Smoke in the Room (23 page)

But as it turned out, the gripping and dragging were temporary. He'd seen Katie take a tentative step towards the edge of the path and clumsily dropped her hand in order to construct a safety barrier. And now she would not take him up again. She would not take herself up again. She was standing in place and he was moving again, outward not forward.

Graeme opened both tiny bottles of vodka and poured them over the melting, whisky-stained ice. He listened to the trains passing two hundred metres from his window. He could leave right now. Five minutes and it would be done. There were two notebooks left to be transcribed and destroyed, but what did it matter? Twenty-year-old information on the location of safe houses in Angola would not make the slightest bit of difference. None of it, he knew, would make the slightest bit of difference. It was pure vanity. Vanity and procrastination.

He drained the glass, his eyes watering. Now there was her. Not a reason to stay, as he'd thought, but a reason to take care with the leaving. To – what had he said to Dot earlier? – to not leave things worse off than he'd found them.

The alcohol had worked to make his head and eyelids heavy. He slid between the sheets and closed his eyes. Funny how the trains sounded just like crashing waves. Or perhaps, he thought, drifting off, perhaps he was closer to the beach than he'd realised.

The next morning, he caught the 7 am train back to Central and decided to go home and shower before going to work. He would be two, two-and-a-half hours late, but he doubted they would notice and if they did there was always the dentist excuse he hadn't had to give them yesterday.

When he walked into the flat, Adam was stretched out on the living room floor, a book open in front of him.

‘Hey,' he said without looking up. ‘Katie's sleeping so keep it down.'

‘Right, I'll cancel my drum lesson, then.'

‘Is that a joke?'

‘Apparently not a good one. Has something happened?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Can I help?'

‘Sure. How about you go and curl up in bed with her and talk about war and torture and gruesome death? That seems like a helpful thing to do with a fucking manic depressive, don't you think?'

Graeme sat on the couch, his shaking hands under his thighs. ‘Our conversations weren't harmful to her. I would never have let them continue if they were. It helped her a little, I thought, to talk about her darker thoughts.'

Adam turned a page, although his eyes seemed to be focused an inch or so past the book. ‘It was all about helping her, was it?'

‘She came to me, I listened and where I thought I could help, I did. I'm the one who put these bars up, remember.'

Adam snapped the book closed and jumped to his feet. He walked to the window and bent forward, his forehead resting against the bars. ‘Listen, I'm too tired and too stressed to bullshit you. Katie went through your stuff. She thinks you're going to top yourself.'

Graeme barely heard the end of Adam's accusation; he was already heading for his room. He slid the lock and sat on his bed staring at the door until his heartbeat slowed. When he unlocked the door, Adam was standing in front of it, his hand poised to knock. He stepped back and raised his hands. ‘Look, man, I –'

‘Come in.'

Adam perched on the edge of Graeme's desk, resting his bare feet on the chair.

‘Listen to me,' Graeme said. ‘Katie cannot believe I intend to kill myself.'

‘She does believe that.'

‘Why?'

‘She found your bank statements, transfers to the refugee foundation. She said getting rid of all your possessions, all your money, is a suicidal thing.'

‘Yes. Yes. Of course that's what she'd think. Poor Katie.' Graeme trained his gaze on Adam's feet. The skin was shockingly white after the lurid tattooed colours of his lower legs. ‘You need to explain to her that I sold up everything because I had a spiritual epiphany. You need to tell her I decided it was hypocritical to work for social justice while living in an expensive house and surrounding myself with expensive things. Tell her I have decided to live simply, like a monk.'

‘Why don't you tell her?'

‘I'll try, but last I checked she wasn't speaking to me.'

‘Man.' It was more a sigh than a word.

Graeme noticed Adam's hooded eyes and lined forehead, his young man's hands on the end of those defeated sailor arms. Pity lurched up in him. ‘This shouldn't be your problem,' he said. ‘You've enough to deal with. I'll call her grandma. I need to anyway. I told her I'd –'

‘No, wait.' Adam held up his hand. ‘I promised I wouldn't involve her gran.'

‘I promised that I would.'

Adam stared blankly for a few seconds and then his face crumpled and his upper body spasmed like he'd been thumped in the back. ‘Damn,' he said. ‘Damn.'

