The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (2 page)

‘I've been swimming here thirty years,' says Eddie, drawing on the huge cigar he only puts aside when he's in the pond, ‘and I've never known no one bit by a swan.'

He sits on the wooden bench next to me; his huge chest is covered in a forest of grey hair, contrasting with his shiny bald head.

‘Rear up, yes. Often. Attack, no,' he adds.

‘So, maybe I'll be famous,' I say, drying myself off after a freezing shower that makes even the cold pond water seem inviting.

‘Maybe he bit you because you're an Aussie,' laughs Eddie. ‘Thought you were another species. Not from around here.'

He leans back and scratches his balls. Funny how nakedness strips away social differences. Me, the internationally renowned scientist; Eddie, the neighbourhood collector of fridges and hubcaps. The sun rolls from behind a cloud and Eddie stretches to greet it. The sky is clearing on this early spring morning.

‘Did I tell you I had my bike nicked?' says Eddie, who's never been good at silences. ‘Kids in hooded sweatshirts. You know the type. Off the housing estate. The little bleeders even tried to sell it back to me. Can you believe it? I grabbed one and he told me, “Let go, you paedophile. I know my rights,” he says. “I'll get the police on you.” Unbelievable! He steals my bike and threatens me with the police. What you reckon, Tony, is it me or is it the world that's going mad?'

‘You're right there, Eddie,' I say, pulling on my shirt and trousers, a throbbing between my eyes, the image of the rearing swan on my mind, ‘it's not you, mate, it's the world.'

I say goodbye to Eddie, who is standing on his head, cigar smoke drifting up past his chest and his dangling penis. Still shaken, I walk slowly across the Heath towards the Post Office Tower and my laboratory in the city below.

This is England, circa mid-1980s. My name is Anthony Malloy: acclaimed scientist meets personal disaster zone. Publicly, I'm on the verge of a breakthrough that will make a major contribution to world health. Privately, I'm just emerging from a near catastrophic meltdown. Ho hum. You win some, you lose some. At least I'm still in the game. And the advice that's stuck with me? Keep it simple, take it easy. Oh yes, and live in the moment.

Everyone is assembled in the seminar room.

‘Sorry I'm late,' I say in the general direction of Professor Peter Blake who sits at the head of the table.

‘What happened to you, Anthony?' he asks, pointing at my forehead.

‘I was attacked by a swan on the way to work.'

‘That's original.'

‘Not bad, eh.'

It's my first day back since my unscheduled break. And everyone is smiling in my direction. Peter Blake has the biggest grin of all. He gets up and comes around to where I sit. He slaps me on the back and waves a letter in front of my face.

‘Our antipodean hermit returns from his well-earned rest. How was the monastery?'

He looks at me for a response, winking at me to keep the story going that he and I had devised. From the expectant looks on everyone's faces, no one seems to suspect the real reason for my absence.

‘Ah, the monastery,' I say, biding my time. ‘Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Peace, no laboratory, a beautiful stained-glass chapel, a cell all to yourself, and nothing to worry about except the mosquitoes from the River Medway.'

Peter keeps to the script. ‘Excellent, you really deserved your break. Now for our news. You should have been the first to hear it, but your swan got in the way.' He beams around at the rest of the laboratory staff. ‘They've accepted our article. It's coming out in
Nature Science
next month, and you, Dr Anthony Malloy, are going to be famous. Your secondment here from the University of Melbourne has more than exceeded expectations.'

As I walk through the front door of my flat I hear the beep from the answering machine. It's Tommo, asking me to call him when I can. His voice brings on a pang of homesickness. I reckon if I began digging from here I'd probably end up at Ocean Grove. The Bass Strait surf roaring in front of me, the estuary at Barwon Heads to the right, the lighthouse of Point Lonsdale to the left. Huge tankers on the horizon, and the fresh air and wide blue skies. I dial the long telephone number, getting it right on the third attempt. I close my eyes and wait.

‘Hi, Tommo here.'

I know the house. I know the table where Tommo is sitting. He's my Dad's eldest brother, but we've always called him Tommo, ever since my sister Caitlin and I were kids. It's what everyone calls him. No mister, no uncle, just Tommo. He's always been there on the sands, in the dunes. Always ready to play whenever we happened to tumble down the bay from Melbourne to the best bit of beach in the world.

