It was the apparition from the mine.
The man’s hand went out and grabbed Stuart by the wrist with a powerful grip.
“Hold still, Stuart. This won’t take long.”
Stuart shivered, feeling as cold as he had underground. Chilled to the bone and dreaming of snow.
“Leggo, mate, wouldya?” he said. He tried to pull back but he felt deep lethargy, as if he’d been injected with golden syrup and his limbs couldn’t move.
The man raised his other arm and brought it up to pinch the bridge of Stuart’s nose. Stuart was paralysed. He wanted one of the other drinkers to intervene, to hit the man, knock him away, but no one did. It was so quiet Stuart felt as if he was back in the mine and the idea of it made him choke.
No. It wasn’t that. He had a nose bleed, blood pouring backwards down his throat because the man held his sinuses so tight.
He let go and Stuart slumped forward, spitting blood. He felt movement return.
Turned his head away from the man.
The man bent and helped him up. “Nose bleed, nose bleed, make a bit of room, I’ll take him and clean him up. Nose bleed, he’ll be fine.”
Stuart tried to pull his arm away. His mouth was full of blood.
“Come on, Stuart, it’ll be all right.”
He led Stuart into the men’s toilets. Propped him against the wall.
Stuart heard a skittering sound, like cockroaches across the kitchen bench at midnight. He thought he caught a whiff of them, that slightly plasticy smell. A smell of sour cherries.
“It won’t hurt,” the man said.
Stuart felt the creatures and, by straining his eyes, could watch them walking up his arm. The scream in his head deafened him.
Up his forearm, his biceps, over his shoulders and onto his neck, where he could feel them latching on.
“It’s not your blood they’re taking,” the man said. His voice was soft and almost too broad to listen to. “It’s something else. You won’t miss it. It’ll be like it was never there. You won’t know.”
He clicked his tongue and Stuart thought the sucking stopped. He felt light-headed and nauseous. The man plucked a beetle off Stuart’s shoulder and ate it. Crunched it like it was a nut and took the next. Two more and he was smacking his lips. Stuart couldn’t move. He felt so cold he felt like he’d been buried in snow. Or was back in the cave. But it was light in here. Very bright.
“Look at me.” The man’s cheeks were pink, his eyes bright. He looked younger. Happy.
“Thank you, Stuart. Have a good life.”
He tapped Stuart on the head and Stuart slept.
He awoke on the filthy toilet floor. Someone had dropped a wad of shitty toilet paper and he could smell that.
He felt little compunction to rise, to lift himself. It was like this was the only moment and there was nothing beyond.
Another man came in and helped him up. “Home time for you, mate? Wait here while I take a piss and I’ll get you to a taxi.”
“Do I know you?” Stuart said. Things seemed blurred and he couldn’t remember much.
“Nah, but you’ll always help someone in trouble, right? Specially a survivor like you.”
I am a survivor Stuart thought as the stranger helped him to a taxi. That’s what I did.
But he felt as if he could never do it again.
He woke up on his lounge room floor, his shirt stiff with dried blood.
“Big night was it?” Cheryl said, poking him with her toe.
Sarah stood over him, ready for school, her shoes all shined, her white socks folded neatly.
He shivered, feeling cold. “The long man pinched my nose.” His face felt swollen and he knew he must look awful.
“Get off the floor,” Sarah said. “You’re shivering.”
“I will soon.” He felt a deep sense of pure lethargy.
Cheryl helped him up onto the couch and brought him a cup of tea. “You’re too old to drink like that anymore.”
“Wasn’t the drink. Well, I did give it a bit of a hiding, but it was this guy. This long gray guy who gave me a bloody nose and then did something to me. I’m tired. I’m so tired. And cold.”
She brought him a fluffy pink blanket and covered his knees with it. “The TV producers sent over a copy of your interview. Sarah and I have already watched it twice! Want to have a look? You come across really well.”
She didn’t wait for his answer but played the DVD anyway.
He watched the interview over and over that day, wondering at the person talking. “Jeez, I’m a smart-arse, aren’t I?” he said, smiling at his Cheryl. She kissed his forehead.
“You always were.” The lightness of her tone warmed him slightly. She had suffered postnatal depression and he was terrified every day it would come on again. He saw it behind her eyes sometimes, in the droop of her mouth. A wash of sadness. Those were the times he tried harder lift her up. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a bug climbing the wall and he curled up, pulling his blanket up over his eyes. “We need to get the rentakill guys in here. Get rid of the cockroaches,” he said.
She nodded. “Ants, too. All over the kitchen, rotten little things.” She sat beside him, laying her head on his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you’re back,” she said. His little bird, his sparrow, but a tower of strength at the same time.
Usually sitting beside her he felt something. Irritation, often, when she went on about small domestic details, none of which interested him. Boredom, talking about her family. Affection, when they sat together watching TV. Love, when they laughed together at a joke he’d made, when her eyes crinkled up and little tears formed. He loved those little tears.
She held his hand. He let it lay loose.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“I just can’t really feel anything. It’s all gone numb.”
She stared at him. “We have to tell the doctor. Something’s wrong. You shouldn’t feel like that.”
“I don’t feel anything, love. That’s the thing. Nothing at all. Just cold. Like I’ve got an iceblock inside my stomach.” He didn’t tell her he meant emotionally as well, that looking at her left him cold.
To cover it up, he kissed her. Usually they’d do this stuff at night, with the door closed, but he kissed her with passion and moved his hands around her body, touching all his favourite bits.
The weeks passed. He ate meals he had no real desire to eat, had conversations and many, many interviews. Sponsorships brought money in. Newspaper reports listed everything he’d eaten underground and those people approached him. It was Vegemite, Tip Top bread, Milo chocolate bars, apples (the local fruit shop took on that one), and the local butcher had a go, too. The watch company put him on TV, talking about how he’d never need another watch, that one was so good. So at least he didn’t have to work. People kept asking him if he was going back underground and he’d bluff at them, give them the real man answer, the hero stuff, but he wasn’t going back.
He spent a lot of time reading the paper. He started cutting out stories of other survivors, especially the ones who talked about the cold, about the deep bone chill they felt after a few days.
“Dad, let me hook you up with an online forum. You can meet other survivors. Talk to them. Most of them are probably feeling what you’re feeling,” Sarah said. He sat at the computer for a while but it only made sense when she talked him through it and he didn’t want her to know it all.
She asked him about the long man. “The one you said pinched your nose. We should try to track him down and make sure he doesn’t do it again. People can’t go round pinching my dad’s nose like that.”