Blood Junction (34 page)

At five-thirty that afternoon, she felt no better. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to leave the hotel. She wanted
only to stay here in retreat, hiding. She watched a 747 crossing the sky and thought about flying to London, China or Brazil.
She pictured herself in Rio de Janeiro, then Beijing, and came to the miserable realization that wherever she went, inside
she would still be the same person.

She watched the surfers in the late gold haze of afternoon then went inside and made some coffee, but didn’t drink it. She
took the plastic wrapper off a biscuit, then threw it in the bin. She needed something to occupy her, something to take her
mind outside itself and give it a rest from this continual torture.

She left her room and went in search of a swimsuit.

The sea was cold, colder than she’d expected, and the waves quite big, about six feet. India ducked through each as they reared
above her, plumes spraying in the breeze, and snorted salt water from her nose when she broke through on the other side. It
didn’t take long to get past the breakers, and after half an hour or so she trod water and looked back.

The beach was littered with glistening bodies sprawled on multicolored towels, some beneath umbrellas, some not. There was
a volleyball game going on, and a crowd of people carrying Eskis and picnic hampers poured down the central steps.

India turned seawards and struck out once more in a strong, steady breaststroke. Her mind was calm, absorbed with nothing
but the motion of swimming, the chop of the water, the sting of salt on her mouth and in her eyes. After an hour she began
to tire, so she floated on her back for a while, staring up at the hazy overcast sky and the seagulls with their sharp-cut
wings shaped like boomerangs. Then the emotional agony returned, so she swam some more, until she tried again. She floated
awkwardly this time, her legs seeming to drag her down, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep swimming right now, but
it felt so good being out there that she rolled over and continued.

She was tiring again and thinking about flipping onto her back and floating some more when she heard a voice behind her.

“G’day.”

Treading water, she saw a very brown, very lean man in his midtwenties sitting astride his surfboard.

“Hi,” she said.

“You sure are a long way from shore.”

India looked back. Her hotel was a sugar lump on the horizon and she could only see the thin yellow strip of beach when a
wave came and lifted her. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Going anywhere in particular?”

“Just felt like a swim.”

“Mighty long swim.”

She squinted at him. “What are you doing out here, then?”

“I’m a lifesaver.”

India was surprised into laughter. “I don’t need saving.”

He gave her a smile. “Are you tired yet?”

She didn’t reply.

“If you want to tag onto my board while I paddle back, you’re welcome. It’s no extra effort for me.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” India turned away from the kind young face that reminded her of Tiger’s and continued swimming. It
wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when she paused for breath, that she saw him out of the corner of her eye, just over her
shoulder, lying flat on his board, paddling easily with his sinewy arms.

“Don’t mind if I come along, do you?” he asked.

“It’s a free ocean.”

India floated for a bit while the lifesaver sat on his board, humming an operatic tune she recognized from
Carmen
. When she tilted onto her front again, facing east towards the northernmost tip of New Zealand, he said nothing, merely paddled
after her silently, just out of her vision.

She didn’t really think about what she was doing, register how far she was from shore and how close she was to exhaustion.
All she knew was that her conscience had eased, her guilt had abated, and that her psyche wasn’t in perpetual pain.

A wave, larger than the rest, slapped her in the face and she swallowed half of it the wrong way. She was choking, coughing,
trying to grab a breath of air when the next wave hit her. She felt she’d taken in half the ocean and was sinking with the
weight of water in her lungs when the lifesaver came into view.

“Need some help?”

She continued to choke, but she didn’t take his outstretched hand.

He raised his head, looked into the distance before glancing back at her, his expression serious. “Looks like a ship the size
of the
Titanic
cruised past a while back. We’ve got some real big waves coming.”

India gave one final cough, hauled air into her lungs.

“Why don’t you hang on to my board ’til they’ve gone, then we’ll get back to what we were doing before.”

For a minute she thought he was making up a story about big waves to get her onto his board, but then she saw it. It wasn’t
that high, but it was travelling hard and fast for them.

I can dive through that, no problem,
she thought.

“There’s about eight of them back to back,” he said, quite calmly, as if he’d read her mind. “And you won’t get a breath between
the last five.”

The wave came closer, a greeny-blue opaque curve with no white cap, no spume. She thought she saw a shadow move inside it.
It was shaped like a torpedo and could have been a porpoise, but her mind yelled:
Shark!

“Shit,” said India, and grabbed the board.

It was as if the lifesaver had been waiting for that exact moment. In one swift and powerful movement, he grabbed her wrists
and hauled her up in front of him, straddling her legs around his board and hugging her from behind, her fingers clamped beneath
his. His chest was pressed against her back, his chin on her shoulder.

The wave sped towards them.

“Sit tight,” the lifesaver said into her ear, “and let me do the steering.”

Then they were rising to meet the wave. The board’s nose tilted sharply and she thought she might slide backwards, but he
was there behind her, solid and impregnable … Suddenly they reached the top of the wave. The surfboard levelled out, and for
a single, breathtaking second, paused.

