Sixty Seconds

by Jesse Blackadder

  The house settled into silence. Finn reached across and flicked off the stove light, the kitchen’s only illumination. Let the darkness fall around him, heavy on his shoulders. Let the silence lap at his earlobes and elbows. Let the steel of the sink cool his fingertips.

  And let the memory of Toby come, from before. He could balance, for a moment, on that knife edge. Try to think of Toby without falling into the abyss, and without reliving what happened.

  From the moment he could grasp things, Toby was fascinated by how they worked, and Finn knew that came from him. They both saw the world in a physical way, saw how its components fitted together, took pleasure in the arrangement of things to bring about a desired result.

  It wasn’t wood carving that interested Toby. It was the clockwork pieces. He wanted to watch, to touch, to hold. Finn had got into the habit of putting him on a floor on a mat with a pile of cogs and wheels and scrap metal in front of him. Totally unsuitable as toys, though he at least made sure everything was too big to swallow. Toby never tried to swallow them. He lay them out, rearranged them, banged them together. The interest came from Finn, but in Toby it went much further. It was a fascination, a drive. He would have lived a life centred on how things worked.

  Finn stared, dry-eyed, into the dark, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet to let the pain know it hadn’t won. His body thrummed. He’d come home wild with the energy of gathering Bridget and Jarrah and getting them out of there, the promise of doing something about the pain, even running from it, something.

  The bed creaked above him, so faint he could barely hear it. He knew every creak and scrape it made, he knew how the timbers rubbed together, which joints needed tightening from time to time. How had it come to this, that he was afraid to set foot in the upstairs of his own house?

  He pushed himself away from the sink. Very well, they wouldn’t flee this weekend, but something had to change.

  At the bottom of the stairs he found himself holding his breath, and taking the first step in a creep. He halted, took a deep breath straightened himself. Climbed the stairs like a normal person, not thumping but not creeping either. Walked down the hallway, past Jarrah’s door, to the closed door of the master bedroom. Opened it.

  Bridget’s shape in the bed was unnaturally still. Finn stepped inside, shut the door. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, slid off his shorts. Walked across to his side, slid in, pulled up the sheet.

  ‘I’m not sleeping away from you any more,’ he said, low-voiced.

  She said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. He knew she wasn’t asleep. It occurred to him that sleeping like this might be lonelier, in fact, than sleeping on the little couch across in the studio.

  ‘Good night,’ he whispered.

  There was a slight stir, so subtle he might have imagined it. But nothing more. The dark lay heavily on him and he was so tired, so very tired. His body, feeling the familiarity of the bed, imagined itself safe, and he could feel sleep already coming upon him, feel his legs beginning to twitch, his breathing starting to slow. He’d intended to lie awake, to watch over her, but he was slipping, slipping.

  When he jerked back into wakefulness he didn’t know if minutes or hours had passed. He turned his head. Bridget’s side of the bed was empty and Finn felt a rush of weariness. Coming back to their bed was pointless if it just drove Bridget to sleep somewhere else. Where could she have gone?

  He got up. It was like moving through molasses. He put on his shorts, opened the door silently. The only place he could imagine she’d have gone was Toby’s room, but when he crept down the hallway and peered in, the sterile little room was empty. Could she be sleeping on the couch downstairs?

  The lounge room was empty, as was the kitchen. Finn stepped out onto the verandah. The car gleamed faintly in the driveway. She hadn’t left him, then. Not yet.

  Then he heard it. A ripple in the pool and a soft mammalian explosion of breath, like a porpoise. He shuddered, wondering if he was dreaming in the warm, surreal night, under a sliver of moon, the dark thick and full, the sound of the pool perfectly clear. What the hell was in there?

  He crept to the gate, keeping to the shadows, and peered over. A little illumination from the streetlight spilled into the pool area and spread across the surface.

  It was Bridget. She surfaced again, exhaling as though she’d held her breath as long as she could. Was she trying to hurt herself? Drown herself?

  Faintly, in the dark, Finn saw her dive again. She stayed underwater so long he was about to wrench the gate open and dive after her, but he waited another moment and another moment and heard her surface.

  He couldn’t imagine ever going into that water again. Something was happening over there, in the water, with his wife that he couldn’t understand. It was worse than sleeping separately. Now he knew just how far apart they actually were.

  JARRAH

  I hated Saturdays. Bad things threatened on the weekend. Too much time and not enough to do. Mum and Dad were weirdly polite with each other. I kind of wished they’d fight. Dad worked in his studio and Mum cleaned in a disorganised way, like she couldn’t remember the bits she’d done already. I was so desperate I mowed the lawn without being asked.

  No one was telling me anything and I was sick of it. By late afternoon I was walking back and forth in my bedroom. I couldn’t stand it.

  Texted Laura:

 

  Didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t suggest catching up another time. Was she pissed off at me? Did she feel weird after Dad caught us kissing? Was she still upset about whatever it was?

  Tom was coming over on Sunday to help with Dad’s sculpture again, but Saturday was going to last forever. I sent Tom the same text. Took him an hour to reply, by which time I’d nearly given up.

