‘I want to understand you, but you don’t give anything away. You don’t let people in.’
Graeme resisted the urge to get up and open the window. He forced himself to speak. ‘What do you want to know, Jenny? You already know where I live and who I live with. You know why I live there. You know what I do every day. You know that I’m single and childless, that I’m an aid work lifer. I mean, what else is there? What is it that I’m not giving away, as you put it?’
‘I’m not talking about . . .’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s just that the way you talk about yourself, your life, it’s so . . . so bloodless.’
‘That’s me. A bloodless saint.’ He remembered another woman saying it many years ago, back when such words had the power to hurt him.
‘I didn’t say that. I worry about you. It’s not healthy to be so detached.’ She swept her arm out across the office. ‘All the stuff you’ve seen, the bloody Sisyphean job you do here – it must get to you. But it never shows. You’re like a machine.’
Machine. Bloodless. Detached. Yes, all right. Good.
He gripped the arms of his chair under the desk, out of sight. ‘I only wanted to know if Katie was getting better,’ he said.
‘I know. I’m sorry. Bad week, letting out my own issues.’ She bent her lips into a small smile. ‘It takes time, you know. But I think, yes. I think she’s improving.’
After Jenny left, Graeme sat with both hands flat on his desk, staring at the closed door, waiting for the tremor to pass. This feeling – like being seven years old, alone in a house full of strangers who know more about your life than you do, the feeling that an answer you give may cause terrible trouble although you thought at the time it was exactly right, that people whose existence you’re barely aware of might suddenly smash lamps or cry or talk of broken hearts because of something you’ve done or said or been.
By the time the anxiety passed it was 5.45. He checked to make sure everyone else had left, made a cup of coffee and went back to his desk. He opened up the internet browser and navigated his way into the corners of cyberspace populated by the fetishists who got off on swapping stories of survival and near-misses. People with little grasp of the social world but with encyclopaedic knowledge of pharmaceuticals, firearms and physiology. Pornographers who collected photos of death scenes and suicide notes, who regurgitated existential despair in between gorging themselves on suffering.
Repulsive though they were to him, Graeme sought them out because it was important that he did this right.
As he read through the bulletin boards and forums, it was impossible for him not to recall all the fast, easy deaths he’d witnessed or avoided. A nail bomb, a poisoned water supply, a speeding car around a blind bend, an ancient helicopter, a gangrenous leg wound, a single incident of unprotected sex, a midnight walk alone. Mosquitoes, parasites, cancers. Children with machetes, starving men with guns, teenagers with homemade explosive vests. Droughts, floods, earthquakes. So easy to kill and be killed; so very difficult and expensive to stay alive, to keep others alive. A lifetime’s work doing just that. And yet, these online ghouls made it sound so complicated. They created spreadsheets and graphs; formulas to determine the probability of paralysis or brain damage.
Jumping from a height into deep water seemed to be the most reliable. You have the fall and then the impact with a back-up of drowning. Unlike with pills or razors, second thoughts are useless. Once you make it over the edge, there’s minimal risk of interruption and resuscitation. Jumpers from the world’s most popular suicide bridge – San Francisco’s Golden Gate – had a ninety-eight per cent success rate.
Graeme studied the stories of those who survived there and elsewhere. Legendary among the online obsessives was the paraplegic bloke who drove off Beachy Head, the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain. The man fell 250 feet before getting caught on a line of trees. He survived with only superficial injuries.
But those cases were rare. The most likely scenario was this: assuming a free fall from a great enough height – 300 feet to be sure – the body would weigh, at the moment of breaking the water’s surface, around 7500 times its usual weight. The ribs would snap, their shards piercing the lungs, spleen and anything else in their way. The blood vessels would burst and the aorta would tear free of the heart.
If by some cruel miracle you survived the impact, your body would spasm, thrusting towards the sky, instinctively trying to stay above water as though drowning were the real threat. Drowning was likely, of course; the lungs would already be flooded. But before you asphyxiated, even as your nose expelled frothy saltwater, the internal bleeding would end your body’s struggle.
It was said that no matter how unafraid you are, imminent death causes the body to go into shock and the mind to scream with terror. The second after you jump, everything that makes you human rises up and protests. No fear ever experienced in life can compare to the panic that grips you as you hurtle towards the bone-cracking, internal organ-splitting water.
He armed the security system and stepped out into the street. It had been taken over by a team of child cricketers. He smiled his thanks to the dusty faced girl who’d called a halt to the game to let him cross the road. As he reached the other side he heard game on and looked back over his shoulder to watch for a moment the skinny arms arcing, hands catching, bare feet dancing on the hot asphalt.
The sun was bright but low. The breeze was spirited enough to press his shirt to his chest, but not – as summer breezes so often did – to throw up leaves and grit into his face. It was the nicest evening they’d had, he thought, since the beginning of summer. He decided to walk home the long way.
Two minutes after he’d closed his bedroom door, there was a knock, and for the second before he opened the door he let himself hope. But it was Adam, looking as serious as ever. He stepped back, let him enter.
