Truly Madly Guilty, Page 39

  It was the neighbours' fault he couldn't remember why he was up here. He'd got distracted. He went into Jamie's room to calm himself and turned on the light.

  He looked out Jamie's window. The neighbours had all their outdoor lighting going. It was like bloody Disneyland down there.

  There were two little girls running about. One of them had wings on her back like a tiny fairy. The other one was wearing an old-fashioned-looking little pink coat. Elizabeth would have liked that pink coat.

  He could see the bloody dog zipping back and forth. Yip-yap-yapping. It had been digging up Harry's garden today, as happy as you please. Harry had given it a kick up the backside, to show it what's what. It wasn't a hard kick but it was true that both Elizabeth and Jamie wouldn't have laughed at that. They would have stopped speaking to him, probably. He and Elizabeth had been going to give Jamie a dog for his ninth birthday. They should have done it for his eighth.

  He looked out the window. The electricity bill for all those tiny lights must be exorbitant.

  He could see the people from two doors down. Oliver. Namby-pamby name but he was a nice enough bloke. You could have a sensible conversation with him. (Although he rode a bike, and wore those shiny tight black shorts. Looked like a bloody galah when he did that.) He couldn't remember his wife's name. One of those worried, skinny women.

  No kids. Maybe they didn't want them. Maybe they couldn't have them. The wife didn't have good child-bearing hips, that's for sure. Although now they could mix them up in test tubes.

  Elizabeth would have liked a little sister for Jamie. She always looked at little girls. She liked their dresses. 'Look at that little girl's pretty dress,' she'd say to him, as if Harry ever gave two hoots about a little girl's pretty dress.

  She was looking at a little girl that day, a little girl clutching a stick with a giant ball of fluffy pink fairy floss. Elizabeth said, 'Look at that, it's nearly as big as her,' but Harry had just grunted in response, because he was in a bad mood, he wanted to leave, it was a Sunday afternoon and they had a long drive back and he was thinking about work and the week ahead. The union was giving them grief. Harry didn't like Sunday nights to feel rushed. He liked to feel sorted for the week.

  He hadn't wanted to drive all the way out to bum-fuck nowhere to come to this crummy little country fair. He shouldn't have said 'bum-fuck nowhere' to Elizabeth because she hated that, it really offended her, he was just thinking about the union rep, a tough bugger, that one, and the battle ahead. (The union rep came to the funeral. He hugged Harry and Harry didn't want to be hugged but he didn't want to be at his wife's funeral either.)

  He should have been nicer to Elizabeth and Jamie that day. He would have been nicer if he'd known it was the last day they'd ever have together. He wouldn't have said 'bum-fuck nowhere'. He wouldn't have told Jamie that the games were all rigged and he was never going to win. He wouldn't have grunted when Elizabeth pointed out the little girl with the fairy floss.

  But then again, he should have been grumpier. He should have been firmer. He should have said no when they wanted to go on that ride for the third time.

  He did say no, but Elizabeth didn't take any notice. She grabbed Jamie's hand and said, 'Just one more turn.' And off they ran.

  If he saw them again he would shout at them. He would shout, 'I said no! I was the man of the house!' Then he would hold them both in his arms and never ever let them go.

  If he saw them again. Elizabeth believed in the hereafter, and Harry hoped she was right. She was right about most things, except that day she hadn't been right.

  It was called 'The Spider'. It had eight long legs with a car at the end of each leg for up to eight people. The legs went up and down, up and down, and then the whole thing spun around in a circle.

  Each time they'd flown by he'd seen a brief glimpse of their pink, laughing faces, their heads flung back against the seats. It had made him feel sick.

  The Spider had been built ten years earlier by an Australian manufacturer with a German name: Flugzeug Amusement Rides. Flugzeug Amusement Rides had provided only rudimentary maintenance and inspection procedures for The Spider. The company that ran the funfair was called Sullivan and Sons. Sullivan and Sons was in deep financial shit. They made staff cuts. A dedicated maintenance manager called Primo Paspaz was let go. Primo had set out his own maintenance schedule for all the rides in a red notebook. The red notebook disappeared when he lost his job. Primo thumped his fist against his knee when he testified in court. He had bright tears in his eyes.