‘Calm down. It'll be fine. I'll call Ann and –'

Adam hit the desk with his open palm. ‘She almost died! She tried to. Understand? I got to her in time, but . . .'

‘Is she –' Graeme started, but his voice came out too low.

‘If I tell her grandma, she'll run. That's what she said and I believe her.' He crossed his arms, held his shoulders. ‘She said she'll let me help her, that she'll do what I tell her as long as I don't . . . She won't let her gran go through this again, she'll disappear first. She's capable of anything after last night.'

‘I have a number for her doctor,' Graeme said. ‘How about I –'

‘The guy in Surry Hills? Yeah, I got his details from an old prescription in her wallet. He said she'd missed the last four appointments so he wasn't surprised she'd had an
episode
. Said I should take her to the emergency room if I was worried. Then he put me through to the receptionist, offered an appointment in three weeks.'

Graeme clenched his fists by his sides. ‘Okay, I have a colleague. A psychiatrist. I'll talk to her today. See if she can help.'

Adam exhaled. ‘Okay. Good. Thanks.' He slid from the desk, took a step towards the door, stopped and turned back to Graeme. ‘What about you, though? Are you . . . I mean, should I be calling someone to help
you
?'

‘No.' He barely got the word out.

‘Because to be honest I'm so thrown right now that I don't know which way's up. I'm trying to do the right thing but I have no idea what that is. I mean, should I get tough with you? Should I be holding you down like I did Katie? Should I be going through all your stuff looking for proof ? Do I need to be watching you as well as her? I can't decide if you're –'

‘Adam, stop.' Graeme pressed his nails into his palms as hard as he could. ‘What you need to do, in my opinion, is beg or borrow the money for a plane ticket, pack your gear and go home. Hug your mum. Go drinking with your friends.'

‘You're avoid –'

‘Have a garage sale,' Graeme said and felt a sick rush of elation at Adam's recoil. ‘Sorry,
yard sale
you'd probably say. Or just give it all away to charity. Silly to hang around here going through all this just because you're afraid of dealing with all her stuff.'

Adam's jaw stiffened. ‘I can't leave Katie alone like this. Especially if what she says about you is true. Tempting as it is right now, I can't just leave you both here to –'

‘Mate! If you're determined to be her saviour, you need to bloody well start acting like a sane and reasonable adult. Stop the drunken, maudlin screwing, the adolescent angsty crap. She's not a seer or a mad genius or a wild grief-curing nymph. She doesn't have any special insights or super suicide prediction powers. She's a sick, lonely kid. Help her or get out of the way so the real grown-ups can.' Graeme went to the door and opened it. He did not look at Adam. ‘Please,' he said. ‘I have to get ready for work.'

There was a knock and then Jenny's head appeared around his office door. ‘Sherry said you were looking for me?'

‘Yeah, do you have a minute?'

‘For you, Graeme? Always.' She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. ‘I actually beat you here this morning, I think. Had a sleep-in?'

‘I wish. Dentist.'

‘Mmm.' Jenny rubbed her eyes, yawned. ‘Sorry. I'm stuck on the idea of a sleep-in now. One of these days I'm going to stay in bed until midday. I really am.' She shook her head briskly. ‘Right. So, what's up?'

Graeme held a pen in his right hand, as though this was work. ‘Have you much experience with manic depression?'

Jenny groaned. ‘Graeme, please don't tell me there's a bipolar arrival.'

‘No, sorry, ah, this is actually a . . . a personal matter.'

Jenny blinked and leant back in her chair. ‘Oh?'

‘I have a friend. She's in a bad way. She needs a good doctor.'

‘What does in a bad way mean?'

Graeme described what he knew of Katie's history and current state. Jenny agreed – albeit with a mouthful of disclaimers and cautions and equivocations – with his amateur diagnosis of bipolar, and agreed, with no equivocation at all, that professional intervention was called for.

‘You want me to recommend someone?'

Graeme blinked back at her.

‘Shit. You don't want me to recommend someone, do you?'

‘I hoped you could come and meet her and then if you . . . I understand if you can't spare the time. I know how hard you work, but that's the thing . . . why I wanted you to . . . because I know you're a good doctor, I know you'd never fob a patient off with a wad of scripts. I know you take care.'

‘Ah, flattery. How do you know this kid?'

Graeme hesitated. ‘She's my flatmate.'

