The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (28 page)

‘You travel the day after tomorrow. The aims of your mission are quite clear,' she says without the slightest hint of irony in her voice. ‘Your goal is to utilise your WHO consultant status to deliver the packages that will be provided to you by our Taneffe colleagues. You will attend a seminar taking place in Chiang Mai, Thailand. We'll have the details ready soon. As on your last trip, packaging and shipping will not be your responsibility. Your role will be more managerial. You will have able and competent assistants and guides. Your pack contains all you need. Plus first-class plane tickets and a credit card with a generous limit. Any questions?'

‘And work?' I ask, somehow in the midst of all this, aware that Blake is expecting me back after the Colombia meetings. Maybe more so now after the tragic business with Irene. ‘I'm expected back in London in a week's time.'

‘Don't worry, all that has been taken care of. All our partners have been informed of the slight change of plan. We have arranged a slot for you at the international seminar to give your visit credence.'

‘You seem to have all angles covered,' I say.

She smiles. Very straight teeth. Very white.

‘We try to cover all the eventualities,' she says with pride. ‘To run a smooth operation. I will say goodbye. Someone will be along to escort you from the premises.'

She stands, takes the cassette from the video player, clips shut her briefcase, then leaves the room. I am alone. So I am to turn around, retrace my journey. Back to South-East Asia. I stare at the blank screen of the TV, the memory of Caitlin's face floating in and out of focus.

‘Merrily, merrily,' comes her voice from the shadows, ‘life is butter dream.'

14

It ain't no skipping

Back in my hotel room I order a beer, a whiskey and a club sandwich, even though I have no intention of eating. When the waiter arrives a few minutes later I search for a banknote for a tip. As I shuffle through my assorted currencies a small card falls away from the bundle and floats to the floor. I pick it up. It is John's number, the guy from the Aftercare Meeting who met me at Hande Street in London, after the debacle in Kilburn with the tulips and the daffodils. I remember the talk we had in the coffee bar and the shred of hope I'd felt that I could turn my life around after all. That it need not carry on being like this. I put the card down by the phone. I stare at the glass of whiskey, my hand shaking uncontrollably, my mind in a spin. I want to drink it and I don't want to drink it. I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver, but it's not John's number I dial. This one is from memory, from instinct.

I hold the headset close to my ear, so it almost sticks to my skin. Just in case I lose my nerve.

‘Tommo … is that you?'

‘Yes, it's me sure enough,' comes the gentle voice of my uncle. He seems to sense the trouble in my hesitation. ‘Anthony, how are you?'

‘I'm in a mess, if I were to tell you the truth of it.'

‘What kind of mess?'

‘All sorts, Tommo. But mainly the drinking. I can't stop and I can't start.'

‘Is that the way it is?'

‘Yeah, it's flattened me, Tommo. I'm lost.'

‘It's okay,' he says softly. ‘You'll find yourself again. You know, I've been expecting this call for a while now.'

‘You have?'

‘Yes, you know it runs through our family like a plague. The Irish disease, we used to call it. Your dad, our dad, Aunt Ava, another cousin or two. I've seen it in you most of your adult life. Anthony, you won't beat it on your own. You got to get some help.'

‘I've got some help.'

‘Where you are?'

‘It's okay. I've got some help where I am, wherever I am. There's someone I can call.'

‘Will you promise to call them, then?'

‘I think I can.'

‘Thinking's not enough. You must. It's life or death and we want you alive. Lottie needs you alive, we all do. This is as big a challenge as your invention, your science. It's my birthday next week. I'll be eighty-five. If you tell me you're dealing with this, it'll be the best birthday present ever. You can be the one to break the chain. Can you give me that present?'

‘I can, I can,' I say listening to my own echo, trying to convince myself. ‘There's someone I can call who I know will help.'

‘That's great. You know, a sports guy, a baseball player I think he was, once said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” Like when the straw man in the
Wizard of Oz
tries to tell Dorothy the way to the Emerald City. He's at a crossroads and points in all four directions. But she follows her instincts. You're at a fork, matey, and there's only one right way to go. It ain't no skipping, but there's only one path to take. You know what it is. And I know you can take it.'

