The War of Immensities (7 page)

“What’s
up.”

“Bring up the
ECG on all of them.”

Orderlies moved
to obey. After a moment, all five screens showed only the alpha
waves and each emitted its regular beep. And no two of them at the
same time.

When Lorna hit
the water, the cold and wet slapped her entire body with a
devastating shock, bursting her back to some sort of reality. It
was like a nightmare—no, like someone had thrown a bucket of water
over her while she slept. A very big bucket of water. She was
completely immersed in it and sinking fast. At first she could not
comprehend what had happened, but the water was bloody freezing and
the panic came with saltiness that attempted to flood her nostrils
and throat as she sank. No bloody doubt about it. She’d fallen
in!

Reflexes took
over, her body remembering the innumerable times she had dived into
the ocean and rivers and swimming pools. At least she had gasped a
full quota of air before she hit and forced it out now, trying to
keep the water out of her lungs. It helped when she closed her
mouth, which had been wide open with amazement as her whole world
suddenly turned aquatic. Maybe the office had been hit by a tidal
wave! Then her body automatically righted itself, lighter water
above, murkier stuff below. Her dress was up around her ears as she
sank—she hoped there weren’t any scuba divers around to see this.
Kick! Kick! she told herself. When she kicked, she fretted as one
of her shoes came off. This was unbelievable. She was going to
drown. What on earth was happening?

The kick
carried her neatly to the surface. She bobbed up, spluttering
water, her hair pasted all over her face like a sea anemone. She
rubbed the fluid from her eyes, coughed and spluttered a few times,
and then trod water, looking around. There was a big pier right by
her that she had obviously fallen off—this was ridiculous. Up on
the pier, the fishermen had gathered at the spot where plainly she
went in, and one young bloke was stripping off his shirt to come to
the rescue.

“It’s okay,”
she blubbered. “I can swim.”

Her
handbag—miraculously still over her shoulder—bumped against her
belly as she did the necessary three strokes to reach the low
boarding platform. She got hold of the rough timber and hauled
herself up and one of the older fishermen, a Maori who had lapsed
completely into his native language, took her hand and hauled her
up onto the platform.

She sat on the
edge of the platform, dragging her dress down to some level of
decency, and smiled weakly at the old Maori. “I’m okay. Just give
me a minute to gather my wits, okay?”

It was going to
take more than a minute.

She had been in
the office, and it was lunchtime—was that really the last thing she
remembered? She gazed at the more distant surroundings to get her
bearings. She had been here before, lots of times, on sunny
afternoons. This was one of those spots on the inner harbour—Herne
Bay by the look of it—miles from the office. How the hell did she
get here? And why? The sun was still high. It was still lunchtime,
but she had never come anywhere like this for lunch before. It made
no sense. Get a grip, Lorna! Try and remember!

Lunchtime. She
recalled that the sense of agitation that had been growing in her
since yesterday was slowly overwhelming her—it was like constantly
wanting to go to the loo except in her brain rather than her
bladder. It was Wednesday when she usually had lunch with Chrissie
but she had rung and Chrissie wasn’t at work—that was no
surprise.

At eleven, she
had rung Chrissie at home and shouted at the answering machine
until Chrissie finally answered. “I feel terrible. I can’t
cope.”

“Come to
lunch.”

“No. I just
can’t. I want to go away somewhere. I want to go now.”

“Okay. We’ll go
away at the weekend. Over to Whakatane. Been planning to for
ages.”

“No. I have to
go now!”

“I’ll come over
straight after work and we’ll plan the trip.”

“It’s the wrong
way!”

“What do you
mean, wrong way?”

“Don’t know. It
just is.”

“Oh come on.
You’ll love it. Just think about it and have a sleep and I’ll be
there in no time.”

“I can’t
sleep.”

She went on for
some time, whimpering pathetically but Lorna hardly heard any of
it. The words Chrissie had spoken stuck in her brain and she
couldn’t clear them. It’s the wrong way! It was too. There wasn’t
any possible reason why it should be the wrong way but it was.
Ridiculous.

