by Berry, Tony
He collapsed into the seat, shoulders slumped. Please, no more shuffling and changing. Let me rest. Again he fumbled with his seatbelt and clipped it shut. He stole a quick glance at the person alongside, headset enclosing her ears, eyes shut, one hand holding a glass of orange juice. She came out of her reverie and turned towards him, beaming that cheeky ‘up yours’ smile of so long ago.
‘Hi dad. Comfy now?’
She slid her headset down around her neck and extended a hand to pat him gently on the knee.
‘Sit back and enjoy. No one’s going to hassle you up here.’
‘Jess.’
He jerked upright, alert, watchful, looking round the cabin, no longer on the verge of flaking out.
‘What the—’
‘Shhsh, dad. Relax. It’s just you and me.’
‘And 500 other passengers. Any one of them could be—’
A flight attendant slid a tray in front of him. Jess gave his knee a quick sharp squeeze.
‘Stop right there, dad. There’s nothing to worry about. Take your drink and switch off. We’ll talk later.’
He did as she ordered. The glass was big and chunky and three-quarters full. He took a long, deep gulp, rolling the malty liquor around his mouth, savouring and then slowly swallowing, letting its gentle fire warm and relax him.
‘Aaah.’
‘Better?’
‘Much.’
The aircraft began trundling slowly over the tarmac. The cabin crew checked seatbelts, overhead lockers and window blinds. Bromo took another sip and settled back as far as the upright seat would allow. The plane made a sharp turning moving towards its take-off position at the end of the runway. Bromo waved a hand towards Jess, indicating their surrounds.
‘Is this your doing?’
She smiled.
‘As if …’
The words hung there. Bromo waited for more. Nothing came. Jess lifted her hand off his knee and settled the headset over her ears. Eyes closed; off in some other world. The aircraft came to a standstill, waiting for air traffic clearance. It was the moment of anxiety, everyone full of trust in the machine’s ability to climb gracefully into the darkness above yet few of them free of a smidgen of doubt; heads were determinedly buried in books and magazines, feigning sleep or staring blankly at in-flight entertainment screens – outwardly calm, inwardly nervous.
The engines roared into life and the plane hurtled forward, gathering speed but still grounded. Bromo pushed back hard into the seat, his hands gripped the armrests, feet pressing into the floor. Bad memories flooded back of flights in shaky regimes where aircraft maintenance was a low priority. Too many bad moments. He ground his teeth. Lift-off was a long time coming. But come it did. His tension eased as they stuttered upward, banking, briefly levelling out then surging up to a new level before gradually settling into a steady climb. A deep breath helped taut muscles relax. He took a long sip of scotch, extracted his tray table from its armrest and placed his glass in its slot.
*
The awakening was sudden but gentle. There was the whiff of a subtle perfume, a gentle touch on his arm, the murmur of a comforting voice. Bromo struggled to open his eyes, his mind somewhere else; this was how it used to be – those gentle untroubled dawns in a period that was far too brief.
A flight attendant was leaning over him, her neatly corporate hair falling forward to frame a face that told of multi-racial mingling amid the branches of her family tree. She came purely from neither east nor west, was neither white nor coloured; a delicate beauty formed of many strains. Her hand rested on his forearm.
‘We’ll start serving a meal soon, Mr Perkins. Would you like the dinner or the snack?’
Bromo gave his head a clearing shake. She was talking his language. He tried to calculate how long it had been since he’d seen a proper meal. Whatever the answer, it was too long. He looked at the menu and made his choice.
‘Dinner, please,’ he replied. He picked up his glass.
‘And another of these if it’s allowed.’
‘Of course it is; I’ll be right back.’
He noticed a movement in the neighbouring cocoon. The airbed was gradually retracting from its full length extension; the covered form of Jess was slowly stirring, coming upright and sliding off her blanket. She rubbed her eyes with balled fists and leaned towards him.
