Wake (24 page)

Oscar complained that his legs ached. ‘I need to go out for a bike ride,' he said. ‘I hate being cooped up.' Someone suggested he make use of the stationary bike in the gym, and he pressed his lips together and set off around the building, peering out through the dark windows as if he hoped to catch the view at something illicit.

*

Lily was already in bed, worn out and asleep, her exhaustion a hammock she'd hung over the fizzing abyss of everyone else's sleeplessness.

William was in his room, a little drunk, his phone plugged into the room's stereo, listening to something sufficiently big and real—Schubert—and deaf to Sam who was standing at his door, alternately knocking and pressing her ear to the wood to listen.

Bub and Theresa were sitting on the terrace. It was chilly and they were wrapped in coats. They were trying to make plans about what might come next, if catching the man in black and asking him questions didn't solve all their problems. Theresa said that she thought they should move the last of the cars from the supermarket parking lot, and paint the concrete some pale colour—they could easily get enough paint by scavenging in people's sheds and garages. They could run a power cable out from the supermarket and set up some big lights, then use the lights and the reflector of painted concrete to send messages. If they didn't manage to find Morse surely they could devise their own code of short and long flashes? ‘With the simplest combinations representing the most commonly used letters. Like SOS—three dots, three dashes, three dots.'

‘That sounds right. Not much point us sending that though. I'm pretty sure they know we're in trouble.'

Theresa went to the rail and looked up. It was a fine night and the stars were visible, though blurred and melting. She picked up the pair of binoculars that lived on the terrace, and pointed them at the zenith. That part of the sky had a particular look; the air was like clear oil roiling in clear water. She moved her head to focus the binoculars on the place where the stars began to streak and run, then, further down the sky, where black space and bright stars smeared together into a dark glassiness. She said, ‘I think we have to concentrate on the satellites.'

Bub fetched a blotter pad from the manager's office, and sat down to nut out some code.

Theresa finally took herself off to bed. As she passed Sam she said, ‘For God's sake girl, have some pride!'

Kate put away her knitting and climbed the stairs.

Jacob asked Dan to give him a hand with Warren.

Holly told Bub that she would put out the lights; he should get to bed.

Bub found Sam still sitting on the floor of the hallway, her cheek pressed to William's door. ‘I hope you don't mean to stay there all night,' Bub said. He was very irritated with her. How could she bear to be so abject?

Bub went on to his room, where Belle was waiting for him, the ends of her hair still damp from her shower. She was rosy, and smiling.

Sam let Bub shoo her back to her room, where she waited for everyone to go to bed so that she could return to her post at William's door. She paced her room, chafed by its emptiness. She wasn't thinking, only feeling. Her heart had stopped and she was still upright. She was her body and she hadn't known it. William's door was what kept her from him, but, in his absence, it acted as a surrogate for William. She could lean against it. It had a texture and a temperature and a taste—she had pressed her mouth to it. Without something to touch, something standing in for William, Sam was left with the memory of his rebuff—how he shook her hands off when she tried to touch him. His disdain, his pressed-together lips, wrinkled nose, squinting eyes. That was disgust—Sam had seen that look often enough on his face when they were going house to house, cleaning up.

Sam had liked her job at Mary Whitaker. Every morning Snow would say, ‘Here's my girl!' and Mrs Craig would have a story about her grandson in Saudi Arabia. And Sam was sure that, even when changing Mrs Collins's bed sheets or wiping shit from poor partly-sighted Mrs Healey's bathroom light switch,
she'd
never have made that face.

William had held her, and held her down, and his body would go hard all over when he came. He did things to her she'd never dare to ask anyone to do, and other things she'd not dreamed people did, or that she'd like. Bits of her weren't her own any more. They were his. She'd showered many times—days had gone by after all—but she could still smell him. She was inside a ghost of him with nothing solid to touch, not even—while she waited for the hallway to clear and everyone to go to bed—his door to press and scratch and whisper at.

It was a mild spring night but eventually Sam got cold. She crawled under the covers. She could feel herself going, so sat up and opened a drawer in the bedside table. She took out a pen, and a pad of the spa's stationery, and wrote a note. She ripped her note off the pad, folded it small, closed it in one fist, and lay down again.