So, no lunch
with Chrissie. What then? It had all gone blank. There was a bus
she needed to catch from outside the railway station to get here,
to Waitamata Harbour. She must have caught that bus, or else a
taxi, for no sensible reason, nor even a senseless one. Except it
was the right way.

Now as she sat
on the edge of the boat platform with the rough timber wrecking
what was left of her pantihose, she was still facing out across the
water. Thataway. Where she wanted to go. Over there, across the
bay. Had she really planned to swim the distance? What nonsense.
But it was a straight line, she realised. From the office to the
railway station, the bus journey, the bus stop back up there
somewhere to the end of the pier and into the drink—to over there
somewhere. Where she wanted so badly to go. For no possible reason.
Jesus Christ, she was becoming as nutty as Chrissie.

Last night
Chrissie had called her in tears. She’d had a big fight with John,
about nothing as usual, and Lorna had driven over to comfort
her.

Chrissie was in
a terrible state, pacing about the room, thumping on the walls, so
over-excited that she was unbearable. No wonder John had become
irritated with her and walked out. There had been a lot of this
going on lately, as the wedding plans drew towards a climax. They
had always been such a compatible couple but now they seemed to
fight over every little thing—it was going to be a great marriage,
Lorna sighed.

She knew, as
only an intimate outside observer could, that Chrissie was entirely
the problem. She truly had not been able to put Ruapehu behind her,
as Lorna had, and was becoming a nervous wreck.

Her asthma
troubled her and she burst into tears at the slightest provocation.
She had migraines almost constantly, and fits of temper that were
completely contrary to her previous gentle nature. Lorna wouldn’t
have married her either, the way she was. And the silly girl was
getting worse.

In the three
months since Ruapehu, she had changed shrinks three times, attended
all manner of counselling and self-help groups—was obsessed
completely with all that ‘improve yourself’ nonsense—and it was
only deepening her trauma. Lorna, who showed no indication of
traumatic stress, had submitted for a while and often went along to
Chrissie’s sessions and saw how little good it was doing. The poor
girl was going out of her mind and now it was breaking up her
relationship as well. John Burton was a wimp and the most tolerant
of boys, but even he had run out of patience with her.

Last night
Lorna gave Chrissie some sleeping pills and put her to bed, then
went home, deeply troubled herself. It was as if whatever troubled
Chrissie was contagious and she had caught it too. She didn’t sleep
and was late for work for the first time in years. And now
this.

Okay, looney or
not, she had regained her breath and a skerrick or two of
sanity—time to sort out her more immediate problems.

She had skinned
her knee and holed her pantihose, and got the one shoe she still
possessed off so that she could stand. She had almost drowned, but
right away her biggest concern was that her little green dress had
gone completely see-through—the pervs were having a big day and the
fishermen stood in a line along the pier above her, loving it. She
took the old man’s hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet,
and then leaned on his shoulder for a moment to steady herself—but
then she was fine. Soaked to the skin, deeply ashamed, totally
indecent, very embarrassed, but fine.

As she climbed
the steps up to the pier, she was able to take in a clearer view of
the landward side of her surroundings. Herne Bay, no doubt about
it. She could only shake her head in dismay. Around her the men
were growing very excited and all talking to her at once. They
wanted to carry her off to hospitals or ambulances but she ducked
them with a neat double-baulk and then backed away from them.
Policemen would never believe that it wasn’t a suicide attempt;
medical staff would know that there had to be psychological
problems with people who walked off piers.

“I’m fine,
really,” she insisted, waving her one shoe at them to keep them at
bay. Then, finally, everyone calmed down and began to laugh about
it.

“It’s silly. I
just... fell in.”

“You’re all
wet. You’ll catch cold,” the old Maori was saying—only he dared
advance now.

“I’ll be fine,”
she insisted, still holding her shoe as if the stiletto heel was a
sword.

She looked at
the place where she had fallen. It was too silly to believe, but
she knew she had to believe it. She smiled at the old Maori, and
then raised her arm, pointing.

“Tell me, which
direction is that?”

“West. Sun sets
over here. That way is due west.”

