but Simmone Bratton has a latex allergy, and it’s not uncommon for adults to develop allergies to antibiotics or aspirin. Even exercising on a hot day can trigger anaphylaxis, and there’s no shortage of hot days in Jubilee. I know I should give up my spare, but I can’t. What if something happened to me? Who would look after Grace? I think about what Peter said about a jubilee being a time of universal forgiveness. They might have to forgive me this one extra discretion, because I can’t risk abandoning Grace.

  I leave Keller and Mateo to it and cycle back to town. There are more important things.

  I let myself into the post office.

  There’s an odour in the air, cutting through the fug of Keller’s cologne. It’s metallic, and reminds me of the coppery smell of gunshot. The post office is small, with an open area where people used to come to send letters and parcels, a storeroom where Keller sleeps, a bathroom, and a cramped office where Grace and I live.

  The desk is littered with empty envelopes. This is what Grace does when Keller and I are out in the town. She opens the letters from the last delivery before the EMP. Keller told her it was illegal, and she laughed at him, a cold, empty laugh. There aren’t many letters – Jubilee is small – so she rations herself to one a day. Most are bills. These she stacks carefully. But sometimes there’s something more personal – a hand-written letter, a postcard, a birthday card.
These she pores over again and again, like she’s searching for something.

  I walk into the bathroom to wash my face, and see that the bathroom mirror has been smashed, the tiled floor littered with shards. There’s blood, too.

  ‘Grace?’ I call, and my voice trembles.

  Grace is in our room, kneeling on her mattress, her hair over her face.

  I don’t know how long it’s been since she changed her clothes or washed her hair. The room has a funk that mingles with the scent of blood and makes me feel sick.

  Her hand is wrapped in a towel. It’s bright red with blood.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Is the infection back?’

  She doesn’t look at me.

  I kneel in front of her and unwrap the towel. There are red slashes across her knuckles, not too deep, mirroring the scars on the back of her hand where Clarita cut out the infection. She’s punched the mirror.

  I get a new towel and gently clean the wound. I’ll go to the clinic later for some disinfectant and bandages.

  ‘Gracie,’ I murmur as I work on her hand. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.’

  It’s a long time before she replies.

  ‘I couldn’t stand it,’ she says through the lank curtain of her hair. ‘I couldn’t stand seeing her face every day.’

  14

  Keith looks terrible. He was always thin, but now the skin stretches across his bones like tissue paper. His lips are crusted with cold sores, and dark blisters run along his arms, breaking up the lines and swirls of his tattoos.

  ‘G’day kid,’ he croaks as I let myself into the cottage he’s claimed for his own. It’s stuffy and hot, the smell of sweat and sickness heavy in the air.

  ‘Clarita sent me to check on you,’ I tell him. ‘She said she hasn’t seen you for a couple of days.’

  ‘Got a cold.’ He breaks into a fit of phlegmy coughing. His whole body shakes with it, and I know he’s very, very sick.

  ‘I’m going to get Clarita.’

  He holds up a hand to stop me. His nails are thick and curved like talons, streaked with brown lines.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘She’ll fuss and give me medicine.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

  ‘It’s wasted on me. I’m going to die anyway. The only thing that can make me better is resuming antiviral therapy, and there’s a distinct shortage of antivirals out here.’

  ‘But—’

  He cuts me off. ‘You of all people should understand. We have limited resources. It’s best to save them for those who have an actual chance of surviving.’

  Dad would agree with this. But Dad was wrong about so many things.

  I fuss around his room, opening a window to let some air in, and folding the clothes that have been left on the floor.

  ‘I thought I was one of the lucky ones,’ Keith says suddenly. ‘It’s not like it was in the eighties. Back then, you got HIV, you died. I remember seeing those ads on TV and being so scared. But you know, it’s not a fatal disease anymore. They call it a chronic condition instead. It can be managed relatively easily with the right treatment. HIV is no longer a death sentence. Or at least that’s what I thought, before this.’ He closes his eyes. ‘When I think I might die before I see my little girl…’

  ‘Does she—’ I break off. ‘I’m sorry, that’s really rude of me.’

  Keith smiles, and I can see his gums are swollen and red. ‘It’s okay. She doesn’t have it.’

  I nod. ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘I’d walk into the desert and die today if I didn’t think there was the most infinitesimal chance I might get to see her again.’

  ‘Garton isn’t that big,’ I say. ‘It won’t have a lot of the problems that the big cities will. There’s a really good chance she’s fine.’

  ‘That’s what I keep—’

  Keith’s eyes suddenly roll back in his head. He lets out a forceful grunt, like he’s been punched in the stomach, and his arms and legs jerk outwards in a sharp spasm. He knocks the water glass and it shatters on the floor.

  ‘Keith?’

  His body heaves with shaking convulsions, his jaw snapping open and closed.

  It’s a seizure. What do I know about seizures? I screw my eyes closed, trying to remember Dad’s first-aid training. We definitely covered seizures.