‘Do you always sleep sitting up?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘You must have been tired.’
He grunted.
‘Couldn’t find how to make this damned contraption work.’
Jess giggled.
‘Typical dad; typical man. You could have asked someone to help instead of sitting there footling with every bloody button. Like a two-year-old playing with a remote.’
She laughed again, a raunchy, rough sound that stabbed at his innermost core. It had been too long since he had heard it. They were the good times, before the bad times. Bromo reached out and patted the back of her hand but said nothing; not daring to look at her. He felt her go still beneath his touch. He knew that to speak now would turn him into a gibbering mess; words could wait until later, when they had had more time together.
Cabin crew arrived with tablecloths, cutlery, glasses and another generous scotch.
‘Good timing,’ said Bromo and used the moment to remove his hand and pick up his glass.
‘Cheers, Jess. It’s good to have you back. It seems there’s lots of catching up to do.’
She picked up her orange juice and clinked her glass against his. Orange juice, he noted. When did he last see Jess drinking juice? More likely necking a beer or guzzling a glass of red.
‘Cheers, dad.’
Bromo waited, expecting more. Their meals came and he watched as Jess concentrated on her tray; forking up greens from her salad, buttering her bread roll, delicately cutting into the fish, taking an occasional sip of juice. He felt aggrieved, that he deserved something more in the way of a response. But none came.
He looked at his plate and began eating. Maybe she was hungry, in need of food every bit as much as he was. He had no idea where she had been or what she had been going through before starring in Blood’s home movie.
His only guess was she was somehow mixed up in the blood diamond trade, tracking the gems’ nauseous trail, or that of the people behind it. Dangerous undercover work using fake identities, building false friendships, trusting no one, dependent on fragile contacts … he shook his head as he realised he was delving into his own murky world, the one he had been struggling to leave behind and that was now threatening to embroil him again. And Jess.
They had to talk, bridges had to be repaired. He turned towards her and switched on a smile.
‘You can stay at my place. There’s plenty of room.’
She matched his smile.
‘What, no significant other parking her toothbrush in the bathroom?’
‘Not at the moment. Resting, as the actors say. Between engagements.’
‘Doing it hard eh, dad?’
‘Solitary confinement. Be good to have your company. Like old times.’
He saw her smile fade; the eyes lose their laughter.
‘Yeah … until the next one comes along.’
Bromo winced, took it as a body blow. He gathered breath as their trays were removed and coffees poured. Roll with the punches, they said. He battled on.
‘Can’t see that happening.’
‘Huh.’ It was a disbelieving scoff. She leaned towards him and put her hand on his forearm.
‘It’s all right dad. It doesn’t really matter. I’ll be getting off in Singapore. Maybe next time, eh?’
She leaned closer and pecked him lightly on the cheek. Bromo froze in a turmoil of emotion. It was a moment to savour but her news was shattering. He slapped a hand down on the tray table, sending coffee spilling over the rim of the cup.
‘But … what … why … we’ve only just got back together.’
Jess smiled and
gently shook her head from side to side.
‘No dad, no. We haven’t got back together; our paths have happened to cross and I have to move on.’
She made a broad encompassing sweep of her arm.
‘This business is far from over. I have work to do and so have you.’
Bromo mopped up the spilt coffee and sunk back in his seat. He held his glass out towards a passing crew member.
‘Any chance of a top-up?’
He felt he needed it; the only balm he knew. This was a different Jess from the one he knew. The cheeky and rebellious teenage tomboy had evolved into a determined young woman and he had not been there to witness the transformation or to see what had provoked or inspired it. He knew it was a cross many parents had left themselves to bear but he found little solace in knowing he was not alone with his guilt. A fresh glass of malt was placed before him. He drank and swirled the glass, letting the ice chink against the side.
‘So it’s hallo and goodbye.’
Bromo heard his voice sounding sad and wistful but it had not been done by choice; that was simply how it came out.
