Smoke in the Room

by Emily Maguire

  33.

  A trio of Japanese tourists and a single middle-aged man got off the bus at the top of Military Road. The man stood a moment at the beginning of the coastal path, getting his bearings. The Harbour Bridge was dead centre, Centrepoint Tower to the left in the background, incongruously jagged bushland in the foreground and the famed harbour in between. City, sea, bush.

  Sandstone cliffs extended as far as he could see in both directions, as did a safety fence. The fence was hip height at most. He started along the trail to the left, nodding at the tourists who smiled and lowered their cameras as he passed. When the path widened he stepped up to the fence and leant in to the sea breeze. A couple in sneakers and knee-length shorts stopped alongside him and sighed. ‘Oh,’ the man said. ‘Oh,’ the woman replied. ‘Yes. But what if they didn’t have a phone on them?’ They both sighed again and set off.

  A plaque engraved with phone numbers for Lifeline and the Salvation Army was bolted to the fence. On the other side of the rail, the cliff was wide and flat enough to accommodate a three-man tent, and every couple of feet, an iron rescue hook was affixed to the rock.

  The man followed the trail to the left, stopping to read the signs about shrubs and flowers and Aboriginal history. After several minutes of walking he noticed the fence changing from wood to steel mesh, the sweet smell of rotting vegetation, the stillness of the air.

  At the next tourist-friendly flat spot he sat on a boulder to catch his breath. ‘Oh, look, honey,’ said a woman, and he looked to the dead bouquets that had been poked through the holes in the mesh. A man went to the woman and placed his hand on her back, guiding her away from the memorial. They passed by, whispering, just as another couple approached the flowers.

  The man took the trail winding upwards. Within minutes there was no sound but the wind and the leaves. Not even a bird. The track was barely wide enough for two people, then barely wide enough for one. The rotting smell grew stronger as the bush pressed in on him from the left. On his right was the fence. He held it as he walked.

  When eventually the path widened again, he stopped. The fence was level with his thighs. He stood stock-still and listened. No footsteps or branches snapping down the trail. No voices on the wind. No helicopters hovering or speed boats approaching.

  He cleared the fence easily. There was space on the other side for him to take two, maybe three big steps. He took one and then got to his knees, crawling to the edge. There were no crags or spikes beneath, no shrubs to catch his clothes, only clear air and then the water, astonishingly blue. Thirty feet to the left, branches protruded from the rock face and below them, the water lapped at a cluster of boulders jutting into the sea. He crawled to the right, peered over the edge; saw only blue. He stood, stepped back to the fence, and then he ran.

  In the millisecond it took for him to register that he was still upright, speed, like a cold meaty hand, spun him and spun him and spun him again so he did not know which way was up and which way down but he knew he was alive and conscious, falling and flying at the same time. He braced to hit now now now and then he was under. There was no time for terror during the fall but now it flooded him, a freezing gas in his mouth and nose and lungs and ears and eyes.

  He was still falling and this was shock and freezing gas and salt and regret so sharp it was like pain, and this was pain jagged sharp pain icy and so sharp. Falling deeper and deeper and he’d never expected this, to taste the salt and feel the weed slap his face and his lungs cold and burning, never expected to know what a shattered spine felt like.

  He stopped falling. For a moment, everything around him was still and quiet. The pain was so intense that he wished for death and in the moment of wishing for it his body rejected it, pushing up towards the surface. As he broke it from below he marvelled that seconds ago this nothingness parting before him had been bone-smashingly solid. Air and then the understanding it was now an enemy, assaulting his lungs, pushing his pain past what any person could survive. Light and the sight of low, dry boulders not ten feet away.

  I have travelled thirty times that this very minute. It is nothing and I will reach it and I will tell the starved and scarred children that I understand about survival and it is only ten feet and I will tell Katie that I understand regret but it’s better, better to feel it, only ten feet but I don’t remember how to move towards the thing that is there no memory of moving towards something and the sea is warm and my lungs are healed and I have no memory of how to do this thing, how to keep a dead body afloat.

  34.

  It was late morning and Adam and Katie were in bed, having spent the night together for the first time in months. They’d crashed out drunk on champagne – it only took her a glass and a half nowadays – and he’d woken to her lips on his stomach and been surprised at how much he wanted to make love. Afterwards, he told her he was glad of the night and the morning, that he felt something special, and now she was pulling the hairs on his chest and teasing him that his fit of sentimentality meant it must have been a farewell bonk.

  ‘How would you feel about that, about me leaving?’

  ‘Don’t get all Oprah on me, dude.’

  ‘I’m not. If I was getting Oprah on you I’d be making you read some life-affirming novel and then talk to me about how it made you understand how precious every day is and how you need to make the most of every minute.’

  ‘Except for the reading part, that sounds like a typical conversation for you.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Seriously, though.’

  ‘Seriously, though.’

  ‘Katie.’

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘I need to know if you’ll be okay if – when – I go home.’

  ‘Duh.’ She butted his arm with her head.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘God, you’re a tool. I survived all these years without you. I’m sure I’ll remember how to boil water and wipe my arse once you’re gone. Maybe,’ she added, ‘you won’t survive without me.’

