Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  As if reading my thoughts, he looked away. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to –’ He scraped his hair back. ‘I just thought –’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ I said, feeling I owed him an explanation.

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘What is this, the Indian inquisition?’

  ‘But you’re taken?’

  I let the question hang, remembering I’d clung to the back of his shirt as he’d pushed through the throngs at the markets, that I’d hugged his waist on the bike.

  ‘Not exactly …’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a guy from home. I’ve known him forever. We were briefly together a long time ago, and since then we never seemed to both be single at the same time. Then recently I broke up with my boyfriend …’

  ‘And now you’ve come to try and make it work with him?’

  Harry’s tone had changed. He’d shifted gears again and had reverted to the teasing way he’d spoken when he’d been explaining the menu.

  ‘He invited me.’

  ‘He invited you to Goa?’

  ‘Not exactly. We were going to meet in Hong Kong.’

  ‘But instead you decided to meet in Goa?’

  ‘He didn’t exactly know when to expect me in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Did he even know you were coming?’

  I folded my arms and turned away. ‘Of course he did. I –’ I reached for a little white lie. Harry was making it all sound so stupid. ‘I just decided to go early – to surprise him. But then I found out he’d gone to Goa.’

  ‘So you decided to surprise him here instead?’

  ‘No.’ Why did it sound so stupid when Harry said it? ‘He was excited. He told me to come here, but then I had visa trouble …’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Hey, I believe you. Sounds perfectly legitimate. Anyway why do you care what I think?’

  ‘I don’t … it’s just … you don’t know him. He’s a really good guy.’

  ‘I never said he wasn’t.’ Harry got up from the ledge and started walking back towards the bike.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’ I called, running to keep up with his long strides. The fine sand was sucking my feet in.

  ‘It’s late. Aren’t you getting tired?’ he called over his shoulder.

  I wasn’t. I felt elated and thrilled by all I had experienced. So much of it had been so simple – a bike ride, markets, a couple of bars. Only I was in India. I wasn’t ready for the night to end.

  Harry got onto the bike and started the motor.

  ‘All I’m saying is, if you followed this guy halfway around the world for a promise, I hope you got it in writing.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t need it in writing,’ I climbed onto the bike. ‘Anyway, I’d better go to bed. You were right, I am tired,’ I lied.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Of course. Make sure you hold on,’ he shouted over the motor. He jammed the pedal down and we shot off. I gave a little squeal as I flew backwards. I grabbed Harry’s waist just in time and clung to it tight. He took the corners quickly, tilting the bike until the earth was almost grazing my legs.

  ‘Watch out!’ I shouted.

  When he finally pulled up at the entrance to our hotel, I jumped off the bike and shoved him.

  ‘You nearly killed me!’ I said, hitting him again.

  ‘Violet, these bikes don’t go more than fifty kilometres an hour. The worst that could have happened was you’d swallow a couple of bugs.’ There was that mocking smile again.

  I stormed off and heard the bike roar as he rode away. Chris would never have left me like that, I thought.

  Back in my room I was enraged. I paced, fuming. I tore through two packets of chips, I even ate the masala ones. Who did he think he was? I thought, as I stuffed them into my mouth.

  But by the time I was pinching the crumbs from the corners of my fourth pack, the sad reality had settled over me. Harry was right. Chris had no idea I had come to see him. Sure, his emails were friendly. But he had always said that if I was around we should catch up. He never actually said he wanted me to come.

  I flopped onto the bed feeling miserable and stupid. I groaned. I had known this all along, really.

  Chapter Nine

  2004. The Tanners were hosting their annual Grand Final day barbeque. Mrs Tanner, widely acknowledged as the best cook in the neighbourhood, served individual portions of fish and chips.

  ‘You’re the best, Mrs Tanner,’ said Cass, accepting her chips in a cardboard cone.