  One of the mechanical bearings malfunctioned on The Spider, and a car spun free.

  All eight laughing, screaming passengers died. Five adults and three children.

  The court cases dragged on for years. It consumed Harry. He still had the files: big foolscap binders filled with a story of negligence and incompetence and idiocy. Nobody ever stood up and took responsibility. Only Primo Paspaz said, 'I'm sorry' to Harry. He said, 'It would never have happened on my watch.'

  People needed to take responsibility.

  Harry turned away from the window and spun Jamie's globe so that all the places Jamie never got to see sped by his finger.

  He looked back out the window at the neighbours. It occurred to him that if Elizabeth had lived he would have been down there at that barbeque, because Elizabeth was so sociable, and the Arab was always inviting Harry over, as if he really wanted him to come. It was peculiar. For a moment, Harry could see it so clearly; the way this night was meant to be: Elizabeth sitting at the table enjoying the music, Harry pretending to be grumpy about it and everyone laughing, because Elizabeth made his grumpiness funny.

  Harry watched the two little girls run about the yard. It seemed to be a game of chasing.

  The littler one got herself up onto the side of the fountain. She was carrying a little blue handbag. She ran around the edge. The fountain was the size of a swimming pool. 'Careful there, little girl,' said Harry out loud to her. 'You could fall in.' Was anyone even watching her?

  He scanned the backyard. The adults were all gathered around the table, not even looking at the kids. They were laughing their heads off. He couldn't hear their laughter over the music. He couldn't see Oliver, but he could see his wife, Erika, that was her name, standing on the pathway that led from the back door. She'd be able to see the little girl.

  He looked back at the fountain and his heart dropped.

  The little girl was gone. Had she climbed down off the wall? Then he saw it. The pink coat. Christ Almighty, she was face down. She'd fallen in. It was like he'd made it happen by predicting it.

  He looked for an adult. Where was that Erika? She must have seen it. She was standing right there with a direct line of vision.

  But she was just standing there. What was the stupid woman doing?

  'She's fallen in!' He banged his hands on the glass.

  Oliver's wife didn't move. She just stood there. Like a statue. Her face turned away as if she didn't want to see, as if she was deliberately looking the other way. For God's sake, what was wrong with her? What was wrong with all these stupid people? My God, my God, my God.

  Harry's face was hot with rage. The little girl was drowning right there in front of those idiotic, irresponsible people. Shooting was too good for them.

  He tried to pull up the window so he could yell out, but it was jammed closed. It hadn't been opened in years. He banged so hard with both fists on the glass it hurt. He yelled, louder than he'd yelled in years. 'She's drowning!'

  Finally the woman looked up at him. Oliver's wife. Their eyes met. Thank God, thank God. 'She's drowning!' screamed Harry. He jabbed his finger at the fountain. 'The little girl is drowning!'

  He watched her turn her head towards the fountain. Slowly. As if there were no great hurry.

  And still she didn't move. The stupid, idiotic woman didn't move. She just stood there, looking at the fountain. It was like something from a nightmare. Harry heard himself sob with frustration. Time was running ou
t.

  He turned from the window and ran from the room. It was the only way. He had to be fast. He had to be nimble. He had to run next door and pull the little girl out himself. The little girl in the pink coat was drowning. Elizabeth would have loved that little girl. He could hear Elizabeth crying out, 'Run, Harry, run!'

  He ran from Jamie's room onto the landing. It was like he had his old body back. There was no pain. He felt exhilarated by the urgency of his mission. He was running gracefully, fluidly, like a twenty-year-old with perfect, limber knees. He could do this. He was fast. He was nimble. He'd save her.

  On the second step, he fell. He grabbed for the banister to save himself but it was too late, he was flying, like his wife and son.

  chapter eighty-four

  It was early evening at the end of another beautiful day and Sam was walking home from the ferry beneath an indigo sky. There had been almost a whole week of clear weather now. Everything had dried out and dried off and people had stopped discussing how nice it was to see the sun. The 'Big Wet' was drifting away from everyone's memories on a gentle spring breeze.