‘’Fraid so, dad. But there will other times when this is over. I promise.’
Bromo sniffed and lightly shrugged his shoulders.
‘Maybe. Maybe.’
You had to believe, he reminded himself.
He watched Jess reach into the locker alongside her seat and extract a computer bag. It was similar to the one handed to him by Blood what now seemed so many hours ago, although it was only yesterday – or tomorrow maybe if you starting adjusting for time zones. He shook his head and looked at his watch. He was losing all sense of place and time.
Jess raised the lid of the computer and turned to him.
‘We have work to do before we get to Singapore. I’ll walk you through everything that’s happening and show you where you fit in and what you can do.’
Bromo waved a hand at the computer. He felt he was starting to get a fix on things.
‘So, this is all down to our friend Blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re working for him.’
She hesitated.
‘In a sort of way.’
Bromo’s hand made a wider sweep, taking in the entire cabin.
‘And this was Blood’s doing? He arranged for this?’
‘And paid for it.’
Bromo paused to reflect.
‘So he’s a powerful man, a man with money and influence, and a man with a cause. That’s always a dangerous combination, Jess.’
‘But he’s a good man.’
‘I only have your word for that.’
He wanted to recall the sentence the moment he spoke it. It wasn’t meant to sound the way it did. Too late. Jess snapped back.
‘Isn’t that good enough for you?’
He reached a hand out towards her; tentative, then slowly withdrawing.
‘Jess, Jess, I’m sorry. Of course I trust you, but I’m so bloody frightened at what you’re getting yourself into.’
He ran his hand over the back of his head.
‘You heard what Blood said and you surely know the risks. People are being killed, even on my own patch in our Aussie backwater. I just don’t want—’
He was relieved to see her smile come back, warm and natural. She patted his arm again and slid the laptop towards him.
‘It’s okay, I understand. I’m a big girl now and can take care of myself. You don’t know the half of it. It’ll all be apples in the end. Meanwhile, we have homework to do.’
She pressed a key to fire up the computer and typed in a password. Bromo sniffed, shaking his head slightly, wanting to believe she’d be safe but unable to eliminate his fears. Suddenly she put a hand on either side of his face and pulled him towards her, planting a big buster of a kiss on his forehead. She pushed him slightly away, still holding his face.
‘Silly old grouch. You know I love you.’ And she let loose another of those throaty giggles.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE rest of the journey passed in a daze of depression. His briefing from Jess had done little to clarify the situation or ease his concern. Half-eaten trays of food and an excess of copious glasses of scotch punctuated fretful snatches of sleep.
A slim, nerdy-looking man with rimless glasses and layer of facial hair that hovered between the bearded and the simply unshaven had moved into the seat Jess had left at Singapore. To Bromo’s relief the man ordered an orange juice, clamped on a headset, wrapped himself in a blanket and brought down the shutters with a heavily padded eye mask. A cursory do-not-disturb request to the flight crew seemed superfluous, but he made it all the same.
Throughout it all Bromo gazed unseeingly at his personal video screen, extended upwards from his armrest. He flicked between films, documentaries and news clips. The images failed to register; his attention was elsewhere. He had his own internal screen of flickering pictures to cope with. His mind brimmed over with thoughts of Jess and the mysterious Mr Blood, and the murderous trade in which they were involved.
Occasionally, other fears intruded as he reviewed the recent swirl of events around Julian, Cedric and the old Grumbler and contemplated what awaited him behind the shuttered gates of Richmond’s back streets.
As the plane droned on through the night the jumble inside his head intensified. He slid his seat out into the horizontal position and tried to sleep, head down, buried into a pillow, determined to blot out the insistent recollections. But there was no restful escape; the memories and thoughts and rewinds of his journey tangled into a bewildering mesh of realities and imaginings.
