Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  ‘Have you talked to your … Ben?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s as sorry as can be, but sorry is … it doesn’t put things back the way they were. For me, he’s a different person. My mother’s a different person. Liam’s a different person. I’m a different person. All my relationships have to be rewired. It makes me wonder: if I was so blind about this – what else in my life am I not seeing?’

  ‘Is that why you don’t swim – because Liam drowned?’

  ‘No. Because I nearly drowned.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He looks at her a moment, not intending to say more but suddenly his mouth is off and running. ‘I’ve never told anybody … what really happened. The only other person who saw it was my grandmother. She’s gone now, of course.’ Chris pauses. ‘Liam didn’t drown. He fell on a piece of glass – a broken bottle sticking out of the sand. It went straight into his chest and killed him. I went after him, turned him over … and then the next thing I knew, I was bowled over by a wave. I nearly drowned. Passed out, and by the time I was conscious again Liam had disappeared. Everyone thought he’d drowned. They never found his body.’

  ‘But, Chris,’ Bertie gasps. ‘Why didn’t you tell them what you saw?’

  ‘My grandmother made me promise not to. She said it was kinder to let Jo and Ben think he’d drowned. More peaceful.’

  ‘Peaceful? I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘I only know what I saw was terrible. I was eight. I’ve never forgotten but Gran thought she was doing the right thing. Anyway, that’s why I don’t swim.’

  ‘Yet you come to the beach where he died?’

  ‘Yeah. It wasn’t the sea that killed him.’ Chris leans on the railing. ‘It nearly got me and I’m wary of it, but I still love being near it; looking out beyond the horizon and knowing that nothing really ends. I have happy memories from before Liam died, and others I’ve made since.’ He turns and smiles at her. ‘I paddle. During my teens my mates tried to get me to swim, but …’

  Bertie sips her wine. ‘Do you want to?’

  He nods. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I could teach you if you like.’

  Chris tugs at his ear. ‘I … I’m not—’

  ‘Just a suggestion. You’ve got enough on your mind right now.’

  ‘A steaming mess.’

  Bertie runs her eyes over his drawings of Fletcher. ‘I know you, Christopher Bright. I know where your heart is. Follow it, and you’ll be fine.’

  Daybreak.

  The sun creeps over the horizon and lingers on the dark water of the rock pool. The bottom is invisible.

  I could teach you to swim.

  He sits on the edge of the pool and eases his legs into the water, feeling it creep over his calves and the scars on his shin. He slides down into the pool and slowly bends his knees, crouching now … letting the sea claim his waist, his ribcage … He sits, leans back slowly … suddenly the sand beneath him shifts and he’s down, under the water, airless. Liam’s body is squashing his lungs, panic bubbles in his ears. He claws upwards for the sky, its blue certainty, feet pedalling, arms thrashing – up! Up! Spluttering, spitting, clambering out of the pool, shaking, heart wide open, eyes shut … Breathe, breathe deep.

  He opens his mouth.

  ‘Chris,’ his voice says obediently. He leans over the pool and looks down. A wrinkly old merman looks back. A metre of water laughs.

  Only 6.30 am but it feels like he’s run a marathon.

  On the balcony, he struggles to concentrate on the newspaper but Fletcher keeps creeping into his thoughts and onto the margins.

  At least you tried. Maybe you could take up her offer to teach you.

  He begins to sketch Fletcher in a swimsuit, then changes his mind and draws a knapsack.

  Hey, no – get rid of the knapsack; I don’t want to go anywhere. I like it here.

  As Chris scribbles out the knapsack his mobile starts to ring. He reaches for it, and for the second time this year – though it’s not yet March – his world is shattered.

  ‘It’s Judge,’ says Diane. ‘He’s had a stroke.’

  The Rover strains towards Brisbane. Chris rubs a hand over his chin and encounters stubble. He reaches out and pats the knapsack beside him. Flat. He tips it up, shakes out a T-shirt. No phone, no toiletries.

  Yesterday. It happened yesterday and she waited all this time to tell him.

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me?’

  ‘I didn’t find out until last night and I couldn’t see the point of upsetting you when you couldn’t do anything.’

