Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  ‘Well, look who’s here,’ she says.

  He looks at her incredulously. ‘Gum – at seven in the morning? Do you chew it in your sleep?’

  ‘Stick around and find out,’ she says, sweeping him inside. ‘You look stuffed.’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night. Worrying about you.’

  ‘Sweet, but stupid,’ she says. ‘Got time for a coffee?’

  He perches on a bar stool in her pretty primrose kitchen while she loads up an old-fashioned percolator. ‘You’re early. Going to a meeting?’ She breathes life into a pink bubble.

  ‘No. I came for you.’

  Pop! The gum lands in a sheet from her nose to her chin. She gropes behind her for a stool and sits carefully, scraping the gum off her face and tossing it in the bin. She smiles slyly. ‘Did you come by for a comfort fuck?’

  He laughs. ‘No, I came to make sure you come back to work.’

  The percolator begins to plop. She unwraps another piece of gum and offers it to him.

  ‘God, no.’

  Tabi sighs. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Judge is sorted.’

  ‘Why is he so shitty with me – because I slept with you? Anyone’d think he was jealous.’

  ‘Not jealous. It’s stress. Problems I didn’t know about, problems with me, problems with his speech – all got too much and unfortunately, you were the scapegoat.’

  She pours the coffee and turns to him thoughtfully, one red-nailed hand on her hip. ‘You know what?’ She goes to a drawer. ‘This might help.’ She fishes out a card and passes it to him.

  Sammy Leong

  Traditional Chinese Medicine

  Acupuncture

  Herbs

  ‘Someone else mentioned acupuncture.’

  Roberta.

  ‘Sammy’s great. He totally fixed my knee,’ Tabi says. ‘Shagger’s Knee, did you know? True. Sammy’s Chinese; speaks good Australian, but. Good-looking, too.’

  One by one they arrive – Maureen, Mick, Hamish … Tabi, lugging Doris. A collective sigh of relief ripples around the office. Mick tosses her a packet of gum. She smirks, unwraps one and pops it in her mouth.

  Chris feels as if someone has drilled a hole in his head. A day’s work before it’s begun. He’s not sure whether he feels sick or hungry or is simply falling apart.

  ‘Maureen,’ he says. ‘I’m going home. Tell Judge.’ He stops by Tabi’s desk. ‘Will you be okay?’

  She waves him away. ‘Course I will. Go. You look cactus.’

  He sits in the car park with his hands on the steering wheel, craving rest, relief … long grass beneath a railway line, the beach. Anywhere but home. Diane will be frigid after his early departure this morning.

  ‘Six thirty?’ she asked disbelievingly. ‘Oh – let me guess – a concrete pour you simply can’t bear to miss.’

  ‘I have a visit to make.’

  She gave him a steely look. ‘What sort of visit?’

  Chris said nothing.

  ‘Don’t tell me … Her? You’re going to see her?’

  Chris starts the car and stifles a yawn. Just go. Go anywhere but number 10 Appleby.

  Ben’s.

  Yes, Ben’s away for a few days. Chris takes the Rover through the back streets to Red Hill and goes for the key which used to live under a rock on the kitchen window ledge. When his fingers meet the cool metal he sighs with relief.

  The atmosphere inside is tranquil and orderly – different from Jo’s organised mess. He goes down the hallway to his old room and flops on the bed, his eyes gradually focusing on the ceiling and a stain so faint it might be imaginary. Fletcher before it was Fletcher. The night of the storm. The night of Liam’s memorial service. His brother. Chris remembers him laughing. Holding his hand as they walked to school. Clowning. Running … so many Liam memories, fondled so many times they’ve lost their ability to surprise.

  Except for one. One as sharp as the glass that killed him.

  Fletcher looms down from the ceiling. It will never go away.

  Piss off.

  Fletcher topples onto the bed, closes his eyes and surrenders to exhaustion …

  The sound of a car crunching on gravel wakes Chris from a deep sleep. He drags himself off the bed and staggers into the kitchen just as Ben comes in.

  Ben takes in Chris’s dishevelled state with a look of surprise. ‘Saw your car outside.’

