by Rodney Hall
‘When did you two fall out?’ she wonders aloud, returning. ‘I thought you were best friends.’
‘So did. I.’
And what comes back in focus is a beach holiday—just when he thought he would never breathe again for grief—and the past being washed away by the surge and sting of his first dumper. His child’s arms and legs tumbling, threshing and staggering. How he choked on the saltiness, sand in his ears and hair, while every inch of his being came alive, the blood sang, sparkles hung from his eyelashes. Zac was twisted with laughter, strung up by the cords of his own neck. And Zac’s father shouting, ‘We’ll make a surfer of you yet!’ Uncle Paul, all stubbly because holidays gave him a break from shaving, the disappointments of a middling life smoothed away by wind and the vast prospect of the world’s largest ocean. Aunt Tracey waving a couple of bottles of Coke above her head and calling an invitation to the boys, though she had no chance of being heard above the thunder of the swell driving against a rocky headland. Somehow he knew in his bones that there was no way he could make sense of both his parents dead like that when they were supposed to be alive for him. Being there and understanding the sea for the first time was enough for a new life to kick over. The picnic ready and laid out. The blue striped towel his. The paper plate with a sandwich his. The cold prickly drink his in the special moment when he unlatched his lips. He let the grief go without knowing. That’s why he ran back into the surf, this time meeting the power and the risk, his joy almost unbearable.
Upstairs in her room Bridget hears the Contraption whirr and click this way and that as Adam practises his skill below. She feels herself under pressure to go down. But she rebels. She tiptoes around, restless, discontented, praying that he might take a catnap soon. But then she imagines some accident happening—him in need of help—so, although she doesn’t wish to hear, she listens. And all the while her agitation is contaminated by a sense of opportunity . . . not even in private does she dare entertain the word ‘divorce’.
She opens her computer and scans the design she was working on yesterday, ready for the 3D printer. Work. She shuts it down. Useless. All her attention is needed for dealing with the pressure she feels, this secret guilty confusion . . . not to mention the hopes raised now she has heard again from Ryan . . . her involuntary spurt of hope at the sound of Ryan’s voice, after so long . . . the mystery of what Ryan might intend . . . and whether there’s anything she can do to help something happen . . . or, for that matter, stop it happening. The less she does the more she needs to prove.
A child’s voice reaches her, sounding sharply from out in the open street. Ah yes, the new people.
‘We have neighbours,’ she announces, given a reason to return downstairs and pausing for her fingertips to brush a wisp of hair from his eyes. ‘Believe it or not someone’s rented that empty place next door.’ Adam’s scalp under the hair fills her with horror and pity. ‘I haven’t spoken to them yet.’
‘You should,’ he says, an overwhelming gratitude thrusting right up against him, gratitude to Bridget for being there. ‘They might be. Friendly.’ He hopes so for her sake. His throat constricted.
Already the day slopes away from him. Some sort of dried fish, so it seems, is being forced down his throat. He can’t see who’s behind the forcing. Next thing the regulation white coats stoop over him for the purpose of holding a conference. Hunters that they are. He hears bloodlust in the fragments of tactical dialogue while he cleverly hides behind a heap of tangled metal. They’ve tracked down a ferocious beast. Nothing to do with dried fish. Is this right? But how?
‘When I was eight,’ Adam sleep-talks. ‘My father. Slammed the. Flat of his hand. Across my face and. Knocked my head off.’ But there is no one left to care . . . only Bridget’s bag that she carries everywhere, plump, obvious, and open on the hall table. ‘Life was. Ar. Against him.’
He peers at the gaping bag while thoughts and half-thoughts swarm in his brain. Certain of unearthing some evidence inside, he pilots the Contraption to carry him within reach. Can he really be doing this? Seriously? A man doesn’t change that much just because he’s wounded. No. Prying is wrong. She has earned her secrets. He closes the flap and pushes it away. He does not notice that she watches him from the top of the stairs, nor does he hear her tiptoeing out of sight.
That war taught me one thing: we are what we make of ourselves.
