Читать книгу Direct Action - J D Svenson - Страница 8

The fire escape down Cressida’s building had become one long concrete column crowded with people, all shouting to be heard over each other and the exhaust fans that screamed above. In the green pools of light thrown by the exit signs, Cressida fell in between a man piggybacking a sequinned woman screeching with laughter and brandishing a cocktail glass, and another complaining about not getting the tray of drinks he had ordered from the bar on the top floor. In her three-inch heels she had to lower her foot to each step carefully before attempting the next, gripping the railing and trying to put out of her mind the people stacked behind her, while sweat streamed down her neck and made her head itch. You try doing this in Prada pumps, plus three glasses of alcohol, she told them, weighing up whether to take the shoes off. For the most part the crowd seemed drink-warmed and tolerant though, all solicitude and laughter in the departure from routine; the next time the line stalled she bent down and yanked her shoes off, apologising to the oyster patent-leather as she stuffed them in her bag.

The respite in her arches and back was immediate. Fuck. That was better. She looked up, assessing whether to wait for a gap in the crowd or try to assert her way back in. Then on the next landing she spotted the receptionist from Building & Construction and Winnie from Tax, and relief at the sight of familiar faces rushed in. Next to them was a frail woman with fine grey hair who also looked familiar. She stopped beside Cressida, her top lip beaded with sweat, and passed a bony wrist across her forehead. Ah, Cressida remembered, Brian Prendergast’s receptionist. The woman mouthed something at her.

‘Sorry – what was that?’ Cressida yelled, leaning forward. ‘It’s Esma, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ the woman said, breathing heavily but attempting a smile. ‘Thank you.’ She held her face close to Cressida’s ear. ‘I don’t suppose you’d walk in front of me, would you, just so I can grab you as I fall past?’

‘Of course,’ Cressida laughed. As conga twins the two of them inched forward, Esma’s thin fingers spiking Cress’s shoulders and Cress holding onto the railing for support. When they reached the bouncing torchlights of security on the ground floor, both fell against the wall to catch their breath. There was a hand towel in Cress’s gym bag somewhere, and with relief she found it and dabbed carefully at her sweat-glossed face, wondering at the same time why she was bothering – her mascara would already be resembling an ageing English rocker’s. But she could hardly meet Felipe looking like a drowned rat.

‘How will you get home?’ Cressida asked Esma, fishing around in her bag for a hand mirror before she realised it would be too dark to see anything by – she’d have to fix herself up at the Westin; hopefully there’d be enough time before Felipe got there.

‘Driving, I thought,’ she said, looking with some alarm out the plate-glass window onto the street. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m at the Westin tonight actually,’ Cress replied. ‘Minibreak.’

‘Oh gosh. I remember those,’ Esma laughed, mopping her face with a handkerchief. ‘Well – go on then, don’t let me hold you up!’

Cressida laughed, digging her shoes out of her bag and putting them on.

‘Thanks. Alright then. See you.’

They waved and Cressida rejoined the crowd heading towards the double doors onto the street, astonished by the number of people still coming down the stairs. It was amazing to think that she worked a few metres from these people every day, and aside from the Tax crew had never met any of them. Outside the revolving doors the heat of the day still soaked the air; thank God the Westin was only a two-minute walk. How good it would be to get underneath one of those hot, ludicrously plentiful showers in their suite. Except – oh shit. The suite. Tiffany Delux. She had booked her as a special treat for Felipe: three hours, full service. Oh God. The rate was five hundred dollars an hour, and bang, whoops, she didn’t have the promise of a coming partnership salary to pay for it now. What was she going to do – call her and cancel? God, it had taken enough courage – plus two glasses of white – to book her in the first place. And they probably had a massive cancellation fee. She stood on the kerb, wondering what to do. There was nothing for it. She’d have to phone and hope to get out of it with just an hour or something. But what on earth was the name of the place again? The web search page was blank though – Safari cannot open the page ... And when she dialled there was nothing but a loud beeping noise, and a screen that said Emergency calls only. Plus a missed call from Richard. Scato.

A man arrived in front of her, holding out a five-dollar note. His tie was loose and the front of his shirt was soaked with sweat.

‘Sorry, ’scuse me. Do you have any change?’ he said. ‘I’m trying to ring my wife.’

‘Oh,’ said Cressida, dropping the phone and going red. Relax, he can’t tell you’re dialling a brothel, she thought. ‘What, is your building blacked out too?’ she said, busying herself picking up the phone and fumbling for her wallet.

‘Are you kidding?’ The man frowned, nodding down the hill. ‘The whole city’s out. Why do you think there’s fifty people at the bus stop?’

‘Oh,’ Cressida said, looking. That’s right. The whole North Shore too. The bus queue stretched down the block, mingling with the line at the taxi rank next to it. A fire truck was inching through the traffic. Shit. What was the point of going to the Westin then? But that would mean Felipe would be waiting on the street. She quickly dug some change from her wallet and handed it to him, waving away the note. ‘Is your mobile not working either?’

At the bus stop people groaned at the sight of one full bus then another trundling past. On a third, two people hung off the back, and the groan turned to a cheer. He shook his head. ‘Can’t get through.’

