12
Max careened through the streets of Mandalay like a local, while Nick’s right foot pressed hard against the floor in search of a brake pedal. For the first hour Max aggressively pushed through gridlocked traffic and then tore down the highway at one hundred and ten kilometres per hour. It was better to not look at the road and to talk to Max instead—and make sure the American speed freak kept his eyes forward.
Max was easy to talk to. They developed a casual familiarity expected more from long-time buddies rather than relative strangers. Perhaps that was the Midwest hospitality coming through. And the more they talked, Max’s assumed heterosexuality slipped. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend. Hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend either. The straight male schtick had eased, but perhaps he was one of those het guys who was easy with showing affection to his mates.
But the looks he gave him …
Nick wasn’t so sure. A little too pleased. A little too interested. Whatever, not that it mattered. He wasn’t about to fall for someone while his head and his heart were in combat over Lyall.
Max kept the conversation going, which kept Lyall out. Silence made Max more insistent and reckless, so Nick talked too, telling him about the cold rage he felt towards Dimitri.
Why was it easier to unload to a stranger?
Less pressure, he supposed. If Max thought less of him, it didn’t matter. But Lyall …
Could he think any less of him than right now?
‘What?’ Max had asked a question but he hadn’t been listening.
‘Why’s the boyfriend not here?’
‘This was a last-minute trip to tie in with work. Anyway, he wouldn’t get on a plane. He’s afraid of flying.’
Max whistled. ‘Bet that’s a problem.’
He shrugged, not wanting to get into it. Some things didn’t need to be shared. ‘We’re working on it.’
Or at least I am. By keeping my mouth shut.
Only thing for it. They needed to know whether they were right at a basic level.
But what was more basic than wanting the person he was with to share what made him happiest?
‘You don’t sound happy about it.’
‘It’s fine.’ Nick fixed his vision on the back of a taxi up ahead.
‘Sure, it is.’
Max’s short laugh flicked Nick’s jaw. He clamped down to stop it twitching and talked through tense lips.
‘I’m going to speak to him after we’ve been to the mountain and—’
‘And what?’
He didn’t know. If Lyall freaked out every time he got on a plane, what would be the point in seeing each other? And if he thought Nick would be happy to stay in Perth and not see the world, not do his job, not do what he craved, then that wasn’t love. That was control.
He loosened his seatbelt, the strap cutting too tight across his chest. ‘If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but until then I’m not giving up.’
‘Alright, man. Whatever you say.’
When were they going to get to the damn mountain?
The rest of the car ride—four hours in total—was filled with nothing deeper than talk about tv shows (Max was a fan of Nordic noir too) and books (which neither of them made enough time for) and countries they’d visited. They had plenty in common.
But Max wasn’t Lyall.
They arrived at Mount Popa just after noon. Out of the air-conditioned car, humidity swamped him, his skin damp within seconds and the extra weight pulling him down. He glanced up the column of rock towards the Buddhist monastery on top. The ascent was covered with a tin roof. Stony-faced macaques climbed along the hot metal and disappeared to harass pilgrims below. Seven hundred and seventy-seven steps awaited.
‘You ready for this?’ Max asked.
‘I guess so.’
‘You might want to leave behind anything you don’t need up there.’
‘Why?’
‘The monkeys think the backpacks hold food so they’ll come for you if you bring one. Leave your water, and definitely don’t bring anything to eat.’
He hesitated. ‘Anything else I shouldn’t take?’
‘Your shoes.’
‘Why my shoes?’
‘Those are the rules.’
He clearly hadn’t done enough research. ‘So what should I bring?’
‘I’m taking my phone, wallet and keys, that’s it. It’s not far to the foot of the stairs so you won’t have to walk on the hot ground for long. You can bring the bag for your shoes if you want, but the climb will be easier without a monkey leaping on your back.’
Max threw his shoes on the back seat. The ground looked sharp and was littered with rubbish, but Nick deferred to Max’s local knowledge. He’d been through worse before. What were a few steps in bare feet?