  Chris also digests an unexpected sight – Ben covered in wood shavings, peppered from head to toe with dust. The smell of camphor hangs in the air. ‘I came to, ah, for …’

  Ben waves his hand. ‘Doesn’t matter what you came for, lad. You’re always welcome here. Cup of tea?’ He fills the kettle and switches it on, then looks down at his clothes. ‘I’ll just clean up a bit.’

  Chris stands in the kitchen, feeling the requirement to be elsewhere but having no idea where. He listens to the kettle rise to the boil, reaches up and knots his hands behind his head. The simple effort of stretching is so depleting he realises with a bolt of fear that he’s reached the physical and emotional limits of his capacity to insist that people be who he wants them to be. Judge has changed and may never again be the way he was. Diane has not changed and is unlikely to. Whatever feelings she has for him will always be constrained by a crappy childhood and the scar of a wound inflicted by Whatshisname. But Ben’s love, long circumscribed by Jo’s fear of losing Christopher, has now relinquished its boundaries. He accepts whatever version of his son turns up, and whatever Chris is able to give … or not.

  Chris unhooks a couple of mugs hanging above a shelf bearing a photo of him and Liam in school uniform, holding hands. Chris is smiling and Liam is staring at the camera with the uncertain stoicism of a small boy facing his first day at school. As he contemplates the photo, Ben comes back.

  ‘My favourite picture, that,’ he says, opening the tea caddy and carefully measuring three spoonsful into the pot.

  ‘What happened to tea bags?’

  ‘Rosa.’

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘The tea lady.’ Ben snorts. ‘Sorry, I mean, the cleaning lady. Real tea. Real fish. Real veg. She brings me stuff she grows herself.’

  ‘Casseroles?’

  ‘No, I make my own.’ He pulls a knitted tea cosy over the pot.

  Chris looks at it with a pained expression.

  ‘Yes, she made the hat,’ says Ben. He drops milk into the mugs, twirls the teapot three times and pours the tea. His eyes move between the mugs and the photo of Chris and Liam. ‘You were so good, the way you looked after him.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  Ben stares at him with an appalled expression. ‘Don’t tell me … You can’t – surely – imagine yourself responsible for Liam drowning?’

  ‘No. Sorry, just tired.’

  ‘You look it. Sit. Sit. What’s wrong?’

  Chris gulps his tea and grabs his lip. ‘Bugger. Hot. Oh … work. Diane. A real estate fiasco.’

  ‘Diane told me you’ve stopped doing restorations.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the real estate fiasco?’

  ‘Long story.’

  Ben pulls out a chair. ‘I’m listening.’

  Chris tugs at his ear. ‘I found some land at Coolum; two blocks, back to back, just off the David Low Way near the rock pool. Beautiful. Put down two grand deposit but I needed to finance it with a mortgage, either on the house or the rental property. Only problem is everything’s in joint names and Diane is refusing to sign.’

  ‘Why?’

  Chris fiddles with his mug. ‘A kind of payback.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘An – um – an indiscretion … at work.’

  Ben raises his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  He needn’t look so surprised.

  Ben takes a sip of tea, wipes his mouth and presses his lips together and Chris has the unsettling impression he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Go on,’ says Ben.

  ‘If I don’t sack the … lady invo
lved, Diane won’t sign. I can’t sack her. I won’t. She’s a good person, a good worker and I’m not having her made the scapegoat. It only happened once and won’t happen again. It hasn’t affected our working relationship. And it’s not funny.’

  ‘No.’ Ben drags a hand across his mouth. ‘I’m just, ah – I suppose I shouldn’t say it but I’m, ah, kind of proud of you. Not for … but for sticking up for your employee. Are you … do you need a place to stay?’

  Chris takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t even know who I am these days. What irony; now that I know, I don’t.’