  Except be there. Judge is his best friend. Everyone knew except him. On holiday, out of the loop. He can’t believe it. Judge doesn’t have strokes. He’s thin and bony and vigorous.

  On the northern outskirts of Brisbane feeder roads from the suburbs slow the traffic to a crawl. Just his luck to hit the city at peak hour. Every traffic light along Lutwyche Road seems to be red but finally the hospital looms.

  Emergency. Where is Emergency? He dumps the car in a No Standing zone and sprints inside.

  Stroke Unit.

  Third floor.

  Down the corridor at full speed and straight into a one-hundred-kilogram wall. Bosom like the Rock of Gibraltar. Arms a boxer wouldn’t argue with.

  ‘No-one’s allowed in,’ says the wall, ‘except family.’

  ‘I’m his best friend.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Stable.’

  What does that mean – stable? The place where they’re keeping him or the fact that he’s clinically sane? How is he?

  ‘His wife is with him.’

  Chris waits, an hour and five minutes, until Karen comes out.

  She holds out her arms and he gathers her in.

  ‘I can’t understand him,’ she weeps into his chest. She’s small and round and his heart swamps. She presses a tissue to her eyes.

  ‘Let me buy you coffee,’ he says, patting his jeans pocket, then his shirt. ‘Ah, damn. I’ve left my wallet behind. Could you shout me?’

  In the hospital cafeteria she buys him coffee and a sweet bun that sticks in his throat. The stroke happened in the office, just before four yesterday. Judge was talking to Maureen and she couldn’t understand him. He tried to put the cap on his pen, reached for his glasses and fell out of the chair. Maureen called an ambulance.

  ‘We were lucky,’ says Karen. ‘They got him to the hospital in time to use some new clot-busting drugs. They have to be given within three hours.’

  Chris gropes for a question. He doesn’t know what he wants to know; only if Judge will be okay. His friend is lying in a room, changed. This time yesterday that thing was lurking in an artery, growing plump and obscene, starving him of the oxygen needed to make his mind and his mouth work in unison.

  ‘I can’t understand him,’ Karen says. ‘My own husband.’

  For two days, Chris is banned from visiting. He prowls the office, trying to focus on work. He phones Bertie and explains his sudden departure. ‘I left my wallet and some gear in the apartment. If I courier the key, could you collect my things and return the key to the agent?’

  ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘How’s your friend?’

  ‘I haven’t been allowed to visit him yet.’

  ‘How are you doing, Chris?’

  ‘Okay, I guess. Trying to pick up the reins and sort out the work. Doesn’t take long for things to fall behind.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do, but if there is, just let me know. Even if you only want to talk.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  When he’s finally allowed to see Judge, he scrambles to the hospital. Karen intercepts him in the corridor, warning him to expect change. Judge had woken from the stroke to find a catheter in his penis and, by the sound of his speech, cotton wool in his mouth.

  Chris prepares himself to deliver an optimistic ‘G’day!’ but when he sees his friend lolling in a wheelchair, all he can think of is ‘invalid’.
He looks like Judge, but rearranged. The left side of his face droops and one hand lies in his lap as if someone else has put it there.

  Karen tilts up his face and kisses his mouth. ‘Look who’s here, love.’

  Judge rests his head on her arm.

  Chris’s cheerful greeting fails to arrive. How can one rogue particle do so much damage? ‘Mate,’ he murmurs.

  Judge returns a melancholy grunt.

  ‘Expressive dysphasia,’ his nurse explains. ‘They know what they want to say but can’t get it out.’

  Chris nods. ‘I know what it’s like.’

  The nurse cranks up her voice and taps her head. ‘You’re fine up here, aren’t you, Peter?’

  ‘I’m not fuckin’ deaf,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I heard that!’ She turns to Chris. ‘They get tetchy.’

  ‘Really?’

  Judge lets out a long noisy draught of air.

  ‘He …’ says Karen.

  He’s still Judge.

  ‘He,’ says Chris, ‘is a total prick who could have waited until I finished my holiday to pull this stunt.’

