by Barry Klemm
“Wow.”
“That’s not all. We got data in from Auckland and Canberra and Ross Base. Their seismic readings indicated no preliminary activity whatsoever.”
“I told you.”
“You telling me is of no consequence when unsupported by impartial data,” Thyssen said ruthlessly. This, Jami realised, was another of those Thyssen near apologies.
“You know I wouldn’t dare bullshit you, Harley,” she said in triumph.
He ignored that, searching his desk and coming up with the video remote control. He virtually shoved her out of the way to move across the room where they could watch the television, thumping it on as he walked. He had a tape in and prepared—he had been waiting for her. “This is edited from various news reports on the general media.”
A battered woman appeared, dishevelled and troubled as much by wind as the microphone poked at her face. “...there was some sort of shock wave before it happened. I felt it all through my body. It nearly knocked me off my feet...”
“But the explosion came after that?” the reporter asked.
“I felt real crook afterwards...”
The image cut with a crude edit to a fat little man at a different location.
“It was like a punch in the guts. I near blacked out. Then, suddenly, there’s this god-almighty bang and up she went...”
Thyssen pressed the pause. “We got six more of them on the tape and they all say the same thing you did.”
“I was beginning to wonder if I’d got mixed up and imagined it.”
Thyssen lumbered back to his desk and flopped down.
“Well, armed with that stuff and with a bit of re-writing, at least your report will become acceptable upstairs.”
“You want me to fix it, huh?”
“No, I don’t. I’ll fix it. I’ll put my name on it—just in case it proves to be worth a Nobel.”
“Do I get a mention?”
“The actual purpose will be to try and screw some funding out of them to support you while you do the research, so I guess I can’t avoid mentioning you completely.”
“What research?”
“You get down the lab now and you study every eruption in recorded history and see if there’s any sign of any of these anomalies having happened before.”
“Oh God, do I have to?”
“No. But I can justify using an inexperienced student like you to do the work while I maintain control of the project. Otherwise, I’d have to farm it out to a funded research unit and that way we both miss out on the Nobel.”
“Do you really think it’s that important?”
“Only if you can demonstrate that it might happen again and that its effects are of some importance. So, probably not. And if it is a one off, we’ll have only wasted money on one low-grade student. The board will like that argument.”
“What if I refuse?”
“You can’t. Anyway, if this does amount to something, it’ll be called The Shastri Effect. Immortality beckons, child. Get outa here and earn it.”
*
“You silly, silly man, look what you’ve done to yourself,” Judy Carrick was saying, trying to talk normally to the awful visage of her husband, the way the nurse had told her to. The skin discolouration was not as bad is it looked. Quite superficial in fact, the nurse said. Well, he was getting a little blotchy anyway, with all that drinking down the footy club. His nose especially. Now his whole body looked like his nose. She was glad she had left the children outside as the nurse suggested.
“Brian. It’s me, Judy. We’ve come all the way from Melbourne. I had to use the house payments to pay for the airfare but they say there’ll be some compensation. We had a lovely flight. The kids were so excited. They’re here with me. They’ve given us a room in the nurses’ quarters and its a bit small but very nice. I’ll bring the kids in in a minute and they can have a talk to you. Larry’s arranged a driver for the truck and he says he’s okay, but, well, who knows what sort of bludger he is and I don’t know how we’re going to make ends meet. But don’t you worry about that. You just worry about getting better. Oh look, here comes the doctor now...”
Red with embarrassment, Judy broke off as the doctor made her way over. Doctor Felicity Campbell, the name tag said. She was a woman of about forty with blonde hair above her smiling ruddy face and a very nice slim figure, just like Judy used to have herself before Leo came along.
“Hi, Mrs. Carrick. I’m Doctor Campbell. Are those your littlies out there?”
“Yes, poor little darlings. They had a sleep after they got here but it’s very tiring for them, all that travelling.”
