The Tightrope

by Hiba Basit

Her uncle is within a couple feet of her. He is moving towards her, in slow mechanical movements, as if the ground is invisible quicksand beneath his bony feet, ready to suck his body into its depth and unreliability. Once again, Santana tries calling to him. This time, he looks up and motions for her to turn around and start making her way home. She obediently presses her fingertips against the brick-layered edifice and turns, fingering her way across the pavement, like a blind person. In fact, she has closed her eyes against the force of the prevailing wind swirling and gushing around her. But, as she nears the end of the street and faces another walkway, she stops in her tracks as the earth shudders beneath her. She looks to the ground as if expecting something to rise up in tandem with the tremor, but the violent shaking stops and the wind mimics the echo of a whistle, half-broken yet attempting its best to blow something of a tune out.

  Without warning, the whole city, or what Santana can see of it – the rear end of the park, the tall blocks of flats with their balconies faced at the front, the markets tipping onto the pavements, the rocks below her feet – quakes in front of her eyes. She is thrown against the building she was using as a map only minutes ago and a sharp pain shoots up her thighs and around her hips. Hey eyes skip around desperately for something to hold onto as she grasps what is happening around her, why the atmosphere without warning is changing in front of her very eyes. But before she can manoeuvre herself into a safe position, her eyes land on a broken piece of someone’s car bonnet, flying recklessly in the chaos. Almost like a paper aeroplane, the red shiny piece of metal rises up and points its front apex in the opposite direction of the park, until a strong gust whips it around and shockingly heads it at full speed towards her.

  ***

  Annette looks out of the prison window and squints up at the sun, mesmerised by the glittering after-effects flashing on the buildings, the streets, the sky itself. As she feels the window with the palm of her hands, the warmth radiates from the glass and sinks into her skin. Although she is standing amidst full surveillance in a four-by-four prison, the thought that she will be out in the blazing sun and the vibrant Australian streets, as free as a bird, is liberating. The thought of walking out every time is the only thing that gets her through these fortnightly visits with Andrei. This, and the unrelenting urge to get to the bottom of his clandestine habits.

  I’m wondering,’ Annette says, walking back to her seat and rubbing her hands together, as if in the process of fabricating a devious plan. ‘When was the turning point? I mean, were you always this...’ She searches for the right word.

  ‘Repulsive?’ Andrei offers. She offers him a tight smile.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘There was no turning point,’ he says.

  ‘I think there was. You want to blame genetics? You want to believe you were pre-inclined to commit what you did because of your childhood? Is that right?’

  ‘You have no idea about anything.’

  ‘Educate me.’

  He grunts loudly. ‘My mother was a raving alcoholic when I was two. My father was a wife-beater and ‘liked’ kids. So, yes, I do believe biology’s to blame because my parents had already planned my Fate before I was born by passing their inheritable crazy fucking genes to me!’ He bangs the table with his fists to clarify his belief in the unfairness of pre-existing genetics. Then, he sits with momentum, like an arrogant statue, revelling in how entirely he’s captured her attention.

  Bastard, she thinks. He’s never going to take responsibility for his actions.

  ‘Do you have any siblings, Andrei? Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Do you?’ She knows it’s a cheap shot but she risks it.

  ‘Yeah. Two. So?’

  ‘Whatever your dad did to them, did to you, you did to Alex, who was in your care at the orphanage. Crazy genes, or not, you’re no different –.’

  In one swift movement, before she has time to take another breath, Andrei leaps off his chair and despite the restraint of his chains, just about manages to grab Annette by the neck, immediately squeezing it within his grip. The blood rushes to his fingers as his fingertips turn white with the pressure of his grasp. Annette starts to gag as she half-stands over the table, pulled forward by his clammy fingers. Her own fingers struggle to pry his hands away, but his grip tightens and her stomach flips on itself. She starts choking as the sickening pressure inside rises all the way to her head. Tears pour from her eyes and the skin on her neck burns. Her vision blurs. Her hand slips on her own blood, now dripping down her neck and shirt and onto the table.