  Judge blinks slowly. ‘Aah-o.’

  ‘You’re the arsehole,’ says Chris.

  Judge’s eyes gleam. He bangs his good hand on the arm of the wheelchair and rocks unsteadily. ‘Ahmm … shti–mm … bnn-iss.’

  ‘If you’re still in business, mate,’ Chris says, ‘you’d better get yourself out of here. Quick.’

  Judge’s desk is a 1940s, age-yellowed oak monster with brass cup handles. Lovely timber covered in spreadsheets: progress payments, contingency funds, wages, payroll tax, company tax – stuff Judge was supposed to have processed while Chris was away. He drags a wad of papers towards him, uncovering Judge’s slide rule and fountain pen. There too, his glasses. He didn’t wear them much. Forgot. Chris takes off his own and peers through Judge’s, as if to glimpse into his friend’s world, but he can’t see anything. He puts his own glasses back on and opens a folder of job sheets. A new MO is required – and quickly – not business as usual, but business regardless. Most of Judge’s work is corporate design. Mick will have to step up for it; Hamish can keep him steady. Increase on-site supervision for himself. He doesn’t mind; it gives him the illusion of having a greater hands-on role. More draughting for Maureen, and Tabi – well, it was time Tabi learned to use her brains.

  ‘Look after Maureen’s files,’ he tells her. ‘And keep me in the loop.’

  ‘What loop?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Tabi.’

  ‘Can I have Judge’s office until he gets back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I have yours?’

  ‘Get off your bum.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll have to put it on your lap if you want me to know what’s going on.’

  He gapes at her. She really is trying to come on to him.

  A steady stream of contract negotiations, drawings, specifications, approvals and site supervision keeps them busy. Everyone takes up the slack, doing whatever needs doing without demur. But volume is not the problem; it’s shape – Judge’s. Clients wanting his particular take on things must compromise or wait.

  Days come, days go. February becomes March and while the sun angles more gently over Brisbane’s buildings, her river and parks, the clammy heat persists. Chris is flat out, yet it feels like he’s marking time, necessity rather than choice dictating the nature and pace of his life.

  Tabi comes in one morning and places a pink note on his drawing board.

  ‘What’s this?’ says Chris.

  ‘A fire station.’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You know. Red trucks, sirens and all that.’

  He glances at the note. ‘Sacred cow?’

  She nods.

  ‘Bugger. Another bleeding relic. Why can’t I have something new?’

  ‘Better to restore one than to be one.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m a relic?’

  ‘Not yet, Mr B.’

  Judge’s catheter was removed after a couple of days and apart from a few mortifying accidents, continence returned. Now, four weeks later, he is walking almost normally and feeling has returned to his hand, but its movements are erratic and he works constantly at a rubber ball which he’s named Rick. Chris suspects it’s supposed to be Prick but Judge can’t say the P. Despite intensive speech therapy, Judge has great difficulty being understood. Frustration sours his disposition and he swears like a navvy. A common reaction, says his doctor, which should lift when ‘things get better’.

  Diane, determined to do her bit to make things better and restore life to its normal pattern, resumes their monthly dinner party on Judge’s birthday – the first Saturday in April.

  Her table is particularly festive with red candles, red and yellow hibiscus and brightly striped placemats that can be tossed into the washing machine should anything be dropped on them; finely diced lamb curry for instance, prepared with Judge’s difficulty in manipulating a fork in mind.

  Everyone is cheerful except him. Robbed of his legendary eloquence and wit, he stirs his dinner with an unpredictable hand, chasing rice and lamb around his plate with a fork and bringing it, trembling, to his mouth. Chris turns the base of his wineglass and looks at Diane with admiration. She’s been no different with Judge from how she always is and when he tips over his wineglass she mops up the mess and refills his glass without straying from the conversation. He mumbles an apology. She waves it away.

  She might be the same with Judge, but not with him. Chris has changed since he came back from Coolum, she reckons, is more remote.

  ‘Me remote?’ He scowled at her. ‘Coming from you, that’s rich. Anyway, I was only gone a few days and life at the office has hardly been a picnic since.’

