Five Parts Dead (5 page)

Then the captain's life went from bad to worse. On August 12 he wrote:

At 2pm a sad accident happened to myself.
Coming towards the buildings about two hundred
yards from the lighthouse I tripped over a stump,
pierced my right eye cutting away the lower eyelid.
I am afraid I will lose the sight of the eye.

I flick through the next few pages. The injury must be pretty bad, judging from the way the captain's careful handwriting becomes erratic and smudged. He starts cutting corners too, using ‘ditto' in his weather reports— even letting others compile his precious log. If that isn't enough proof that he's in dire straits, he records the equivalent of a 000 emergency call, hoisting a signal flag from the lighthouse:
Whisky—require medical assistance
.

Three weeks later the handwriting changes again. Another keeper, maybe Mr Bellows as second in charge, writes:

Captain Wilton very unwell today. His mind is wandering at times.

A boat passes—but too far away to signal. The captain and his daughter must have been freaking out.

SEPTEMBER 11
This day Captain Wilton scarcely can speak. He is apparently dying.

S
EPTEMBER 12
Began with moderate winds and fine clear weather. Wind at south. At 4, wind SE. At 6–11 put out the lights. At 8 wind NE by N. At noon NE. Captain Wilton still alive but appears to be going fast. At 5h 45m lighted up…

SEPTEMBER 13
Begins fresh breezes and cloudy weather ESE. At 4 ditto with wind shifting to the northward. Put out the lights at 6h 10m. Wind NE. At 8 ditto weather. At 11h 45m Captain Wilton died. At noon ditto weather. At 4, wind north. At 5h 48m lighted up…

I'm gobsmacked. There were only ten people in this godforsaken place, ten! The head keeper, the boss, died from an infected wound only months after they arrived and his death barely rated a mention in the logbook! All we get is a note in the margin that the other keepers buried the captain near the path to the lighthouse. And Mr Bellows reported changing the signal flags to Victor—
require assistance
. The lazy prick must have been desperate for a replacement keeper so he didn't have to work extra shifts.

I close the log and teeter over to the desk to put it away. The wind moans around the lighthouse and I shudder, thinking of the captain's daughter, orphaned and waiting for a boat to rescue her. Where would she go with no friends or family to turn to? I mean, the loneliness here is absolute. It's totally crushing. No wonder people go mad…or can't see a way forward. My pulse pounds. My breathing is shallow and urgent. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I get to the door and shove it open. Retrieve my fallen crutch and plod swing, plod swing, plod swing, gaining speed until I'm lurching down the hill to the cottage, way too fast for a cripple, but hey, who'd give a rat's if I fall?

My foot fires volleys of protest along my leg, into my hip. My armpits ache. I struggle to the bathroom, throw back a handful of painkillers and stumble to my bedroom.

I'd give anything to talk to someone right now. Anything. Anyone. No one.

I pray to the drugs. Bring on the black.

Please.

K: DESIRE TO COMMUNICATE

The girls shake me awake. The room spirals. I hear Mel's voice: ‘Wake up, slacker! You're sleeping your holiday away.'

And Pip: ‘Go easy on him, Mel.'

I unshackle myself from another ugly dream, grimace, blink and glance towards the foot of my bed. Nothing there. Then I spot my crumpled reflection in the window opposite. I look like a ghost.

Pip takes charge. ‘Mel, would you mind getting some water?' Pip waits for Mel to leave and then stoops and looks into my eyes. ‘Are you okay? Did you take something?'

The room careens like the ferry. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands to steady myself. ‘Painkillers… maybe a few too many.'

My words slur but Pip seems to understand. ‘You look awful,' she says. ‘Why don't you tell me what's going on?'

‘I…I don't…'

Mel prances back into the room with the water, sloshing some on my knees.

‘My God,' she trills, ‘did you get on the turps or something?'

‘Why don't you piss off? Go on. Both of you.'

Pip recoils as if I've slapped her. I hate myself for the hurt I see in her eyes. She opens her mouth as if she's going to give me a serve but holds fire and backs away, mute. Mel rolls her eyes and follows Pip from the room.

The wind slaps the window and groans, triggering a memory from my dream. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image. A dark room, a grey-bearded man on a low bed, his forehead bandaged and his body contorted with pain. I reckon it must be Captain Wilton but why… why am I having these God-awful dreams? What is it about this joint?

Dad calls me to join the others in the kitchen. Mum and Dad believe in regular family dining—at least one sit-down meal together every week. It's not always easy to organise, what with Dad's weird hours and Mel's triathlon training, but it's a fixture. Not negotiable. Mum always raves on about how kids that eat with their families have healthier diets and stronger immune systems—I know the speech off by heart—but she admitted a while back that there's another agenda. These get-togethers are her way of keeping the four of us connected and in tune but, ever since the accident, they've been far from harmonious.

I steel myself and enter the kitchen. Mel glares at me. I do my best to block any mental message she beams my way but I needn't bother. It's pretty clear what she's thinking. Pip won't even look at me.