  Ben puts his hands together, prayer-like. ‘I’ve done you so much damage. I wonder how I ever justified not telling you. Fear, I know. Fear of losing you like we lost …’ He picks up the photo. ‘My sons … I still wonder, you know, after all these years, about Liam. How long he took to die, whether it was painful, how much he struggled, how scared he must have been. I wonder if a shark got him – makes me sick every time I think of it. And I know it’s crazy but I wonder – what if he didn’t die? What if he got washed up on a beach somewhere with amnesia? Got kidnapped? Stupid, stupid. But still I wonder.’

  Chris’s heart lurches into his throat.

  ‘Sorry. Here I am, on about … hey – are you all right?’

  Chris is fish-mouthing. He struggles to his feet and walks unsteadily back to his old room, curls up on the bed, closes his eyes and meets Liam’s blank stare. He hears Ben come in, feels his weight on the bed.

  ‘Are you sick, lad?’

  He shakes his head. He must tell him. He must tell him. But after he does, nothing will be the same.

  Nothing’s been the same for nine months.

  ‘Water?’ says Ben. He disappears and returns with water.

  Chris takes a gulp but his mouth remains dry. ‘I … I have to tell you something. Should have told you before, when it happened.’ He licks his lips and sits up. ‘I know that now, but I didn’t … before.’ He holds his father’s anxious gaze, as if doing so will keep them both from going under.

  ‘Liam didn’t drown.’

  Ben tilts his head.

  ‘He died before the sea got him. He ran. Got out of the pool and ran. Fell over.’ Chris swallows. ‘A piece of – of glass was sticking out of the sand. He went down, straight down on it …’

  A siren wails up Waterworks Road.

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘He didn’t drown. He fell on a piece of glass. It went into his chest, right in. He …’ Chris brings his hand to his chest. ‘He died, Ben. It killed him. He was gone by the time I got to him.’

  ‘This is absolute bunkum.’

  ‘No. It’s true.’

  Ben’s head wobbles.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Glass – what glass?’

  ‘A … broken bottle. A piece of it was sticking out of the sand.’

  Ben stares at him uncomprehendingly. ‘If it’s true … why didn’t you tell me … and Jo … before?’

  ‘Gran told me not to. She made me swear not to. She said it would kill you to know. She said—’

  ‘Gran? My mother?’

  ‘Yes. She saw it happen.’

  ‘She …?’ Ben drags a hand through his hair. ‘Is this true?

  ‘I swear to God it is.’

  ‘How? How could you let us think – for all those years – that he drowned?’

  ‘Gran said it was kinder. She said drowning was a peaceful way to die.’

  ‘No. No, this is stupid. You were a child. You couldn’t have known if he was … dead.’

  ‘I did know. Remember the kangaroo? The one we killed on the highway when we drove to Melbourne. He was like that. Liam was … like that.’

  ‘How – like that?’

  Chris rolls off the bed and goes to the long sash window overlooking the front garden. ‘His eyes; they were … not open, not closed, just … He was gone, Ben. I swear it. And then the wave hit us and he was on top of me and … and I couldn’t talk. Even before I could, Gran made me promise never to tell.’

  Ben drags himself off the bed and props against the door frame. ‘Maybe,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Maybe you’re more like your old man than you want to admit.’

  Diane is clipping flower stems for a vase – lilies and some green stuff.

  ‘Judge phoned, looking for you. He said your mobile was switched off.’ She looks him up and down, taking in his dishevelled hair, flattened from lying down, his shirt adrift at the waist. He can imagine what she’s thinking. He’s tempted to let her think it, but doesn’t really want to be cruel.

  ‘I’ve been with Ben.’

  She sighs slowly, and nods. ‘Oh. Good. About time.’

  Sammy Leong is probably about Chris’s age. If it weren’t for a few streaks of grey in his jet-black hair, Sammy’s easy manner and unlined skin would suggest a man ten years younger. His desk is empty apart from a pen, a writing pad and a Chinese vase with a red ribbon. No computer. Posters on the walls show a man drawn front, side and back, with lines running up and down his body. The Chinese view of a human being? If only it were that simple.

  Sammy listens attentively while Chris explains that Tabitha Holloway suggested acupuncture might help to treat the effects of a stroke.

  ‘You have CVA?’