Theresa woke up. Jacob was shaking her. He said, in a whisper, ‘I need your help. Get Sam, and maybe Bub too.' And then he was gone from her room.

Theresa found Sam's light still on. Sam was lying looking up at her bedroom ceiling as if listening to movements in a floor above. (There was no floor above.) ‘Jacob needs us,' Theresa said. She left Sam to sort herself out, and knocked on Bub's door. After a moment the door opposite—Belle's—opened, and Bub poked his head out. He put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Belle's fast asleep.'

Theresa pointed down the hall, at the cracked door of Warren's room.

Bub came out, closed the door carefully and followed her.

Jacob was kneeling by Warren's bed. He'd rolled his friend to its edge so that Warren's face was turned down to the floor. There was a small patch of vomit on the carpet, and more smeared on Warren's face and in his hair. There was vomit filling his nose too, and the fluid in his nostrils bubbled with each breath he took. Jacob asked Theresa to get a wet towel, and she scrambled into the bathroom. She ran taps, soaked one towel and came out with two, one wet and one dry.

Jacob thrust his fingers into Warren's mouth and caught his tongue. Theresa passed him a towel. Jacob wiped his friend's face then pinched Warren's nose closed. He placed his mouth over Warren's and sucked. He spat vomit into the towel and wiped his own mouth. Warren was now making rasping and gargling noises. ‘Help me roll him onto his face,' Jacob said. Bub and Theresa rushed forward as eager as racehorses from a starting gate. Together they rolled Warren back across the bed. Some more fluid trickled out his mouth and nose, and his breathing eased a little.

Theresa said, ‘His skin is clammy.'

‘I think he's only aspirated a little bit of vomit,' Jacob said. ‘But he isn't gagging, which worries me. His reflexes are depressed. And don't you think his fingers are a touch blue?'

‘Yeah,' Bub said.

Jacob fished in his collar and produced a key on a cord. He gave it to Bub. ‘Unlock the top drawer of the filing cabinet in the manager's office. The drug I want is Revia.' Jacob spelled its name, and Bub hurried out the door. He passed Sam, who was hovering there helplessly as if waiting for instructions.

There were pill bottles on the bedside cabinet. Jacob picked one up and rattled it. ‘He hasn't taken all of them,' he said. ‘Only a dose—or his idea of one, since he's self-medicating. But he was probably foggy, and has taken it twice.'

‘So you think it's a mistake?' Theresa gathered up the bottles and read their labels. ‘Temazepam, and codeine phosphate. And this is diazepam—which is a form of Valium, isn't it?'

‘Yes. It's a muscle relaxant. But it's the codeine I'm worried about. I've sent Bub to find a drug that's usually prescribed to wean people off heroin. It's not the best thing for the job. It's an oral medication and not very strong. There was some in the pharmacy. The best drug for this job is intravenous, but you'd only find it in hospitals.'

‘Shouldn't we get him moving?' Theresa said.

Jacob nodded. ‘Let's put him in the shower.'

Theresa darted ahead of Jacob into the bathroom. ‘Run it cold,' Jacob called out. He got into the shower with Warren.

Theresa wanted to go after Bub and hurry him along, but when she went back into the bedroom to check the clock on the bedside cabinet, she saw that Bub wasn't being tardy—time was dilating.

Sam was still in the doorway. She must be able to smell the vomit. Changing Warren's bedding would be something Sam would do almost by instinct. She was used to cleaning up after people and did it automatically, with thoroughness and dispatch. But she didn't begin stripping the bed, only drifted closer to the bathroom, her eyes unfocused but her face tense. One of her hands was closed into a fist. ‘What is that?' she whispered.

Theresa could hear the shower, Warren moaning, and Jacob speaking in a strangled, tearful voice.

Theresa felt faintly scandalised. She said, ‘Perhaps you should get a mop and bucket. Sponge the carpet then put fresh sheets on Warren's bed.'

Sam's head came up. Her shoulders were twitching, as if she were bracing herself in a series of small adjustments. She dropped a hand onto Theresa's wrist. ‘What
is
that?' she said again.