Of course, Adam has caught up with the news that emails are routinely tracked by the telco. He must take account of the fact that hackers no doubt probe his computer. And every word committed to the internet is stored, available for official plunder. This is the new reality. He missed the years between, when the people of Australia agreed to having their privacy stolen. He must adapt and bear that in mind while writing his book. The memoir may need to be in code until he finds a publisher. Then he can fill in the actual names.
The point is—with so much already out there challenging the weapons of mass destruction— that what he will add is the authority of his wounds.
Thanks to Google he soon has confirmation from General Colin Powell, no less, interviewed on Meet the Press, who concedes, ‘It was information we had . . . we provided it. If that information is inaccurate, fine.’ Adam, reduced to a mound of aching flesh packed in a wraparound gown, faces an enormity of wakefulness. Roused to action, his brain functions in free-fall. Questions breed questions. Powell had been US Secretary of State. So did we really have any issue at all with Saddam Hussein? And, in any case, what was ‘fine’ supposed to mean in this context? Or, for that matter, ‘we provided it’? And—if not to neutralize the WMDs—why were the forces of the Coalition of the Willing sent to war in the first place? Were we all just dumb kids, too antsy for the quiet life, turned on by awesome firepower being put in our hands?
Or was Bridget too good for me? Was that it?
He takes a detached view. Options open out before him. He is a man trained to fight. And there’s more than one means of fighting. Enter Ryan.
He dozes.
The glass bowl stands empty of light. Cradled safely by his support mechanism Adam himself is a gross bubble, a vacuum, self-contained and fragile. His back aches. Behind him the television flickers uselessly, reflected with folds by the white sheets on his empty bed. It seems he is talking . . . talking to someone. Scales blind his eyes. He tries hitting his own chest. He whacks himself but there is no power behind the blows. The desperation subsides. He pulls himself together.
That’s a relief. And he’s alone.
He steers a course around the confines of the room, the exo-skeleton’s carbon-fibre legs chuckling. He has got the hang of it, even to the point of dexterity. He’s all right. The old bookcase from home (his dead father’s home that is otherwise no more than a little clutch of memories) being the nearest thing to hand, he leans against that. All his life he has known these books. He brain-waves instructions to the Contraption. He balances, reaching with club knuckles to take hold of one. This is tricky. Success. The Way of All Flesh. No, no, that subject he knows all too well. Macbeth. Um. He juggles it down on to the ledge and opens the stiff cover, inscribed with clumsy clarity: Geoffrey Griffiths, grade 10.
He parts the pages. Immediately the paper gives off a faint secretive smell. The print itself a marvel: the latest technology of a lost time. In silence—and unknown to anybody—words leap alive for him. For him alone. He begins to read. Dark chambers of the mind resonate as someone behind his back comes in at the open front door, unleashing a breeze that walks in his hair with exquisite creepiness. His unbuttoned gown wafts around, exposing bare legs to a flashing blade of publicity.
A corner has been turned.
He shuts the book with the precious, precarious awareness that one day his own angers will speak like this, in private, to a reader. A reader who might be incensed enough to demand justice. Half awake and half asleep, he seems to be mumbling again. And, though still not used to t
he way people materialize around him, he is being listened to by a stranger. Adam explains, ‘Clumsy fingers.’ Well, because this must be Ryan Liddicoat, the wanker. Who else could it be? Even now following him.
They try to recognize one another from their past and fleeting association—a connection they once shared at the gym called Genesis. Beyond recalling the names of several trainers and a pretty receptionist on the front desk they have no success. Not until some woman emerges with miraculous swiftness from the kitchen. She offers the stranger a handshake—her small hand is observed in the clutches of his larger hand. Her trim fingernails, his veins. Adam closes his eyes to help refocus, catching up with the invitation he is being offered.
‘Watch the show on iview. See what you think,’ Ryan suggests. ‘We feature three stories each week.’ Famous enough to be immediately at ease, he casts his eye over the room in question—taking in every detail of renovations made since he was last here (alone with Bridget)—but this time to assess how it might look on camera. Meanwhile still talking: ‘Bridget’s the one the guys remember. Star of the yoga class.’ Casually his chiselled smile displays a full set of structured teeth, camera-perfect.