  As she plummets onto the cold stone floor, two formless black squares on either side of him, blurred into the vague outlines of male guards, emerge from the ceiling, landing heavily onto the floor and making the room shake. She shuts her eyes, blackening out, when his grip slackens. She opens her eyes in time to see him lunge for her again. Her head slams against the floor and pain shoots down to her spine. Uninvited and unsolicited, a picture of Santana as a child appears in front of her. She sits with her chubby legs splayed out on the grass, clutching a plastic bucket and a spade and smiling up at the camera. She prays for her beloved daughter, before feeling all consciousness disappear and the incomplete seconds-away promise of walking into the sunny streets evaporate with her senses.

  ***

  Back in New York, the nurse puffs the pillows on the bed and partly closes the white curtains hanging carelessly off the railings. Outside, rain pelts the city streets. The wind lashes out at the trees, making them shudder on the spot. A few trees collide into one another uncontrollably and then rapidly pull away, as if their opponent’s leaves are on fire. As they rustle and swish to the side in the grip of a sudden strong northerly gale, the russet branches come into view, lashing out at one another in discreet swift movements, as if stuck in the midst of a sword fight.

  The nurse looks at the visitors in the ICU room. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood. I’m afraid she’s not going to make it.’ The nurse offers one last sympathetic nod to the family and then turns to leave, closing the door behind her and leaving a metallic smell in the hospital room.

  ***

  Annette closes the door behind her with a faint click. She leans against it for a moment, trying to keep her breathing steady. As she looks up at the ceiling, her vision blurs and nearly blackens before returning to normal. She blinks a few times and then makes her way towards the kitchen. The smell of mushrooms and boiled rice lures her like a predator hunting its prey. The kitchen is empty as she enters. She aimlessly wanders around, searching for nothing in particular. Eventually, she pauses at the hob, where the rice is boiling to the brim. Placing a heatproof lid on top of the pot, she allows some of the steam to escape and disappear through the open window and turns the heat down. She flicks the kettle on and sits down next to the worktop. A thin ring burns around her neck, making her want to chop her own head off until the pain disappears. Hearing footsteps coming down the stairs, she plasters a smile on her face as David enters.

  ‘Nice clown face you got there,’ he chuckles, before noticing the red circle around her neck. ‘What the hell happened?’ he chokes out, quickly striding towards her. Annette touches her neck uneasily, feeling the pain circling her ears and the back of her head.

  ‘Andrei tried to strangle me.’ It comes out as a whisper. ‘I was questioning him and, the next thing I know, he’s on top of me, grabbed hold of my neck and twists it as if it’s a rinse-cloth. The guards managed to get him off me just in time.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor? Here, let me have a look.’ Drying his hands, he sits down to inspect the marks.

  ‘Yeah, at the prison. She gave me a cream.’ David continues to check the marks, lifting her hair gently as he examines the skin on her neck.

  ‘He’s cut you, as well. It doesn’t look too bad, Annie. It’ll heal in a couple of weeks.’ He plants a kiss on her forehead. ‘Please sit farther away from him next time!’ She nods, the dizziness m
aking her feel weak. As a gust of wind blows its way past her neck, she winces. The stinging feeling intensifies until her eyes begin to water.

  Seeing her pain, David quickly shuts the window. ‘Let me bandage it up for you.’

  ‘It’s all right. Do it after dinner.’ He shoots her a dubious look. ‘I’m sure, honey. How was your day?’ She shuffles in her chair, wanting to lie down instead.

  ‘Good.’ His face breaks into a smile. ‘Connor found out Leah’s pregnant. He’s going to be a dad!’ Annette gets up and attempts to throw the potato peelings in the bin.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says.

  He makes a face. ‘Hey, I wasn’t trying to –.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Honestly. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about us having a baby one day.’

  ‘I said it’s all right,’ she repeats softly. ‘I didn’t think you were. Did you put saffron in here?’ She moves over to the cooker, keeping her head still.

  ‘Yeah. Can’t you taste it?’

  ‘No.’ She lifts the spoon to his mouth.

