The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  It wasn’t long after being transferred to a general ward from intensive care that Brigid began agitating to be released from hospital. She’d been cleared of any residual brain damage, her bones were healing in their custom splints, the swelling on her face had subsided (although her cheek was a spectacular array of colours), she was responding well to physio, was learning how to get in and out of bed without her innards feeling like they were breaking, and her pain meds had been reduced. She argued to the doctors that she had Charlie to look after her (Charlie looked on mutely, obviously unhappy to be a party to this mutiny), and she’d get better a lot faster with some home-cooked meals. (Charlie raised an amused eyebrow at that.)

  To Charlie, in private, she explained that she had to get back to work. It was urgent – lives depended on it. That was, she realised quickly, the wrong line to take.

  ‘Your work is why you got beaten up, isn’t it?’ Charlie demanded.

  ‘We don’t know that.’ It wasn’t a lie. She remembered nothing of the attack.

  ‘I came up here to take you home, Brigid. To Sydney. Not to put you right back where you could get killed.’

  After that, she tried a different tack. She was miserable in this place. She was surrounded by sick people. The food was shit. The staff were grumpy. (‘Try being nicer to them, then!’) She needed a beer. She missed her flat. None of it worked. She asked, as casually as she could, if any mail of interest had arrived at the flat. When Charlie asked what ‘of interest’ meant, she couldn’t answer. She had no idea how Seth Effenberg would get the information to her. But she reassured herself he wouldn’t have sent it through the mail to her flat. As Minister for Health, he was in a position to know she was still in hospital, only just out of la-la land. She asked Charlie if there’d been any news coverage of her attack, but she didn’t know. Having her vocomm back at least let her catch up on the world she’d missed. Charlie had retrieved it from her bedside table at home. She searched her name and the assault.

  ‘Apparently,’ she told Charlie, ‘I was injured in a hit-and-run accident.’

  ‘What? How can they get that wrong? The police – the CSSA – they told us you’d been attacked. I’ve talked with them about it. How can the media be reporting something else?’

  ‘Clearly someone further up the food chain thinks hit-and-run fits better.’

  ‘Fits?’

  ‘Nothing happens in Capricornia that doesn’t fit, honey.’ She moved on, leaving Charlie to absorb that. Judging from her expression, she was having trouble with it. Brigid subvocced a search for everything recent on Seth, especially his planned trip to New Zealand. She couldn’t trust the security of the network, though – the hospital was, after all, state run – and to find out what she needed she had to take a more oblique route through the newsfeeds. She found nothing about the diplomatic trip. That might have been because she couldn’t search as closely as she’d have liked, or perhaps the trip had not yet been revealed to the media, or, of course, Seth could have been lying to her. And if he was lying to her, then the whole whistle-blowing routine was a trap. Her frustration grew. Lying there in that bloody hospital wasn’t going to get any of her questions answered. The longer she was stuck in there, the riskier Seth’s situation became. And, presumably, her own.

  As she recovered, although her frustration grew, her life did improve. She was freed from the oxygen mask and soon the drip was removed, though the cannula remained in her arm. Best of all was that Charlie brought her real food, including takeaway from Vinh’s. He’d got back from Vietnam just in time. Tonight was tofu and mushroom green curry, and Brigid’s tastebuds were rejoicing.

  As Charlie spooned a second helping into Brigid’s bowl, she nodded at the television monitor on the wall. ‘Does that thing work?’

  ‘I suppose. I haven’t tried it.’

  ‘Bacchanalia’s tonight, in Sydney. Richard’s doing some stuff for it. We could watch the broadcast.’

  Brigid laughed and immediately regretted it. It hurt. ‘I don’t think you’ll find it broadcast up here, Charlie. Unclean thetes, remember?’

  Charlie had forgotten. ‘Things can seem so normal in Capricornia and then you bump up against something utterly alien …’

  ‘It’ll probably get some coverage on the news though,’ added Brigid. ‘Let’s see. And maybe you can close the door?’ She said it casually enough but got the message through to Charlie: Careful what you say here. Charlie nodded and closed it.