‘Hi, it's Anthony, how you going, Tommo?'

‘Beautiful, even better from hearing your voice, boy. And how are you in drab old London town?'

‘I'm fine, just fine,' I say, pitching my voice to try to sound convincing. I think I can hear the sea in the background.

‘And how's that invention of yours? We're all counting on you changing the world. Never had a Nobel prize winner in the family,' he says with a chuckle.

‘Just great, thanks,' I say with much more conviction. ‘It looks like all those hours in the lab are going to be worthwhile. All the upheaval in coming over here.'

‘Glad to hear it … to know all your hard work's coming good. Look, I called because I haven't heard from Caitlin in ages. She normally phones most weeks, but nothing for over a month. Is she okay?'

‘I'm sure she is. She's still living down on the coast.' I pause, trying to sound more upbeat. ‘I spoke to her about two weeks ago. She was talking about you and how she misses the real ocean. Sorry, I've not called in a while myself. I've been away for a few weeks.' Then the homesickness takes over and I can't help myself. ‘Tommo, can you see the lighthouse at Point Lonsdale?'

‘Yes, I can, boy. It's winking at me now. And it'll be here waiting for you whenever you and Caitlin come back down to see me. It's a beautiful clear night. More stars than you'd ever think possible. So tell me, how's England looking? I haven't seen it for years.'

‘When you can see through the grey, it's still grey. Too many people. Not enough space, no one smiles much. No one says hello. But it's okay. I'm here to get my work done, not to be a tourist. And you, Tommo, all's well?'

‘Look, I'm happy as can be. Nothing much changes, but that's good enough for me. Not a lot of news. The tide comes in, the tide goes out. Okay. Well, when you speak to Caitlin, send her my love. Ask her to call.'

‘Will do, Tommo. Bye for now. Speak again soon.'

I hang up and look out the window, the dull light of the northern skies reminding me how far I am from the huge blue skies and vast horizons of Port Phillip Bay.

The boom rattles the glass on Brighton's West Pier and sends the swifts spiralling into the sky like a Kansas City twister. All along the esplanade people stop in their tracks and turn in the direction of the explosion. The building is swathed in smoke. Moments later the windows on all floors pop in unison, vomiting pillars of fire. On the roof of the hotel a flame climbs the flagpole, licking the Union Jack.

‘Do you remember
Bonanza?'
asks Caitlin Malloy, watching from the street below, as the flag ignites and crumples to a tatter of flame and ashes. Sammy looks totally blank.

‘You know, the television show, about the cowboys on the ranch. The way the opening sequence showed the map catching fire?' she says, as if the whirl and ding-a-ling of the engines racing along the promenade has nothing to do with her. Sammy undoes the top button of his coat. They're too close and hot for comfort.

‘We never had television in our house. My father said it led to lazy habits and no conversation.'

The crowds press in from all sides. The police set up tapes to hold them back. The camera crews and photographers, who minutes earlier were settling into hotel bars for the night, now jockey for position on the windswept pavement across the road. Journalists, half into their sheepskin coats, scurry around looking for the story. Above the crackling of the flames and the cracking of the woodwork a grey-haired policeman bellows into a loudhailer for the onlookers to disperse. People run back and forth, looking for a task to anchor them. Some stand and stare in silence, bewitched by the flames, hypnotised by the warmth of the blaze. The crunching of the pebbles underfoot, the muffled crashing and sucking of the waves, offer a gentle comfort to Caitlin and Sammy as they walk away from the scene.

It has gone almost exactly as planned. They're just a couple of weekender lovers strolling on the beach, as curious as the rest. Their training and briefing were precise. Yet it hadn't prepared them for one thing: Caitlin and Sammy have fallen in love.

‘Are you okay?' Sammy whispers, kissing the nape of her neck, the fresh sea breeze mingling with the smell and brush of her hair on his face.

‘I am, my sweet, and I love you forever. Just like Bonnie and Clyde, the Scarlet and her Pimpernel. And we'll have the happy ending. I promise you that.'