  ‘Hey Cass, Violet.’ Chris Campbell ambled over. I pulled my skirt down to try to cover the minefield of mozzie bites on my knees that had grown angry and red from scratching. Cass kicked me under the table. She made a kissy face at me. I gave her a steely stare and kicked her back.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Chris asked as he climbed onto the bench next to me.

  Zach and the Tanner’s youngest, Jamie, joined us. They squirted tomato sauce noisily all over their food, laughing at the flatulent noise and baring teeth filled with half-chewed potato.

  I shrugged. ‘Not much. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Won our footy final on the weekend,’ Chris offered.

  I picked out the fried fillets of whiting, saving the best bit – the chips – for last.

  ‘Doing anything good over the holidays?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know …’ I tried to think of an answer that would impress him. I put my cone of fries down on the table. A gust of wind blew, rolling it over the edge and spilling the chips onto the grass.

  ‘Oh no,’ I cried.

  ‘Here,’ Chris turned his cone towards me. ‘Take some.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I took one chip and tried to eat it as daintily as I could. But it was hot and it burned my mouth. Chris moved closer until our legs were pressed together.

  ‘Good, huh?’ he said, gesturing at the food. I nodded, trying not to let the tender insides of my mouth touch the searing potato on my tongue.

  ‘Hey, Campbell,’ the Tanner’s oldest son, Miles, hollered at the table. He was tossing a football. ‘We’re going to the park. C’mon, we need you in the ruck.’

  ‘Here,’ Chris said, passing his chips to me, ‘you finish them.’ Then he ran after Miles. My leg was glowing from where it had touched his.

  When I woke from the dream I was in my Goan hotel room. I could still feel the warmth of his touch on my leg. I lay still trying to recapture the vivid sensation of having Chris by my side. But my leg was really hurting. I threw off my sheets and examined it.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I wailed.

  Giant blisters had risen all up and down the back and on the inside of my leg. They were shiny and red and puffed-up. They ranged in size from a fifty cent piece to half a tennis ball.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I cried again, gently prodded one with my fingertip. It was tender and tight. The blister was and full of fluid. I couldn’t figure out if it was a virus or a bite. All I knew was I had to get to a doctor.

  I pulled on some loose pants and went in search of Harry. I found him sitting in the dining room, reading what looked like work documents.

  ‘Harry,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ His eyes didn’t leave the page. He was grumpy. But I couldn’t worry about that.

  ‘Harry, please.’

  He must have detected the alarm in my voice because he put down his paper and looked up at me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I …’ I didn’t know what to say so I came around to his side of the table and pulled up my pant leg.

  ‘Whoa. Those are some nasty looking burns.’

  ‘Burns?’ I said, relieved. Thank God they weren’t some sort of flesh-rotting virus.

  ‘Yeah, burns. Must have been from the exhaust pipe on the motorbike.’

  The relief vanished. ‘So this is your fault!’

  ‘I told you to watch out for it.’

  �
��Well, what can I do about the blisters?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, picking his paper back up. ‘They’ll heal eventually. You’ll be fine.’ He took a slow sip from his cup.

  I turned and strode back to my room exasperated. I was too annoyed to eat so I quickly showered then went to the computer in the lobby. There was still no word from Chris. Embarrassed by Harry’s teasing the night before, I considered my options. What if he never wrote back?

  I could go back to Hong Kong. Perhaps look for a job, maybe an apartment. Kym’s brother said heaps of expats were looking for clean and friendly roommates. I wondered what the visa conditions were.

  I started typing a quick email to Cass. Eight days was by far the longest I had ever been away from home. I missed my sister and my parents but I didn’t want to return to Melbourne yet. In my head it had transformed into a hostile place. Every street held booby-traps. Memories and reminders of Michael and the life I had lost. I could be walking innocently down the street but one wrong step and BANG! There’s the cafe where he first said he loved you. Your heart explodes. Sometimes the attacks come from above, like snipers. You’re picking up some groceries for dinner and out of nowhere comes an old mutual friend. Perhaps stroking a pregnant belly.

