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The rheumy eyes opened and he looked at her and smiled, a tremulous spread of blueish lips over tobacco-stained teeth.
‘Never thought I’d ’ave a pretty girl with me when I died,’ he joked, and Emma had to fight to hold back tears.
Had Marty sensed her distress that he joined the conversation?
‘Every bloke deserves a pretty girl to be with him at the end,’ he told Ken. ‘Really, it’s the only way to go.’
But although Ken smiled, Emma had heard the tremor in Marty’s voice, and knew he, too, was affected.
Marty had found a stool and he’d pulled it over so he sat close to Emma by the bed, and he talked softly, reminding Ken about his visits here. And now and then Ken added memories of his own, about the bush around his hut, the animals who’d shared his life here, deep in the forest.
‘You were lucky the bushfire missed you,’ Emma said at one stage, and the old man, whose breathing had become raspy and uneven, shook his head.
‘Gullies east of range don’t burn,’ he managed between faltering breaths. ‘Worked it out.’
And he smiled…
He was breathing still, deep breaths followed by a pause…
‘Cheyne-Stokes,’ Marty whispered, and Emma nodded.
In the past it had been known as the death rattle but, whatever its name, they both knew it meant the end was in sight.
The crackle of Marty’s radio broke the silence, and as he stood to go outside to answer the call, Emma said, ‘I can’t leave him.’
‘As if we would,’ Marty retorted softly, before disappearing into the darkness.
He was back within minutes, sitting down again beside Emma.
‘If there’s a call I’ll have to go,’ he said quietly, and she nodded.
‘I suppose me too if I’m needed.’
Marty didn’t answer, but he slid his arm around her waist and they sat together, keeping vigil over the old man, both praying they could stay so he had company on his last night on earth.
‘So talk to me,’ Emma murmured to Marty when the old man had drifted into a deep coma. ‘Tell me why no commitment? You’re a warm, loving person, you’re good with kids, why the rule?’
He was silent for so long she began to think he wouldn’t answer, then he took his arm from around her waist and held her free hand instead, moving his stool just a little away from her and Ken.
‘My father killed my mother, Em,’ he said, barely breathing the words so she had to strain to listen, certain Ken wouldn’t hear them.
‘He killed her and the baby she held in her arms. He lifted up his arm and struck her. I watched her fall and heard the silence—a silence so loud I’ve never forgotten it. I don’t remember if he knelt to touch her, to see if she was dead, although looking back I knew she’d hit the corner of the table in her fall. My father ran howling from the room—gone—and no one knew until I don’t know how long later when I was in hospital and someone told me he was dead.’
She used the hand he held to draw him closer.
‘You were how old?’
They were both whispering, the words disappearing into the darkness of the hut.
‘Five, from what I’ve pieced together and what Hallie found out when they took me in. Yet the sight of him with his raised arm lives with me day and night. It’s there inside me, Emma, the same way as his genes are. I know I have his temper, I’ve felt it surge inside me from time to time—quick, hot, unthinking—and I wouldn’t want to put someone I love at risk.’
‘But Pop was your father for far longer than your birth father was around,’ Emma pointed out. ‘I know debate rages over nature versus nurture but surely you’ve been far more influenced by Pop than by your birth father.’
‘In every way except genetically,’ he argued, then he drew back from her. ‘Anyway, that’s the story. You asked, and now I’ve told you, okay?’
Only it wasn’t okay at all. In fact, Emma wanted to cry. Wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him it was nonsense, that she knew him well enough to know he’d never harm another human being, maybe any living thing. But she sensed he wouldn’t listen, and she knew for sure that other people would have tried—Hallie and Pop in particular.
And if Hallie and Pop, who’d raised him and loved him unconditionally, couldn’t convince him he was wrong, how was she, who barely knew him, going to succeed?
Although she didn’t barely know him at all. She might not have known him long, but she did know he was special. He was caring and compassionate, kind, and friendly, and fun to be with. He was special…
