Several steps back from the rail, Adam released her legs. She crumpled at his feet. She rubbed her scalp and patches of bright blood appeared beneath the bristles. ‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘You could have broken my neck.’
Adam leant against the cool cement wall, waiting for his vision to clear and for the dizziness to pass. If she made a run for it now, he’d have no hope of stopping her. He watched her and breathed and thought about the wall behind him, the solidity of it.
When he felt steadier he took a careful step forward and reassured himself that he would not faint or stumble. ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’m taking you to a doctor.’
She blinked up at him. ‘I’m sorry I scared you, but I’m fine. Snapped right out of it. It happens like that sometimes.’
‘No. No more of this embracing madness bullshit. No more bullshit about survivors and light switches. I’ve had it. It stops, okay?’
She grabbed the bars with both hands and pulled herself up. In the second between releasing the bars and grabbing the rail, Adam saw that her hands were shaking. ‘Not up to you, mate.’
He stepped forward with his arms outstretched. She let go of the rail and put all her weight on his chest. He held her a moment and then hauled her up, over his shoulder. She began to kick. She kicked all the way down the hallway and when he dropped her on the living room sofa she reared up and punched him in the face. ‘Fuck you.’
Adam swung out and pulled back almost in the same instant. His knuckles connected with her cheekbone but there was no force behind it. Before she could react, he took hold of her shoulders, pushed her onto her back and straddled her.
‘You listen to me.’ His own voice sounded hoarse, unfamiliar. ‘I will sit on you all night if I have to. I will tie you up and carry you into the doctor’s office. I don’t care if you hate me. I will call the police, social services, whoever I have to, to force you to get help.’
Katie went limp. Adam’s heart was beating so fast he thought he might pass out. Never had he used force to get his own way; never had he used threats. If he’d known how effective it would be, he would have done it years ago.
25.
The day after he installed the security bars on the flat’s windows, Graeme phoned Bushland Burials, a Central Coast business whose ad he’d clipped from a newspaper six months ago. The woman who answered invited him to come up to the site the following Monday. When he asked if he could come tomorrow afternoon instead, she paused.
‘It’s just that . . .’ He squeezed the chair arm with his free hand. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be up to the trip by next week.’
‘That bad, eh? Well, sure, come tomorrow. Whatever time you like.’ She gave him the directions and, before hanging up, added, ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you, love.’
He left work early the next day, his prepared excuse of a dentist appointment unused. After stopping in at the flat to change clothes, he caught the train up the coast and then a taxi to the site, which looked from the road like a thinned-out rainforest with a small timber hut at the entrance.
A stocky woman wearing grey coveralls and gumboots answered the door and introduced herself as Dot. Graeme put her at around forty-five, until she mentioned that the hut was usually manned by her twenty-year-old granddaughter. He took a decade off his own age when she asked.
Dot locked the hut door and led him through the bluegums. Half a kilometre or so in, he noticed the discreet plaques bearing names and dates. ‘Timber,’ she said when he bent down to touch Marcella Tripodi. ‘Ronnie, my eldest, does the carving himself. When my dad died ten years ago we buried him under a truckload of concrete in some soulless, heartless mass cemetery in the suburbs. He was a farmer, a rider. The original outdoor Aussie bloke and there was nothing we could do except cover him in concrete or turn him into ash. And cremation is a dreadful thing to do to the world. You know how much crap gets released into the atmosphere from one body? Carbon dioxide, nitrous oxide, sulphur oxide, dioxin, mercury: nice parting gift for the grandkids.’
‘I’ve always thought there should be a better way,’ Graeme said. ‘A way to just sort of . . . vaporise. Not leave a trace.’ Then, seeing her frown he added, ‘I just don’t want to leave the place any worse off than it was when I got here.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly what I thought. So even though Dad was already buried, I kept researching alternatives. I came across this thing they do in Tibet, called a sky burial. They cut the body into pieces and grind the bones to dust, then leave it all on a mountain for the vultures. The idea of becoming part of the food chain appealed to me. I’m real spiritual – not that you’d tell – but I am, I believe in the circle of life, the divinity of nature. Anyway, long story short: we don’t have vultures here, there are laws against leaving bodies lying around and my kids didn’t speak to me for days after I said I wanted them to chop me into bird feed.’