  ‘Ah, you’re right!’ He takes out the red bottle and drops a pinch into the pot. ‘Listen, we have a party to go to tomorrow night. But, I’ll say you’re ill.’

  ‘Has the new east wing opened already?’

  ‘Yeah, tomorrow.’ He chews on a boiled carrot.

  ‘Well, then, I shall definitely make an appearance. As long as no one tries to kill me.’

  ‘When I’m there, no one else will dare to even touch you.’ He lifts their dinner plates and places them on the table. When he turns around, Annette is leaning against the counter, smiling at him. She looks more radiant than he’s ever seen her look, her face flushed from the steam in the kitchen. ‘Dinner’s served,’ he says seductively, on the verge of breaking into a smile. ‘Don’t say I never do anything for you…’ he begins, but before he can finish, he bursts into carefree laughter and grabs Annette into a soft hug.

  Chapter Thirteen

  David has been upstairs for hours. Downstairs, Annette lies on the couch, not able to recall what time it is as each minute drips into the next. She stares up at the ceiling in the direction of their bedroom, burying her body deep beneath the woollen blanket. The house has been quiet for some time. The television that delivered the news is now switched off. Her mobile, manically ringing moments ago, is on mute. She rises a little as David turns the bathroom tap on. But then, he flicks it off and returns to the comfort of their bed. She closes her eyes for a long time as she remembers the night’s events…

  ‘Darling, here you go!’ Annette places David’s mug on the table before wrapping her fingers around her own mug and curling up next to him. She nestles herself under the blanket as he wraps his arm around her, stroking her shoulder with his index finger in the dark of the living room. The eleven o’clock ABC news is on, but the volume is barely audible. Instead of watching the news, she turns to him with a look of determination.

  ‘I want to talk to you about having a baby,’ she whispers into his ear, coming straight out with it. Where her skin touches his, she feels his heart rate accelerate. He turns to her looking shocked; more than that, all his facial features have popped out. He’s been caught off guard, stunned beyond belief, as if he is seeing his wife’s ghost. Slowly, he shifts back to study her, moving his mouth as if chewing his left cheek.

  ‘Sure. What would you like to talk about?’ he manages, trying his best to remain calm.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking,’ she begins, smiling as she sees his enthusiasm, but then her attention is caught by the rippling of black and white lines suddenly flickering from the television screen. Even before the headlines appear, her eyes swell and her own heart quickens, her body one step ahead of the reality, pre-registering the shock about to jolt through it. At the bottom, in dark scripted letters, the breaking news innocently rolls across the flat screen.

  Headline: Hurricane Deborah sweeps through New York in the early hours of the afternoon. Destroys more than a dozen cities including Amsterdam, Buffalo, Geneva, Hudson and Kingston as it makes its way towards the Eastern seaboard.

  Annette is motionless. The spokesman’s voice fades into the background. Her eyes move across the screen in saccades, searching for the names of the cities again. Then, like a bee attracted to pollen, she watches, headline after headline, as Hudson rolls across the screen. As they reveal images of Hurricane Deborah hitting the city, the hot mug of creamy cocoa falls out of her hands and shatters on the white granite floors as she recognises the local school. David almost drops off the sofa in an attempt to save the mug and quickly balances a hand on the table, grabbing Annette with the other hand to steady himself.

  ‘Annie, what’s happened?’ It comes out as a sharp whisper. When she doesn’t respond, he swallows. He tracks her gaze to the screen, where Hurricane Deborah is spinning wildly, tearing trees from their roots and stripping the roofs from terraced houses. He is about to sit down next to her when she leaps up, her hand locked flat against her neck. She is shaking violently as she pushes past him and runs into the kitchen.

  ‘Annie, what’s wrong?’ he shouts, fear ascending deep within him. ‘What is it?’ His veins rise to the surface as his blood rushes in all the wrong directions. He watches as she frantically searches through her bag, slapping her hair away from her eyes as she hunts. ‘Annie!’ He moves towards her. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s happened. Are you –.’

  She slaps his hand away and takes her bag to the living room, throwing its entire contents on the floor. Scrambling to the floor, she finally locates her mobile and snatches it up.