 

 

 

  I was out the front, jumping from one foot to the other, when he pulled up. Opened the ute door and got in before he could even turn off the engine.

  ‘You said anything, right?’ he said. ‘Only, it’s a surf movie. Didn’t think you’d be into it.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  He put the car into gear. ‘How are your folks doing today?’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Same.’

  He didn’t ask me anything else. Put the radio on loud and drove to Kingscliff. Took me into the tiniest cinema I’ve ever been in. I reckon there were about thirty seats in there. Ordered a beer for himself and a soft drink for me, and some chips. We sat down.

  ‘You gotta have stuff to do,’ he said. ‘Or you go fucking crazy.’

  I looked at my hands. ‘I know.’

  ‘I could teach you to surf if you want?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Might feel different after the film.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  The trailers started and the lights went down. I just wanted to watch something and forget everything else. It was one of those movies about riding big waves in Hawaii or somewhere. It was OK until they started on the underwater stuff. The guy training to hold his breath as long as possible. The way the waves held him down. Too much underwater. Too much blue.

  I shut my eyes. Couldn’t help wondering what it was like for Toby. Did it hurt? Was he outraged that no one came to help him?

  A few minutes later Tom nudged me. ‘Let’s go.’

  I followed him outside. We crossed the road, went past the surf club. It was still warm. The water was full of swimmers and kids surfing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You can go back in if you want.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Forget it. Bad choice. Let’s just hang out for a while.’

  We sat on the grass bank overlooking the beach. First time we’d just hung out without doing anything. I didn’t know what to say. I fiddled with the grass for a while. Tom seemed happy watching the
water. Maybe that was a surfie thing. To me it was just waves crashing – they all looked the same.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Tom said. ‘I already ran this morning, and surfed. Don’t think I’m up for another run.’

  I followed him down to the wet sand without a word and we set off to the south. In a few minutes we were away from the crowds. It was better, moving. I’d rather have run, but walking was OK. I liked being with Tom. He was steady. I felt calmer. I knew what was what.

  ‘How are you going with that girl?’ he asked.

  My face got hot. ‘Laura? I dunno.’

  ‘Why aren’t you out with her tonight?’

  ‘She’s working at the pizza place. Anyhow, I’m just her charity of the month, you know?’

  He laughed. ‘Girls don’t hang around just because they feel sorry for you, Jarrah.’

  ‘She’s more interested in my dead brother than me.’

  He didn’t say anything. Watched the surfers for a while as we walked. I guessed he wanted to be out there, after all.

  ‘You got a girlfriend?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m kind of between girlfriends right now.’ He glanced at me. ‘I had girls interested in me after Dad died. But it didn’t last long. People who haven’t gone through it – they forget pretty fast.’

  ‘It’s not even three weeks,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  We walked further. ‘Where’s your dad buried?’ I asked after a while.

  Tom swept his arm across the width of the beach. ‘We threw his ashes in the ocean. He loved surfing.’

  I stared at the water. It was easier to talk to Tom walking side by side, not looking at each other. ‘Do you think they go somewhere?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Like, heaven or something?’ I snuck a glance at him.

  ‘For my dad, surfing was heaven. I reckon he’s there, in the water.’

  ‘Do you think they can see us?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think I can feel him when I’m surfing. But I could be making it up.’

  He looked at me. ‘What happened with Toby? Was he buried?’

  I kicked the sand. ‘He’s under Mum’s bed.’

  It suddenly felt colder and shadows stretched the length of the beach. Tom stopped and turned.

  ‘Why don’t we drop in on your girlfriend for a pizza?’ He grinned. ‘I can check out what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Just don’t steal her, OK?’ I grinned back at him like everything was great. I broke into a slow jog back along the beach.

  Tom groaned and then started jogging too, catching me up. ‘You are keen.’

  ‘You’ll see why.’

  But the truth was: I didn’t really want him to meet her. I was happier just doing what we were doing. I didn’t need anything more.

  BRIDGET

  Sandra has the hide to actually call you. It takes a moment to register when the number comes up on your mobile, and you stare, indecisive, at the screen. You long ago deleted her from your contacts, but hers is one of the few numbers you know off by heart.

  She was your best friend. You met at some playgroup you joined when Jarrah was a baby. She left soon after, as her son started preschool. From that short crossing-over, a circumstantial friendship survived and became something more. You thought she was the friend you could trust with anything.

  You’d said something to her, something you later regretted. You’d told her, one night over a few glasses of wine, what you could barely admit even to yourself – that you were the tiniest bit bored in your marriage, and even, perhaps, the tiniest bit embarrassed that Finn, your stay-at-home husband, lacked ambition and wasn’t more successful. She’d rolled her eyes and told you she and Hans hadn’t had sex in two years, and she’d taken to watching box sets of TV series most evenings because he bored her so much. She was thinking of enrolling in a Masters just for something to do. You’d laughed together and that was that.

  Except it wasn’t. It must have planted a seed in Sandra: the idea that she could fool around with your husband as a cure for her boredom. And he’d gone along with it. The two of them carrying on like they weren’t betraying a friendship and a marriage. Like it was no big deal.