She could see the other waves—no time to count them—ranked ahead in varying shades of blue, cobalt blue and black, and then
they were sliding downwards. Barely had they reached the bottom of the trough than they were climbing again. Another swift
climb up another wave to the crest, a second’s pause to marvel at the view, and then the exhilarating swoop down the wave’s
back before the next climb.

All the time the lifesaver held her tightly, cheek against hers, their hands like limpets around the edge of the board.

They were climbing a wave, she had no idea whether it was the fifth, sixth, or seventh, when he said, laughingly, delighted,
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A flash, a thunderbolt from nowhere: “
You’re not enjoying this, Miss Kane, are you?
”

She gave a single cry, an inhuman sound like a seagull’s shrill scream, full of anger and rage and grief. The lifesaver’s
grip tightened but she made nothing of it; she thought her cry was lost in the spray of sea, the sound of water churning.

Finally, the ocean returned to its habitual chop and occasionally unpredictable waves. India sat limply on the board, motionless.
Her skin was cold, her mind smooth. Eventually she felt the lifesaver lift his head from where it rested against her shoulder
blade.

“Will you come quietly now?” he asked, his voice amused. “Or will I have to tranquillize you?”

She gazed at the seemingly endless silver-blue ocean. “I’m already tranquillized.”

“Okay then. It’s best if we lie flat, you on the back. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine.”

She did as he said and lay with her chest and belly on the board, her legs in the water, while his wiry shoulders and arms
paddled them both.

The beach was busy when they returned. Groups of people had started celebrating New Year’s Eve early and she could hear laughter,
the sound of music blasting from boom boxes. She saw another group of people standing by the twin flags at the far south end,
and lots of surfers, in the water and out, about twenty of them.

India found her legs wouldn’t work properly when she clambered off the surfboard and tried to walk. She stumbled and fell
to her knees, the surf churning around her waist, beating her and remorselessly keeping her off balance.

“Here,” said the lifesaver, and took her hand and slid it across his back to hook her fingers with his over one shoulder.
His other arm went around her waist and like lovers they walked through the kicking, churning, white-bearded surf and up the
beach. Each time she stumbled, it was only his strength that kept her upright. She concentrated on nothing but putting one
foot in front of the other, leaning against him, battling with the soft sand underfoot and her exhaustion.

He deposited her gently on the bank of warm sand outside her hotel and sank down next to her. He sat up, looking alertly out
to sea while India sagged, empty and drained.

“Did you leave a note?” the lifesaver suddenly asked. “Write up your obituary?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” God, it was an effort to speak.

He was matter-of-fact when he said, “Suicides rarely do. Sad for their relatives. They seem to like an explanation. It exonerates
them from guilt, I suppose. Helps them understand what’s going on.”

India didn’t know what to say to that, but she faintly registered the fact that she didn’t particularly like being categorized
as suicidal.

“Leave me alone.” She was surprised at the strength of her voice.

He gave a shrug. She felt his right hand sweep up her spine, encircle the nape of her neck and squeeze it briefly, affectionately,
as a fellow footballer might to another, and then he got up and walked away without another word. She realized she hadn’t
even thanked him.

I
NDIA SAT IN HER ROOM, SIPPING CHAMPAGNE WHILE SHE
watched the millennium celebrations on television. Millions of people thronged the foreshores; specks of flag-waving and
face-painted humanity in good-humored mayhem. She saw the Cahill Expressway was packed and wondered if Mikey was there. She
thought about Whitelaw in jail, Scotto with his smashed knee.

Through her open balcony door she heard claxons and happy shouts and the occasional
bang
of a flare being let off.

She watched the Harbour Bridge light into a giant smiley face, above which hung the word
Eternity
in gold.

She finished her champagne and went to bed. She slept deeply.

The next morning, she went in search of her lifesaver. It was breezy on the beach and the surf was booming in, making the
air hazy with salt spray. The safety flags were at the far southern end of the beach, indicating a dangerous rip farther north,
and two lifeguards stood ten yards back from the twin red markers, muscular arms crossed, chatting to a sun-oiled girl with
cropped blonde hair and short legs.

India introduced herself, allowed them to do the same—Lance and Trevor—then she quickly explained the events of the previous
evening and asked where her lifesaver was.

Both of them looked blank. “We were the only ones here,” said Lance, the taller of the two.

“What was his name?” asked Trevor.

“He didn’t give one,” she said. “And I didn’t ask.”

“Was he wearing our uniform?” Trevor pointed to the rear of his black swimmers and white shirt, which had
NORTHSLEYNE
emblazoned in gold.

India frowned. “No. His shorts were plain black.”

Not one of us, Lance and Trevor agreed, nodding together.

“Why say you’re a lifesaver if you’re not?” she asked, puzzled.

“Probably didn’t want to panic you. Everyone loves a lifeguard but not everyone likes being rescued by a stranger.”