‘This is such a surprise.’ She starts over.
All three, they face one another. The rest is best left unsaid. They are none of them yet thirty, so they have a way to go.
‘There’s good reason why the government’s interested, of course,’ Ryan explains breezily. ‘They’re about to purchase a new squadron. The latest hi-tech aircraft. Plus a fleet of submarines. All top of the line. All very, very expensive. That’s the backstory. Taxpayers are going to need to fork out trillions. So, guess what? Pensioners and the unemployed will be asked to tighten their belts and pay their due share. But who’s to persuade them?’
‘You want. Me. For that . . .?’
‘It’s the army we’re talking about. Off the record. Needn’t concern you. Right now they’re in a PR pickle. Of course, ISIS helps out with suicide bomb attacks and beheadings, but yesterday’s atrocities are already stale. You could be the new image. Just be yourself. Proof of how cruel our enemies are. The human face of suffering. And on the record as an authentic case. So you get to tell your story. The government doesn’t even need to stoop to tampering with the facts. That’s the beauty of it. I’ve no doubt the Defence Minister plans to quote you in question time, praising your courage in the line of duty. Because who’s he to look a gift horse in the mouth?’ He leaves a pause for this to sink in. ‘Though what you actually say is up to you. Say what you like. It’s an opportunity. The moment you’re on the screen you’ll have the attention of the entire nation. That I can guarantee. And the network’s cool. They’re just in it for compelling television.’
Adam sniffs. The disgust he feels has no currency—now he can no longer love or fight—but a germ of hope has begun to stir. This piques his interest. Agonizingly he coughs. Face flushed, he slurps some water through a straw. He has made up his mind, being a man of action after all.
‘A good idea then. So. What if the. Bastard backfires?’
‘Not our problem, we’re only the messenger.’
Finally Adam connects the dots. ‘Now I. Ar. Remember you.’
Ryan smiles successfully. And turns this smile Bridget’s way to include her.
Being afternoon already the suburb spreads to its full extent, crammed with life. Adam leans against the verandah rail. Couples are seen walking along the street. Cars pass this way and that. There’s a cyclist in a crash helmet. Mad shadows of wind bluster and knock among the trees partly obstructing his view. Birds arrow out from cover. An approaching rainstorm blots the distant towers of the city. Suddenly, just below his vantage point, a child emerges from a hole in the hedge, a little Chinese girl with dark tear-filled eyes. She looks around . . .
‘Where’s my daddy?’ she shrieks when she catches sight of the bogeyman up there in his black spider cage.
Next thing, an appropriate father swoops in through Adam’s front gate to snatch her up.
‘You mustn’t come here. It’s the man’s garden,’ he warns her.
She snuggles close as if she can feel the words rumble in his chest even as he clasps her terrifyingly tight.
Adam explains huskily, ‘I sometimes. Walk around. For exercise.’ And frees one hand to clutch the flapping gown, which he hoists across his naked chest. ‘Adam. By the way.’
Then in a rush of fabrics there’s a woman by his side.
‘Please don’t worry about anything,’ Bridget apologizes, making her way down as if her closer presence might somehow mitigate the shock.
‘I’m Yao.’ The child’s father addresses them separately and yet jointly, his broad Australian accent a surprise. ‘And this is my daughter, Linda. Her puppy ran away and we can’t find him.’
‘Oh,’ says Bridget, as an involuntary shutter clicks and she captures her impression of a benign young Genghiz Khan, a wriggling hostage in his arms and the western sun in his sights.
‘His name is Baby,’ the little girl fires at the strangers accusingly.
The moment becomes forever.
Adam does his best to smile, sagging on his elbow-rests and fading against the skeleton frame.
Yao sets the child down and takes her hand to lead her home.
‘What happened to him?’ the little girl can be heard to ask in a loud whisper, looking back over her shoulder.
It is said that pain can never be remembered. His can. No matter how fierce his denial, reminders drag at the exhausted flesh. As each roller of anaesthetic wears off the force of gravitation proves too much for his stitches to withstand. This goes right back to the field hospital when, helplessly stranded in full view of the nursing staff, the threads first began to pull apart. Well, here they go again.