‘Radio said they were prioritising Emergency calls. Access Overload Control,’ a man in the queue said, knowledgeably. In a strobe of flashing blue lights the fire truck lumbered up the kerb and four men swung down.

‘Do you know – are the phone towers out?’ the man at the bus stop called out to them. ‘What’s going on, anyway? I thought this new mob were supposed to be better at running the show.’ He looked around at the others in the queue for agreement.

‘Yeah, not sure at the moment, mate,’ the firefighter said, reaching for what looked like an enormous crowbar from the back of the truck. ‘Most have battery backup so they’ll work for a bit. Your phone’s probably working, just jammed with everyone trying to make calls. I’d keep trying.’ He turned and jogged towards the Hannes Swartling building after the other two, and as they watched they entered by a side door.

Cressida stepped to the edge of the road, craning round it to check the traffic.

‘Terrorist attack is what I heard,’ the man at the bus stop was saying.

‘What? I doubt it. More likely a power surge. I know one thing, I would­n’t want to be them in all that clobber. In this heat?’ said another man.

‘Sorry, gotta go,’ said Cress, ducking behind a car and dodging others to the other side. Weaving through the crowd she hurried along the footpath, looking for Felipe’s characteristic figure. He would tower over everyone in his usual non-surgical-days uniform of Momotaro denim and a tight Calvin Klein Slim Fit black t-shirt (bought in a three pack), the pecs and shoulders of daily ocean swims notable underneath. But when she got to the Westin, the doors to the hotel were closed and the foyer was dark, with no sign of Felipe. She perched on an aluminium bench seat and speed-dialled his number, not remembering until the high-pitched beep that the phone wasn’t working. Where was he? She untied her ponytail, shaking it out to loosen some of the sweat, and looked up at the exact second the space above was sheared by lightning. Momentarily the masses in the square below were visible, and it was like finding herself in a giant nightclub; in the returning dark, people’s faces were unreadable, black bobbing heads converging. Yells and crashes sounded from the murky dark down closer to the harbour. She was thirsty, and a headache was beginning to flower behind her left temple. Suddenly she felt small, and surrounded, fear coiling in her stomach. Whether Felipe turned up or not, how on earth was she going to get home? Then her phone rang.

‘Pip,’ she said, collapsing into the bench seat at the sound of a friendly voice. Pip Buchanan, her office-mate for the first two years of her time at Hannes Swartling.

‘Cressida, I heard. How awful!’

‘I know. It’s total bedlam here. Fifty people at the bus stop and no-one’s going anywhere.’

‘I’m talking about the partnership vote, silly.’

‘What? Oh. Yes. I know. Malakas,’ she said, using her father’s favourite expletive. ‘How did you hear?’

‘Um.’ There was a pause and a rustle on the handset, then Pip continued, ‘Brian Prendergast told me actually. Where are you?’

‘Outside the Westin. What about you?’

‘In a water taxi. We were at Aria – the bloody lights went out right in the middle of the spanner crab. Anyway, they couldn’t take cards without any power, could they, so we didn’t have to pay. Is it still going where you are?’

‘Yep,’ Cressida said, watching a gaggle of people surge around a taxi, yelling and banging on the roof. ‘Cripes, now a fight’s breaking out over a cab.’

‘Oh God, really? They’ll get it back on soon,’ Pip said. ‘I bloody hope so, anyway. I’ll get rapidly homicidal in this weather without air conditioning. How are you getting home?’

‘At least you’re down by the harbour. I’m bang in the thick of it in a wool skirt and stockings. Um, not sure yet,’ she said. ‘Walking, probably.’

‘Poor you. I’d come and get you if I could. By the way it’s pouring here. Hope the rain stays away from where you are.’

‘Jesus, really? That’d put the icing on it. I …’ Just at that moment a fat drop landed on Cressida’s knee, and more pinged on the seat next to her, then out of nowhere a sheet of water roared across the square from the sky behind the Hannes Swartling building. Three weeks of forty degrees and it was raining now? Cressida scrambled for the tiny umbrella in her handbag.

‘Hang on,’ she yelled. ‘I’d better go. Are you okay getting home?’

‘Yeah I’m fine. You too I hope. Good luck finding Felipe!’ her friend yelled back, and Cressida hung up. Feeling like a gazelle on ice, she ran across the paving to the overhang of the nearest building, where thirty other people huddled looking out at the rain. Down at the bus stop, the queuing workers stood with heads bent sideways like horses in a field. One woman had her face to the sky letting the drops pelt her cheeks. Cressida half longed to do the same, feel the rain wash the sweat from her face and where it stuck to her clothing, but that would ruin her blowdry so she didn’t. Looking around she decided there was only one thing for it. She’d have to walk, and hope Felipe could look after himself. Quickly she closed the umbrella and fished her running shoes out of her gym bag, standing awkwardly to slip off her heels and jam first one foot then the other into the runners. She stashed her heels in her handbag and put the umbrella up again, pressing the speed dial to Felipe again with the other hand. Hopefully the mobile phone fairy was still on the job. He picked up on the first ring.

