When Antonello saw Sam, he was sitting on a concrete block, his arm in a sling; a Salvo was handing him a drink. Antonello tried to leap towards him, but his knee buckled and he stumbled.
‘Nello!’ Sam yelled as he caught sight of him.
Sam is alive. The relief choked the breath out of him. Muddy water dripped from Sam’s hair, from his clothes, from his eyes. Even so, Antonello could see he was crying. He had never seen Sam cry. They were best mates. They played together. They fished together. They drank together. They went out dancing together. Once they picked up two girls and the four went to a hotel, booked a room, and spent the night. They were so drunk and shameless. It was before Alice. Before Paolina. They sometimes remembered that night and their brashness. Slav was pissed off with them for leaving him behind. He said they were supposed to be the Rat Pack together — trouble was, Slav said, they were Dean and Frank, inseparable, and he wasn’t sure who he was… Peter or Sammy Jr or Joey.
Where was Slav now? They had promised him that next time, they wouldn’t leave him behind.
Sam put his good arm around his friend’s shoulder and pulled him close. ‘I thought I was a goner.’ His voice wavered. His body seemed light and vulnerable, as if all the strength had been leeched out of him, as if he were melting. He leant into Antonello to keep upright.
‘Me too,’ Antonello replied, helping Sam sit back down.
‘Any sign of Slav? Bob?’
Antonello shook his head. Behind Sam the mutilated bridge remained imperious, glaring down at the devastation on the bank, at the fires burning, at the men dead and dying, as if it were the one who had been betrayed.
‘I’m going back to look for them,’ Antonello said, as he turned to limp towards the bridge, leaving Sam alone. ‘You stay here, mate.’
Sam was safe; now he’d search for Slav and for Bob. He was prepared to shift and carry concrete and steel until he found them. He didn’t want to think about what he’d seen: the piers collapsing and the span cracked in half as the men fell to their deaths. He didn’t want to think about Bob, standing on the top with the crew. He didn’t want to think about Slav either, about him falling and the full weight of the span coming down on top of him. After all, Sam had been up there too. Sam was alive. There was hope.
When a policeman asked him his name and if he’d contacted his family, he noticed for the first time the people gathered on the road behind the barriers. Paolina and his parents would be there waiting, worrying. Reluctantly, he moved towards the crowd. He heard his mother call out his name before he saw her, and then he saw Paolina, and his sister, Carmela, and his father and other people, and they were running towards him. Paolina reached him first. She held him and sobbed. His mother touched his face again and again, as if she didn’t believe he were real. He should’ve been glad to see them, especially Paolina, but he felt only shame. The sensation of it was overwhelming and persistent, its tentacles around his neck, pressing down on his heart.
‘I need to go back and help,’ he said, pulling away from his mother and Paolina. ‘I can’t leave them.’
But before he could go, Sandy called out to him.
‘I saw Sam,’ she told him. ‘He said Bob was up the top. Arguing with the bosses about the bolts.’ She held his hand. ‘I know he’s gone. They tell me not to give up hope. But I know.’
‘I won’t stop looking until we find him,’ Antonello promised.
‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ she said, raising her other hand and patting Antonello on the cheek. Her skin was ice against his hot and gritty face. ‘Bob told me… He said he was worried about the bridge, a couple of days ago. He never talked bad about that bloody bridge. Not to me. He said he wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to you — to the other guys as well, but especially to you, his favourite. You’re like a son to him.’ She whispered the last six words.
‘I know. I know. I’ve got to go back, Sandy.’ He pulled away and she let go of his hand.
‘Please.’ Paolina stood in front of him. ‘Please don’t go back. There are plenty of rescuers, your brothers are helping — they’ll find the others.’
‘I can’t leave them,’ he said, moving away. As he made his way back towards the wreckage, slowly, picking through the rubble, he noticed a crushed helmet, several odd boots, a pair of thick prescription glasses, the lenses intact, and a mangled red lunchbox. He kicked the lunchbox out of his way, but it only moved a couple of inches. He imagined a woman, a mother or a wife, packing the lunchbox earlier that day: ‘Cheese sandwiches, love.’ Would that man come home again? The ground was sludge — mud and oil and blood. The emergency workers were carrying in sacks of sand to cover the ground, but there’d never be enough sand.
There were men everywhere now — the survivors, the rescuers, ambos, cops — but the initial frenzy had passed. And as the sun set, and the darkness, a black shroud, descended, hope dissipated. There was no chance of finding anyone else alive. Exhausted, Antonello joined a group gathered around a makeshift campfire. His knee was swollen and throbbing; his mouth was dry and powdery. One of the Salvos, an older man, pointed to a small stool and handed him a cup of tea. ‘You should get that knee seen to,’ he said.
‘Thanks, it’ll be fine,’ Antonello said. The tea was bitter, but it was hot and soothing.
‘It went like a pack of cards,’ he heard someone say.
No, he thought, not like a pack of cards. No, that wasn’t how it went.
Another man, his arm in a sling, his face covered in mud, said, ‘“Pull the bolts out,” they told us, and some of us said it was a fucking bad idea, but no, they did it anyway. The steel turned blue, fucking blue.’
‘They realised too bloody late it was a mistake, the biggest mistake ever,’ another guy added, ‘and that dickhead engineer calls out, “Put them back!” But there was no puttin’ them back — the holes had disappeared and the whole fucking bridge was slipping away under our feet. I knew we were rooted.’ He shook his head, and a bloke sitting next to him put his arm around his shoulder.
‘I don’t know how I’m here. Or why. Why am I alive? Bernie’s dead, you know.’ Antonello hadn’t noticed Johnno until he started speaking. He was sitting on a piece of concrete, bent over, his eyes staring at the liquid in his cup. He was in Bob’s crew and Antonello thought about asking him if he’d seen Bob, but he couldn’t speak. Words seemed impossible to him. He did not know where words came from or how they might make it from his throat out into the world.
‘He was doing the timesheets and scheduling for next week’s shifts. I called in to tell him I was going to take a week off to go fishing with my son. I was telling Bernie about how my son isn’t the same since Vietnam. Bernie said if I wanted, I could borrow his boat, take Fred out on the bay. We talked about trout and salmon, and the best bait — we argued about bait, friendly-like; he said he’d bet me anything if I used prawn I’d catch… I promised to bring him back a fish. I left the hut just in time. I heard a screeching sound. And then popping, like gunshots. I felt it… dust and gravel, it felt like rain at first… I looked up and I saw the fucking thing falling, the whole fucking thing. I ran out of the way, but it crushed the hut. I should’ve done something, called Bernie, but there was no time. It went down so fast.’