“Yes, of course. Why don’t you bring them in, Mrs. Carrick?”
“Oh please, call me Judy. I hardly know who Mrs. Carrick is, when you say it like that. And I was worried what they’d think, with Brian being in such a state.”
“Children adjust to these things better than we adults, as a rule, Judy.”
“I’ll just give them some idea of what to expect first.”
Judy made her way out into the corridor and along to the waiting room where a young nurse had Leo and Sheila under control as much as possible. Leo was pulling the girl’s pager to bits while Sheila restyled her hair.
“No, children leave the nurse alone. Thank you Miss. I hope they weren’t a bother. Now Leo, put those batteries back. You can’t have them. How will the lady know when she’s wanted if you nicked her batteries? There you go.”
The harried nurse hurried away to other duties. Judy sat the children on seats and straightened them and sat beside them herself. Felicity Campbell sat on the other side.
“Now kids, this is Doctor Campbell. She’s looking after Daddy while he’s here. Say hello to Dr Campbell.”
“Hello, Doctor Campbell,” Leo said, extending a hand to be shaken.
“Hello,” said Sheila, suddenly shy and quiet.
“When can we see Daddy?” Leo demanded.
“In a minute. Daddy is asleep, but you can talk to him. We won’t mind if you wake him. He looks a bit funny. He has this big bruise all over his skin but don’t be scared because it doesn’t hurt him at all, it just looks very strange and it will go away soon, okay?”
“Why is he asleep?” Leo asked.
“Is he very tired?” Sheila wondered.
“No. He’s just resting for a while, until he gets better.”
“Can we go now?” Leo asked.
They each took a child’s hand and made their way forward. Judy lead them to the side of the bed. Leo stood on tip toe, but Sheila needed to be stood on a chair.
“Oh, yuk.”
“Has he been sunburned, Mummy?” Sheila asked.
“It’s not even as serious as sunburn, Sheila,” Doctor Campbell said helpfully.
“He ain’t asleep,” Leo was sure. “He’s just fakin’ it.”
“What makes you think so, Leo?” the doctor asked carefully.
“He ain’t snorin’.”
“It’s a special kind of sleep,” Judy said, trying to hide her chuckling. Dr Campbell had a hand pressed over her mouth as well.
“We put that tube in his nose so he wouldn’t snore,” Felicity Campbell lied.
“You can talk to him,” Judy prompted. “Go on, tell him you’re here.”
“What if he wakes up?” Sheila whispered.
“We want him to wake up,” Felicity smiled.
“Well, okay then,” Leo decided and leaned as close to his father’s ear as the plastic cocoon would permit.
“Hey Dad! Wake up!” he bellowed.
“Go back to bloody bed, son,” Brian Carrick replied.
*
One hour later, all hell broke loose in the isolation ward. Joe Solomon started screaming in agony and with that bells rang all through casualty. The nurses came rushing with crash carts and after a few desperate moments, the interns sedated him again.
“What’s going on?” Lorna Simmons demanded, sitting up on her bed. Beside her, Chrissie Rice w
as murmuring and twisting. Brian Carrick, with full vital signs restored, had already been sedated.
They settled Lorna and sedated Chrissie, and the panic was over. Felicity Campbell looked at the astonished face of Shirley Benson and could only assume a similar expression occupied her own countenance. Almost instinctively, they both went over to Andromeda Starlight. Felicity determined a flicker from the eyes and Shirley took the patient’s hand and spoke in a loud voice.
“Andromeda. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand!”
“Go away, Honey. I’m tired. Let me sleep,” Andromeda Starlight murmured.
It remained only to check on Kevin Wagner, the American, and Felicity shone a light in his eye. It flickered.
“Better get a sedative course running right away.”
Felicity stood in the centre of the room and gazed around. A nurse was just about to start removing the electrodes from Lorna Simmons’ forehead.
“Wait a minute nurse,” she called, remembering.
“What’s up.”