I sigh, tramp to the stove and lean towards the steaming saucepan, inhaling deeply. Not a good idea. The pasta looks sensational but the thick aroma of garlic, olives and anchovies makes me want to throw up. I excuse myself, blaming a migraine I don't have, and retreat to my room, feeling guilty as hell. Just because I'm having a shit holiday I don't need to spoil it for the others. Although if Mel was to have a crap time that might make me feel… nah. Even I'm not that vindictive.

I try to read a novel I was given for Christmas, some wham-bam bounty hunter thing, but can't focus. The letters shimmy, refusing to sit still and make words. I switch off the lamp and close my eyes but can't sleep either. Instead, I think of the captain, feverish and frantic, battling to survive the infection. Determined to live, even without his eye, for the sake of his daughter, and for the sailors he swore to protect. A dedicated man dying a lingering, tormented death simply because he stumbled. Death by wrong-footed, rotten luck.

And I think of the guys, my guys, loud and larger than life. Aaron—charismatic and confident. Carlo—the class joker, loved by everyone. And big-hearted Boris, the go-to man whenever you needed a hand. Gone in an instant. No second chances. Death by recklessness, overconfidence or stupidity. Maybe all of the above.

Then, for some reason, I'm thinking of all those deaths in the disaster that was September 11 2001. Mum and Dad tried to shelter us kids from the news reports but the footage was replayed on TV so often it was impossible to avoid. I only needed to see it once and I had nightmares for months. Even now, as the planes dive again through my mind, nausea flares in my gut. Imagine sitting in an office, following your daily routine, when horror gatecrashes your life. You barely have time to comprehend the chaos before your world combusts. Death by…God only knows what. Incomprehensible hatred? Blind fanaticism? Corrupted religion?

And I think of me. The one Death keeps hooking, kissing and throwing back. The one beating the house in some cosmic casino.

I nearly drowned in an ice-clad river. I've been scorched in a bushfire and almost electrocuted. I was in a plane crash with Dad, the car smash with my mates. That makes me five parts dead. Five of my nine lives gone and I'm still here.

Why? Why me? I wasn't the strongest, toughest or fittest of the blokes in the Falcon. Not the smartest, best looking, coolest or funniest. Just the luckiest.

What the hell does it mean? That there's something

I have to do before my time expires? That I'll keep getting chances until I seal a deal with fate? Save the planet? Cure cancer? As if. There's no way I'm the chosen one or anything like that.

But what does it change? Should I act differently, live cautiously? Treat every moment as though my luck is so depleted I could be killed by a paper cut? Or should I just stay away from cars, planes, fire, water…even electricity?

I got up-close and personal with the power supply early last summer when Barney and I were trying to save up for some online gaming gear. He nagged his older brother Davo to find us work for cash. Davo's nineteen and a labourer and we ended up on a home renovation site where they were running behind schedule with a house extension. The task sounded simple enough, though I joked that the heavy work would kill me. It nearly bloody did…

Two long, parallel trenches. The excavator can't get close enough to the building so the final footings have to be dug by hand, deep and square enough to satisfy a notoriously fussy building inspector.

Three guys: Davo, Barney and me. Two trenches, the length of a living room. Too bad they didn't mention the ground was solid clay.

We finish the first trench by eleven. Barney inhales his lunch and half-heartedly swings a pick along the length of the next trench, barely loosening the soil. ‘Gotta dash, lads. You'll be right to finish off, won'cha?' He scurries away and straddles his bike. Vanishes before I can finish my mouthful.

‘Weak prick,' Davo spits, and keeps digging.

Two-thirds done. Shoulders, wrists, back aching. Palms blistered. The pick feels heavier each time I lift it. Davo stops for a smoke and I'm left alone, daunted by the unexcavated distance.

Heave. Swing. Klunk.

Heave. Swing. Klunk.

Heave. Swing. Thwunk.

Jammed. It's as if the clay swallowed the pick-head. I can't budge it.

I kick the wooden handle in frustration. No joy. Stuck solid. I try to wobble it, again without effect. For a second I identify with the knights trying to remove the sword from the stone. Man, they must have been pissed off when Arthur slid it out one-handed.

I bend and grab the iron pick-head with both hands. THWWUMP! Simultaneous blows to my armpits and the rear of my skull. It's like being drop-punted by a bull elephant…or Boris. I'm flying, falling, arcing backwards across three trenches and landing in a fourth.

I lie there, vision pixellated, white noise surging in my ears. Footsteps approach and then a voice blasts through the fuzz, the site manager or Davo, maybe.

‘What the hell were you thinking? You've cut the mains power! Stuck a pick in the underground wiring. We're going to lose a day at least. Lucky you're alive, ya dickhead!'

III

G: WANT A PILOT

Morning bulldozes its way under my blind. I trudge to the kitchen and find two notes on the bench. The first is in Mel's writing. Mum and Dad have driven her and Pip to the national park office to meet Hiroshi and his tour group. The message is the equivalent of a withering glare; there's no ‘Have a great day' or ‘Catch you later.' Can't say I blame her. I've hardly been Mr Good-Times since we got here.