  The phone stops ringing. You wait a minute until the notification pings through. She’s left a message. You’ll delete it without listening, of course.

  How different might this whole thing be if she was still your best friend. You could have asked her advice about Finn, or told her you’d started to believe in ghosts and were, in all likelihood, going absolutely, slowly, mad. You could have asked her why, instead of weeping, you felt angry all the time. At Finn most of all.

  Bridget, I know you don’t want to speak to me. I just want to tell you I’m still here, and I’m thinking of you and … um … sending love, and if you need someone, just call.

  You stab at the delete icon. You shouldn’t have listened. What’s the use? She betrayed you because she was bored. You won’t forgive her. And now, after everything, you’re a different person living in a different world. Sandra would hardly know who you’ve become.

  It’s Sunday and you’re going crazy. Finn’s out in the studio, Jarrah too, and that boy Tom has come to help, and it’s the testosterone club out there and you’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go and the house is closing in, pressing against your skin, crushing you.

  When Meredith sends a text asking how you are, it’s such a relief you nearly come to tears. You call and ask if she wants to meet for coffee. She hesitates, and at last suggests the truck stop on the highway. It’s no crazier than anything else, and not far from your mother’s nursing home anyway, and you agree. Leave a note on the table in case Finn wonders where you are, and head out.

  The truck stop’s crowded with people on the way to somewhere else. You drink a weak coffee and toy with raisin toast until she arrives. Looks around, spots you, makes her way across. She sits down, but doesn’t take off her sunglasses.

  She reaches across the table and clasps your hands. ‘You’ve been on my mind constantly.’

  ‘Thanks,’ you say, for the want of something else. ‘I suppose you saw the papers? Finn was charged.’

  ‘I know. Are you OK?’

  The words rush out of you. ‘Finn wants us to go back to Hobart – he says he can’t stay living here any more. I’ve lost track of Jarrah and I can’t reach him. I’m scared about leaving. I don’t know what to do.’

  She lets go of your hand and sits back. ‘I wanted to tell you in person, not on the phone. I can’t support you any more. I shouldn’t even be here today.’

  Mid-rant, you try to collect yourself. ‘What?’

  ‘I found out yesterday. I’ll be called as a witness in the case against Finn. So I can’t speak to him any more, and probably not to you either.’

  You struggle to understand. ‘But – you’re on our side. You said your foundation supports families in legal cases.’

  She glances down. ‘It’s not about sides. We do support families during coronial inquests, but now Finn’s been charged it’s different. It’s a criminal matter. Our foundation has been lobbying for years for a case like this to go through the courts to raise awareness. Do you know how many other families lost their toddlers in swimming pools last year?’

  You shake your head.

  ‘Sixteen. Sixteen families who lost their babies, mostly because someone was careless with a gate or a fence. Sixteen families destroyed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘In my experience, when a child drowns, the mother always gets the blame, Bridget. But in this case, Finn modified the gates illegally, and now you’re all paying the price.’

  ‘Whoa!’ You stand.

  ‘Oh God,’ she says. Slips off her glasses and puts her head in her hands. ‘Let me explain.’

  You hesitate, and sit again. She composes herself. Her eyes are red but she’s kept the tears from falling. When she starts again, her voice is soft.
/>   ‘If Finn’s convicted, this case will help save lives. If he goes to jail, even more so. It will be in all the news, all over social media. People will hear about it, and they’ll remember the message.’

  Your head snaps up. ‘Could he go to jail?’

  ‘Haven’t you had legal advice?’

  You skipped off to Chen’s instead of meeting the solicitor, you remember with a twinge of guilt as you shake your head. You haven’t been paying attention.

  ‘I’m not trying to hurt your family. I just want justice done and children protected. That’s worth something, isn’t it? If it even saves one child’s life?’

  There’s no possible answer to that question. You look at her squarely. ‘What happened to you, Meredith?’

  She looks away, out the window. The forecourt buzzes. Cars come and go, people pump petrol, and beyond, vehicles roar on the highway, heading north, heading south, travelling. You wish you had somewhere to flee to.

  At last she answers in a flat voice. ‘I thought you might have guessed. My daughter drowned in the neighbour’s pool. She wasn’t quite two. My husband had taken her with him when he went over for a drink. Their gate was propped open.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Twenty-six years.’

  ‘And whose fault was it?’

  ‘Oh, no one could agree. My husband blamed the neighbours for leaving the gate open. The neighbours blamed him for not watching her. The coroner found it was an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault.’

  She presses the tip of her car key into the top of her first finger, over and over. ‘I should never have trusted him with her. But no one paid for it, Bridget. No one had to get up and account for what they’d done. And it didn’t stop people wedging their pool gates open and children drowning. No one took any notice.’

  ‘And you think Finn should pay?’

  ‘They should all pay,’ she snaps. ‘Every one of them who left a gate open, or wedged it or tied it or—’

  ‘Or looked away for a minute, like me,’ you finish for her.

  ‘You believed your pool was safely fenced,’ she counters. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’