Max (16 page)

Desperately he tried to remember the rudiments of turning a sea kayak around. He leaned out to the side, and dug his paddle into the boiling waters but a rogue wave from nowhere saw its chance and rushed at the unbalanced boat, thumped it on its side and tossed Max sideways into the seething waters of the inlet.

Releasing the spray cover was easy. Seeing anything at all was difficult. The rain poured down in thick white sheets and slapped the surface of the water like a scolding parent. Another wave hit Max and tossed him away from his boat. Max lunged as it was swept away and then lost sight of it completely. He knew that without the kayak he was gone – done like a dinner.

But it couldn't be far away. They were both in the same current. Max struck out, hauling his body through the water. Under the black, overcast sky of the inlet he pounded through the water, on and on, gulping down air and rain. His shoulders screamed out to stop and give up, his body ached and his spirit began to tire.

In the midst of that roaring wind and howling gale, Max felt he was fighting a losing battle. But why did it have to be a losing battle? Max threw his hand out one more time. It didn't have to be. Another stroke. Choking. And one more time. Thump. His hand struck something solid. Max scrabbled for a hold on the boat, and realised that it was upturned. Blindly he slid down to where the boat narrowed. He threw an arm across the hull and yanked himself onto the boat, pulling his body out of the water until he lay face down, hugging his kayak, on a current that ran to who knows where.

The rain began to ease and the light from the fireworks on the mountains allowed him to see and regain his bearings. Though he couldn't be totally sure, he thought he felt the power of the current easing. Max began to paddle with his hands towards where he hoped Lawson Sands was. His arms ached to their core but the storm was pass-ing and a dull light shone on the inlet. He felt the scrape of the sand before he realised he had made it.

Made it to the sands.

Made it to his island.

He rolled off the boat and on his hands and knees, dragged the kayak into shallower water. Rain still poured but it was lighter now, feeling almost warm in the after-math of the storm. Forked lightning kept up its crazy dance in the mountains, as it bounced off distant pinnacles and leapt into the sky. Max stood ankle-deep in water, his feet planted in the sand. He held the kayak by its rope and looked at the now visible shores of the inlet, lined with trees drenched by the drizzling rain.

Waves of cold ran up and down his body. His clothes clung to him like a suckerfish. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering so much he was afraid of falling apart. How long had he been breaking? How long had he been aching? How long had he held his finger in the dam wall, terrified of what might spew forth and drown him?

Max cried as if there was no tomorrow and in his tears, with his face upturned to the rain, he saw Lou's dark shape walking the shiny streets. A silhouette against the lights, he carried his canvas bag with a coarse rope coiled like a snake inside, walking with neither a smile nor a frown as he approached the bridge near the paper mill, treading softly on the steel walkway he heard nothing, felt everything and nothing, reaching into the darkness of the bag, feeling the roughness of the cord, he wrapped it around the icy handrail, secured it with a knot, wound the other end round his neck, felt the tightness of the noose. Then, Lou stood on the top rail with arms outstretched like angels' wings, thinking of... of what? Thinking of nothing? Thinking of Max? Of his parents? Of dying young? Maybe he hated himself. Maybe he had all his dreams knocked out of him. Maybe he shouldn't have done it.

Is Lou happy now? Who knows? There's more than Lou's dark shadow in this rain. Those words of his, still tucked in Max's top pocket: ‘I don't need anything else'. What did that mean? What more do you need?

Most of us need a lot more, thought Max. Certainly more than Lou was prepared to settle for and got.

He sat on his upturned kayak, elbows on knees, his hands clasped together before him.

‘Oh God, Lou,' Max cried. ‘I loved you and you were my friend. But geez, mate, you were a long way from your island. A long, long way...'

In the distance he saw a small launch that chugged out from shore. A mother stood in the bow, searching the waters for her son.

D
AVE AND WOODY DROVE up the coast to collect Max. It had been decided that Woody would stay a couple of weeks with his mother. Even though Meg had assured Dave that their eldest son seemed OK, the idea of Max coming home by himself on the bus was enough to worry the hell out of Dave. Unless he had Max in his sight anything was likely to happen – if the last few months was anything to go by – the bus could explode, Max would convince the driver to float the bus down the coastline or, as Woody suggested, his big brother might repaint the bus with Lou's face all over it.

The two boys thought it strange having both their parents under the same roof, even if only for a night. In fact it felt more like two families holidaying together. Of course, Woody and Meg delighted in each other's company but when they al sat down together to have dinner there were some awkward silences – especially when Woody chatted gaily about Despina – ‘Why doesn't she come around any more, Dave?' – and Naomi – ‘She makes really great jam, Mum. I'll ask her to send you her recipes if you like.' Shortly after that Dave and Meg started to empty glass after glass of wine as though they had something caught in their throats.

The next morning both Dave and Max wanted to get an early start. The drive home was done in silence, except for Dave still worrying about his eldest son and Max occasionally reassuring his father that he was fine. Dave made an attempt to lighten things by asking Max if he would be happy to see Mai again. But even though Max smiled to himself looking out the window, that's as far as that conversation went.

The house was dark and quiet when they arrived home. Max and his father went straight to bed. Dave was exhausted and wanted some time out. Max went into his room and flopped. For the first time in a long while (‘How long had it been?' he wondered) his body wasn't aching and his mind seemed remarkably still. He found he could close his eyes without a jumble of pain racking his brain. As he slipped into sleep, with the image of Da Vinci man floating in and out of his dreams, Max smiled and knew where he had to be and what he had to do.

At six the next morning Max left a note on the table for Dave. ‘See you for breakfast. Gone paddling.' It was signed with a drawing of Da Vinci man.

I
T IS VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING and fog drifts over the Maramingo River. The weather has settled into winter dampness. Mountain ducks with green feathered collars dart in and out along the slippery banks. A crow cries out, its question lost in the surrounding bush. Rats sniff and bustle. Swamp hens scratch. Welcoming Max home.

Max paddles with the cool sun on his face and he wonders why he still hasn't told his father that he loves him the way he told Meg when she rescued him. He wonders too where Woody's questions come from. He wonders why he now wants to show Lou's writing to Mai. And he wonders why he's paddling away from Nick's island, which is already covered in blackberries and strangling vines.

Max carefully stands in his kayak. Legs balanced, arms outstretched, he floats his way down the river. The chill of winter slaps his cheeks, jogging his memory. He remembers rats in dark tunnels, words on walls, railway bridges, kisses, waterfalls and black crows. He remembers being rescued by Nick. He remembers.

Max breathes in and feels Lou all around him.