‘I can, I will, I'll call,' I say, entranced as ever by Tommo's storytelling.

‘Then call them. Please. But it's got to be for you. Not for me, not Lottie, but for you. You have to do it for yourself.'

‘For sure. I think I know that now.'

‘I love you, Anthony, always remember that.'

‘And I love you too.'

‘Okay, mate. I'll get off the phone and you get on it.'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes.'

‘And Tommo, happy birthday for next week.'

Tommo puts the phone down, takes a breath and then walks slowly across to the hallway and pulls on his trusted old walking boots. The sound of the ocean greets him as he opens the door and makes his way across the dunes to the beach below. He looks from right to left, from Barwon Heads to the lighthouse, and realizes the beach is deserted and he is alone. As he walks across the sands he looks back to see his footsteps, fresh and new. He moves on a little way and then notices a darkened shape at the edge of the water. It is early morning and dawn is breaking. Getting closer, he sees the body of a pied cormorant. He leans down and picks up the small dead bird.

‘How did you get here, little fellow?' he says quietly, holding the limp body in his cupped hands. ‘No one around to look after you, eh?'

Tommo kneels on the soft sand. He gently places the bird to one side and begins digging a small shallow grave, the grains of sand collecting under his fingernails. Reverently he places the baby cormorant in the hollow, sprinkling a shower of sand over it until it is covered up and laid to rest. He stands up, the small mound at his feet. He pauses for a second and then walks off towards the headland.

‘Sure enough, it ain't no skipping,' he says – it's his favourite phrase, used for the second time this day, but to no one in particular – ‘but while you've got a breath, you're still in with a chance.'

Tommo walks and feels at peace. He knows that things have a habit of turning out one way or another and that fretting and fussing makes precious little difference in the long run. There's a north-westerly bringing the fresh morning air across the Bass Strait from Tasmania and the Antarctic beyond. As often happens on his solitary walks, the years roll back and figures from the past whoop and splash before him in the dunes and on the crashing waves. He sees himself and his brother wrestling in the sand: Anthony's father was always the stronger, more determined. And over there are Anthony and Caitlin chasing each other across the shallow estuary of Barwon River, stumbling and falling in the knee-deep lagoon of the low tide.

As Tommo climbs the rickety wooden steps to Barwon Head he sees a young couple standing on the narrow bridge down below. During the last weeks a dolphin has taken up residence in the river and they are hoping for a sight of a fin, or even a leap in the air. Tommo huffs and puffs his way to the top, where the wide panorama of the Strait opens up before him as he catches his breath. The waves crash in and he breathes deep, all eighty-five years of him. His eyes water in the wind and he blinks to clear his vision. There, big on the horizon, the ferry makes its way out of the rip of Port Phillip Bay en route to Devonport. The big red-and-white vessel full of the hopes and lives of a thousand people. Each, like Tommo's solitary figure on the cliff-tops, doing the best with what they've got.

He looks back to the wide and glorious sweep of Ocean Grove, breathes and breathes again the sweet crisp air.

‘It ain't no skipping,' he says, for the third time, for luck, ‘but it'll more than do.'

I turn John's card around between my fingers and then put it back down by the phone.

‘I can, Tommo, I can,' I say out loud, so that I can hear my own words.

I almost gag at the sight of the food and realize I have barely eaten for days. The beer attracts me like a beacon. I pick it up and hold it to the light. The amber liquid glistens in the late afternoon light. Then a thought comes to me, from somewhere deep in the back of my mind. ‘It's the first drink does the damage'. And it's as if I've never heard it before. I finally understand. I always thought it was the tenth beer, or the whiskey that followed, or the crack cocaine that caused me all the problems. But if I don't take the first drink then I can't get to the tenth, and if I don't take the tenth I won't get to the cocaine. What else was it? If you don't drink you can't get drunk. Something shifts in me, like a spiral from the head to the heart. I put down the beer and pick up John's card. I manage to get the codes right and listen as the ringing tone connects me to John's number. For once I pray it won't be the answering machine. Dear God, I need to speak to this man. After a few rings he answers.

