The Cry (5 page)

He positioned himself a few inches away from her, his back against the dry yellow earth of the embankment, and stared ahead. ‘I want you to focus,’ he said. ‘What we do next will change our lives for ever. Don’t try and turn and look at the car. Look straight ahead and don’t say anything. I’m going to list the facts.’

Her hands were shaking violently. She sat on them and stared ahead as he’d ordered. The field was flat and yellow and she couldn’t see where it ended, if it did. Nothing was growing in it. No animals were grazing in it. The hot north wind that fuelled the fires in the distance carried eerie brown clouds of dust south, tussling with her hair on its way. A flake of ash danced at her nose, up down, up down, then settled on her right ankle. Now that she’d been placed in this spot, she couldn’t move and didn’t want to. She wanted to sit there till she died. Perhaps she could do that, die of thirst at the side of this road, never ever going back to that car. If she asked Alistair, maybe he would agree to leave her there. She would. She’d ask him, once he was done with the usual routine: listing the facts, deciding on a plan of attack, getting the job done.

Hang on, what job was there to do? How was any of this bullshit ever going to help?

His voice interrupted her thoughts. As ever, he listed the facts in point form. She didn’t turn her head or move her eyes towards him, but she could see in her peripheral vision that he had stretched out his arm and lifted his thumb, ready to nail down the first.

‘One: Noah is dead.’

His voice was steady, in control. His index finger came out to join the thumb that was heavy and pulsing with its fact.

‘Two: It’s our fault.’

His fingers were too short. And chubby.

‘Three: One or both of us will be charged with neglect, or manslaughter, or murder, especially after your behaviour on the plane.’

Well she
had
murdered Noah. She
should
be charged with that. If she couldn’t sit here till she died of thirst, her second choice would be to spend the rest of her life in prison. She almost broke the rules and said this out loud. She wanted the police to drag her away from this spot now. When they did, she’d cover her head with her T-shirt, so she wouldn’t have to look at
that
car again.

‘Four: One or both of us will go to prison. For a year, or maybe five, or for life.’

It’d be her who’d do the time, just her. Alistair would be okay.

‘Five: A scandal of any kind will lose me my job. It’ll harm the Party. And I might never get work again.’

He lifted his other hand to resume counting. His pace quickened, his tone hardened.

‘Six: You will never teach again.’

Ah, the change in pace and tone was because he was talking about her now. He was angry at her. Quite right. It was his son she’d killed.

‘Seven: You will never be allowed to work with children again in any capacity.’

So? She was going to die here on this embankment. Thinking about it, thirst would take too long. Two or three days maybe, she didn’t know. If she prayed, perhaps the wind would change direction and bring the flames towards them. She closed her eyes and recited the only prayer she could remember.

She opened her eyes. The wind had not obeyed, the flames and smoke no closer. The fire wouldn’t take her.

Instead, she’d get one of the duty-free bags out of the boot and put her head in it and tie it around her neck with the shoelaces from her trainers.

‘Eight: You may never be allowed to go near children again.’

Quite right. She had murdered a baby. Her baby.

‘Nine: You may not be allowed to have another child of your own.’

Another
child.
Another child of her own.
Yes, he’d just said that out loud.

‘Most importantly, Ten: We might not be permitted to see Chloe. We will definitely not get custody of her, which means she will be taken into care and made parentless. An orphan, at fourteen. My own daughter. My only child now. Little Chloe.’

Fact ten was actually three or four facts. Joanna supposed he hadn’t wanted to go back to the first hand, which already had its fill. It was neater, this way. A lot of facts, though, for that small pinky of his.

Joanna stayed still, pretending that this stupid fucking demonstration mattered when Noah was dead in the back seat of their hire car.

He had a closing speech, and unfortunately he wanted her to change position while he delivered it, for maximum impact‚ she supposed. He took her hand from under her buttock and held it in his, which was cold. She wondered how it could be cold, in this situation, in this stifling heat. Perhaps because he wasn’t human.