  ‘Violet! How’s Michael? Are you two engaged yet?’

  Another shot through the chest.

  There wasn’t even a job to go back to in Melbourne. When I was working at the university lab I had felt stimulated, but the job wasn’t what I dreamed about. I knew friends of mine wanted nothing more than to succeed in their areas of expertise.

  But I just wanted a life of domestic peace.

  It was a fantasy I knew Cass would roll her eyes at. I disagreed with her belief that not having a job would mean I didn’t contribute to society. I planned be an active member of the school community. I’d be up early every morning to cook healthy food for my children. Then I’d turn to baking for a fundraiser. My family and my community would be my vocation. I would sit on boards, spearhead local campaigns. Maybe play a role in local government. I’d volunteer at pet shelters and soup kitchens. I’d read the fine print in council proposals when it came to policy changes that might affect our homely lives. I’d do all the things that were neglected by people who were tied up with their jobs.

  I wrote to Mum too. I missed her almost as much as I missed Cass. I wove her a fiction about my wonderful holiday in Hong Kong. I mentioned I had met an Australian guy named Harry Potter who was annoying but helpful. I wanted her to think I was happy; that I’d made the right decision and was having a wonderful time.

  I casually browsed through the South China Morning Post online jobs section. Glaxo Smith-Kline were hiring. I knew someone at the Hong Kong office; Tessa Moran. I had attended her going away drinks in Melbourne seven months earlier when she’d joined their graduate program. I opened my email account to fire off an inquiry email to Tessa. My heart jumped. There was an email from Chris.

  VIOLET!

  You never showed up!! I’ve moved on. I’m in Delhi en route to getting my soul cleansed in Varanasi, the city of the sacred river. We’re going to bathe in its holy waters. Then onto Nepal. Are you travelling around India or just in Goa for a vacay? If you’re around we should definitely party in Varanasi. Otherwise I’ll see you in Honkers early Feb. What are you doing there?! That’s crazy!

  Catcha,

  CC

  Hong Kong was forgotten. Chris was right. I had turned up late. I sent a quick letter to Tessa asking about opportunities for work in Hong Kong. Then I looked for flights. The best I could do was Candolim to Mumbai. Then Mumbai to Delhi. I punched in my Visa numbers without even having to read the credit card, logged off and rushed back to my room to find my guidebook.

  ‘Hey, do you want to come down to the beach?’ Harry was heading out to the pool with a towel hanging over his shoulder. ‘I’ll buy you a piña colada, to help sooth your burns.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I told him.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Varanasi. Well, Delhi first.’

  ‘Delhi? Wow. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, I only just booked my flight.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready to take on Delhi?’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable, thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant – it can be overwhelming. I’ve got to head there in a few days. Why don’t you wait and we’ll go together?’

  ‘I’ve already booked my flight.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t need you to come with me.’

  ‘Hey, trust me, you don’t want to navigate Delhi alone. My company has an arrangement with a hotel chain. I can get us cheap, decent rooms.’

  ‘Really?’ A picture of the two girls sitting tied to a chair in a dingy factory room appeared in my head.

  ‘Yeah. It’s called the Grand Palace, or something. It’s supposed to be pretty nice.’

  ‘The Grand Palace?’ I didn’t really want to spend any more time with Harry. But the Grand Palace did sound good. Boy-scout-sanitation-sash good.

  ‘Yeah. Four stars. You’ll have your own shower and everything.’

  I furrowed my brown, confused after the way he had made me feel so foolish the night before. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I remember how scary it is travelling in India alone. Maybe I need some company too.’

  I realised I was behaving like a precious princess. He was only being friendly.

  ‘Okay.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Harry got himself a ticket and soon we were belting ourselves into the worn seats of a tinny old Air India domestic plane. To my right, a woman blessed herself then silently mouthed a prayer. She finished by kissing the gold crucifix around her neck. I offered a silent petition to the heavens too. Harry was still working his way through Lolita. I put my eye mask on and pretended to sleep.