  ‘Still,’ she replied, coolly.

  ‘Still, nothing.’ But he knew he had changed. Not so much since Coolum, but since finding out about Ben. With the question mark over his paternity gone, he no longer feels like Alice in Wonderland, more like Adam in the Garden. He’s bitten the apple and tasted deceit. Nothing is what it seems.

  Diane goes to the kitchen and returns with a cake, a lemon and poppy seed confection with Happy Judge-day on it in red icing. The cake is a birthday gift from Archie – a vast improvement on his marijuana cookies … if not quite so interesting.

  Karen raises her glass. ‘To Chris. For making the business one less thing we have to worry about.’

  ‘To the staff,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t be doing it without them.’

  Judge frowns. ‘Don’t get too comfy. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Good,’ says Chris, when he works out what his friend has said. ‘But no rush. We’re doing okay.’

  ‘I’ll rush if I bl-l-loody want. It’s my bi’ness too and don’t you—’

  Karen puts a calming hand over her husband’s and his face softens. Something in Chris wrenches loose. Even with their new difficulties, Judge and Karen are like lovers in a waltz. He and Diane are more akin to partners in a mazurka; polite and distant. He looks at his honey-hued wife – still lovely – and feels a welling of desire; not a prick-tingling urge but a longing for the kind of connection Judge and Karen have.

  He excuses himself and goes to the kitchen; leans on the bench and stares into the shiny stainless sink.

  Longing is not enough.

  Monday morning finds Chris at his drawing board, reluctantly plugging the airy space beneath an old Queenslander – at the owner’s insistence – with a kids’ TV room. After a while he becomes aware of a strange hush. He looks up. Hamish, who was chatting to Bernie Bainbridge, a client whose house Judge was designing when he had the stroke, is looking towards the reception area. Chris gets up and follows Hamish’s gaze. Judge has arrived, and is standing beside Doris the gnome, presently sporting a 1960s pink pillbox hat, complete with veil. Unlike Doris, Judge does not smile.

  Hamish snaps from his daze and goes to greet him. Bernie follows, his hand extended. Judge, who is cl
utching his rubber ball, holds out his hand and the ball falls to the floor. As Bernie bends to pick it up Judge kicks it away and launches into an incomprehensible monologue.

  Maureen turns off the photocopier. Tabi scoops up the ball. Everyone strains to understand what Judge is saying. His face burns. Chris gropes for something to say – anything – then – pop!

  ‘Sorry!’ Tabi tongues gum back into her mouth and looks suitably guilty.

  Chris sighs with relief. ‘Bugger it, Tabitha. I told you to get rid of that muck.’

  Tabi passes Judge his ball and removes the gum.

  Judge turns, goes stiffly to the door, opens it and disappears. His footfalls, irregular and fading, echo from the stairs.

  On Friday, Diane phones Chris at the office. She’s blitzed her uni exams with near perfect scores, streets ahead of students half her age. It’s an excuse to celebrate. Chris stops at the pub after work and buys a bottle of vintage champagne from Archie.

  Half an hour before the seven o’clock news, he puts the newspaper aside and pops the cork. He’d prefer whisky but toasts Diane enthusiastically with a belch-inducing gulp of fizz.

  ‘Well done, my clever wife.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, carefully stitching over a hole she’s found in Chris’s navy jumper.

  ‘Worth mending?’ he asks. ‘It’s a bit long in the tooth. That darn will be stronger than the rest of it.’

  She nods. ‘True.’

  ‘What will you do with all your learning when you finish?’

  She takes a sip of champagne. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Maybe nothing. It’s just an interest; not my life.’

  ‘What is? Now, I mean, with Phoebe gone and Archie more or less independent?’

  ‘Grandchildren, I hope. Before too long.’

  Chris winces.

  Diane intercepts the look. ‘Phoebe’s the same age as we were when she was born.’

  He tugs at his ear. ‘Yeah, I know, and family life was on us before we had a chance to properly know each other.’

  ‘Well, we do now.’

  ‘Do we? Really? We’re not exactly … close.’

  Diane bites the end of a thread. ‘Close enough.’