Smoke in the Room (28 page)

‘How would you feel about that, about me leaving?'

‘Don't get all Oprah on me, dude.'

‘I'm not. If I was getting Oprah on you I'd be making you read some life-affirming novel and then talk to me about how it made you understand how precious every day is and how you need to make the most of every minute.'

‘Except for the reading part, that sounds like a typical conversation for you.'

‘Fuck you.'

‘Again?'

‘Seriously, though.'

‘Seriously, though.'

‘Katie.'

‘Adam.'

‘I need to know if you'll be okay if – when – I go home.'

‘Duh.' She butted his arm with her head.

‘What does that mean?'

‘God, you're a tool. I survived all these years without you. I'm sure I'll remember how to boil water and wipe my arse once you're gone. Maybe,' she added, ‘
you
won't survive without me.'

‘Right, I'm going to miss all the hangovers and insults and bruises.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘Yes, I am.' He kissed her. ‘I was thinking of taking a trip up north next week. Go see Eugenie. Do you want to come? I don't mean for you to visit her – that's something I need to do myself. But if you want to come for the trip, I'd love the company.'

‘Mmm. Gotta work next week, remember? Besides, you'll be all introspective and I'll get bored.'

‘Thanks a lot. It's just that it's sort of the last thing I have to do before I go.'

She yawned. ‘So go, kiss the dirt, catch your plane, send me a postcard wishing I was there.'

‘You'll be okay?'

Katie rolled away from him. ‘Get over yourself right now or I'm leaving this bed.'

‘That's meant to be a threat?'

‘Dick.' She climbed out of bed and pulled on her underwear.
‘I'm hungry, anyway. Let's go out for brekky. My shout, now I'm a working girl, well almo– Was that the door?'

Adam shrugged and reached for his shorts.

Rap rap
, then louder,
rap rap rap
.

‘I'll get it.'

‘But I'm dressed and you're –'

‘Just let me, okay.' He pulled on jeans and a shirt while the knocking continued.

The officer was sorry to have to break this news. A couple taking a stroll along the Watson's Bay coastal track saw a man running towards the edge. They called out but the man was already in free fall. The body was recovered within an hour and a half of the report, but there was no wallet or note. This morning the police received a call from a receptionist at the Ultimo office of a refugee assistance charity. Someone had sent her what appeared to be funeral arrangements for her boss, Graeme Reynolds. She had tried his mobile, but it was switched off. She told the police it was probably only a sick joke or a mix-up, but she thought she should call them just in case.

Two hours later Jenny Uton identified the body. The police had spoken to the company identified on the documents received by the receptionist and had confirmed the arrangements were made by the deceased. Ms Uton was in contact with the company and would be ensuring Mr Reynolds's wishes were carried out. The officer was, again, sorry to have to break this news. Did Adam know of any family who should be informed?

Katie was sitting on the bed, smoking. Adam sat down on the bed and said, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘That bastard.' She started to cry.

Katie, Adam and Jenny stood together in the flat's living room, Jenny dressed in a black suit, Adam in dark pants and a navy shirt. Katie felt sorry for them both, but sure of herself in this.

‘It's important to have closure,' said Jenny. ‘To be able to say goodbye properly.'

‘He didn't think it was important,' Katie said. She turned to Jenny whose face was sunken with grief and guilt. ‘He had every opportunity to let us in. He didn't want it.'

‘As in life, so in death,' Jenny said.

‘Katie, darlin',' Adam said. ‘I would find it easier to get through if you were there.'

‘I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can't. Anyway, I have work. I can't take time off in my first week.'

‘Maybe if I called the shop, as your doctor?' Jenny offered.

‘Listen to me. You know how when someone dies people say that stupid thing –
He would have wanted this
– but it's only ever a way to justify doing whatever the hell you want anyway? In this case I think it's true. He wanted me to get better and to work and to not worry about him. So that's what I'm doing. What he would have wanted.'

‘I hear you,' Adam said. ‘It's what I want for you, too, but is it what you want?'

Katie felt strong and sad and wise. ‘It's what I want and what I need.'

After they left, she stood by the living room window. A bottle-green Mini on the road below caught her eye. Now that she would be earning a regular income she could think about taking driving lessons and saving for a car. But first she needed to buy some new clothes for work. New shoes, too, but she could get them cheap with her staff discount. And she wanted to save for a trip. Go see if India was what she thought it was, visit Adam and see if his mother was as nutso as he made out, maybe,
maybe
stop in on Mum and the kid on the way back.

First of all, though, she thought, watching the cars and the buses and trucks, the schoolkids walking in huddles and tourists slouching under their backpacks and a stray dog darting between cyclists and the mothers pushing prams, first of all, she would pay someone to remove the security bars and repair the frames. She wondered if it would cost much to install a window seat. It would be nice, she thought, to sit up here on warm nights, share a bottle of wine with a friend, a kiss with a sweet man. Or just sit alone, close her eyes and listen to life.

The first draft of
Smoke in the Room
was written during a residency in Hobart in 2006, as part of the Tasmanian Writers' Centre's Island of Residencies Program, which is assisted by Arts Tasmania and Hobart City Council. Three years later, the book was finished during a stay at the Djerassi Resident Artists' Program in California.

Of the many books on depression and suicide I consulted, I am particularly indebted to Kay Redfield Jamison's
Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide
, Lisa Lieberman's
Leaving You: The Cultural Meaning of Suicide
and A Alvarez's
The Savage God
. Graeme's ideas about feyness and war were inspired by Lee Sandlin's 1997
Chicago Reader
essay ‘Losing the War'.

I am deeply grateful for the enthusiasm, commitment and editorial guidance I received from my publisher Rod Morrison, editor Emma Rafferty and agent Charlie Viney. Thanks also to Judith Lukin–Amundsen and Melanie Ostell for their perceptive and inspiring editorial advice.

Thanks to the Weedy gang for cheers, commiserations and perspective; to Rebecca for carrying more than her fair share of the load; and to Jeff for all of the above and so much more.