  Sam had just had another fairly productive day at work, so that was something. It was a little embarrassing just how much nerdy satisfaction he had achieved today from successfully completing his proposed strategic plan for preventing the further loss of market share in the now crowded sugar-free, berry-flavoured caffeinated energy drink segment. He hadn't exactly composed a symphony, but it was a well-thought-out strategy which would make the company money, which would make up for the last few weeks when he'd sat at his desk being paid for doing nothing. He'd used his brain. He'd ticked off a task. It felt good.

  Maybe it was all due to the amazing, magical effects of his first counselling session. After the humiliating incident at the first aid course on Sunday, Clementine had arranged an appointment with a counsellor after-hours on Monday. Sam didn't ask her how she managed to get an appointment so quickly. She'd probably got her mother on the case. Pam was a big fan of counselling. She probably had one on speed-dial. Sam cringed at the thought of his mother-in-law's softly sympathetic face as Clementine told her about his tears, his so-called 'post-traumatic stress' for Christ's sake.

  The counsellor was a cheery, chatty little fellow, like a jockey, and he had plenty of opinions, which surprised Sam. (Weren't they meant to say enigmatic things like, 'What do you think?') He said Sam probably did have a mild case of PTSD. He said it in the same nonchalant tone as if he'd said, 'You've probably got a mild sinus infection.' He reckoned Sam would need only three or four sessions 'max' to 'knock this on the head'.

  Sam had left his office almost laughing; did this guy get his qualifications online? But as he'd stood in the lift going back to the lobby, he'd been surprised to find he was experiencing just a mild sense of relief, like standing in the baggage claim area after a long flight and feeling your ears pop, when you weren't fully aware they'd been blocked. It wasn't like he felt great. Just marginally better. Maybe it was the placebo effect, or maybe it was going to happen eventually anyway, or maybe his little counsellor had special powers.

  Now he stopped at a pedestrian crossing and watched a woman with a baby in a stroller and a preschool-aged kid.

  The baby was about one. He was sitting up, fat legs straight out in front of him, a large green leaf clutched in his chubby hand like a flag.

  Was it a floating leaf that had attracted Ruby's attention that day? He imagined it, as he'd done so many times before, as maybe he was going to do for the rest of his life. He saw her climbing up onto the edge of the fountain, proud of herself, walking around the perimeter, maybe even running. Did she slip? Or did she see something she wanted? A floating leaf or an interesting-looking stick. Something that sparkled. He imagined her on her knees on the side of the fountain, in her little pink coat, her hand out-stretched, and then suddenly, silently toppling in, head first, panicking, flailing, her lungs filling with water as she tried to scream, 'Daddy!', the heavy coat dragging her down, and then, the stillness, her hair floating around her head.

  For a moment Sam's world tipped and his breath caught. He concentrated on the DON'T WALK light in red, waiting for it to change to WALK. The cars zoomed by. The mother waiting next to him was talking on her mobile phone. 'My shoe is falling off,' whined the preschooler.

  'No, it's not,' said the mother distractedly as she continued to speak into the phone. 'I know, that's the thing, I mean it would be fine if she'd just been upfront about it from the beginning, but Lachlan, no! Don't take off your shoe here!'

  The little boy had suddenly plonked himself down on the footpath and was in the process of removing his shoe.

  'He's taking off his damned shoe in the middle of the street. Lachlan, stop that. I said stop that.' The woman bent down to drag the preschooler back to his feet. Her hand left the stroller handle. It was on a slope that led straight out onto the street.

  The stroller began to roll.

  'Whoops.' Sam reached out one hand and caught hold of the handle.

  The woman looked up.

  'Jesus Christ.' The phone slid from beneath her head and shoulder and crashed onto the ground as she stood up fast and grabbed the stroller handle, her hand overlapping Sam's.

  She looked at the traffic roaring by and then back down at the stroller.

  She said, 'It could have ... he could have ...'

  'I know,' said Sam. 'But it's all good. It didn't.' He removed his hand from under hers. She had the handle in a death grip now.