Graeme chuckled in the hope that Dot would think he too had loved ones who’d be appalled at such a grisly suggestion.
‘So I realised I should be thinking about them, the people left behind. I should be trying to find something they could feel at peace with. Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Graeme? Consolation for the living?’
Graeme shivered. The rustle of the trees and the dead beneath his feet like in the forest outside Murambi, but there were no tasteful timber plaques there. Fifty thousand slaughtered, no one left to need consolation. He felt himself fading and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathed deeply and the smell of the eucalypt meant he was nowhere else but here.
‘Sorry, love. Do you need to stop for a minute?’
He shook his head clear, shook his head no. ‘Please,’ he said, motioning for her to go on.
‘Anyway, eventually I came across a mob of hippies in the UK doing forest burials and then found there was a whole international eco-burial movement using biodegradable cardboard coffins that could be buried in a forest or the bush. Cardboard breaks down, body decomposes, trees get yummy nutrients. Circle of life. I gathered the info, made a nuisance of myself to every regulatory body in the nation and here we are.’ She smiled, spreading her arms out wide. ‘It’s not a vulture feedlot but it’s nice just the same.’
The train would have gotten him home by midnight, but at the last minute he decided not to take it. He’d not slept well for three nights, stirring at every noise, straining to hear footsteps when there were none. Better to stay at the motor inn by the station, sleep undisturbed by hope.
Except that sleep wouldn’t come to him here, either. For almost an hour he lay in the double bed, held stiff by the tightly tucked sheets, listening to strangers through the wall fight about the cost of dinner. He got up and went to the glass shelf labelled MINI BAR, opened a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels and drank it in two shots. He looked at the receipt sitting on top of the television set, the Bush Burials letterhead with its cartoon trees and bush critters crawling across the top, and his chest heaved.
He found a half-full plastic ice-tray, and slammed it against the mini bar shelf until it gave up its cubes. He filled a water tumbler with ice and poured a second bottle of whisky over it. Only days ago he’d caught himself thinking how wonderful it was that the universe had thrown Katie in his path, that her small, eager hands had gripped his unwilling ones and dragged him into the future. He’d been in the shower when that image came to him and the adolescent soppiness of it made him snort hot water. Laughably sentimental as it was, he didn’t doubt that there was truth in it.
But as it turned out, the gripping and dragging were temporary. He’d seen Katie take a tentative step towards the edge of the path and clumsily dropped her hand in order to construct a safety barrier. And now she would not take him up again. She would not take herself up again. She was standing in place and he was moving again, outward not forward.
Graeme opened both tiny bottles of vodka and poured them over the melting, whisky-stained ice. He listened to the trains passing two hundred metres from his w
indow. He could leave right now. Five minutes and it would be done. There were two notebooks left to be transcribed and destroyed, but what did it matter? Twenty-year-old information on the location of safe houses in Angola would not make the slightest bit of difference. None of it, he knew, would make the slightest bit of difference. It was pure vanity. Vanity and procrastination.
He drained the glass, his eyes watering. Now there was her. Not a reason to stay, as he’d thought, but a reason to take care with the leaving. To – what had he said to Dot earlier? – to not leave things worse off than he’d found them.
The alcohol had worked to make his head and eyelids heavy. He slid between the sheets and closed his eyes. Funny how the trains sounded just like crashing waves. Or perhaps, he thought, drifting off, perhaps he was closer to the beach than he’d realised.
The next morning, he caught the 7 am train back to Central and decided to go home and shower before going to work. He would be two, two-and-a-half hours late, but he doubted they would notice and if they did there was always the dentist excuse he hadn’t had to give them yesterday.
When he walked into the flat, Adam was stretched out on the living room floor, a book open in front of him.
