Swimming on Dry Land (17 page)

The sweat on my skin turns cold. And all I can see is miles and miles of empty space.

MICHAEL

I am driving – Akarula Street shrinks in the rear-view mirror as I head towards Wattle Creek – slow driving, curling round potholes and sharp gullies. Being behind the wheel again feels like running with my eyes closed; anything could happen.

The sun bounces off the road in waves of silvery white light. It's the light that makes the ground seem to roll up in dusty folds of terracotta. I can hardly tell the earth from the sky. Through the rear-view mirror I check on Mr M, who is sprawled across the back seat. He winces every time we hit a bump. His face is disfigured with bruises, one of his eyes too swollen to open.

Around 5am Eddie hammered on the caravan window, shouting in a way that made me think he'd found Georgie. I was half-asleep, so what he said didn't register until afterwards. He practically dragged me outside and over to the truck. I was still dressed from the day before. It wasn't until we were almost at the portacabin that I fully understood.

‘I can't get through to the hospital,' Eddie said. ‘The line's engaged.' His face was blanched and he was shivering. ‘Susan isn't answering. If we wait, it'll be too late.' There was panic in his voice. I'd never seen him so shaken up.

When we got to the portacabin door, Eddie rushed past me. Mr M was choking and coughing blood.

‘Look at him,' Eddie screeched.

The great Edward Harvey was losing control, flailing his arms about as if he was drowning. ‘Can you hear us?' he shouted into Mr M's face, like some bad actor in a sitcom.

I wanted to say something about Father, about why he left us that way, but I didn't know exactly how to start, and the moment passed before I could find the right words. Eddie has Father's eyes.

‘Calm down,' is what I offered.

I propped Mr M up with a pillow so that he could clear his throat. Then I knelt beside the bed and tried to get him to tell us what was happening, but his mouth was badly cut and when his lips parted, all that came out was spit and blood.

Eddie squatted on the floor beside me, holding his hand an inch from Mr M's cheek. After a while he drew back and seemed to be praying. Or cursing. At any rate, his hands were clasped and he was mumbling like an idiot. For a second, I didn't recognise him. My proud cock-and-bull brother wouldn't kneel at someone's feet, not the invincible Eddie. Whether he read my thoughts, or whether the pain of losing himself to a higher cause got too much, I don't know, but within seconds he was pushing himself up. He started trying to fix the faulty door catch.

‘Some bastard's got it in for me,' he said, rattling the catch the way a child might shake a broken toy.

‘For you?' It was almost amusing under the circumstances.

We carried Mr M out to the truck and laid him on the back seat. He kept convulsing. We almost dropped him twice. Eddie wore this manic look, the whites of his eyes taking over his whole face as he ranted about Akarula and the mine, not making any sense.

‘You'll have to drive,' I said. ‘Just try the hospital again. It won't be easy for him being stuck in the car for five hours.' I didn't say what I was thinking, but I could see Eddie being stranded on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere with a dead man on the back seat.

‘Mike?' Eddie clung onto the top of the truck door as I got in the back with Mr M. ‘Is it too late?'

I had no time for his theatricals, so I yanked at the door and told him to get a move on.

While he was gone, I stretched forwards between the seats and played with the radio dial, surfing the stations to get a decent reception. I talked about God knows what, to hold Mr M's attention, to stop him from closing his one good eye. Eddie wasn't long. I heard him racing back across the tarmac.

‘They said it'll be quicker to drive. You'll have to drive.' He was panting and holding his side as if he was in pain.

‘I can't.' But I could see he wasn't in a fit state to do anything. He could hardly breathe. And so I rearranged Mr M on the back seat, belting his body in as best I could, and climbed into the driver's seat. Eddie swam in the tail lights as I pulled out onto the road. It's nearly six years since I sat behind a wheel.
I could have killed that boy.

The smell of sun-baked rocks coats the warm breeze, hitting my face as I wind down the window. With Akarula behind me, I can sense the boundless expanse Eddie talked about: no walls, no borders, no houses, just miles and miles of arid bush. I drive past colossal termite mounds, memorials to the primacy of insects. The cracked red earth looks shell-like. Georgie has fallen down one of these cracks. Whatever we do now will not bring her back.

Without warning, the shine slips out of the sun. I sense the familiar void descending on me. How can you wake up one day and feel as if the earth is being smothered by the sky? It wasn't even like that; it wasn't one day. It crept up on me, this overwhelming feeling of pointlessness; there was no way of dodging it. Believe me, I tried. I did everything I could. It just got worse and worse.

I press the throttle down, faster, as fast as the rutted dirt road will allow, stirring the surface dust, covering my tracks. I force myself to breathe. We should be there by eleven at this rate.

‘How are we doing back there?' I ask, peering at Mr M through the rear-view mirror as he closes and opens his good eye. What does he make of all this? He tried warning us, told me weeks ago that people were getting restless, that it was time for us to go. It must have been a few days before Georgie disappeared. I didn't know what he was talking about. He laughed when I asked him if he'd read it in the stars. But he knew. At the time I remember thinking
he's right, we should go.
I told Caroline.

I drive along this endless road for hours. Near Wattle Creek, the surface improves, turning into bitumen a few miles out of town. Wattle Creek is roughly the same size as Alice Springs. There is one main shopping street, but the houses sprawl in all directions.

‘Alright, Mr M? We'll have you in a proper bed in no time.'

He presses his hands into the seat. If he's trying to lift himself, he makes no headway. Still, he's alive. And we're nearly there.

The drive through this plain, dusty, ten-horse town takes all of three minutes. I pull up in front of the hospital, a grey building with two portacabins to the side.

‘I'll fetch a helper,' I say. ‘Won't be long.'