He left the bag with his water, hat and a light jacket in Max’s boot, taking out the pillbox and zipping it into a pocket in his trousers along with his wallet. His phone went in the other; he could use it to take photos. Shoes off, Max locked the car and they walked to the base of Mount Popa.
Rocks jabbed into the soles of his feet, and he hopped and hobbled across the carpark to the bottom step. Men and women dressed in long cotton longyis thrust trinkets and offerings in his face. He pushed through the stall vendors camped at the base of the rock. A sign at the bottom of the climb forbid the wearing of shoes but that didn’t shock him. It was the smell. The sickly-sweet stench of monkey droppings burned in his nose. Smeared across the steps, they would soon be coating his bare feet. He stifled a retch and pushed his knuckles against his closed mouth.
‘Don’t worry, Nick. It washes off.’ Max grinned at him from five steps up, his feet already stained.
Did Avarina know this was part of the deal? He tapped the pillbox in his pocket, then immediately pulled his hand away as a nearby macaque swivelled towards him. He hurried after Max.
Seven hundred and seventy-seven steps and he’d be at the top.
The metal roofs popped and buckled in the blistering heat. He and Max didn’t talk much as they ascended. They passed shrines dedicated to nats—folk deities—and stalls selling food to eat or for offering. Macaques watched them as they passed, waiting for a hand to drift into a pocket and pull out a treat. Fights erupted on the stairs ahead, brought on by sellers throwing bags of peanuts onto the ground like firecrackers. They laughed when Nick jumped back and almost fell down the stairs.
Maybe Avarina had got this one wrong. Why would she have wanted to go to this place out of all the possibilities? Some of the views were nice, but his heart rode high in his throat throughout the climb. How was he meant to find peace?
He slipped twice, faeces slick under his feet. The first time he managed to avoid messing himself up any further, but the second time his hand landed right in it.
‘It’s meant to be good luck,’ Max said.
‘You’re joking, right?’ Nick’s humour had evaporated in the heat.
‘Yeah, I am.’ Max spoke to one of the stallholders and bought a cloth for Nick to wipe his hands. It was a relief to be a bit cleaner.
‘Come on. Not much farther.’
Welcome news.
Each careful step up the mountain had resounded with one bad thought after another. Why wasn’t Lyall there? Would Lyall ever go anywhere? Why hadn’t he answered the phone? What would he say later? Questions a penitent might ask, punctuated with guilt.
He struggled to find any calm on his climb, the squawk and screech of the macaques shattered any chance. Seekers passed him, some seeming like they were out for a Sunday stroll, while others draped themselves in saris and solemnity. Did they keep their heads down to stop from stepping in shit or were they looking for some insight into their future?
Is that why his mother had put Mount Popa on her list? It was one of the last, and it had probably been added around the time she noticed a change. Thinking it early menopause perhaps, a niggling question, an awareness that something wasn’t quite right.
She never would
have made it.
She’d started chemo soon after adding Myanmar and couldn’t walk without leaning on someone. He tried to be around as much as possible but he was in flying school, racking up hours as quickly as possible so she’d be able to come with him.
He’d taken her on a few joy flights in local airspace. Those memories powered his heart. The Earth and their troubles had fallen away when he took her up into the air to see the world from a whole new perspective, to touch clouds, to be free. They’d gone six times before it became too difficult for her. At least they had that. And at least they had this. He extracted the capsule from its box and carried it in his hand for the rest of the climb.
When they reached the top, it was much as it appeared in the pictures, although the light wasn’t as strong, a haze dulling the gold shrines that covered the plateau like a cluttered antique shop. Spirits were meant to reside inside them or in the statues but they felt empty.
He wandered with Max past tiny temples and the expansive monastery, stopping at shrines with offerings of incense and food. Nick went to the edge, preferring to look across the panorama than at the temples. The taller Taung Ma-gyi, a former volcano, loomed across the way, surrounded by fertile fields. Sweat dripped down his neck. His shirt stuck to his back. He’d been to nicer places.