“Bring up the ECG on all of them.”
Orderlies moved to obey. After a moment, all five screens showed only the alpha waves and each emitted its regular beep. And no two of them at the same time.
3. EXACTLY NOWHERE
When Lorna hit the water, the cold and wet slapped her entire body with a devastating shock, bursting her back to some sort of reality. It was like a nightmare—no, like someone had thrown a bucket of water over her while she slept. A very big bucket of water. She was completely immersed in it and sinking fast. At first she could not comprehend what had happened, but the water was bloody freezing and the panic came with saltiness that attempted to flood her nostrils and throat as she sank. No bloody doubt about it. She’d fallen in!
Reflexes took over, her body remembering the innumerable times she had dived into the ocean and rivers and swimming pools. At least she had gasped a full quota of air before she hit and forced it out now, trying to keep the water out of her lungs. It helped when she closed her mouth, which had been wide open with amazement as her whole world suddenly turned aquatic. Maybe the office had been hit by a tidal wave! Then her body automatically righted itself, lighter water above, murkier stuff below. Her dress was up around her ears as she sank—she hoped there weren’t any scuba divers around to see this. Kick! Kick! she told herself. When she kicked, she fretted as one of her shoes came off. This was unbelievable. She was going to drown. What on earth was happening?
The kick carried her neatly to the surface. She bobbed up, spluttering water, her hair pasted all over her face like a sea anemone. She rubbed the fluid from her eyes, coughed and spluttered a few times, and then trod water, looking around. There was a big pier right by her that she had obviously fallen off—this was ridiculous. Up on the pier, the fishermen had gathered at the spot where plainly she went in, and one young bloke was stripping off his shirt to come to the rescue.
“It’s okay,” she blubbered. “I can swim.”
Her handbag—miraculously still over her shoulder—bumped against her belly as she did the necessary three strokes to reach the low boarding platform. She got hold of the rough timber and hauled herself up and one of the older fishermen, a Maori who had lapsed completely into his native language, took her hand and hauled her up onto the platform.
She sat on the edge of the platform, dragging her dress down to some level of decency, and smiled weakly at the old Maori. “I’m okay. Just give me a minute to gather my wits, okay?”
It was going to take more than a minute.
She had been in the office, and it was lunchtime—was that really the last thing she remembered? She gazed at the more distant surroundings to get her bearings. She had been here before, lots of times, on sunny afternoons. This was one of those spots on the inner harbour—Herne Bay by the look of it—miles from the office. How the hell did she get here? And why? The sun was still high. It was still lunchtime, but she had never come anywhere like this for lunch before. It made no sense. Get a grip, Lorna! Try and remember!
Lunchtime. She recalled that the sense of agitation that had been growing in her since yesterday was slowly overwhelming her—it was like constantly wanting to go to the loo except in her brain rather than her bladder. It was Wednesday when she usually had lunch with Chrissie but she had rung and Chrissie wasn’t at work—that was no surprise.
At eleven, she had rung Chrissie at home and shouted at the answering machine until Chrissie finally answered. “I feel terrible. I can’t cope.”
“Come to lunch.”
“No. I just can’t. I want to go away somewhere. I want to go now.”
“Okay. We’ll go away at the weekend. Over to Whakatane. Been planning to for ages.”
“No. I have to go now!”
“I’ll come over straight after work and we’ll plan the trip.”
“It’s the wrong way!”
“What do you mean, wrong way?”
“Don’t know. It just is.”
“Oh come on. You’ll love it. Just think about it and have a sleep and I’ll be there in no time.”
“I can’t sleep.”
She went on for some time, whimpering pathetically but Lorna hardly heard any of it. The words Chrissie had spoken stuck in her brain and she couldn’t clear them. It’s the wrong way! It was too. There wasn’t any possible reason why it should be the wrong way but it was. Ridiculous.