He nods. No, he doesn't nod; he shifts his head slightly, and winces with pain. I nod, slamming the truck door, and sprint towards the entrance.

There's a reception area in the small foyer. I press the brass bell on the desk. It's a little after eleven. A nurse arrives, the same one we had the last time I was here with Moni, although she doesn't seem to recognise me.

‘My brother rang this morning,' I explain. ‘I'll need help getting my friend inside. Is Susan here?'

This young, severe-looking woman whose hair is scraped back in a high ponytail, picks her nail as she responds. ‘Doctor Marshall's on a call at the moment. Why don't you take a seat while we get your friend inside?' She gives me a form to fill in, offering a pen from her top pocket. ‘As soon as she arrives, I'll let her know you're here.' She accelerates down the corridor in her plain white pumps. A few minutes later, two male hospital workers carry Mr M past me on a stretcher.

My arms get chicken skin from the air-conditioning, which circulates the smell of disinfectant. I study the pictures of hand-painted fruit trees on the wall behind the desk: simple drawings done by an amateur. The nurse appears again with a cup of coffee and a snack pack of digestive biscuits.

‘I'm afraid we've no waiting room,' she says. ‘They're supposed to be building one next year, but who knows.' A curt smile before she marches back down the corridor, disappearing behind the swing doors.

I fill out the form and wait in one of the chairs lined up along the wall. My mind wanders in and out. Is it an apple tree or a pear tree? The frame needs straightening. If Mr M dies, people will assume he was guilty.
God saves the innocent.
I've heard that phrase uttered I don't know how many times lately. Like when they used to drown witches; without your superhuman powers, you wouldn't survive. What does it all mean? I'm not a religious man. As far as I'm concerned, the church is nothing more than a powerhouse built to instil fear in the common people. Still, I've tried praying. Maybe praying would have helped, if I'd believed, if I'd had an ounce of faith. Caroline encourages the girls to pray. What if He
is
up there? That's her argument. She's not really a believer either, but she keeps a foot in both camps just in case.

I don't know what happened last night: we fought like animals, and then, throughout the sex, it was as if she had gone, deserted her own skin; I couldn't feel her. I loved that woman. I wanted to be the one to make her happy. Of course you can't
make
someone happy, not really, but you can try. She was, she still is, the best thing that ever happened in my life, despite how we've turned out. Her and the girls. My whole world in three females. But I keep seeing that tape, replaying it; I can't seem to rub it out.

A while later, a voice cuts through my thoughts.

‘Michael?' Susan rests her hand on my shoulder as she looks down at me. The lines around her eyes multiply as she smiles.

‘Have you seen him? Will he be alright?' I ask.

‘He's not good. A bruised liver, fractured ribs that are threatening to puncture a lung. At the moment he's in a critical state. You did the right thing bringing him in. Sorry we couldn't get out to you. It's a long drive. You must be exhausted.'

‘What can I do?'

‘Get some rest.' She studies my face as if she's searching underwater for the remains of a sunken boat.

As I stand, the empty biscuit wrapper falls from my lap. Both of us bend down to pick it up.

‘Mr Markarrwala is in good hands,' she says, putting the wrapper in the bin behind the desk, moving with surprising grace. ‘You're not thinking of driving back today, are you? There's a spare room in my house if you need somewhere to stay. I promised Eddie I'd look after you.'

‘We're supposed to be flying to Adelaide.'

‘Today?' She gives me a wry smile. ‘You can rearrange your flight from my house, if you like. When was the last time you slept?' She pushes her light fringe back off her face and sticks one hand in her trouser pocket.

I no longer care what we do.

‘You're moving out then?' she asks.

‘I've rented a place, until we can find something decent. The Adelaide
Advertiser
has agreed to take me on part-time, bits and pieces, but it should be enough to tide us over.'

‘That's great.' She scratches the side of her nose as she says, ‘I heard there was some kind of evacuation going on.'

‘They closed the mine.'

‘I know. Let me make you some lunch at least. I've got a break now, and you'll not get far on an empty stomach.' She heads off, signalling with a tilt of her head for me to follow. And I do, like a dog on a lead.

Her green Datsun is parked a few yards from the door.

‘The house is only five minutes away,' she calls over her shoulder.

In the car she changes her shoes for some open-toed sandals, slinging the other pair in the back.

‘Did Eddie tell you what happened?' I ask, watching her tug the gear stick into neutral and start the engine.

‘Is he alright? I hardly recognised him on the phone.'

She turns to watch me as I speak. ‘He saw the whole thing. Women too, using their fists. We called the police.'

‘I suspect an old aboriginal man won't stir up too much excitement. You'll be lucky if they bother coming out. How's Monica?'

‘Sleeping better, thank God.'

Nodding, she releases the hand brake and starts driving. ‘It's going to take time. There are no quick fixes. It obviously doesn't help that Georgina still hasn't been found.'

The cooling fans take effect as we drive down the main street: wooden buildings mostly, shop fronts, wide glass windows, advertising billboards, nondescript faces, working clothes. I understand that we may never know what happened to Georgie. I understand, but I don't accept – we went through every tunnel, combed every inch of ground.

Susan pulls off the main road, stopping outside a one-storey house.

‘This is it. I'm hardly ever here, so excuse the mess. Not the house-proud type.' She pats the dashboard before getting out. ‘I do shift work with the flying doctors, and between that I pretty much live at the hospital.'

‘Busy woman.'

‘Something like that.'

The heat falls in on me as soon as I open the door. Susan plucks at her blouse to let the air in, revealing her plain white bra. She's not overtly feminine, not in the way she dresses anyway, but there is something distinctly womanly about her.