  Foamy blood oozes from Keith’s lips and I realise he’s biting his tongue. I grab a T-shirt from the pile I just folded and stuff it between his teeth, and shove another one under his head, ducking to avoid his flailing arms. His lips and fingers turn blue. I kick the broken glass out of the way, and make sure there’s nothing else he can hurt himself on.

  I run to the front door, flinging it open and hollering into the street for help, then rush back to Keith’s side.

  He’s still jerking, his eyes staring open and unseeing.

  Then I wait.

  I can’t leave him to get help – and there’s nothing anyone could do now anyway.

  After the longest five minutes of my life, Keith goes limp and his eyes fall shut. His jaw slackens and I reach in and remove the bloodstained T-shirt from his mouth before gently rolling him over onto his side so he can breathe.

  Fingers trembling, I reach to check for a pulse.

  He’s alive, which is something. I can hear the steady, wheezy sound of his breath. After a moment, his eyelids flutter and he lets out a moan. His eyes snap open and he mutters something incoherent.

  ‘Keith?’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I take his hand and he looks at me. ‘Jellybean?’ he says, his voice slurred.

  ‘It’s Pru. You’re in Jubilee. You’ve had a seizure, but you’re okay now. Someone’s coming to help.’

  His expression is bewildered as I speak, but I can see the exact moment his memory returns. His face crumples and the haunted, despairing look returns.

  ‘No,’ he whispers.

  Clarita comes running in, clutching her doctor’s bag.

  ‘He’s had a seizure,’ I say.

  She checks his pupils and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm, pumping to inflate it.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asks.

  ‘Head hurts,’ Keith replies, as if he’s talking through a mouthful of cottonwool.

  ‘Can you move your arms and legs?’

  Keith grunts with effort, but his limbs only flop feebly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Clarita, sticking a thermometer in his mouth. ‘It’s normal to feel some weakness or mild paralysis after a seizure. You’ll feel better after some rest.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Does your chest hurt when you cough?’

  He nods. Clarita pulls the thermometer out and examines it, then uses a stethoscope to listen to Keith’s breathing.

  ‘You have pneumonia,’ she says, pulling the stethoscope from her ears. ‘It’s pretty common in unmedicated HIV patients. It’s a dangerous disease for a healthy adult, but with HIV it can be fatal.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Keith slurs.

  ‘You are absolutely not okay,’ says Clarita, her voice tight with anger. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t come and see me earlier.’

  Keith shakes his head. ‘Really, I’m fine. It wasn’t that bad.’

  Clarita lets out an exasperated noise. ‘You had a grand mal seizure, Keith,’ she says. ‘Grand mal literally means big bad. You had a big bad seizure. You are moving into the hotel, where I can keep an eye on you. When you get there, I’ll start you on a nice cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers.’

  Keith opens his mouth to protest, but Clarita silences him with a stern look. ‘No nonsense,’ she says. ‘Just because you don’t have access to antivirals doesn’t mean that you give up on looking after yourself. What would your daughter say?’

  There’s a timid knock at the door, and Clarita opens it to find Paddy standing there.

  ‘Mum sent me,’ he says, his voice small. ‘The baby’s coming soon.’<
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  Clarita looks flinty-eyed at Keith. ‘Don’t. Move.’

  She beckons for me to follow her, and we cross Jameson Street and head down to Coolabah Way, where Georgie’s fibro cottage sits behind the car yard. There’s an old rusted swing set in the front garden, creaking ominously in the slight breeze.

  We go inside. The house is neat and clean, the walls decorated with framed photos of Georgie and her family. I expect that Georgie will be in bed, moaning and yelling like I’ve seen on TV. But she’s in the kitchen, making a big pile of wraps with the flat bread that Barri Taylor cooks, stuffed with salad and leftover kangaroo meat.

  ‘Contractions?’ Clarita asks.

  Georgie nods. ‘For about the last hour, I reckon? Still pretty far apart though.’

  Clarita gets Georgie to lie down on the couch. She takes her blood pressure and places her hands over Georgie’s belly and presses hard, trying to feel for the shape of the baby.

  ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing,’ she admits. ‘But I’ve read as much as I can, and I think the baby is in the right position.’

  ‘She is,’ says Georgie, and she sounds very sure.

  ‘You want me to check for dilation?’ Clarita asks, and Georgie shakes her head.

  ‘Nah,’ she says. ‘I’m not close yet. I just wanted you to know that it’s started.’

  Clarita nods. ‘Can you stay with her?’ she asks me. ‘I have to go bully Keith into the hotel.’

  I stare at her. ‘But I don’t know anything about childbirth.’

  Dad’s blanket ban on sex and contraceptives had meant he’d never taught us about childbirth. Why would he? We wouldn’t be having sex, so there wouldn’t be any babies.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Clarita. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll be a few hours, maybe.’

  ‘But what about when the…’ I make a gesture intended to represent an emerging baby.

  Clarita looks at Georgie, and they both laugh. ‘The baby’s not coming for a while,’ Georgie says. ‘I’ll give you plenty of warning.’

  Clarita leaves, taking Paddy with her, and I hover anxiously around while Georgie waddles back over to the kitchen bench.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ I ask.