So, no lunch with Chrissie. What then? It had all gone blank. There was a bus she needed to catch from outside the railway station to get here, to Waitamata Harbour. She must have caught that bus, or else a taxi, for no sensible reason, nor even a senseless one. Except it was the right way.
Now as she sat on the edge of the boat platform with the rough timber wrecking what was left of her pantihose, she was still facing out across the water. Thataway. Where she wanted to go. Over there, across the bay. Had she really planned to swim the distance? What nonsense. But it was a straight line, she realised. From the office to the railway station, the bus journey, the bus stop back up there somewhere to the end of the pier and into the drink—to over there somewhere. Where she wanted so badly to go. For no possible reason. Jesus Christ, she was becoming as nutty as Chrissie.
Last night Chrissie had called her in tears. She’d had a big fight with John, about nothing as usual, and Lorna had driven over to comfort her.
Chrissie was in a terrible state, pacing about the room, thumping on the walls, so over-excited that she was unbearable. No wonder John had become irritated with her and walked out. There had been a lot of this going on lately, as the wedding plans drew towards a climax. They had always been such a compatible couple but now they seemed to fight over every little thing—it was going to be a great marriage, Lorna sighed.
She knew, as only an intimate outside observer could, that Chrissie was entirely the problem. She truly had not been able to put Ruapehu behind her, as Lorna had, and was becoming a nervous wreck.
Her asthma troubled her and she burst into tears at the slightest provocation. She had migraines almost constantly, and fits of temper that were completely contrary to her previous gentle nature. Lorna wouldn’t have married her either, the way she was. And the silly girl was getting worse.
In the three months since Ruapehu, she had changed shrinks three times, attended all manner of counselling and self-help groups—was obsessed completely with all that ‘improve yourself’ nonsense—and it was only deepening her trauma. Lorna, who showed no indication of traumatic stress, had submitted for a while and often went along to Chrissie’s sessions and saw how little good it was doing. The poor girl was going out of her mind and now it was breaking up her relationship as well. John Burton was a wimp and the most tolerant of boys, but even he had run out of patience with her.
Last night Lorna gave Chrissie some sleeping pills and put her to bed, then went home, deeply troubled herself. It was as if whatever troubled Chrissie was contagious and she had caught it too. She didn’t sleep and was late for w
ork for the first time in years. And now this.
Okay, looney or not, she had regained her breath and a skerrick or two of sanity—time to sort out her more immediate problems.
She had skinned her knee and holed her pantihose, and got the one shoe she still possessed off so that she could stand. She had almost drowned, but right away her biggest concern was that her little green dress had gone completely see-through—the pervs were having a big day and the fishermen stood in a line along the pier above her, loving it. She took the old man’s hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet, and then leaned on his shoulder for a moment to steady herself—but then she was fine. Soaked to the skin, deeply ashamed, totally indecent, very embarrassed, but fine.
As she climbed the steps up to the pier, she was able to take in a clearer view of the landward side of her surroundings. Herne Bay, no doubt about it. She could only shake her head in dismay. Around her the men were growing very excited and all talking to her at once. They wanted to carry her off to hospitals or ambulances but she ducked them with a neat double-baulk and then backed away from them. Policemen would never believe that it wasn’t a suicide attempt; medical staff would know that there had to be psychological problems with people who walked off piers.
“I’m fine, really,” she insisted, waving her one shoe at them to keep them at bay. Then, finally, everyone calmed down and began to laugh about it.
“It’s silly. I just... fell in.”
“You’re all wet. You’ll catch cold,” the old Maori was saying—only he dared advance now.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, still holding her shoe as if the stiletto heel was a sword.
She looked at the place where she had fallen. It was too silly to believe, but she knew she had to believe it. She smiled at the old Maori, and then raised her arm, pointing.
“Tell me, which direction is that?”
“West. Sun sets over here. That way is due west.”
“Bit over west,” corrected the young bloke who obviously regretted having missing his chance to rescue her. “Maybe West Nor West.”