  There was a four hour stopover in Mumbai before our flight to Deli. When we landed I told him I needed to send some emails and escaped.

  ‘Okay,’ he called after me. ‘But make sure you’re back here in plenty of time.’

  The computer desks in the internet cafe were all crowded with empty food containers and marked with coffee rings and splodgy teabag stains. A cockroach crawled out from behind the computer I was using. I jumped up.

  ‘It’s a cockroach,’ I alerted the man behind the counter.

  He looked at me placidly but did not say anything.

  ‘On the desk,’ I said. ‘A cockroach.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  I gathered up my things and power walked to the other side of the terminal, hugging my backpack to my chest. I found a bench where I could sit and report this latest outrage to my travel diary. I pulled my legs up off the ground in case there were rats or mice or snakes or ZOMBIES down there. I felt a painful jab in my leg where the burns were.

  ‘There you are,’ said Harry.

  ‘My leg.’ I rolled up my pants. It looked like a synoptic chart during a hurricane: Giant swirls of purple and red and yellow, throbbing waves of heat and pressure systems all over the place. Harry winced and gave a low whistle.

  ‘We had better get you to a doctor. Here.’ He handed me some Starburst lollies. ‘Take your mind of the pain till we land.’

  When we arrived in Delhi we grabbed our bags and went straight to the hospital with me screaming ‘Ow-ow-ow’ in lieu of a siren. The emergency ward was bursting with patients. The floors and walls were grimy and it smelled of blood. Wan people rested against each other.

  We joined the discombobulated queue. I adopted a Buckingham Palace guard pose: perfectly still. I didn’t want to sit in the chairs or touch the walls for fear of contracting something that would cause a rash or paralysis. I tried not to breathe as I pulled my bottle of sanitiser from my pack and rubbed it furiously into my hands.

  My leg looked septic. I felt a little scared.

  ‘Wha
t do you think they’ll do to me?’

  Harry adopted a serious face. ‘They may have to cut it off.’

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Nah. Although …’

  He started telling a story about a friend of a friend who cut his finger in Hanoi and developed a blood infection that ravaged his flesh. He had to have his arm amputated.

  I closed my eyes. ‘Please stop talking,’ I said.

  My stomach was turning and Harry’s detailed amputation narrative was making it worse. He shrugged and pulled out his book. I felt eyes watching us. Soon one of the women came over and started miming that she was hungry. She was begging. I tried to mime that I didn’t have anything. But she persisted.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a Starburst lolly.

  She took it and returned to her corner of the waiting room. I closed my eyes again. A moment later I felt a tug at my shirt. A little girl was holding out her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, showing her my bare palms. The girl was painfully skinny, her wrist was wire-thin. Her big brown eyes appealed to me. A smaller, skinnier little boy joined her. He repeated her mime: hungry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again to their uncomprehending ears, and made a mental note to carry more cash.

  When they finally called us through, the sight of the doctor’s fluffy grey hair and pristine medical coat filled me with relief. He propped my leg up then gently peeled back my pant cuff to reveal the first row of mega-blisters.

  ‘Oh, dear, these are nasty,’ he said. Having just witnessed a man whose detached jaw was being held in place by nothing more than his own hands, this statement did not inspire hope.

  One of the polyps had burst and leaked a toffee fluid down my legs and onto my pants, which were now sticking to me. It stung as the doctor pulled the fabric away from the shiny new skin it had stuck to. The fabric weave had left a dull imprint on the wound. He poked it with his pen. I yelped.

  The doctor then attended to the full bulbs. He drained and cleaned them, and wrapped my lower leg in a tight bandage that I knew would become sweaty and itchy. He wrote out a prescription for cream and more bandages. Despite the wait, I was pleased the whole exercise only cost about three dollars fifty. Less than a chocolate éclair.