Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (35 page)

‘No. No, this is stupid. You were a child. You couldn't have known if he was … dead.'

‘I did know. Remember the kangaroo? The one we killed on the highway when we drove to Melbourne. He was like that. Liam was … like that.'

‘How –
like that
?'

Chris rolls off the bed and goes to the long sash window overlooking the front garden. ‘His eyes; they were … not open, not closed, just … He was gone, Ben. I swear it. And then the wave hit us and he was on top of me and … and I couldn't talk. Even before I could, Gran made me promise never to tell.'

Ben drags himself off the bed and props against the door frame. ‘Maybe,' he says over his shoulder. ‘Maybe you're more like your old man than you want to admit.'

Diane is clipping flower stems for a vase – lilies and some green stuff.

‘Judge phoned, looking for you. He said your mobile was switched off.' She looks him up and down, taking in his dishevelled hair, flattened from lying down, his shirt adrift at the waist. He can imagine what she's thinking. He's tempted to let her think it, but doesn't really want to be cruel.

‘I've been with Ben.'

She sighs slowly, and nods. ‘Oh. Good. About time.'

Sammy Leong is probably about Chris's age. If it weren't for a few streaks of grey in his jet-black hair, Sammy's easy manner and unlined skin would suggest a man ten years younger. His desk is empty apart from a pen, a writing pad and a Chinese vase with a red ribbon. No computer. Posters on the walls show a man drawn front, side and back, with lines running up and down his body. The Chinese view of a human being? If only it were that simple.

Sammy listens attentively while Chris explains that Tabitha Holloway suggested acupuncture might help to treat the effects of a stroke.

‘You have CVA?'

‘No, not me, my friend. My business partner – about six months ago.'

‘Oh.' Sammy grimaces. ‘Six months is a long time. Better he came straight away. Easier to fix.'

‘He's doing well – almost normal again – physically. The problem is his speech.'

‘His face is drop?'

‘Yes, a bit. It's more that he's hard to understand.'

‘Ah, yes.' Sammy nods. ‘And why you are here, Chris?'

‘I want to know if you think acupuncture might help.'

Again Sammy nods. ‘Yes, acupuncture might help, but why you are here?'

‘Oh, I'm not. I just wanted a chat.'

Sammy's smile reveals perfect teeth. ‘Lot of people come here for somebody else: my brother, my sister, my friend. Always somebody else. You have had acupuncture?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, you must try. Then you can tell your friend, yes or no.'

‘But I—'

‘Come.' Sammy springs up, grabs Chris's wrist and leads him to a treatment cubicle.

‘But there's nothing wrong with me.'

‘Always something. Worry, stress. Take off shoes, socks, trousers.' Sammy glides out. Chris sits for a moment on the treatment table. Needles.

Ah, don't be a wuss.

He removes his shoes and jeans. Sammy returns with a tray of bits and pieces, presses Chris gently onto his back and picks up his wrist. He squints thoughtfully, then repeats the process on the other side. ‘Tongue.' Chris sticks out his tongue and Sammy's eyebrows tweak as if it's what he expected. He lays the back of his hand over various parts of Chris's body and asks about his diet and sleep. Except that it's pleasant to be lying down, Chris is wondering what the hell he's doing here.

‘Chi' stuck,' says Sammy.

‘Cheese is what?'

‘Liver. Stagnant.'

Sounds ominous. Is it fatal?

‘Stuck Chi',' Sammy repeats. ‘Energy not smooth.' He swabs various parts of Chris's arms and legs and before he knows it, Chris is hedgehogged with fine needles. He feels no pain, only a cramping sensation when Sammy twirls them.

‘Twenty minutes,' says Sammy, and disappears.

Chris stares at the ceiling for a moment or two, then feels his muscles soften, rather like elastic giving way in an old pair of shorts. His breathing slows … he is calm, drifting with a peaceful detachment he hasn't known since … grass beneath a railway line. Outside the window a single leaf spins slowly downwards, clouds inch across the sky. His mind is open, quiet. He closes his eyes, feeling time slow, or maybe expand … nothing matters, everything exists without drama and strain. All is exactly as it should be …

Sammy returns and picks up his wrist. He nods, evidently satisfied, and removes the needles.

Chris eases himself off the table, dresses and returns to Sammy's office. He hands Chris two business cards.

‘The other one for your friend.'

A pollen-laden westerly buffets the car and spatters it with yellow dust as he drives back to the office but Chris is so relaxed even his promise to help Archie shift house after work doesn't faze him. His son's decision to move out was typically impulsive. A mate had a room going in a mansion he shares with four others.

