6

She lies on the living room sofa. Henry and Leon are approaching, but their voices are receding, drifting: ‘Mum, you’ve got to go. It’s for your own good.’

The entire world is distant—beyond oceans and rivers, and fields of ice as hard as crystal. She is in flight from villages on the Black Sea coast to the Siberian flatlands and through cities reduced to rubble, in search of refuge. Until the vastness reduces to the tiniest of havens, a sofa with a view of a locked front door at the end of a passage.

But the front door is opening and they are making their way towards her, medics and police. Even here, at the ends of the Earth, the threat is imminent. The uniformed men are coming for her, and Henry and Leon are in on it. They are twelve years old, becoming tougher and stronger, and she suspects them.

‘Mum, they’re here to help you.’

They are trying to calm her, but she’s onto them. She knows they are complicit. Oh yes, she knows.

Henry is stepping forward, reaching for her. He is confronted by her distracted eyes, her dishevelled hair.

She is shrinking back.

He takes her hand. He coaxes her to her feet. He is surprised by her lightness. His confidence is growing. He grasps her more firmly.

The signs are promising. There is little resistance.

And as she rises he sees her, as he has seen her so often: making a cheese sandwich after school, plain food, nothing fancy, serving it at the kitchen table with hot milo or a glass of lemonade. This is how Henry and Leon like it. She is preparing dinner. The pots are simmering. She is sweeping the floor; she is at work, forever at work. The boys are talking, their voices are loud and free, they are laughing, and she is laughing with them, but the laughter is rising, and their voices are getting louder, more strident.

She is warning them, don’t talk too loudly. People can hear you through the walls. Don’t raise your voices. Don’t make so much noise. Be careful. There are people out to get you. Why were you late? You should come straight home from school. You shouldn’t wander the streets. Who knows who is watching, who is waiting? Who knows who is out to fight you? Stay home. Don’t you know the world is a dangerous place?

It is beginning, her eyes are narrowing, her face is changing from benign to suspicious; she is spiralling downwards, and moving away, backing into the living room.

The boys are pleading, imploring, but in her eyes their faces are distorted, and she is sinking down onto the sofa, lying back, cocooned in the maroon fabric. The cushions are soft, and they enfold her, but Henry is extending a hand, drawing her up.

Tricking her.

Ah, she knows what they are up to, her boys and the uniformed men. She is no fool. She knows the ways of the world, and she knows the ways of men. Their appetites, their insatiable desires. She is on full alert. A warrior. A fighter. And she is not about to give up. She will not go quietly.

She wrenches her hand free.

Henry retreats. He doesn’t know what to do.

‘It’s for your own good, Mum.’

They are her boys, and she loves them, but they’re on the other side. They are with the uniformed men. Their voices are rising, becoming sharper, and they are singing: ‘It’s for your own good, Mum.’

The uniformed men are stepping forward. Taking over. They are taller and stronger than the boys. She watches them keenly. She turns from the sofa and darts across the room. She backs into a corner. There is no way out, and the men are closing in.

She guards her space fiercely, but the men hold her and a medic injects her. She is swaying; the room is swaying. She wants only to sleep, blessed sleep.

The medics are supporting her by the arms, holding her gently, and she is moving with them. They pass by the sofa and step into the passage.

It is longer than she has ever known it. The walls are gliding by and the front door is approaching. It is gaping open, and she is led through it. Her feet brush the doormat, and she is guided into the night towards a whirl of blue and red lights, distant faces. For a moment the fight returns. She wrenches and twists, but the men are stronger. She is tiny and she is so tired, and the boys are behind her, pleading.

‘It’s for your own good, Mum.’

She loves them, and she suspects them. She wants to embrace them, and she wants to repel them. And they love her, and they fear her; and she loves them, but they are of them, and they are with them.

The ambulance is backed up to the kerb, beside it a divvy van. There are weeds in the gutter, dirt between the bluestones, and there’s a patch of bitumen on the roadway, a black scab on asphalt. The ambulance doors are opening. She is on the steps, and the medics’ hands are on her back, pressing her forward.

‘It’s for your own good, Mum.’

She is inside, and the night sky has vanished. The space is as confined as a womb, and she is stooping forward. Falling. The sheets are white and crisp and the pillow is inviting. The straps are being fastened and there are faint voices outside, a car door closing, and an engine revving.

The ambulance is moving. The straps restrain her, and her hands rest on her belly. A medic is looking down on her. Above him is the white roof of the ambulance. And the chorus is singing, forever singing: ‘It’s for your own good, Mum, it’s for your own good.’

And years later, in the Port Diner, Henry piles up the journals, the laminated articles and news items. He spreads them over the table, sorts through them, shuffles photos, rearranging the order. He is reliving key fights, stopping to explain, jumping up to demonstrate moves, shadow boxing.

Mum, poor girl.

Mum, poor girl. Keeping the ghosts at bay.