‘Why did you want to come here?’ Max asked him.
‘No offence, Max, but it’s personal.’
‘Hope it’s what you wanted it to be.’
A blaze rolled through his body, a wave that turned his skin slick and his clothes heavy. Was Max goading him? Of course it wasn’t what he wanted it to be. His mother wasn’t there—and neither was Lyall. They weren’t experiencing this rather disgusting thing together. They would be laughing about it now, and he would have done the climb with a far lighter heart. Instead he was with a pushy American who wouldn’t shut up. But he kept this inside. He was tired. He was hot. He wiped his face—and wiped away more than sweat.
‘Hey, man.’ Max put his arms around him. ‘It’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Nick stiffened but the heat weakened his resolve. He let Max hug him, rested on him, and the tears retreated. He’d been to forty-nine countries alone.
Max hugged tighter, pressed his lips to his forehead, kissed him. More kisses descended his cheek to his mouth. The flick of Max’s tongue was like the strike of a match in bushfire season. A fireball erupted in the centre of Nick’s chest and he shoved the American away.
‘What the fuck?’ He scrubbed his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I told you I’m with Lyall.’
‘Yeah, and he’s not here.’
‘So that means I’m up for grabs, does it? Jesus fuck.’ He stepped towards Max then pivoted. Rather than wrap his hands around the guy’s neck, he wrapped them over the hot metal railing and resisted the burning in his palms.
‘Just thought you could have used—’
Nick spun. ‘Your tongue down my throat?’
Max held up his hands and shrugged like he’d done the most ordinary thing in the world. He retreated to the monastery, and Nick stayed at the lookout, vibrating from the violation.
But he’d be lying if he didn’t wish, for just a second, that it was that easy, that someone was there.
He kept his gaze straight ahead. He’d punch Max if he turned to see him watching. Clasping the capsule of his mother’s ashes between his fingers, he held it over the drop, ready to pull it open, let her go and get the hell out of there.
The fire burned itself out and left him hollow.
This is not how it should be done.
He should be calm. His heart should be whole. But there was no second chance. He had to do it. He was where she’d wanted to be. And soon there would only be one piece left. That would be the hardest of them all. He thought Colombia had stretched him to his limit, but after that trip, seeing the last two in the container—Myanmar and Greece—he’d staggered under the weight of his duty.
Until Lyall.
Lyall had given him strength.
Lyall had given him hope of a life beyond what he was doing now.
Avarina’s fiftieth birthday was three months away; he had until then to be that strength, that hope, for Lyall. Because if he did that last trip solo, he would break at the final goodbye.
He held the capsule up and over the edge of the railing, his fingers ready to pull. He dug deep through the blackened earth of his soul to coax a happy memory. The first flight he took her on. He’d asked her where she wanted to go.
‘Everywhere.’
And she rested her hand on his and smiled at him with her eyes glistening in the sun above the clouds. His heart soared on fast currents, strong enough that he rose onto his toes.
Now he could let her go.
‘Travel safe, Mum. Travel safe and travel far and we will meet again.’
The words spoken—the ones that had come out the first time and he’d repeated ever since—he opened the capsule; the ashes fell before the wind caught her and carried her away.
His heart followed the course she took: a line that connected into the wet palpitating muscle and had him bracing. She scattered until she was too fine to track, and he released a breath that took more than air. He blinked to clear his eyes and tilted his face to the sky. It was done. The sun had passed its peak and he had to begin his descent down. He had to get back to Lyall. But before then … Max. He went to look for the American.
He wasn’t in the monastery. Adrenaline dripped into Nick’s system, his pace quickening as he went from hall to hall and through the twists of temple-lined paths. Had he already headed down? Without saying anything? He searched. He wouldn’t have left, would he?