“Bit over
west,” corrected the young bloke who obviously regretted having
missing his chance to rescue her. “Maybe West Nor West.”

“No. West,” the
old man said.

She looked
West. That was where she had been going all right.

“But what’s
over there?”

“Te Atatu,” one
said.

“Kumeu
Motorway,” said another.

“Further than
that,” she asked, because she knew it was!

“West coast,”
the young wouldbe hero said.

“The sea,” the
old Maori added.

“There must be
something else,” she demanded, because she knew there had to
be.

“Nope. Tasman
Sea, all the way to Australia.”

“Australia,”
she echoed, wrinkling her nose distastefully.

It was time to
get out of there, and with a last thankful expression, she decided
to turn and walk, giving them their final thrill for the day. She
actually heard the collective intake of breath and stopped, turning
sideways, grinning, waggling a finger at them. They all smiled back
as well they might.

She paused one
moment more, to complete the scene. In her hand, she still held her
shoe and she regarded it now, and then threw it out into the
water.

“Why’d you do
that?” the old Maori asked.

“Well, if
someone finds the other one, now they’ll have a pair,” she
grinned.

Fairhaven
Hospital inhabited one of the finest old mansions along the
escarpment that overlooked the wide estuary of the Swan River and
the metropolis of Perth on the other side. It was used as a
convalescent home for those who could pay and was considered to
possess the best facilities available in Western Australia. Around
the building—classified A by the National Trust—was a tall iron
fence and at the front heavy gates, although these days they
operated automatically from both inside the building and a small
guard post where a hired security guard was always on duty.

After all,
within the premises were more than thirty people who were well
worth the efforts of a kidnapper or terrorist. A former Prime
Minister, a world famous author, a distinguished British General
and an aged film star were to be numbered amongst the inmates, in a
hospital where the staff behaved more like butlers and maids than
the medical teams of most hospitals.

No terrorist,
nor kidnapper, nor even assassin—as a potential murderer of one of
the patients might have been regarded—had ever attempted to
penetrate Fairhaven’s walls, but still the security remained
vigilant and efficient. Even if, for the period of about a week,
their most critical duty seemed to be the interception of a noted
lawyer trying to escape the grounds in his motorised wheelchair. He
tried it three or four times a day, and never once got past the
gate. But that did not deter him in the slightest.

“But really, Mr
Solomon. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Somewhere
else,” Joe Solomon said grimly as they wheeled him back inside.

Slowly,
methodically, as was his way, he began to piece it all together. At
first it seemed that it had not happened at all—he remembered none
of it—but then, when he concentrated and worked it over in his
brain, it began to come back to him. Still it did not seem real,
and in fact the only way he could be sure that he had made the
journey at all was because here he was at the end of it, even
though the destination obviously wasn’t anywhere at all.

When he pulled
out of the driveway, Brian Carrick had known only that he was going
further than he could walk. He had swung the tail out, the engine
of the big Scania prime mover chuffing and gruffing at this
unexpected activity, and he was surprised to realise that he had
known which way to turn. The truck was without a trailer, and Larry
had loaned it to them because their car had a flat battery—as if to
ensure he got to work. Well he hadn’t fixed the battery and he
wasn’t going to work. One of the many things forgotten or abandoned
these days, and now he was taking off as if escaping his whole
life. Where the hell was he going?

It was three
months since New Zealand and the volcano—his skin had healed
although it left him rather botchy, and he was sure that he was all
right. He had started back to work—light duties only—and was glad
the tedious round of rehabilitation and councillors was ended. If
it was.

He remembered
with a sickening sensation having glimpsed Judy in the rear vision
mirror as he drove away—he had promised to take her shopping but
instead left her for dead on the driveway, clutching her handbag
and shrieking after him, but he carried on anyway. It didn’t occur
to him until he reached the shopping centre that he might have at
least been decent enough to drop her off along the way. To where?
It seemed to Brian that he knew the answer, only it wouldn’t come
to mind. He was going this way, for some distance and if he didn’t
yet know where this way led to, still he knew he was going the
right way.