‘I didn't know you had a flatmate.' She frowned. ‘I didn't know you had a flat. Wait. What happened to your place in Paddington?'

Graeme twirled the pen in his fingers, casual. ‘I sold it. Decided to downsize. I'm living just up the road now.'

Jenny stared. ‘Wow. That amazing house. I've been coveting that place ever since I saw it. The view from the upstairs windows and that organic grocer right across the street. And those ceilings!'

The memory of a night several years ago, back when he still thought he might make a life here, appeared. Jenny had come for dinner. They'd talked shop and she'd commented on the height of his ceilings, the delicate plaster work of the cornices. He'd wanted, for a while, to take things further, but couldn't figure out how it was done. At what point to do you halt the discussion of immigration policy and put your tongue in her mouth? How do you even begin the transition from standing by her side admiring plasterwork to lying on top of her sweating into her skin?

She left soon after dinner and he'd never asked her over again. After a few months he'd stopped thinking about the night and what went wrong. He went back to the tough, bossy ‘independent contractors' in the eastern suburbs. Women in their mid-to-late thirties who'd have the condom unrolled within a minute of stashing their cash in the toe of a high-heeled shoe.

He waved Jenny's words away. ‘Like I said, I decided to downsize. Simplify my life.'

‘Graeme, that place must have been worth what? Six hundred thousand? More? You must have a hell of an investment portfolio.'

He shrugged and, thinking of Katie's eggshell skull, he pressed on. ‘So what do you say, Jenny? Will you at least come and meet her? Tell me what you think?'

Jenny chewed her bottom lip. He saw she wanted to ask more about his move, understood that her curiosity would not allow her to say no to him now. She arched her arms over her head and cracked her neck from side to side. She blew air out between her lips. ‘Righto,' she said. ‘Where and when do you want me?'

After he pulled her off the stair rail, Adam told Katie he wouldn't let her out of his sight. He was worried, he said, that she would ‘suddenly decide' to try again. She told him that it wasn't sudden and it wasn't a decision. She tried to explain, so that he would ease off, stop hovering, but she couldn't think of the right words. He stroked her head until she fell asleep and when she woke again the room was bright and he was snoring beside her.

She pulled herself up and went to the bathroom, then went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. She lay on the couch and turned on the TV. She watched part of a documentary about animal attacks and wondered why bears never clawed out their own hearts. Why did horses never throw themselves over cliffs?

She watched
Oprah
,
Judge Judy
,
Dr Phil
and
Deal or No Deal
. When the news came on, she turned the TV off. She couldn't cope with the shouting of red-faced men in grey suits or the close-ups of blood-stained driveways and sheet-shrouded bodies. She didn't want to deal with the
feeling that the camera crew was right outside her window, the arresting officer about to bust through her door.

She crept through to Adam's empty room and grabbed a navy windbreaker from his cupboard, pulled it on over her T-shirt and shorts. She slid into a pair of thongs she'd left in the bathroom, pocketed her lighter and smokes and left the flat.

The dusk was shockingly bright. The sky was pink and orange where it should have been charcoal. A trio of students in pastel shorts and halter tops stopped talking as they passed her. She stared straight ahead, hands deep in the plastic pockets. She wished she had glasses and a hat. She wished she had a beard. She walked carefully, making sure the entire front foot – heel to toe – was down before she lifted the back foot and brought it to the front. Each time her heel connected with the ground she said to herself
see it's fine
but her body knew her mind was not to be trusted.

‘It's like this,' she imagined telling someone. ‘You're alone in a skyscraper. You sense a presence somewhere in the building but it's very far away, probably on the ground floor while you're up on the fifty-fifth. As time passes, you sense the presence moving closer. You try and distract yourself with work, phone calls, running up and down the corridors. There's a rustling noise that won't go away. Is it at the fifty-third floor already? The rustling becomes a roar. You turn your stereo up as loud as it will go, dance faster, count backwards from one thousand, try and remember the names of all your teachers from kindergarten onwards. You realise that if you'd evacuated back when it was a whisper you would be safe by now. As it is, the noise and all it threatens to
bring with it is in the elevator. And then it's there and you can't breathe or see or imagine that anyone will find you and you stumble to the window and you have a moment of clarity, understand how easy it is to jump from a burning building.'