‘How can I not?' Archie said to his mother. ‘Closer to work and dirt cheap.'

‘It's dirt cheaper at home,' said Diane.

Chris is pleased Archie is spreading his wings, even if Diane has reservations.

At the office, he finds a note from Hamish asking him to: ‘Please check the attached list of items identified as requiring attention on the restoration of the Prouds' art deco house at Sherwood.' Chris runs his eyes over the list. Perfect. Technically, anyway – no evidence of passion. Still, who is he to define anyone's passion … apart from his own? Perhaps achieving technical perfection thrills Hamish to the core.

Make the call.

What? Oh. No. Maybe later.

Even if she doesn't fancy you, can't you still be friends?

Yes, of course.

So make the call.

Later.

Now!

He makes the call, but when a man answers he nearly hangs up. ‘Stuart?' he enquires cautiously.

‘Who is this?'

‘Chris Bright. Um, may I speak to Roberta?'

She comes to the phone, chirpy and nonchalant as if nothing's happened. ‘How are you, Chris?'

‘Fine. I'm just calling to let you know I won't be buying those blocks of land, after all. So if you were serious about wanting them, you could make an offer.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I know how much you wanted them. I am interested, though. What price should I try for?'

‘I nailed him at two fifty.'

‘Oh.' A burst of laughter comes from her end of the phone.

‘You're busy,' he says.

‘My family's visiting for a few days; fatso daughter Lily, and John, and my soon-to-be-grandchild. I'd best go. Thanks for calling, Chris. I'll let you know what happens.'

Archie's room is a shambles. Every item he owns, surely – washed and unwashed – plus bedding, shoes, plastic bags, cookery books, magazines, CDs and God knows what else, is strewn across every surface. Amidst it all, Diane presides over the double bed like a queen on her way to the guillotine.

‘You're not having it, Archie.'

‘But … what am I supposed to sleep on?'

‘The floor, for all I care.'

‘Mummy, dearest – you don't mean it!'

‘Stop it, Archie. This isn't
Brideshead Revisited
and you're not Sebastian Flyte.'

‘He certainly is not,' says Chris, knowing Archie's interest in the bed is not for sleeping. All this freedom, and no bed? Disaster.

‘An air mattress,' he suggests. ‘A single air mattress is dirt cheap. We'll buy you one as a housewarming gift.'

Archie gives him a look similar to the one Diane has been giving him for the last fortnight. The way things are with her, Chris might need the bed himself, so ratty is she – still – over Tabi returning to work. He's done everything he can to assure her that the brief affair is over and her anxiety is misplaced, but she won't be persuaded.

It takes three hours to move Archie and all his gear (minus the bed) to the creaky mansion by the river, and just one more for the remaining inhabitants of number 10 Appleby Street to become aware that they are the only ones left.

Shift-work and lectures often took Archie away from home but his presence – so endearingly, if wearingly, insistent – could still be felt within its walls. Now that he's really gone, Chris and Diane rattle around the house like nails in an empty paint tin.

More cheerful is Phoebe's presence next door on the weekends. She and Violet have agreed on the changes, plans are in Council and a builder has been organised. Phoebe ducks in and out and stays for at least one meal but won't discuss the job with her father. He has abrogated his responsibilities, she says, and can wait to see it finished.

‘Have you seen Ben?' Chris asks her over dinner one evening. It's been more than a fortnight since he told Ben about Liam and he's heard nothing.

‘Last week,' she says.

‘How is he?'

‘Okay. Why don't you ask him yourself?'

‘I'm … giving him space to digest some … unexpected news.'

News that must have hit Ben hard. Rewriting history is not for the faint-hearted. ‘I'll call him,' he says.

Soon. He's been busy. Cleaning the fishpond. Mowing the lawn. Playing tennis. Designing a motel on the northern outskirts of Brisbane. At work he is doing his best, but knows that his best is not flash.

Monday sees him at his drawing board trying to design a reception area for a motel that doesn't look like every other motel in Brisbane. Fletcher keeps appearing on the drawing and Chris erases him for the third time. He sketches in a raked ceiling.

What next – exposed beams? This isn't the seventies.

Chris is rescued by his mobile.

‘It's gone!' Bertie wails. ‘Can you believe it?
Gone
.'

‘The land?'

‘Yes, the land. The beautiful land.'

‘Oh.' The news is unexpectedly depressing, like losing it all over again himself. ‘I'm really sorry, Bertie. How much did it go for?'