‘I was wondering,’ Adam said, leaning back on the desk, ‘what your long-term plans are? I mean, I have to go home eventually and I need to know if anyone will be around to watch out for Katie.’
‘She won’t need taking care of soon. She’s doing so well. Isn’t she?’
‘She’ll need someone to make sure she takes her medication and doesn’t drink too much.’
‘You should call her grandmother. Find out when she’ll be back in Sydney. Or else you won’t ever be able to leave her side.’
Adam sighed and stood up straight. ‘Listen, man, is there anything in particular that’s troubling you? Anything I could maybe help you sort out?’
‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘In fact, you’re the one who has some problems that need sorting out. Visa issues.’
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ Adam said and left.
Graeme knew why. Adam bothered for the same reason people made doctors’ appointments and bought birthday presents and took their kids to the park and volunteered at soup kitchens and put photos in albums and painted their walls and quit smoking and took up tai chi. Bothering was what people did. When you stopped bothering, you stopped altogether.
31.
Adam opened his eyes and waited for the memory to come. It was a Thursday and, from the bright bleached light coming through the closed curtains, he guessed it was around noon. He had to accept that a fifth consecutive night had passed without dreams of Eugenie.
The honk of an aggressively-blown nose came from down the hallway and his legs swung out of bed and propelled him across the room. His body, at least, accepted the new reality – caring for Katie, washing dishes, sleeping without solace.
He found Katie sitting in front of the TV, a box of tissues on her left, a pile of scrunched tissues on her right. He sat next to the box. ‘How are you?’
‘Good.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
He muted the TV. ‘Because you look kind of –’
‘I look kind of upset. I am. I’ve been crying. It’s because I’m feeling better. I can think clearly and remember things and that makes me . . .
You know how when you wake up after a really big night and you can’t remember much but what you can is awful? I’m waking up from a big night that lasted years. All I can remember are things like . . . The nasty stuff. I can’t remember anything good and I don’t know if that’s because my memory is stuffed or because there really was nothing good.’
‘Maybe –’
‘See, you don’t know me. I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve never achieved anything. Never held a job for more than a month. Never finished high school. Never had a real relationship. Lost friends as quickly as I made them. I don’t own anything or belong to anyone. I was thinking about my mum, about how she made so much effort with me and I never saw it. Everything she did looked like rejection. I lost her. I don’t even know my little brother. Gran’s stubborn, thank god. You too, for some weird reason. But it is stubbornness, I know. It’s not love or even like. It’s not because I’m so charming or brilliant or anything that you’d think it important I stay in the world. I’m nothing because I’ve had years of learning nothing, doing nothing.
‘I sound self-pitying but I’m not. I’m just seeing clearly for the first time in a long time. I am getting better. Healthier. This is not depression talking, just grief.’
Adam pushed the box of tissues to the floor and took her hand. ‘And grief is survivable.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mom, it’s me.’
‘Adam! Where are you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m still in Sydney. I’m fine.’
‘Addy, when I heard – I tried to find you. I called everyone I could think of. Eugenie’s people, too. I was getting ready to alert the embassy, put out a missing person alert. Why didn’t you call me? Call anyone?’
‘I’m sorry. I needed to . . .’ He went from calm to sobbing in less time than it took for her to say, ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ The sobbing stung his throat. His stomach cramped up and he had to press his knees to his chest to calm the spasms. ‘Mom?’
‘I’m here.’ Her voice was softer than he remembered it. ‘I can be there in, I don’t know, however long it takes to get to the airport and fly to Australia. That’s when I can be there. Where are you staying?’
‘With a friend, but I’m okay. I’d rather see you at home. I’m coming soon.’
‘Are you sure? Because I don’t mind. Even if I’m just there to share a cab back to the airport with you and sit next to you on the plane. I can do that.’
‘No. Really. I need to take care of a few things here and then I’ll be home.’
‘Okay. But if you need me, you call. You have to promise.’
‘Yes, yes, I will. Thanks, Mom.’
‘Addy, I know I didn’t . . . I know how much you– I wish I knew her better.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘I love you.’
‘I know. I love you, too.’
32.
Katie put on her favourite chequered sundress and white stilettos. She went into the bathroom and leant in close to the mirror. The burn marks had faded enough that after ten minutes’ work with concealer and foundation, they looked like old acne scars. She applied a coat of black mascara and a slick of raspberry lip gloss and smoothed down the front of her hair with wax so it looked sleek rather than punk. She smiled at her reflection to check for lip gloss on her teeth and then taped a note to the centre of the mirror: Adam, Visiting a friend, back by noon. Katie xxx
She caught the 8.15 bus, which would get her to the city with fifteen minutes to spare before the interview. She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this; partly because she liked the idea of surprising Adam and Gran, partly because she dreaded disappointing them if it didn’t work out, and partly because she just felt, lately, like a bit of privacy was a good thing.
The man sitting beside her sneezed, and Katie’s Bless you was, unexpectedly, part of a chorus. When she had taken the bus with Adam he had been amused by the way everybody thanked the driver as they got off, even the schoolkids with their straw hats and knee socks. He had never known people to be so polite to each other on public transportation, he said. She made a mental note to tell him about the bless yous.