  ‘No, not me, my friend. My business partner – about six months ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sammy grimaces. ‘Six months is a long time. Better he came straight away. Easier to fix.’

  ‘He’s doing well – almost normal again – physically. The problem is his speech.’

  ‘His face is drop?’

  ‘Yes, a bit. It’s more that he’s hard to understand.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Sammy nods. ‘And why you are here, Chris?’

  ‘I want to know if you think acupuncture might help.’

  Again Sammy nods. ‘Yes, acupuncture might help, but why you are here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not. I just wanted a chat.’

  Sammy’s smile reveals perfect teeth. ‘Lot of people come here for somebody else: my brother, my sister, my friend. Always somebody else. You have had acupuncture?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you must try. Then you can tell your friend, yes or no.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Come.’ Sammy springs up, grabs Chris’s wrist and leads him to a treatment cubicle.

  ‘But there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Always something. Worry, stress. Take off shoes, socks, trousers.’ Sammy glides out. Chris sits for a moment on the treatment table. Needles.

  Ah, don’t be a wuss.

  He removes his shoes and jeans. Sammy returns with a tray of bits and pieces, presses Chris gently onto his back and picks up his wrist. He squints thoughtfully, then repeats the process on the other side. ‘Tongue.’ Chris sticks out his tongue and Sammy’s eyebrows tweak as if it’s what he expected. He lays the back of his hand over various parts of Chris’s body and asks about his diet and sleep. Except that it’s pleasant to be lying down, Chris is wondering what the hell he’s doing here.

  ‘Chi’ stuck,’ says Sammy.

  ‘Cheese is what?’

  ‘Liver. Stagnant.’

  Sounds ominous. Is it fatal?

  ‘Stuck Chi’,’ Sammy repeats. ‘Energy not smooth.’ He swabs various parts of Chris’s arms and legs and before he knows it, Chris is hedgehogged with fine needles. He feels no pain, only a cramping sensation when Sammy twirls them.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ says Sammy, and disappears.

  Chris stares at the ceiling for a moment or two, then feels his muscles soften, rather like elastic giving way in an old pair of shorts. His breathing slows … he is calm, drifting with a peaceful detachment he hasn’t known since … grass beneath a railway line. Outside the window a single leaf spins slowly downwards, clouds inch across the sky. H
is mind is open, quiet. He closes his eyes, feeling time slow, or maybe expand … nothing matters, everything exists without drama and strain. All is exactly as it should be …

  Sammy returns and picks up his wrist. He nods, evidently satisfied, and removes the needles.

  Chris eases himself off the table, dresses and returns to Sammy’s office. He hands Chris two business cards.

  ‘The other one for your friend.’

  A pollen-laden westerly buffets the car and spatters it with yellow dust as he drives back to the office but Chris is so relaxed even his promise to help Archie shift house after work doesn’t faze him. His son’s decision to move out was typically impulsive. A mate had a room going in a mansion he shares with four others.

  ‘How can I not?’ Archie said to his mother. ‘Closer to work and dirt cheap.’

  ‘It’s dirt cheaper at home,’ said Diane.

  Chris is pleased Archie is spreading his wings, even if Diane has reservations.

  At the office, he finds a note from Hamish asking him to: ‘Please check the attached list of items identified as requiring attention on the restoration of the Prouds’ art deco house at Sherwood.’ Chris runs his eyes over the list. Perfect. Technically, anyway – no evidence of passion. Still, who is he to define anyone’s passion … apart from his own? Perhaps achieving technical perfection thrills Hamish to the core.

  Make the call.

  What? Oh. No. Maybe later.

  Even if she doesn’t fancy you, can’t you still be friends?

  Yes, of course.

  So make the call.

  Later.

  Now!

  He makes the call, but when a man answers he nearly hangs up. ‘Stuart?’ he enquires cautiously.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Chris Bright. Um, may I speak to Roberta?’

  She comes to the phone, chirpy and nonchalant as if nothing’s happened. ‘How are you, Chris?’

  ‘Fine. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be buying those blocks of land, after all. So if you were serious about wanting them, you could make an offer.’