. . . and, oh yes, he sees himself . . . and, by contrast, sees himself as he was, in thick gloves and sunglasses, dodging fountains of dirt that collapse to the ground. The bombardment has blown the shit out of a squat. According to the captain, this is Saddam Hussein’s bunker. But the claim seems too ambitious to be believed. He stares as if staring might make it true. On a far ridge a surprise smoke plume rises from the treeless horizon. The squaddies exchange looks. Truth takes time to unpack as consequences. Nothing happens for quarter of an hour. News comes through that the place was abandoned anyway. Turns out to’ve been a waste of firepower. No one dead. Saddam safely extracted. The strategy pointless. The captain himself nowhere to be seen. The sole outcome, in terms of tactical advantage, boils down to possession of a pile of rubble heaped on a walled platform left standing after three thousand years of warfare. Now what? It is no joke to be lured out into the open, exposed to enemy fire, empty-handed and cracking the shits in this godforsaken dump. Proof comes marching into the frame, a column of prisoners who materialize at the margin of sand—enough sand to clog an ocean—shuffling blindfolded, loose pants ballooning, torn shirts grubby and blood-smeared. The guys with guns are ours (partners in the Coalition) though they stare past us into nowhere. The eternal nowhere. The rules of war being off the radar. You can forget about old treaties and honourable conduct. These captives are headed for interrogation by some psycho on behalf of the Free World. They are about to learn the terrifying truth of us . . .
It is afternoon, yes, the same suburban afternoon (a mere blink of the eye later), with Melbourne still and stilled in the distance. Faint traces of exhaust fumes from Ryan’s Ferrari stain the air and the voices of neighbours despairingly call out for their lost dog. Adam leans against the selfsame verandah rail to think about the coming interview. Meanwhile the selfsame Contraption awaits its orders to hoist him back indoors. ‘Beware,’ Adam instructs the wind, which carries the word away across the rooftops. He knows what this incompletion means. He means beware of getting caught up in anecdotes. Anecdotes take too much time. Storytelling is the trap. Stories are lies. Always. Keep it s
pare. The wounds will suffice. The camera knows what to do. Truth is best understood in the moment, moment by moment. A few bare facts should be enough of a context.
He navigates to his desk and posts a note: ask why we were sent.
Even this takes time. Each word involves a sequence of instructions: guide the hand into position, finger down on key, finger up, move to new position, select finger, finger down, finger up. Adam squirms to outwit the discomfort. His naked brain warns him that it seems to be housed in a metal case like an H. G. Wells alien. Aware of itself, even to its weight and pulsations. He takes charge with a task to be pursued: second-guessing Ryan. Much will depend on Ryan and what Ryan gives him room to say. Therefore Ryan’s agenda. He rewinds his observations so far. Smart guy. And a dangerous bullshit artist. Handsome, manipulative, polished. An adversary . . . of course. The bitter truth is that anyone can see what Bridget would see in a guy like that.
‘I only came to tell you,’ Bridget confesses, ‘what I can’t bring myself to tell him.’ Luxuriating in Ryan’s king-size bed her hands come upon familiar discoveries in their detailed tour of his torso. Close to tears, she confesses, ‘He thinks I have decided to stay and look after him. Well, I haven’t.’
To her huge relief Ryan understands. He seems to accept that—in some essential way—she is not cheating on anybody. She is not unfaithful: she had no agreement with those hideous scars and she has made no promises. His lips seeking hers sensuously yet without urgency or passion, he invites her to kiss him. Spreadeagled flat on his back for the taking. Her gratitude is beyond words. This is her escape and she makes the best use of it. She takes him. Beyond the brief spasm of coming, his curious intense hardness can last upwards of half an hour (as she knows) and she puts this to good use. What harm does it do anyone? Maybe she’ll confess to Adam—though he is hurt enough already, so maybe she won’t—the decision can be left till later.
‘So, how was that?’ Ryan asks without really asking.