Using his other hand, he turned her face towards his. Her eyes were slow catching up, but eventually they landed where he wanted them.

He was dripping with sweat, she noticed. Beads on his forehead, huge patches under his armpits and above his stomach.

‘Noah is dead. He must have been allergic to the penicillin. It was an accident.’

This is as close as he would come to saying it wasn’t her fault. It was an accident. Not quite not her fault.

‘You’re finished with the facts,’ she said with confidence, on account of the long pause.

‘I am.’ He put his hands on her shoulders.

‘I’d like to die here, if that’s all right. I was thinking of using one of those duty-free bags, and I was wondering if you’d mind getting one from the boot for me.’

‘Joanna, don’t. We have Chloe to think about.’

Joanna leaned down and tried to untie one of her laces. Her hands were either numb or just plain disobedient. She couldn’t work out how to do it, but she persevered, and eventually managed to pull at the right piece. She pushed at the back of the loose trainer with her other foot.

‘Stop that now.’

Ah, the shoe finally came off. Now, she just had to get the laces all the way out. She placed the shoe on her lap and began loosening and tugging. This was going to be easy, she thought. All she had to do was get Alistair to retrieve the plastic bag. He hadn’t said no, but he wasn’t budging. She wouldn’t do it. She would never look at that car again. She’d persuade him, somehow. ‘Got it!’ she said, lifting the freed lace and turning towards Alistair with a triumphant smile.

You couldn’t describe it as a slap, although she didn’t actually see if his fist was clenched or not. Whatever, it landed on her left cheekbone, the force causing her head to do an
Exorcist
-twist before falling down, down to the earth beside her ankles . . .

. . . Oh look, the flake of ash is gone.

When she woke, she was in the front seat of the car. The radio and the icy air conditioning were on.

‘If you live in Anglesea and Lorne and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late . . . If you live in Torquay and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late. If you live in Aireys Inlet . . .’

Alistair switched it off when he realised she’d come to.

Her first impulse was to turn round to look in the back seat. She was thankful that the pain in her neck and head and ear (that’s right, she had an ear infection. Shock and adrenaline had taken care of that till now) made it impossible to do so. She touched her sore cheek.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Alistair said. She moved her head as far to the right as her neck would allow her, and winced. Alistair’s lips had changed in colour and halved in size. She looked down at his hands and wondered if the wheel might snap from the force of his clench.

As usual, he was driving too fast and hadn’t bothered to put his seatbelt on. He was leaning in, his face a little too close to the windscreen.

Joanna was scared of him. He’d hit her. He’d never done that before.

She wondered if he was scared of her too. Perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t divert his eyes from the road to look at her.

They were both scared now, of everything.

‘Joanna . . .’ A whisper, this first word, rising deep from his throat. ‘You can’t abandon me.’ His mouth fell open and stayed open, droplets of spit-tears gathering on his lower lip. His shoulders slumped and so began the chant: ‘Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me . . .’

Forgetting the pain, Joanna undid her seatbelt, manoeuvred her face down under his arm and nuzzled it into his chest. She inhaled, searching for his fresh soap scent, but all she could smell was sweat and aeroplane. She breathed through her mouth. ‘Hey, hey . . .’ she said. ‘I won’t. I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise. I promise. I won’t leave you. I won’t ever leave you.’

Her breasts were rocks, volcanic ones with hot liquid beneath, bubbling and pushing to get out. She touched the left one, above her T-shirt. The heat radiated through the material and onto her hand. It must be seven hours or so since – this sentence was going in a direction she did not like. She caught the thought in time and refashioned its end – seven hours or so since. Just
since
.

Joanna realised she was going to have to catch and refashion almost all her thoughts from now on.

She knew what not leaving Alistair meant; the basics of the decision he’d made, to which she’d agreed. They’d fine-tune the plan at the cottage. Till then, they needed to remain calm, and drive.