‘Warren has taken too much of something,' Theresa explained. ‘And it would be a great help if you could sort out his bedroom while he's not in it.'

The shower shut off, but Jacob went on, haranguing his friend. Theresa couldn't hear the words, only the tone of reproach and distress. ‘Sam!' Theresa said, exasperated. ‘Are you listening?'

‘No,' Sam said, defiant and desperate. ‘
You
listen. What
is
that?'

‘Jacob is upset. He's scolding Warren. Are you going to be of any use?'

Sam's eyes filled with tears—it looked more like rage than anguish. ‘For God's sake!' she yelled. ‘Can't you
feel
that?' Then, as though her anger had incited something else, something exterior to her, she jerked upright and threw her head back. Her jaw went loose, her mouth dropped open, and her face relaxed. It was then that Theresa noticed the bruise on her jaw, dark, definite, and in the shape of knuckles. ‘Jesus, Sam! Did William hit you again?'

Sam came out of her trance. Her clenched hand opened and she dropped a small square of paper on the floor by the door.

Jacob emerged from the bathroom, dripping and shivering. ‘We need a couple of clean robes,' he said.

Theresa hurried off to the treatment room where there was still a cupboard full of fluffy, folded white robes. On the way she passed Bub, taking the stairs three at a time and carrying a packet of pills.

When Theresa got back, Jacob was walking his blanket-wrapped friend up and down. Warren's ankles were turning at every second step. Bub had stripped the bed and was scrubbing the floor with a detergent-soaked cloth. Theresa took Warren's weight while Jacob put a robe on, then they wrapped Warren in the other robe and continued to walk him.

Theresa said, ‘Where's Sam?' She spotted the paper Sam had dropped and picked it up.

‘I threw her out,' Bub said. ‘She was being useless and weird.'

The paper was a sheet of spa stationery, folded palm-sized. Theresa opened it and read:
Pleese pleese help me with William.

Theresa decided that the matter of Sam, her fresh bruise, and her note—her cry for help—was probably best left for another day.

Oscar waited a very long time for the hallway to be quiet and empty. He hadn't wanted to know what the sounds of hushed alarm were about. He just wished everyone would go to bed and get out of his way.

After another hour the noises had subsided. Oscar's clock said that it was two-fifteen. He'd had no trouble staying awake. He was of an age when he'd naturally rather get up at noon and go to bed in the small hours.

At two-thirty Oscar opened his door, checked the hall, and went out. He crept to the fire exit—pressed the latch, then jammed the door open with the ironing board he was carrying for that purpose. It was the fifth time he'd done it, and it was beginning to feel like an established procedure.

He stood on the fire escape and listened to the night. A ruru had come down from the reserve and was up in the arboretum. Oscar heard the owl calling, then saw it, a small silent shadow that floated across a glade between a stand of birches and a black beech. He lost it in the dark and, a moment later, heard a scream—a rat or rabbit. Then, as if a sluice had opened in the sky, a wind came across the ridges landward and the tall brittle European trees began to roar like surf.

Oscar clambered quickly down the fire escape. The steel shivered and rang, but he couldn't hear it over the wind.

He made his way around the back of the kitchen and started across the lawn, navigating through a dark crease near to the shrubbery by the lights on the driveway. The grass was damp and squeaked under his trainers. From where he was, the driveway lights made a yellow gauze in the air, before which everything showed black. There was nothing to see, till suddenly he was under the jacaranda. Its top was visible: purple blossom blanched pink in the light. Oscar only just managed to stop before he blundered onto the pale patch of ground by the tree—Adele Haines's grave, now covered with flowering petunias.

Oscar caught his breath and listened. The wind had dropped again. It was coming around, one wind pushing against another somewhere up there, passing back and forth through the No-Go as if it wasn't there, except that it was and would be sieving the wind of birds and beetles.

Something brushed Oscar's cheek and he jumped, but it was only falling jacaranda blossom.

He went on, keeping away from the driveway, in case the man in black was standing somewhere down in the town looking up at that channel of light. He pushed through the feijoa hedge and came out on Bypass Road.