‘Hey,’ he said without looking up. ‘Katie’s sleeping so keep it down.’
‘Right, I’ll cancel my drum lesson, then.’
‘Is that a joke?’
‘Apparently not a good one. Has something happened?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Sure. How about you go and curl up in bed with her and talk about war and torture and gruesome death? That seems like a helpful thing to do with a fucking manic depressive, don’t you think?’
Graeme sat on the couch, his shaking hands under his thighs. ‘Our conversations weren’t harmful to her. I would never have let them continue if they were. It helped her a little, I thought, to talk about her darker thoughts.’
Adam turned a page, although his eyes seemed to be focused an inch or so past the book. ‘It was all about helping her, was it?’
‘She came to me, I listened and where I thought I could help, I did. I’m the one who put these bars up, remember.’
Adam snapped the book closed and jumped to his feet. He walked to the window and bent forward, his forehead resting against the bars. ‘Listen, I’m too tired and too stressed to bullshit you. Katie went through your stuff. She thinks you’re going to top yourself.’
Graeme barely heard the end of Adam’s accusation; he was already heading for his room. He slid the lock and sat on his bed staring at the door until his heartbeat slowed. When he unlocked the door, Adam was standing in front of it, his hand poised to knock. He stepped back and raised his hands. ‘Look, man, I –’
‘Come in.’
Adam perched on the edge of Graeme’s desk, resting his bare feet on the chair.
‘Listen to me,’ Graeme said. ‘Katie cannot believe I intend to kill myself.’
‘She does believe that.’
‘Why?’
‘She found your bank statements, transfers to the refugee foundation. She said getting rid of all your possessions, all your money, is a suicidal thing.’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course that’s what she’d think. Poor Katie.’ Graeme trained his gaze on Adam’s feet. The skin was shockingly white after the lurid tattooed colours of his lower legs. ‘You need to explain to her that I sold up everything because I had a spiritual epiphany. You need to tell her I decided it was hypocritical to work for social justice while living in an expensive house and surrounding myself with expensive things. Tell her I have decided to live simply, like a monk.’
‘Why don’t you tell her?’
‘I’ll try, but last I checked she wasn’t speaking to me.’
‘Man.’ It was more a sigh than a word.
Graeme noticed Adam’s hooded eyes and lined forehead, his young man’s hands on the end of those defeated sailor arms. Pity lurched up in him. ‘This shouldn’t be your problem,’ he said. ‘You’ve enough to deal with. I’ll call her grandma. I need to anyway. I told her I’d –’
‘No, wait.’ Adam held up his hand. ‘I promised I wouldn’t involve her gran.’
‘I promised that I would.’
Adam stared blankly for a few seconds and then his face crumpled and his upper body spasmed like he’d been thumped in the back. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Damn.’
‘Calm down. It’ll be fine. I’ll call Ann and –’
Adam hit the desk with his open palm. ‘She almost died! She tried to. Understand? I got to her in time, but . . .’
‘Is she –’ Graeme started, but his voice came out too low.
‘If I tell her grandma, she’ll run. That’s what she said and I believe her.’ He crossed his arms, held his shoulders. ‘She said she’ll let me help her, that she’ll do what I tell her as long as I don’t . . . She won’t let her gran go through this again, she’ll disappear first. She’s capable of anything after last night.’
‘I have a number for her doctor,’ Graeme said. ‘How about I –’
‘The guy in Surry Hills? Yeah, I got his details from an old prescription in her wallet. He said she’d missed the last four appointments so he wasn’t surprised she’d had an episode. Said I should take her to the emergency room if I was worried. Then he put me through to the receptionist, offered an appointment in three weeks.’
Graeme clenched his fists by his sides. ‘Okay, I have a colleague. A psychiatrist. I’ll talk to her today. See if she can help.’
Adam exhaled. ‘Okay. Good. Thanks.’ He slid from the desk, took a step towards the door, stopped and turned back to Graeme. ‘What about you, though? Are you . . . I mean, should I be calling someone to help you?’
‘No.’ He barely got the word out.
