Smoke in the Room (17 page)

He sensed she was becoming agitated again. ‘That's normal,' he said, speaking low and slow. ‘When something like Abu Ghraib, the war, wars . . . when something like that happens there's more than enough pain and fear to go round. We all get our share. There's no shame in feeling horrified, even if the horror is for yourself. Better that than apathy.'

‘One time,' she said, her feet dancing over his. ‘I saw this bloke on the bus and he was so fat he couldn't sit down. He had to stand in the aisle – right up front where it's wide, where the wheelchairs and prams go – and when new people got on they'd have to squeeze by him and they all pulled a face like
ugh, disgusting
. I started feeling bad for him, thinking he must be a really sad person with no one to talk to and no one to cuddle and kids shouting
lard arse
when he goes by.' She took a loud, quivering breath. ‘But then I thought,
Don't take on other people's pain
, so I looked out the window and thought about what I'd ask Gran to get me for Christmas. I didn't even notice where he got off, which was like, hooray for me. But in bed that night I started bawling: maybe I was the only person in the universe who bothered to worry about that man and now that I had stopped there would be no one.' She exhaled heavily and then sucked her breath in again.

Graeme pulled himself up on one elbow and inched forward. He placed his palm on the back of her stubbly head and her shoulders heaved. He lay down behind her and rubbed her back the way he'd seen mothers rub the backs of crying infants, with long, firm strokes from the shoulder blades to the tailbone and back again. She gradually quietened. When her body was still and her breathing slow, he let his hands drop. A minute passed and then another one. ‘I better let you go to sleep,' she said, finally, slipping out of bed. She bent and kissed his forehead and then padded lightly out of his room.

Graeme closed his eyes and saw the back of Katie's neck as clearly as if she was still lying next to him. More clearly, in fact, since the room had been too dark to see much detail. Behind his eyelids the image was sharp: the ridge protruding at the top of her backbone, the unbroken arc of her neck.

No – it was another girl he was remembering. She lay just like that – on her side, head bowed, arms wrapped around her knees. She was young – they both were – and he'd thought they were in love. He'd thought she would be impressed by his decisiveness, his refusal to take no for an answer, his gallant acceptance of responsibility. No, that's what he told himself afterwards. Truth was he hadn't thought of her reaction at all. He'd just felt and acted and then lay foggy and sated until the realisation seeped in and the rationalisations began.

Poor kid, he thought now. Poor kids.

As the night paled, Katie curled herself around Adam. The blankets puddled at his feet. He got feverish-hot when he slept, and so she did not need blankets either when she was pressed against him. He made her hot when he was awake, but that was just sexual. When he slept, his heat was calming, nourishing. Katie kissed the goddess, reached around and stroked his chest fuzz, circled his belly-button, followed the trail to his penis. She cradled it in her palm and closed her gritty eyes.

She liked to imagine how he was before she knew him, when he was a love-sick young husband sleeping beside his lovely wife. She imagined he never let Eugenie go; even in his sleep he gripped her hand or circled her waist. If she rolled over, he moved with her. If she got up, he awoke with a start and called her name. In the mornings he trailed her to the bathroom, his hands on her hips, his steps comically small. If they had to part, he would kiss her face all over and make her promise to think of him every minute. If Katie had danced naked in front of him he
would not have seen her. He would be looking over her shoulder, waiting for Eugenie to reappear.

She was sick with tiredness but the humming in her brain made sleep impossible. Her hands felt arthritic, tiny bombs exploded in her calves and something in her throat bubbled when she swallowed. She counted her breaths and then woke with a jolt, feeling that she was flying fast into the ceiling.

Nights and dawns were only endurable if she distracted herself with thoughts like what CDs she wanted or how to find the money for more grog. Sex and shops and food and TV commercials. A sad man and his corny tattoos. The stuff of life was all distraction, and distraction allowed her to get on with the stuff of life. But nobody stays distracted. The song ends and the man sleeps and the alcohol wears off and there it is; the window, the truck, the bread knife in its stay-sharp sheath.

