Oliver's wife didn't move. She just stood there. Like a statue. Her face turned away as if she didn't want to see, as if she was deliberately looking the other way. For God's sake, what was wrong with her? What was wrong with all these stupid people? My God, my God, my God.
Harry's face was hot with rage. The little girl was drowning right there in front of those idiotic, irresponsible people. Shooting was too good for them.
He tried to pull up the window so he could yell out, but it was jammed closed. It hadn't been opened in years. He banged so hard with both fists on the glass it hurt. He yelled, louder than he'd yelled in years. 'She's drowning!'
Finally the woman looked up at him. Oliver's wife. Their eyes met. Thank God, thank God. 'She's drowning!' screamed Harry. He jabbed his finger at the fountain. 'The little girl is drowning!'
He watched her turn her head towards the fountain. Slowly. As if there were no great hurry.
And still she didn't move. The stupid, idiotic woman didn't move. She just stood there, looking at the fountain. It was like something from a nightmare. Harry heard himself sob with frustration. Time was running ou
t.
He turned from the window and ran from the room. It was the only way. He had to be fast. He had to be nimble. He had to run next door and pull the little girl out himself. The little girl in the pink coat was drowning. Elizabeth would have loved that little girl. He could hear Elizabeth crying out, 'Run, Harry, run!'
He ran from Jamie's room onto the landing. It was like he had his old body back. There was no pain. He felt exhilarated by the urgency of his mission. He was running gracefully, fluidly, like a twenty-year-old with perfect, limber knees. He could do this. He was fast. He was nimble. He'd save her.
On the second step, he fell. He grabbed for the banister to save himself but it was too late, he was flying, like his wife and son.
chapter eighty-four
It was early evening at the end of another beautiful day and Sam was walking home from the ferry beneath an indigo sky. There had been almost a whole week of clear weather now. Everything had dried out and dried off and people had stopped discussing how nice it was to see the sun. The 'Big Wet' was drifting away from everyone's memories on a gentle spring breeze.
Sam had just had another fairly productive day at work, so that was something. It was a little embarrassing just how much nerdy satisfaction he had achieved today from successfully completing his proposed strategic plan for preventing the further loss of market share in the now crowded sugar-free, berry-flavoured caffeinated energy drink segment. He hadn't exactly composed a symphony, but it was a well-thought-out strategy which would make the company money, which would make up for the last few weeks when he'd sat at his desk being paid for doing nothing. He'd used his brain. He'd ticked off a task. It felt good.
Maybe it was all due to the amazing, magical effects of his first counselling session. After the humiliating incident at the first aid course on Sunday, Clementine had arranged an appointment with a counsellor after-hours on Monday. Sam didn't ask her how she managed to get an appointment so quickly. She'd probably got her mother on the case. Pam was a big fan of counselling. She probably had one on speed-dial. Sam cringed at the thought of his mother-in-law's softly sympathetic face as Clementine told her about his tears, his so-called 'post-traumatic stress' for Christ's sake.
The counsellor was a cheery, chatty little fellow, like a jockey, and he had plenty of opinions, which surprised Sam. (Weren't they meant to say enigmatic things like, 'What do you think?') He said Sam probably did have a mild case of PTSD. He said it in the same nonchalant tone as if he'd said, 'You've probably got a mild sinus infection.' He reckoned Sam would need only three or four sessions 'max' to 'knock this on the head'.
Sam had left his office almost laughing; did this guy get his qualifications online? But as he'd stood in the lift going back to the lobby, he'd been surprised to find he was experiencing just a mild sense of relief, like standing in the baggage claim area after a long flight and feeling your ears pop, when you weren't fully aware they'd been blocked. It wasn't like he felt great. Just marginally better. Maybe it was the placebo effect, or maybe it was going to happen eventually anyway, or maybe his little counsellor had special powers.
Now he stopped at a pedestrian crossing and watched a woman with a baby in a stroller and a preschool-aged kid.
The baby was about one. He was sitting up, fat legs straight out in front of him, a large green leaf clutched in his chubby hand like a flag.
Was it a floating leaf that had attracted Ruby's attention that day? He imagined it, as he'd done so many times before, as maybe he was going to do for the rest of his life. He saw her climbing up onto the edge of the fountain, proud of herself, walking around the perimeter, maybe even running. Did she slip? Or did she see something she wanted? A floating leaf or an interesting-looking stick. Something that sparkled. He imagined her on her knees on the side of the fountain, in her little pink coat, her hand out-stretched, and then suddenly, silently toppling in, head first, panicking, flailing, her lungs filling with water as she tried to scream, 'Daddy!', the heavy coat dragging her down, and then, the stillness, her hair floating around her head.
For a moment Sam's world tipped and his breath caught. He concentrated on the DON'T WALK light in red, waiting for it to change to WALK. The cars zoomed by. The mother waiting next to him was talking on her mobile phone. 'My shoe is falling off,' whined the preschooler.
'No, it's not,' said the mother distractedly as she continued to speak into the phone. 'I know, that's the thing, I mean it would be fine if she'd just been upfront about it from the beginning, but Lachlan, no! Don't take off your shoe here!'
The little boy had suddenly plonked himself down on the footpath and was in the process of removing his shoe.
'He's taking off his damned shoe in the middle of the street. Lachlan, stop that. I said stop that.' The woman bent down to drag the preschooler back to his feet. Her hand left the stroller handle. It was on a slope that led straight out onto the street.
The stroller began to roll.
'Whoops.' Sam reached out one hand and caught hold of the handle.
The woman looked up.
'Jesus Christ.' The phone slid from beneath her head and shoulder and crashed onto the ground as she stood up fast and grabbed the stroller handle, her hand overlapping Sam's.
She looked at the traffic roaring by and then back down at the stroller.
She said, 'It could have ... he could have ...'
'I know,' said Sam. 'But it's all good. It didn't.' He removed his hand from under hers. She had the handle in a death grip now.