  Brigid found the remote and turned on the twenty-four-hour news feed. There was a religious service playing, with Marion Effenberg leading a grateful nation in prayer. She was promptly muted.

  ‘I’ve never been to Bacchanalia. What’s it like?’

  ‘Oh, so much fun. Even if you’re not a thete. You’d love the music. And the food.’

  ‘What sort of food?’

  ‘They call them Food Symphonies. Street food, finger food. The idea is that each little dish is a pure taste – so a pure sound, or pattern, or touch, or whatever – and as you go through the menu, the tastes start to combine, till you get this mass of sensation. Or in the case of sad nonthetes like me, a really great meal. There are pop-up stalls throughout the city with different symphonic chefs. They get quite competitive.’

  ‘What’s Richard doing?’

  ‘He’s not as involved as he was last year, when he was the artistic director.’ Charlie found a lost spring roll in one of the cartons and dipped it in chili and cucumber dressing. ‘You remember Vivid, the light festival they used to have in the CBD?’

  ‘Where they’d project art and patterns on the Opera House wings, stuff like that?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘That got incorporated into Bacchanalia and Richard’s art is being featured this year.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Yes. We used to joke about him painting the Opera House wings and now he’s doing it.’

  Brigid reached for the remote. ‘News is on.’

  She unmuted the news anchors, a shiny man and woman, both blonde, both blue-eyed. The woman was in white, of course, wearing a purity mask so sheer that it was nearly transparent.

  ‘I used to know that guy. Gregory Johnson, but back then we called him “Scoop”. So far up Effenberg’s bum he could see his tonsils.’

  His face was serious as he read from the autocue a report about an outbreak of murine typhus in Brisbane caused by bacteria transmitted by fleas carried by rats. ‘Rats in record numbers continue to infest cities where the Cat Plague flourishes, making such places unclean in more ways than one. Three people have died in Australia this year alone from murine typhus, whereas Capricornia remains free of the disease.’

  ‘They love this stuff,’ said Brigid. ‘Anything to sink the slipper into the sinners.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’ Then, ‘Look, here it is.’

  Footage of Bacchanalia had filled the screen, accompanied by menacing music. There were shots of thetes, clearly in a state of ecstasy, possibly drug-enhanced, gazing blankly at swirling colours on the side of a building. The images shrank to a corner of the screen, and the female newsreader, with a will-no-one-think-of-the-children look of grave concern, intoned that Bacchanalia, the Sydney festival indulging the delusions of the infected, had begun. ‘Health experts are warning that the annual carnival could have damaging effects on the brains of participants, which have already tragically been ravaged by the effects of the Cat Plague.’

  ‘What?’ Charlie laughed.

  ‘I know, it’s incredible, isn’t it? Alt-facts.’ She lowered her voice. ‘In this part of the world, you get your facts to fit your beliefs. And if they don’t, who cares? Tell a lie enough times …’

  ‘The people here really believe this stuff, don’t they?’

  ‘They do,’ said Brigid. ‘Or, if they don’t, they keep quiet about it.’

  Finally, nearly a week later, Brigid was told she could leave. She was given a lecture of restrictions and requirements to aid her recuperation, but was scarcely
listening – she was too busy thinking about getting back to work and revelling in freedom. Fortunately, Charlie was taking notes.

  … The Effenberg government continues to deny the enforced removal of Aboriginal people from regional communities, despite ample evidence to the contrary [link]. While the Effenberg government continues to flout basic standards of human rights, activists refuse to be silenced, with Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch documenting multiple instances of brutal evictions and the destruction of homes …

  – Clandestina of Capricornia, blog post

  35.

  Cairns, Republic of Capriconia

  As Charlie picked up Brigid’s bag from her lap and edged past the wheelchair to get the key in the door, she remembered. She’d left Mr Darcy on the shelf. Bugger. Richard’s criticisms fell on her like hail. Intrusive, needy, pushy.

  ‘Brigid,’ she began as she pushed the door open. ‘I should have told you. I’ve been cleaning up a bit.’