He tried to keep from panicking but his body primed for a run. He dashed around meditating monks. He startled monkeys, their screeching as shrill as shattering glass. His bare feet slapped the ground. Two circuits of the plateau and still no sight of Max. He hurried down the stairs, his legs jelly from the ascent. He slipped, bashed his knees on the tiled steps, but he couldn’t stop, not even when he landed at the bottom with his feet covered in shit. He rushed to the car, his body thick with lactic acid. He reached the spot where the car should have been and slammed to a halt, withstanding the impact of all that panic. The only thing to be knocked out of him was a resigned moan.
Max had gone.
He spun, straining for a flash of Max’s car. Maybe the prick was playing a joke. But Max was nowhere. He bent over his knees to catch his breath, hissing through the sting of the bruises. How the hell was he going to make it back?
He straightened, stretched his back. He looked up at the mountain, but it offered no consolation. He cast another look, but Max was definitely gone. If he ever saw that fucker again …
Revenge would have to wait. He needed to get to his hotel in Mandalay four hours away. He’d been stranded before, bartered or hitchhiked his way to where he needed to go, but out here …? Would he find someone willing to give him a lift? His confidence as a seasoned traveller waned. From the position of the sun, he wouldn’t reach home before the time he said he would. But he had to get back to Lyall.
And fast.
He turned in the direction he thought they’d come from and ran.
13
Lyall woke his phone and the time shone bright in his bedroom’s low light. Ten pm—Nick should have called earlier. A lot earlier. Sitting on his bed, back propped up against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, Lyall’s foot tapped out the microseconds before he checked his phone again. Either a message would appear or the time would change. There wasn’t anything to do but sit and wait.
He’d come home to concern from his family and a suspension letter from EnergySafety, but none of that mattered once each hour was passing and Nick hadn’t made any contact. He’d factored in time zones, possible delays, how long it might take to do whatever it was he was doing, but after the ten-hour deadline passed, nothing added up.
He’d scanned warnings on
the government’s travel advice website and online news. The first item stopped Lyall’s heart. An Australian had died in a car crash on a Myanmar freeway. Four years ago. His chest still hurt from the reboot.
Two in two days, thanks to the previous day’s electric shocks. And they’d fully charged his anxiety batteries. He had a whole supply to burn through waiting for word that Nick was injured or worse. Enough for a long wait. It’d been hours before they’d known for certain that Bryce was dead either.
Grace appeared at his bedroom door. ‘Still nothing?’
He shook his head, bouncing one edge of the phone on his tensed thigh, spinning it, and bouncing the other end.
‘I’m sure he’s fine. He probably just got delayed, or he’s on a plane or something.’
Those possibilities were far at the back. The other more horrific ones had taken prime position and were marching up his throat. He couldn’t speak or they might leap out and come to pass. Better to keep them inside and not tempt fate. Better to think positive thoughts. Better to make bargains.
If Nick was alright, he would do everything and anything to fix his phobia.
If Nick came home, the next time he went away, they’d be together.
Please, bring him home.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers through his hair. His foot stopped fidgeting. ‘If you want to talk about it—’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘Lyall, I don’t think you are. You’ve been in here ever since you got back. Nick will be ok. This worrying isn’t good for anybody.’
She tried to sound confident but there was a catch in her voice, a breathlessness he recognised.
‘Then don’t worry about me. Go to bed.’
She didn’t move. He looked at her, and she wasn’t quick enough to wipe away the worry twisting in her eyes. Was that for Nick? Or for him? She hugged him, her hold kneading his bruises. He winced and patted her back, bearing her aching affection. When she released him, he let go of a held breath that softened his pain. He wished her good night and she left the room. With her gone, he could do something useful.
He dialled the number for Foreign Affairs, getting a series of automated messages to put him through to whomever to start making enquiries about a missing Australian. He jabbed more numbers as the menu options lengthened, but a call came through before he reached a real person.
The Love Left Behind Page 9