She got off at Town Hall and slipped into the stream of people heading to Pitt Street. Another stream moved towards her but she did not feel, as she had in the past, overwhelmed. She found the rhythm easily, striding between the suits and uniforms, looking ahead to the next street corner rather than at the back of the person in front of her.
She arrived at Shoebee Doo at ten to nine and stood in the mall smoking a cigarette. The sound of locks being turned and security doors being rolled up surrounded her. Heels clicked on the cobblestones. A fat man with red curls sat on a bench and began to unpack a crate of newspapers.
This was the everyday world. This – the shoes clicking, doors opening, people coughing, taxis honking – was life. She felt the coffee she’d drunk this morning percolating in her stomach. It was so simple. Every part of it, from making the application phone call to finding clean underwear to getting to the bus stop on time.
She dropped the cigarette; ground it out with her heel. Maybe the interview would go badly. Maybe she would not get this job or any other. Maybe this morning would be a one-off; a glimpse into the world before she receded again. The percolating subsided.
When she got home Adam was on his way out the door. ‘After work, we’re celebrating,’ he said when she told him the news. ‘So wait up for me or I’ll be forced to drag you outta bed.’
She poured herself a glass of red and called Gran, not expecting her to be as thrilled as Adam. Gran had seen her start too many jobs over the years to allow herself to become excited at the prospect of another.
‘I really felt,’ Katie said, ‘that I belonged there. It’s hard to describe, but I sort of understood how it is people manage to do all this and felt like I can do it, too.’
‘Of course you can,’ said Gran. ‘I’ve been telling you for years.’
‘Yes, but that’s what I’m saying, Gran. I felt it. It didn’t matter whether anyone told me I could do it or not, today I felt I could.’
‘Well, you’ve always been hard to get through to, you stubborn little bugger. Anyway, how’s our American friend? Are you two still knocking boots?’
‘Gran, I gotta go. Talk to you soon.’ She hung up before her grandmother heard her crying.
Graeme hovered in the kitchen doorway. Katie was sitting at the table, her eyes red and swollen. Her wine glass was empty; he could not tell if the bottle beside her was as well. She was wearing a pink and white chequered sundress that looked brand new even though the left shoulder seam was unravelling.
She looked up and smiled. ‘Hey, it’s my sworn protector. Have a drink with me?’ She slid the bottle across the table.
Graeme put his briefcase down, got a glass from the sink drainer, poured some wine and sat across from her.
‘Have you ever been to gaol?’ she said, wiping her cheeks.
He shook his head.
‘Me neither. Well, an hour in a cop shop here and there, but never gaol. My friend Robbie got sent up for a robbery he didn’t do. I know he didn’t, because he was with another friend of mine when it happened, but he wasn’t a reliable witness because he was a junkie. Anyway, after a while the bloke who had done it got caught for something else, ended up confessing to the other one, and, just like that, Robbie’s out.’
‘It must have been overwhelming, seeing him again.’
‘I guess. I don’t really remember. It was ages ago.’
‘Oh. So –’
‘Bet you really missed my rambling, pointless stories, huh?’
He reached across and touched the back of her hand. She turned it over, grasped him, let their hands fall together to the tabletop.
‘So, anyway, I had a good day today. Nothing out of this world, but I felt good about being here. The thought of all these days and weeks and months unfolding in front of me made me feel kind of excited instead of panicky and that’s . . . well, actually that is out of this world
. So I was just thinking this is how Robbie must have felt. Grateful and happy and wanting to seize the moment and all that, but angry, too, because he never should have been locked away in the first place. It’s like I’ve been pardoned for something I didn’t do.
‘On the bus today there were all these schoolkids and I was thinking what if I had been able to finish school? What if I had made and kept even one friend? Silly to be jealous of little kids . . . I have all these memories and they’ll jump out at me, from nowhere. Well, no, that’s stupid, isn’t it? They’re not from nowhere, they’re from in me. But they seem to be from nowhere because they’re things I haven’t thought of since they happened, things that I barely believe happened. They jump into my mind and I think – how the hell did I survive that?’
‘Have you talked to Jenny about this?’
Katie retrieved her hand and picked up her cigarettes. She lit one and sipped some wine. Said nothing.
‘It sounds like post-traumatic stress. Many people who’ve experienced –’
‘Have you ever in your life had a friend?’ She looked directly at him. ‘Because you are the coldest bastard I’ve ever known.’
‘I have tried to be a friend to you and I have failed. I don’t know how I failed, but I know I did and I am sorry.’
‘When are you planning to do it?’
He scrunched his face as though he didn’t understand.
She didn’t even blink. ‘See? You don’t give me anything. Not even a tiny, tiny bit of credit. That’s why you’re not my friend.’
He held her gaze and then her eyes filled up. She leant in close, her voice low, urgent. ‘Graeme. Please.’
He felt the pull, moved with it for a second, moved towards her and the promise of affection, then he pulled himself back. He lifted his shoulders, let them fall. ‘There’s nothing for me to tell you.’
Her disappointment barely showed. Just a series of fast blinks and then she was up, walking away from the table.
Smoke in the Room Page 20