  Not a bit, of course. Extensively. Thoroughly. I’ve been going through your stuff.

  ‘It’s kind of how I’ve coped,’ she added, as if that would explain it or justify it. She felt overwhelmed by the assumptions she’d made, the liberties she’d taken, and she feared Brigid’s response.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Brigid. ‘It probably needed it.’ But her face had gone a bit tight.

  Charlie wheeled Brigid into the bedroom and helped her onto the bed.

  ‘I got a bit carried away. So, can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Is there beer?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’ Charlie had found some empty stubbies in the recycling and had bought in some of the same brand. ‘I’ll grab you one.’

  ‘Can I not be in here? Can I go into the lounge room? I’m sick of feeling sick and I really want to sit on something that isn’t a bed.’

  Charlie had hoped to have found a moment to secrete Mr Darcy before Brigid saw him, but it wasn’t going to happen. She helped Brigid through the hallway and onto the sofa. Mr Darcy was directly in front of her. Brigid stared at him, saying nothing.

  ‘I’ll get that beer,’ said Charlie.

  Charlie had spent the morning cooking and tonight reheated the veggie curry she’d concocted from scratch. It wasn’t up to Richard’s standard, but she was pleased with it, and Brigid ate with alacrity. The elephant in the room was the cat in the room, but when the subject wasn’t raised Charlie began to feel less tense. Maybe Brigid didn’t mind, after all. She’d even joked about the cheap and now shabby purity mask Charlie had been using. ‘You’re meant to have more than one, you know. Feel free to borrow mine.’

  After dinner, and after Brigid had videolinked with Juliette (‘She sends you her love and says everything’s fine at the lab’), the house computer pinged. A videocall from Richard.

  ‘So he hasn’t forsaken me after all,’ said Brigid, and told her computer to take the call. Richard’s sharp features appeared on the smartwall, replacing a soft-focus Joan Fontaine on the old movie they’d been watching. His voice filled the room.

  ‘Hey, little sister!’ He grinned. ‘You’re actually looking pretty good for a cripple.’

  ‘Oh, you sweet-talker, you,’ replied Brigid.

  ‘Hey, Charlie!’

  She waved hello to him, wondering if she was managing to look more relaxed than she felt. For the first time in their life together, she just wanted him to go away. She realised that just using voice to communicate with him during her time in Capricornia had made it easier for her. Easier to focus on Brigid and her health, easier not to think about how she and Richard had parted. This felt too intimate, even though Brigid was right here in the room with her, recounting her sundry aches and pains to him and joking about her situation. Richard’s presence was physical and Charlie’s stomach began to churn. The siblings chatted on, exchanging insults in the way she’d come to learn was how they showed each other affection. As they mocked and jousted, she decoupled her attention from their words and felt like a failure. She barged into their lives, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d tried with Brigid, but had gone too far and offended her. She’d tried with Winnie. She’d tried with Richard.

  Charlie was so deep in her spiral of recrimination, she almost missed mention of her name. ‘Do you want some time with Charlie? I can make myself scarce.’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘There’s something I need to talk about with both of you. About the house.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Charlie had joined Brigid on the sofa.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. It’s just that I’ve got to go to San Francisco to set up a new project.’

  Charlie glanced at Brigid. ‘When would you leave? I can probably be home in a week or so, if it’s looking after Goblin you’re worrying about. Or have you trained Shadrack in the ways of the dog?’

  Brigid flashed a fierce look at her and Charlie cringed as she realised her error. Mentioning Shadrack’s name on a comms link.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ His expression was sheepish.

  ‘Oh. Wow. Soon. When will you get back?

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ he said. ‘It’s a long-term contract. Three years, then renegotiable.’

  He was leaving her, Charlie realised. This was it. She felt cold.

  ‘Right,’ said Brigid. ‘And this is how you tell Charlie you’re buggering off, is it? This isn’t about “the house”: this is about you being a bloody coward, as usual. Did you think me being here would make it easier for you?’