The sky above was smoky now, like London fog only darker, thickening as they got closer to Geelong.

She pulled her T-shirt and bra forward and peeked inside. Her nipples had trebled in size but were not leaking. If a certain noise happened now, they would spray with the force of a power hose. This noise wasn’t going to happen, ever, so what of her breasts? They’d probably continue to expand, painfully, until they exploded. Joanna would rather not die this way. Back at the embankment with the duty-free bag would have been preferable.

Or she could die here, now. Neither of them had their seatbelts on. Noah was dead already. A large, thick metal sign for Avalon airport was ahead of them. Alistair was driving at over a hundred and thirty kph. All she had to do was grab the wheel and swerve at the right moment. In five seconds, four, three . . .

No, she wasn’t allowed to think like this, she’d promised. ‘I need to express,’ she said.

Alistair’s knuckles were more relaxed now that Joanna was not leaving him; now that ‘facts’ three through ten had become fiction. ‘Can you hold out twenty minutes?’

Alistair talked in Aussie time – twenty minutes equalled at least forty. But ‘Yes’ she would wait.

Beep Beep!

Alistair’s mobile made her jump, rock-breasts attempting to separate from her body on landing: Ow.

He lifted the handset. ‘Reception’s back. Five missed calls . . . Mum.’

Elizabeth was at home waiting for their call. She’d been tidying the garden and rearranging the furniture in her house in anticipation of their arrival. Her only child! The love of his life! (‘I know she is, Alistair!’) And her only grandson! She’d been crossing the days off the personalised calendar Alistair had sent her for Christmas, which was only three weeks after Noah was born. For each month of the calendar, there was a photograph. The one that would be on display now, February, was of Noah in his pram at the front of the flat in Edinburgh, the blue bunny blanket she’d sent wrapped around him as he slept.

‘I’d better ring,’ Alistair said.

‘Not while you’re driving!’ Joanna would have insisted on this at any time but now it was more important than ever. The cops might see him. And if he stopped to make the call, she might be tempted to turn round and look in the back seat. ‘Slow down and put your belt on. I’ll do it,’ she said, holding out her hand to take the phone.

He prepped her before handing it over and she was glad, because his last piece of advice (‘Pretend you lose the signal if things get difficult’) came in handy almost immediately.

‘Elizabeth, it’s Joanna.’ She put as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible, but hadn’t managed an exclamation mark’s worth. ‘We just passed Avalon.’

She held the phone away from her ear to soften Elizabeth’s loud, over-excited voice – ‘Oh, darlings! So close! I can hardly believe it? I’ll put the kettle on. Was the flight okay? How’s Noah?’

Joanna put the handset back to her ear and used Alistair’s suggestion. ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth? You’re breaking up. I can’t . . . Elizabeth . . . Listen, if you can hear me . . .’ (she knew she could) ‘. . . We’re going to go to the cottage first. Noah needs a feed. We’ll be at yours as soon as we can. We’ll call you when we’re on our way. Elizabeth? Sorry, you’re . . .’

Joanna hung up, covered her face with her hands, and stayed in that position all the way to Point Lonsdale.

The small beachside town was deserted. There were no cars in the driveways of the large houses opposite the beach, no children in the play park, and no one sitting at the tables laid out in front of the town’s three cafés. From the car, Joanna couldn’t see all the way down to the beach, and wondered if that’s where everyone had gone.

Despite Elizabeth’s pleas to stay at her house, they’d wanted to be on the beach, and to have time to themselves. Their holiday cottage – a white Victorian weatherboard – was a hundred feet or so beyond the end of the small strip of shops. Alistair parked in the driveway and opened the car door. She stepped out of the car and into what felt like a fan oven. Alistair found the key under the mat, helped Joanna into the master bedroom, told her to lie down, and came back a few minutes later with the breast pump. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Noah was at her breast, his tiny fingers toying with the soft flesh around her nipple, but this produced more tears than milk. After ten minutes or so she passed the apparatus to Alistair with two hands, as if she were giving him the baby.