Graeme said hello to the madman with the stick whenever he passed. The man had never responded with more than an outraged glance, but this morning he said, ‘Careful, careful, son.'

‘Careful of what?'

The man tapped his stick against the side of the bus shelter. ‘What a question! You've been here long enough, you should know where the traps lie by now.'

‘I'm sorry. I'm a slow learner.'

‘Lucky you've still got the top of your head!'

‘Yes.' The man's beige pants were splattered with dark spots and his thick white hair was flat with grease. ‘Do you live nearby?'

The man stared straight past him. ‘They pretend not to hear. Hey!' He darted past Graeme, and ran with surprisingly long and fast strides to the traffic lights down the road. He stopped and leant on his stick, then stood straight and shook his stick at an oncoming bus.

‘Poor old bugger.'

Graeme turned to the woman who'd spoken. She was Katie's age, but dressed like a little girl, in a short dress and knee socks. She wore a backpack and held a laminated student card in one hand; the other hand jiggled loose change.

‘I see him here a lot. He was in a war, he told me. Not sure which one. It's hard to talk to him. He comes in and out.'

‘Do you know if he lives around here? If he's alone?'

‘Dunno.' She craned her neck, signalled the approaching bus. ‘Hope not. Too sad otherwise, isn't it?'

Graeme watched the girl mount the steps of the bus and pay the driver. When she disappeared from view he turned his attention back to the old man, who was shaking and shouting now at nothing at all. Two suits walked past, swerving together to the far edge of the footpath without seeming to have noticed him at all. As they approached Graeme a sharp pain in his head screamed
Kick their feet from under them. Grab their neat heads and spit into their smug mouths. Make them pay some goddamn attention
.

The rage dissipated as soon as he acknowledged it.

He waited for the suits to pass and then fell into step behind them. He walked past the office and bought a coffee at the corner shop, exchanging lifted eyebrows with the bloke behind the counter who knew without being told that Graeme wanted a latte with two sugars. He unlocked the office and walked through the empty reception area, listened to the others arrive as he drank his coffee. He thought about asking Sherry and Mike if they'd seen the madman with the stick, if they knew what his story was, but they'd think his joining their morning chat
odd. He imagined the faces they'd pull at each other.
Talk about a madman
, Mike would say.

It was one week into February and it seemed that after a solid month of unrelieved humidity, there would finally be rain. The air, as Graeme walked home, was electric. The streets bristled as wind kicked up dried-out leaves, faded chip wrappers, disintegrating cigarette butts. People walked fast, looking up at the sky. Graeme walked slowly, hoping to feel the first drops.

As he crossed Broadway he considered detouring around the block before going home, but Mrs Lewis was standing by the mailboxes watching him approach.

‘Mrs Lewis, hello.'

She smiled. ‘I'm sure I've told you to call me Ann.'

‘Okay, Ann.' He nodded towards the entrance. ‘On your way up?'

She shook her head. ‘No. I've just come down. I was going to call you later on, but then I saw you coming and so . . .'

‘I'm sorry for the other day at lunch, I –'

She waved a peach-nailed hand at him. ‘It's fine. Actually, it's why I'm . . . I need to ask you a favour and I wouldn't bother you with it except the other day you showed such concern over Katherine and . . .' She put her hands on the low brick wall behind her and pulled herself up, motioning to Graeme to join her.

He shook his head, held his ground. ‘What is it you'd like me to do?'

She sighed. ‘I need to go away for a few weeks. My daughter – Katherine's mother – broke her leg and she
needs help with the house and everything. But I'm anxious, you know, about Katherine. Like you said on Sunday – someone needs to be watching her.'

‘You should ask Adam. He's much closer to her than me.'

‘No. He's . . . He's a disappointment, to be honest. When I met him he seemed so decent, so mature. I couldn't imagine him taking up with a kid like Katherine. Oh, not that I don't think she's loveable – I know she is – only that she's so young and so obviously vulnerable and I thought he was the kind of man who wouldn't take advantage.'

Graeme pictured Katie wriggling half-dressed into his bed; how differently that would have ended twenty years ago. He swallowed dry air and said nothing.