Doubts and suspicions needled him out of moments of brief repose. The Grumbler seemed to know too much for one who had retired yet had given him so little, manipulating his movements, handing him on down the line. Julian and Cedric also professed to be out of the trade while acting as if they had never left. And what was that whispered discussion about the woman in the breakfast room and her sudden emergence as a disappearing Brazilian tourist? She flitted into Bromo’s consciousness to join the others in the cast of the chilling danse macabre throbbing through his head. She whirled and danced and suddenly vanished to a harsh repetitive chorus of “stuff happens, stuff happens, stuff happens” as Julian and Cedric linked hands and crowded in around her. Blood and Tarquin performed gleeful high-fives. Jess laughed but her cheerful chuckle had turned coarse and derisory. A bloated Grumbler, sunk deep into an armchair full of cushions, applauded from the sidelines, her pudgy hands clapping in time to the incessant beat. Bromo twisted and writhed, a light seared across his eyelids, he heard voices getting louder, insistent, he was being pitched forward, there were hands on his shoulder …
‘Mr Perkins, we’ll be landing shortly. You need to sit up now …’
Bromo opened his eyes. He twisted round and up, startled, almost colliding with the flight attendant who was leaning over him. He saw anxiety etched on her cosmetically smooth young face. She drew back and smiled.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Perkins. You were in such a deep sleep.’
Bromo ground clenched fists into his half-open eyes and gave his head a clearing shake.
‘I think I’d rather be awake,’ he said. Recollections of his dreams still floated in his head. He needed to separate truth from fantasy.
The attendant fussed around with his seat. She gathered his crumpled blanket into neat folds and brought a glass of water that she claimed would help clear his head. He knew it would do no such thing but did his best to accept it in good grace.
Bromo glanced at the next seat. The nerd was sitting rigidly upright, one hand dabbing at his brow with a hot towel, the other holding a half empty glass of orange juice. He sensed Bromo’s look.
‘Bad night?’
‘I’ve had better.’
‘I should hope so.’
Bromo caught a hint of something more behind the words.
‘Did I …?’
The man gave the slightest of smiles, bu
t there was little warmth behind it.
‘Yes, you did. You were quite vocal.’
Bromo stiffened. Mild alarm struck him at the thought of what he might have said and revealed to a total stranger. Or maybe they were merely muddled middle-of-the-night mumblings that disturbed but made no sense. He was torn between asking and letting the matter rest. The nerd solved his dilemma.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ said the man. ‘It was mostly mumbo-jumbo. All I could catch were one or two names: Jess, and something that sounded like Poppy.’
‘Ah,’ said Bromo, feeling his whole body relax. He fumbled for an explanation. ‘That’d be right. Bloody women, can’t leave you alone even when you’re sleeping.’
The man nodded in polite agreement and finished off his orange juice. Bromo turned away, curtailing further conversation. He tried to recall where Poppy had been in his nightmare, but without success. It was bad enough as it was without her sticking her oar in.
The plane was gliding in on its final approach, almost hovering over an endless conglomeration of red-tiled homes, many of them with the light blue patch of a swimming pool in their back gardens. The city itself was merely a tiny cluster of needle-like towers set in the midst of a vast urban mass. Port Phillip Bay was a grey expanse way out to the left and on the right a seared brown landscape stretched into the far distance. Bromo ran his hands back over his head and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He let the following moments of landing, taxiing and waiting for the aerobridge to be connected wash over him, refusing to be caught up in the general rush to open lockers and head for the exit.
His nerdy neighbour was quick off the mark. The man settled his jacket neatly on his shoulders and gathered his overnight bag from the side locker. He stepped past Bromo and into the aisle. He turned back to Bromo as he headed for the queue now shuffling towards the exit.
‘Oh, by the way. There was one other name you mentioned – “Sigiriya”.’
Bromo quivered, suddenly alert. He thought he saw the man wink; a quick twitch of the right eye. The words floated back to him.
‘Don’t worry, it’s all in good hands,’ said the man and winked again. ‘Hope you sleep better tonight.’