‘Doesn’t look like as much as usual,’ he said.

‘It won’t come,’ Joanna replied.

He grabbed the pump and the near-empty bottle, took it away, and came back to the bedroom to go over the plan.

There was so much to remember and so much to forget.

She should remember turning the air conditioning on, having a shower – she could go first – and putting concealer over the mark where Alistair had slapped or punched or whatevered her.

She should forget Alistair emptying the Boots bottles down the sink and putting them in a plastic bag to dispose of elsewhere.

She should remember that she sat on the bed, pump at her breast, because she would have done that if he was alive. Remember? The milk was for Elizabeth, who was going to take Noah for the next twenty-four hours and give them some time alone.

Forget that he added some water to the small amount she’d managed to express, and that he’d asked: ‘Does this look right? Joanna? Joanna!’

Remember putting a load of washing on, including her vomit- and milk-stained T-shirt and the cloth covers for Noah’s buggy-cum-car seat, and changing into shorts and flip-flops.

She should forget seeing Alistair put a small garden trowel in the packed-as-normal baby bag. (No shovel in the shed, damn!) Forget him searching for bin bags and placing a large black one on top of the car seat.

But remember unpacking things carefully. Babygros into drawers. Toothbrushes into bathroom.

Forget him tossing the dirty nappy he must have removed from Noah in the bin. ‘No Joanna!’ Alistair yelled. ‘You remember I changed his nappy! Remember it!’ He froze. ‘Hang on, maybe they’ll be able to tell from his nappy that he was dead. Could they tell that? Shit!’ He raced to the bin, removed the dirty nappy, and put it in a plastic bag with the Boots bottles. So, this meant . . . she should forget all that . . . Yes, forget the stuff about the nappy.

She would never get this right.

‘It’s not too late,’ she said, begged, as she walked behind him towards the car, careful not to look at what he was holding in his arms.

He didn’t reply. Or he didn’t reply in time, because a woman of around forty had arrived in the driveway with a huge smiley holiday ‘Hello there!’

Alistair’s hello was a little over-enthusiastic, Joanna thought. ‘Hi!’ One hand removed itself from the bundle of death in his arms, and extended as far out as it could to shake hers. ‘Mrs Wilson?’

‘You found the key, then. Ah, is he asleep?’ She crooked her head to get a glimpse of the face Alistair had buried in his chest. The rest of him was wrapped in the blue blanket.

‘Just.’ Alistair turned to make sure she couldn’t see. ‘The house is gorgeous!’

‘We like it. Quiet here, hey, with schools back; that and the heat. Blimey!’ She fanned her face with her hand. ‘You’ll have the beach to yourselves.’

A glaring look from Alistair made Joanna realise it was her turn to say something. ‘Are . . .’ Her voice caught. She coughed. ‘Are the fires near here?’

‘Terrible thing. Ten dead that we know of. They’re a way away. And there’s a cool change coming in an hour or so. Lonnie will be fine.’

‘We’re just heading out,’ Alistair said, opening the car door to hurry this along.

‘The supermarket’s open till eight. It’s a bit more expensive than the big Coles in Ocean Grove, but it’s nice to support the locals. And there’s a milk bar on its own at the other end of the town, just before the roundabout. I’d recommend Pasquini’s for coffee and lemon cake. Lovely people.’ With this, she patted the blue blanket. ‘How old?’

‘He’s only sixty-four days old.’ Joanna did not remember saying this, but apparently she did.

‘The bloss. Well, I’ll let you get on!’ She turned and walked towards the end of the drive, pointing to the seventies brick house next door. ‘Anything you need, just open the door and holler. Loudly! Jeff plays that horrible jazz all day long.’