  ‘Steady on …’

  She snorted. ‘God, you’re pathetic, Richard.’

  ‘Well, it is about the house. I was thinking I’d transfer my half to you. Charlie can stay there, pay you rent.’

  Rent? Charlie stared at him, incredulous.

  ‘Hear that, Charlie? He’s got it all sorted out for us. Can I apologise on behalf of the Bayliss clan for my emotionally crippled brother and for his profound ignorance of basic family law?’

  Charlie did hear, but it was as though through thick glass, muffled, happening to someone else. She felt hot now, dizzy, and was hit with a wave of nausea. She took a deep breath to keep the contents of her stomach in place and tried to concentrate.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ he was saying. ‘I know I should have said something before, but Brigid got attacked and you left for Capricornia –’

  ‘You mean you knew about it back then?’ Brigid interrupted, her voice rising. ‘And ever since you’ve been wimping out on saying anything to her till now, the last minute?’

  ‘That actually isn’t your business, Brigid.’ His voice was low.

  ‘Bullshit it isn’t! You’ve made it my business by dragging me into the conversation. Have you any idea how fantastic Charlie’s been to me? She visited me every day – spent hours talking to me when I was out for the count, the nurses said. She’s cleaned this flat from top to bottom. She’s done all the things you’d kind of hope family might do for you, just because she’s that kind of person. And you’re dumping her, just like that.’

  Charlie moaned and put her hand on Brigid’s arm. ‘I’m just – I need to …’ And she rushed across the room and into the bathroom. Between two violent spasms of vomiting, she heard Brigid’s last words.

  ‘Nice work, Richard,’ she said and closed the connection.

  Her stomach was purged, and Charlie sat back up on the toilet seat, wiping sweat from her face with a ribbon of toilet paper. She knew she should feel wretched, and physically she did. But emotionally? Not grief, but fury. How fucking dare he? She always knew he was weak, but this was a new level. All the crap she’d taken from him over the years, all the nursing of his creative ego, and then this? Rent?!

  She subvocced to her vocomm, sending him a text. ‘You have the emotional depth of plankton. Screw you, Richard.’

  There was a tap on the doorframe. ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told Brigid. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Later, after Mrs Danvers had gone up in smoke with th
e rest of Manderley, and the two women had cleaned up and readied for bed, Brigid looked awkwardly at Charlie.

  ‘Look, I’m not good at saying “thanks”,’ she said. ‘But thanks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, her face open with relief. ‘What you said to Richard …’

  ‘I’m not too good at being told “thanks”, either.’ But she was smiling as she made her slow way to her room.

  The next morning, Charlie was sick again. She’d felt fine, until she’d bent over to rinse her mouth after brushing her teeth. So much for breakfast. She let herself consider the thought that had occurred to her last night, but which was almost too untimely to entertain.

  She might be pregnant.

  Like most women, she was on ova-preservation, but wondered now what the hell was wrong with old-fashioned HRT. Her period was late, although her uterus had never performed like clockwork, so that meant nothing in itself. And the emotional chaos of the last couple of weeks would be enough to disrupt anyone’s cycle. She and Richard were usually careful about contraception, but on occasion, like around six weeks ago, their make-up sex took them both by surprise, so statistically it wouldn’t be impossible.

  ‘I’m off to do some shopping,’ she told Brigid. ‘Do you need anything special?’

  Brigid paused North by Northwest. Eva Marie Saint had just judged the trout to be a little trouty. ‘Takeaway from Vinh’s? We can heat it up for lunch.’

  ‘Sure. The usual?’

  Charlie decided to go to the chemist before picking up the food. She scoured the shelves and found the women’s products discreetly positioned where men wouldn’t inadvertently see them and be traumatised. There were no pregnancy tests to be found. She assumed they were behind the counter, so joined the queue for the pharmacist. She thought about Richard, what he’d say if she were pregnant. Would she even tell him? Probably not. She’d get the abortion as soon as she could get back to Sydney. But, please, let it not come to that, she thought. Please let it be a false alarm …