‘Hello, this is John.'

‘John, it's Anthony. I'm calling from Bogotá. It is all a mess. I can't go into details. My life, my work. My syringe. The drug users. Warren. I thought I could do it all. But an old drug user in Chicago told me it won't work. He's right, he's right. It's all in such a terrible state. Everything.'

‘Okay. Don't worry. Remember, you're doing your best. It's not all lost. Your work will still be of great value. Now and in the future. But you need to look after yourself. You'll help no one if you self-destruct. You don't need to tell me anything more. Are you drinking?'

‘Well, not now,' I say, looking over at the beer and whiskey on the tray.

‘Good, just remember, whatever's going on in your life a drink won't make it any better. More likely it will make it all much worse. Forget your work for a while. You are not responsible for the whole world. So your syringe won't work for drug users. That's not your fault. Just do the next right thing. You are not in control of everything. Just accept that. Acceptance is the answer to all our problems. I've said this before and I'll say it again. You are not responsible for everyone and everything. What are you doing now?'

‘I've just ordered a beer from room service.'

‘Okay, pour it down the sink. Now.'

‘And a whiskey.'

‘Both of them.'

‘What?'

‘Down the sink,' says John, authoritatively. ‘In the meantime I'll get you a number to phone. I take it you haven't contacted anyone from the Aftercare Meetings in Bogotá.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Okay, give me your number. Hang up and I'll call you back in five minutes. In the meantime, pour the booze away.'

So I give John my hotel and room number and then take the drinks and, like someone performing a sacrificial rite, sigh and pour the liquid down the bathroom sink. I watch it circle and glug down the plughole. And then it is gone. I sit on the bed and wonder how I have gotten myself into this strange state of affairs, where I pour drink down the sink and wait for a man I barely know in London to phone me with a stranger's number in South America.

When John calls back he tells me the office in London has a contact number in Bogotá and there are Meetings in the city every night.

‘Just don't drink and get to a Meeting,' he says. ‘It really is as simple as that.'

It is Sunday morning on the Heath. The sun has not yet burnt off the mist that lies as a soft shroud on the Ponds. The swans and their cygnets are close to the nest, dipping their majestic heads in and out of the water in search of food. The resident heron stands as a statue in the shallow water of the opposite bank, his eyes eager, his sword-like beak poised to spear a passing fish. The day is beginning to take on a quality of calm. The sun is kindly warm and the breeze is gentle. The trees are flush with leaves and the grass in the dip of the meadow is long and lovely and lush. The recent rains have freshened the air, sharpened the light.

Lottie and Trixie walk along the gravel path skirting the pond, then scramble up the small grass verge that overlooks the swan's nest.

‘Here they are,' says Lottie, leaning against the fence, pointing to the pen and cob and their brood of cygnets.

‘Whoa, they're magnificent,' breathes Trixie.

She searches inside the pocket of her heavy black trench coat and pulls out a hardened baguette. She breaks it in half and passes one piece to her friend. The swans swim close to the two girls in anticipation of an early breakfast. Lottie and Trixie laugh as they do their best to aim chunks of bread in the general direction of each swan.

‘Do you know it's a fallacy about swans mating for life?' says Lottie as she lobs a hunk of bread in the air.

‘No,' says Trixie, ‘you sure?'

‘Sure,' says Lottie, watching two cygnets tussle and tug over the bread. ‘No one should be made to feel that responsible for someone else.'

‘No, no one,' says Trixie. ‘It's enough to do to look after yourself.'

There is a splash and they look up. At the end of the jetty the blue diving board is quivering; the water beneath it heaving and bubbling. Then the head of a man breaks the surface: the first swimmer of the day.

The concierge at the Novotel is not impressed by the look of Wayne Dyer. Not only does he leave his ancient pick-up truck (dangling fender, pushed-out headlight and all) smack outside the plush hotel entrance, he's also wearing a pair of paint-splattered dungarees and dusty boots. To top it all, he's unshaven and doesn't seem at all intimidated by his surroundings. So the concierge is doubly suspicious when the American speaks in perfect Spanish to announce he is here to meet Senor Anthony Malloy in room 253.