‘Anyway,' Ann continued, ‘I was wrong about him, but I don't think I'm wrong about you. I think you're a decent man, that you wouldn't take advantage of her or turn a blind eye if something was wrong.' Her eyes had the same shiny, guileless intensity as Katie's. ‘Am I wrong, Graeme? Am I wrong to trust you with her?'

‘Of course you can trust me, but I'm not sure what you're asking.'

‘Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.' She smiled as thunder cracked in the distance. ‘Katherine's like the weather, you know, it's possible she'll be fine, better than fine. She can be so lovely, Graeme. Bright and funny and . . .' She sighed. ‘But if she's not, if she starts getting dark, you need to take note. If she stops eating, stops going out, stops . . . stops being Katherine, then call me – you have my mobile. And especially if – and this probably won't happen –
if
she gets violent –'

‘Violent how?'

‘You've seen what she did to her face. We both know they're not bloody tribal markings.' Ann squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘If she hurts herself again call me. It's usually nothing to worry about – god, what a thing to say, right?' She jumped down from the wall and took hold of his arm. ‘You understand why I reacted the way I did the other day? I've had years of this, Graeme. Years. It's got so a couple of burns are no big deal. Just Katherine blowing off steam. It's got so the things that used to terrify me now make me just slightly more watchful for a week or so. And when an outsider comes in and acts like I'm not taking care of her . . .' She let go of his arm, held her palms up to the sky. ‘Fussing about, hovering over her – it doesn't work. I lost her once. Eight months and I didn't have a clue where she was, if she was sick or in pain or worse. I learnt that I have to give her as much independence as I can stand. I have to choose my battles carefully or I'll lose her altogether.'

‘Okay,' Graeme said, as another clap of thunder sounded. ‘You want me to watch from afar, not interfere, call you if she seems to be slipping or if she hurts herself.'

Ann reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. ‘Her doctor. She goes every second Thursday. I'll text to remind her so you don't have to worry about remembering. But that's the number of his office and his emergency service, just in case you can't reach me.'

A drop of rain slid down the back of his neck. He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. ‘Okay.'

‘Okay.' She smiled, biting her lip. ‘I'm sure she'll be fine.'

‘Yes. Me too. We should get inside.'

‘I have to go. I have work.' She nodded and patted his forearm. ‘Don't tell her I asked you to do this, okay? She'll feel humiliated.'

‘Sure.' A sheet of lighting flashed overhead and the gentle rain became a sudden torrent. Ann laughed and tucked her handbag into her side. ‘Safe trip,' Graeme yelled over the roar. She raised a hand, mouthed
thank you
, turned and ran fast down the street.

Adam found a job washing dishes at an Indian restaurant on Glebe Point Road. The money wasn't great – sixty bucks for eight hours' work – but it was cash in hand, no questions asked, and he got a hot meal of dhal and roti every shift. He figured that if he paid for nothing but rent and an occasional sandwich to keep him going between shifts, he'd be home in less than two months.

He forgot that mindless work encouraged thinking. There at the sink, rinsing, scrubbing, passing, drying, carrying, the thoughts he'd avoided for the last few months made their way forward. His mind spooled back through all Eugenie's weird aches and pains, the swollen stomach, the way she started leaving a third, then half, then almost all of her dinner on the plate. He tried driving the memories away by concentrating on the restaurant music, but the lyrics were in Hindi and his brain began throwing up long-forgotten scenes, early moments when he teased her about her fear of doctors, then later, when he urged her to get over her childish
dread and get a damn check-up. He replayed the arguments again and again, furious at how ineffectual he'd been, how easily he'd given in. If there had ever been a time for forcefulness . . .

He scrubbed bright orange stains off the thali bowls and thought about her joking that it was just her luck to finally have a fashionable shape and be too sick to go shopping. He carried a tray of clean bowls to the preparation bench and picked up a tray of dirty ones on his way back to the sink. He emptied the sink, wiped down the sides, and refilled it with hot water. He heard her crying and holding his hands.