  'Mummy, the phone is all cracked!' The preschooler held up the phone he'd rescued from the ground with an expression of pure horror on his face. Sam could hear a tinny voice calling out from the phone, 'Hello? Hello?'

  The lights changed to WALK. The woman didn't move. She was still processing it, still seeing what could have been.

  'Have a good night,' said Sam, and he crossed the road to go home, the sky huge and hopeful before him.

  chapter eighty-five

  'You don't have to rush back to the office, do you?' said Oliver as he tucked his ears into his swimming cap - snap, snap - and pulled his goggles down over his eyes so he looked to Erika like a goofy alien.

  They had met for their lunch break at North Sydney pool, which was within walking distance of both their offices, for their first swim after their brief 'winter hiatus', as Oliver liked to call it. During the winter months they swapped their swim for a thirty-minute high-intensity cardio class at the gym.

  'As long as I'm back by one thirty.' Erika pulled down her own goggles so that the world turned turquoise.

  'Good,' said Oliver. He seemed serious.

  As Erika swam her first lap, she wondered what was on his mind. Ever since his discovery of her 'habit' she felt like she'd been demoted to junior partner in their marriage. He'd made her promise to talk about her 'kleptomania' with her psychologist.

  'It's not kleptomania!' Erika cried. 'It's just ...'

  'Stealing your friend's stuff!' finished Oliver brightly.

  There was something different about Oliver lately: a kind of recklessness, except not really, because Oliver would never be reckless. Almost aggressiveness? But not quite. Feistiness. It was not unattractive, to be honest. They were having a lot of angry sex. It was great.

  She hadn't yet discussed her 'kleptomania' with her psychologist because she hadn't seen her. Not Pat had cancelled a few sessions recently at the last minute. She probably had her own personal problems. Erika secretly hoped she might be forced to take a sabbatical.

  As she turned her head for every second breath she looked up and saw the grey arched pylons of the Harbour Bridge soaring into the bright blue sky above them. It was an amazing place to swim. Wasn't this enough for a life? Good work, good exercise, good sex. She tumble-turned and looked for Oliver. He was way ahead of her, powering through the water; lucky it wasn't too busy because he was swimming too fast even for the fast lane.

  It would be the baby. That's what he would want to talk about. The
baby was his project and his project management skills were excellent. Now that Clementine was no longer part of the picture he would want to 'explore other options, other avenues'. He would want to talk through the pros and the cons. Erika's whole body slowed in the water at the thought. Her legs felt like limp weights she was dragging along behind her.

  The thought occurred to her: I'm done. I'm done with the baby project. But of course she couldn't be done, not until Oliver was done.

  This was simply the wall. Every time you ran a marathon you hit a wall. The wall was both a physical and a mental barrier but it could be overcome (carb loading, hydration, focus on your technique). She swam on. It didn't feel like she could get past this, but that was the nature of the wall.

  After their swim, they sat in the sun outside a cafe, looking straight out onto the harbour, eating tuna and kale salads for their lunch. Back in their suits. Sunglasses on. Hair just slightly damp at the ends.

  'I'm going to send you a link to an article,' said Oliver. 'I read it yesterday, and I've been thinking about it. Thinking about it a lot.'

  'Okay,' said Erika. Some new reproductive technology. Great. It's just the wall, she told herself. Breathe.

  'It's about fostering,' said Oliver. 'Fostering older children.'

  'Fostering?' Erika's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

  'It's about how hard it is,' said Oliver. 'It's about how people get this really romantic idea about fostering and it's not like that at all. It's about how most foster carers have no idea what they're getting themselves into. It's a brutally honest article.'

  'Oh,' said Erika. She couldn't see his eyes because of his sunglasses. She was aware of the feeling of a tiny spark of hope quelled. 'So the reason you're sending it to me is ...?'

  'I think we should do it,' said Oliver.

  'You think we should do it,' repeated Erika.

  'I was thinking about Clementine and Sam,' said Oliver. 'And how Ruby's accident affected them so badly. Do you want to know why it was such a big thing for those two?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'Because nothing bad has ever happened to them before!'