‘Felipe? Oh thank God,’ she said, feeling another wash of relief. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Darling, where are you?’ he said. ‘Are you alright? You sound distressed.’

‘There’s a bloody blackout here. And it’s pouring.’

‘Cressida, what are you yelling for?’ he said, irritated. ‘What’s all that racket in the background?’

‘It’s the rain. Sorry. Look I’ve been trying to call you. It took ages even to get out of the building, let alone on a bus. Where are you?’

‘What do you mean? I’m at the hospital of course …’

‘Oh,’ said Cressida, stopping. Someone behind her ran into her and swore, and she apologised, cupping the hand with the umbrella in it round the phone. ‘But … but I thought you were meeting me at the hotel?’

‘Yes, look I know, darling, I’m so sorry – to tell you the truth I clean forgot! They’re down an orthopod registrar here and it’s bedlam; I haven’t had a minute to think.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course,’ said Cressida, concealing the disappointment in her voice. It was alright. He’d remember about the partnership vote later, when the chaos had died down.

‘And I did say to you, Cressida, that I wasn’t sure about this the night before such an important triathlon meet.’

Oh God, the triathlon. Felipe was obsessed with them, in part because he was certain it helped with seniority on the Australian Orthopaedic Association Board, of which he was a member. Cressida wasn’t convinced, but she wasn’t about to argue.

‘Yes, yes of course absolutely … Hey, um, we just had the partnership vote, Felipe … remember?’

‘I’m sorry, Cressida, I can hardly hear you – can we talk about this later? I’ll get a taxi and … oh, there’s one. Excuse me.’ Then there was the sound of a scuffle and a door slamming. ‘Oh for goodness sake. Now I’ve seen everything.’

‘What?’

‘Oh nothing. Just a bloody wardsman jumped the queue for the only taxi there’s been for half an hour. Can you flag one and come here?’

She looked around. On the street below, four taxis were bumper to bumper under the grey sheets of rain, but their signs were dark.

‘Ah …’ she said. ‘Look, how about I get home as soon as I can and drive over. Only, well, it’s total gridlock here. How’s the street outside the hospital?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Cressida, I’m in the car park underneath.’ The irritation in his voice went up a notch. ‘Where the taxi rank is. Oh—’ There were muffled words on the end of the phone again. ‘It’s alright, all is well, Peter can give me a lift. See you. No need to drop over. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Oh. But …’ she began, and the phone went dead. She looked down at it and swallowed. It was okay, it was a long way from the hospital to here. What did she expect him to do – come all the way down and pick her up? The two bars of chocolate in her bag were glinting at her again, and before she knew it she had ripped the wrapping off the Jelly Popping Candy Beanies and devoured half of it, falling into its consuming decadence as the rain coursed over her umbrella. Hadn’t that whole chocolate/Porsche plan turned out well, she thought, watching water stream into the drain in the gutter beside her. She looked down at her shoes. They were soaked, and the bottom half of her skirt was drenched from the angle of the downpour. Then a pool of light flooded the street ahead and she looked up to see a helicopter bank above the buildings, its searchlight backlighting the shards of rain. At least it warded off the dark. She squeezed the water out of her skirt and began to walk.

On Elizabeth Street the restaurants and nightclubs were like toys run out of batteries, the bar owners standing and looking forlornly out into the street, while next to them disgorged patrons leant against walls finishing clear-glass beers. Police were everywhere, doling out witches hats along the edge of the roadway to keep the crowd on the footpath. It took her forty minutes to make it along Oxford Street to Bondi Junction, but at the bus terminus she squeezed onto a bus full of wet office workers and exhausted-looking European backpackers, and stood for the journey up the hill to North Bondi. On the kerb at the corner of Military Road the bus let her out and she stood to watch it go, a box of golden-lit noise, red tail-lights and steam winding its way up the hill. The street was slick with rain and as the bus receded, like a tide the silence settled in, broken only by a deep, bouncy ping that echoed from the golf course on the other side of the road – frogs? Distantly she could hear the roar of the sea from the foot of the cliffs, and then a night bird called, far off. She felt caught like a fly in amber in the strangeness of it, between the heavy sky and the wet ground, listening as nature extended its fingers into the gaps left by the stillness. And there was that alone feeling she’d had in the boardroom, again, after everyone had left. As if the frogs and the birds were the only other things living. Quickly she shook off the feeling and started for home.

At her apartment building all she wanted was to get inside, heeling off her wet shoes and shucking her skirt in the hallway. As she fell against the wall she flicked the light out of habit, too tired to find the torch on her phone in the dark. By feel she identified a juice left over from that morning in the fridge, the sediment that had floated to the top meeting her tongue. Blecch. Spinach, kale and beetroot would never have flirted in the kitchen at a party. The expensive cold-press juicer made a dark shape on the counter. Hopefully the five kilos of veggies in the crisper would keep. She fell on her bed and coaxed open a window, noticing again the silence thick on the hot night air. But then, some flats away, there was laughter, and she felt herself relax. Someone was having a blackout party. The human race did still exist. She fell onto the pillow, fast asleep.