They stand and kiss and, in the midst of all the madness and chaos and sirens and flashlights, they hold each other close.

The clouds tumble through the sky, threatening rain, oblivious to the theatre unfolding below. The blazing building glows and bubbles as the firefighters, with ladders, ropes and axes, set siege as if to a medieval castle. Arc lights illuminate the scene, the whir of cameras and flashing bulbs capture the drama of bodies being stretchered away to waiting ambulances. One ambulance attracts instant attention as word gets round that its intended cargo is a prominent Tory party cabinet minister. He steps out in front of the cameras, outstretched arms waving in defiance and steely resolve. But his unflappability is compromised by the striped pyjama top torn to the waist, the potbelly shyly peeking out, his thinning hair caked in blood and plaster, and the regulation blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Behind him the building gives up and collapses into itself, revealing a hissing, steaming skeleton of steel and wire.

Their train is not due for another hour. There is no telling what the bombing might do to the transport system. The police, or more likely the army, will no doubt check all the stations, maybe even close the whole town. But Caitlin and Sammy are trained to deal with all eventualities. A light drizzle begins to fall as the couple walk along the esplanade towards the pier. Caitlin puts her hands in her pockets, feeling for the two shells from Ocean Grove she always carries around with her. The neon lights on the pier flash on and off as if nothing has changed, encouraging seasiders to forget their troubles and try their luck on the archery range or have their fortunes told. Sammy and Caitlin link arms.

‘Let's just keep on walking. It's going to be just fine,' he says. ‘It's done now and we can get on with our lives. With our own lives. You and me.'

‘I know, I know,' whispers Caitlin, ‘but I was just thinking. You know. I was just thinking, that's all.'

She begins shaking. Sammy holds her close, wrapping himself around her like a trenchcoat.

‘It's done now,' he says softly, ‘and we can be free. For each other.'

Over her shoulder he notices a couple walking towards them. He pecks her on the cheek and lightens his voice.

‘Come on now, we mustn't miss our train.'

By the tone of his voice she knows it is time to get back to work. She kisses him back and they head off up the high road away from the sea and the curve of the old world.

A dozen policemen, checking everyone who passes, already guard the entrance to the railway station. It is Sunday evening and most people are returning to London after their weekend at the seaside. Through a loudhailer a policeman announces no one needs to worry as the train will not depart until everyone is checked. The queue slowly shuffles forward. Rumours snake up and down its length. Some say the prime minister and half the cabinet have been killed in the blast. Others say a rocket was launched from a fishing trawler moored off the coast. All agree the Irish are behind the atrocity.

‘They should all go back to the bogs from where they crawled,' comes a voice from the front of the queue.

‘I'll second that, the drunken murderers,' says another.

One by one the would-be travellers filter through the barrier onto the platform. As Caitlin and Sammy reach the front of the queue a scurry of activity breaks out. One of the policemen speaks excitedly into his radio. Caitlin can hear two young Irishmen protesting in a broad Kerry brogue. One curses, shoving a policeman aside. Within a second, both men are engulfed by a wave of blue, punching and kicking them to the ground, before heaving them to their feet and pinning them against the wall. In the background, the station sound system apologises for the late departure of the London Victoria service. The echoing voice is drowned by a police van hurtling round the corner, screeching to a halt, sirens wailing as it spews out reinforcements. The policeman with the loudhailer commands the crowd to remain where they are. The two men are bundled through the back doors of the van.

‘Got the Paddy bastards,' shouts a man towards the back of the queue. ‘Drown them in their own piss,' he adds, waving his fist in the air. Others clap and howl.

One woman turns to Caitlin. ‘Hanging's too good for them,' she spits, her eyes popping, her face flushed and red.

The crowd is called to order as the four remaining policeman usher the queue through the barrier and onto the platform, satisfying themselves with perfunctory questioning and checking of luggage. Caitlin is asked to open her case. The policeman raises his eyebrows as he gingerly lifts old socks and knickers, before snapping the case shut, waving her on. Sammy is asked where he is going and where he has been. A policeman in crisp white gloves feels inside his coat and up and down his body, then waves him on.