  Thirty-two deaths have been reported and thousands have been injured as Deborah makes a beeline for Long Beach.

  Annette turns her mobile on. Her face turns pale and she stumbles backwards in an attempt to steady her footing. In one frenzied movement, she is sitting against the side of the stairs, gripping the phone to her ear.

  ‘Annie, love, who are you dialling?’ David tries to sound calm but fails. Annette hits the hash key to discover three messages are pending. The first is from Jordan, instructing her to call him as soon as possible. The next one crackles against the receiver and she frantically waits for someone to speak on the other line, but it cuts. Her heart hammers in her chest as she waits for the final message. The voice is loud and clear as it comes through.

  Annie. It’s Clive. I need you to call me back. I don’t know if you’ve heard, we’ve just been hit by a hurricane. I’ll be waiting for your call.

  As she hangs up, the automatic voice system announces the arrival of a new message. Again, she listens to the crackling against the receiver.

  Annie, call me back. Please. There isn’t much time.

  She screams so loudly that David backs away at first and then runs towards her. Her heart plummets at Clive’s last words and she quickly breathes in but suddenly can’t find a reason to exhale. She thinks of the pain around her neck and tries to focus on it, but as the pressure heightens around her eyes, she remembers that pain can go deeper than material aching.

  She feels David shaking her. When she finally looks at him, tears run down her face.

  ‘Annie, what’s wrong?’ he asks forcefully. He turns to the screen. ‘Are you shocked by the hurricane?’ When she doesn’t reply, he pulls her close. ‘Please, you’re scaring me!’ He grabs her phone and presses the call register button. Seventeen missed calls. Recognising the code as New York’s, he looks at the television screen and then back at her. ‘Do you know someone there?’

  She gets up, but he grabs her hand and spins her in.

  ‘Let me go! I need to call her!’ she shouts. Her voice quivers as he keeps his hold.

  ‘Call who? I never knew you had people in New York. Who do you know?’ he asks, looking panicked and confused.

  ‘David, let me go! Please. I need to talk to her!’ She is desperately crying now, trying to release herself from his firm grip, but he doesn’t budge.

  ‘Wh
o is her, Annie? Who do you know there?’

  ‘You can’t,’ she stammers. ‘You won’t understand.’ Her phone suddenly starts to ring and, this time, she pulls herself free and grabs it. ‘Clive! Oh God! What’s happened?’ David watches, baffled, as Annette turns her back to him. ‘Oh! Oh my baby! Oh God, my beautiful baby, you’re all right!’ She is crying into the phone now. Her words echo in his ears as he stares at her, bewildered, his heart thudding inside his chest. ‘Santana! I know, baby, you must have been so scared!’

  Annette bends down and presses her hand to her stomach as if she’s in physical pain. Instead, a cry of relief escapes her. And just like that, it hits him. Annette is crying into the phone. She is crying for the girl who lives in New York. She is crying for her baby, Santana. For her child, offspring, whatever people call it these days. She is crying for the child she refused to have with him.

  ***

  Annette studies herself in the bathroom mirror. Two weeks after Hurricane Deborah, there’s a heat wave on the way in Canberra. The bruising around her neck has faded to a light wafer brown. Still, to avoid any stares, she brushes foundation over the mark and slips on a thin high-neck top for good measure.

  Heading for the stairway, she bumps into David as she reaches the bottom and quickly apologises. He marches past her as if she isn't even there, making her feel like a giant pebble has been dropped off a skyscraper right into the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Darling,’ she calls.

  He turns towards her but avoids her gaze. ‘I’m working late tonight. Don’t wait up for me,’ he says and stomps upstairs.

  She steps down the last stair, feeling hopeless, and leans against the banister. She peers through the gaps in the banister, hoping to find David doing the same from upstairs. It’s been two weeks since the hurricane struck New York and he discovered she has a fifteen-year-old daughter. He’s been avoiding her since by staying at work until the early hours of the morning or visiting his parents without offering her an invite. He hasn’t slept in their bed for fourteen entire days. Her heart aches as she thinks of yet another lonely night.