‘Because to be honest I’m so thrown right now that I don’t know which way’s up. I’m trying to do the right thing but I have no idea what that is. I mean, should I get tough with you? Should I be holding you down like I did Katie? Should I be going through all your stuff looking for proof ? Do I need to be watching you as well as her? I can’t decide if you’re –’
‘Adam, stop.’ Graeme pressed his nails into his palms as hard as he could. ‘What you need to do, in my opinion, is beg or borrow the money for a plane ticket, pack your gear and go home. Hug your mum. Go drinking with your friends.’
‘You’re avoid –’
‘Have a garage sale,’ Graeme said and felt a sick rush of elation at Adam’s recoil. ‘Sorry, yard sale you’d probably say. Or just give it all away to charity. Silly to hang around here going through all this just because you’re afraid of dealing with all her stuff.’
Adam’s jaw stiffened. ‘I can’t leave Katie alone like this. Especially if what she says about you is true. Tempting as it is right now, I can’t just leave you both here to –’
‘Mate! If you’re determined to be her saviour, you need to bloody well start acting like a sane and reasonable adult. Stop the drunken, maudlin screwing, the adolescent angsty crap. She’s not a seer or a mad genius or a wild grief-curing nymph. She doesn’t have any special insights or super suicide prediction powers. She’s a sick, lonely kid. Help her or get out of the way so the real grown-ups can.’ Graeme went to the door and opened it. He did not look at Adam. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have to get ready for work.’
There was a knock and then Jenny’s head appeared around his office door. ‘Sherry said you were looking for me?’
‘Yeah, do you have a minute?’
‘For you, Graeme? Always.’ She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. ‘I actually beat you here this morning, I think. Had a sleep-in?’
‘I wish. Dentist.’
‘Mmm.’ Jenny rubbed her eyes, yawned. ‘Sorry. I’m stuck on the idea of a sleep-in now. One of these days I’m going to stay in bed until midday. I really am.’ She shook her head briskly. ‘Right. So, what’s up?’
Graeme held a pen in his right hand
, as though this was work. ‘Have you much experience with manic depression?’
Jenny groaned. ‘Graeme, please don’t tell me there’s a bipolar arrival.’
‘No, sorry, ah, this is actually a . . . a personal matter.’
Jenny blinked and leant back in her chair. ‘Oh?’
‘I have a friend. She’s in a bad way. She needs a good doctor.’
‘What does in a bad way mean?’
Graeme described what he knew of Katie’s history and current state. Jenny agreed – albeit with a mouthful of disclaimers and cautions and equivocations – with his amateur diagnosis of bipolar, and agreed, with no equivocation at all, that professional intervention was called for.
‘You want me to recommend someone?’
Graeme blinked back at her.
‘Shit. You don’t want me to recommend someone, do you?’
‘I hoped you could come and meet her and then if you . . . I understand if you can’t spare the time. I know how hard you work, but that’s the thing . . . why I wanted you to . . . because I know you’re a good doctor, I know you’d never fob a patient off with a wad of scripts. I know you take care.’
‘Ah, flattery. How do you know this kid?’
Graeme hesitated. ‘She’s my flatmate.’
‘I didn’t know you had a flatmate.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t know you had a flat. Wait. What happened to your place in Paddington?’
Graeme twirled the pen in his fingers, casual. ‘I sold it. Decided to downsize. I’m living just up the road now.’
Jenny stared. ‘Wow. That amazing house. I’ve been coveting that place ever since I saw it. The view from the upstairs windows and that organic grocer right across the street. And those ceilings!’
The memory of a night several years ago, back when he still thought he might make a life here, appeared. Jenny had come for dinner. They’d talked shop and she’d commented on the height of his ceilings, the delicate plaster work of the cornices. He’d wanted, for a while, to take things further, but couldn’t figure out how it was done. At what point to do you halt the discussion of immigration policy and put your tongue in her mouth? How do you even begin the transition from standing by her side admiring plasterwork to lying on top of her sweating into her skin?
Smoke in the Room Page 17