  ‘Right, I’m going to miss all the hangovers and insults and bruises.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ He kissed her. ‘I was thinking of taking a trip up north next week. Go see Eugenie. Do you want to come? I don’t mean for you to visit her – that’s something I need to do myself. But if you want to come for the trip, I’d love the company.’

  ‘Mmm. Gotta work next week, remember? Besides, you’ll be all introspective and I’ll get bored.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. It’s just that it’s sort of the last thing I have to do before I go.’

  She yawned. ‘So go, kiss the dirt, catch your plane, send me a postcard wishing I was there.’

  ‘You’ll be okay?’

  Katie rolled away from him. ‘Get over yourself right now or I’m leaving this bed.’

  ‘That’s meant to be a threat?’

  ‘Dick.’ She climbed out of bed and pulled on her underwear. ‘I’m hungry, anyway. Let’s go out for brekky. My shout, now I’m a working girl, well almo– Was that the door?’

  Adam shrugged and reached for his shorts.

  Rap rap, then louder, rap rap rap.

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘But I’m dressed and you’re –’

  ‘Just let me, okay.’ He pulled on jeans and a shirt while the knocking continued.

  The officer was sorry to have to break this news. A couple taking a stroll along the Watson’s Bay coastal track saw a man running towards the edge. They called out but the man was already in free fall. The body was recovered within an hour and a half of the report, but there was no wallet or note. This morning the police received a call from a receptionist at the Ultimo office of a refugee assistance charity. Someone had sent her what appeared to be funeral arrangements for her boss, Graeme Reynolds. She had tried his mobile, but it was switched off. She told the police it was probably only a sick joke or a mix-up, but she thought she should call them just in case.

&nbs
p; Two hours later Jenny Uton identified the body. The police had spoken to the company identified on the documents received by the receptionist and had confirmed the arrangements were made by the deceased. Ms Uton was in contact with the company and would be ensuring Mr Reynolds’s wishes were carried out. The officer was, again, sorry to have to break this news. Did Adam know of any family who should be informed?

  Katie was sitting on the bed, smoking. Adam sat down on the bed and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That bastard.’ She started to cry.

  Katie, Adam and Jenny stood together in the flat’s living room, Jenny dressed in a black suit, Adam in dark pants and a navy shirt. Katie felt sorry for them both, but sure of herself in this.

  ‘It’s important to have closure,’ said Jenny. ‘To be able to say goodbye properly.’

  ‘He didn’t think it was important,’ Katie said. She turned to Jenny whose face was sunken with grief and guilt. ‘He had every opportunity to let us in. He didn’t want it.’

  ‘As in life, so in death,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Katie, darlin’,’ Adam said. ‘I would find it easier to get through if you were there.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Anyway, I have work. I can’t take time off in my first week.’

  ‘Maybe if I called the shop, as your doctor?’ Jenny offered.

  ‘Listen to me. You know how when someone dies people say that stupid thing – He would have wanted this – but it’s only ever a way to justify doing whatever the hell you want anyway? In this case I think it’s true. He wanted me to get better and to work and to not worry about him. So that’s what I’m doing. What he would have wanted.’

  ‘I hear you,’ Adam said. ‘It’s what I want for you, too, but is it what you want?’

  Katie felt strong and sad and wise. ‘It’s what I want and what I need.’

  After they left, she stood by the living room window. A bottle-green Mini on the road below caught her eye. Now that she would be earning a regular income she could think about taking driving lessons and saving for a car. But first she needed to buy some new clothes for work. New shoes, too, but she could get them cheap with her staff discount. And she wanted to save for a trip. Go see if India was what she thought it was, visit Adam and see if his mother was as nutso as he made out, maybe, maybe stop in on Mum and the kid on the way back.

  First of all, though, she thought, watching the cars and the buses and trucks, the schoolkids walking in huddles and tourists slouching under their backpacks and a stray dog darting between cyclists and the mothers pushing prams, first of all, she would pay someone to remove the security bars and repair the frames. She wondered if it would cost much to install a window seat. It would be nice, she thought, to sit up here on warm nights, share a bottle of wine with a friend, a kiss with a sweet man. Or just sit alone, close her eyes and listen to life.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The first draft of Smoke in the Room was written during a residency in Hobart in 2006, as part of the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre’s Island of Residencies Program, which is assisted by Arts Tasmania and Hobart City Council. Three years later, the book was finished during a stay at the Djerassi Resident Artists’ Program in California.

  Of the many books on depression and suicide I consulted, I am particularly indebted to Kay Redfield Jamison’s Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide, Lisa Lieberman’s Leaving You: The Cultural Meaning of Suicide and A Alvarez’s The Savage God. Graeme’s ideas about feyness and war were inspired by Lee Sandlin’s 1997 Chicago Reader essay ‘Losing the War’.

  I am deeply grateful for the enthusiasm, commitment and editorial guidance I received from my publisher Rod Morrison, editor Emma Rafferty and agent Charlie Viney. Thanks also to Judith Lukin–Amundsen and Melanie Ostell for their perceptive and inspiring editorial advice.

  Thanks to the Weedy gang for cheers, commiserations and perspective; to Rebecca for carrying more than her fair share of the load; and to Jeff for all of the above and so much more.