The War of Immensities by Barry Klemm Page B

all gone blank. There was a bus
she needed to catch from outside the railway station to get here,
to Waitamata Harbour. She must have caught that bus, or else a
taxi, for no sensible reason, nor even a senseless one. Except it
was the right way.
    Now as she sat
on the edge of the boat platform with the rough timber wrecking
what was left of her pantihose, she was still facing out across the
water. Thataway. Where she wanted to go. Over there, across the
bay. Had she really planned to swim the distance? What nonsense.
But it was a straight line, she realised. From the office to the
railway station, the bus journey, the bus stop back up there
somewhere to the end of the pier and into the drink—to over there
somewhere. Where she wanted so badly to go. For no possible reason.
Jesus Christ, she was becoming as nutty as Chrissie.
    Last night
Chrissie had called her in tears. She’d had a big fight with John,
about nothing as usual, and Lorna had driven over to comfort
her.
    Chrissie was in
a terrible state, pacing about the room, thumping on the walls, so
over-excited that she was unbearable. No wonder John had become
irritated with her and walked out. There had been a lot of this
going on lately, as the wedding plans drew towards a climax. They
had always been such a compatible couple but now they seemed to
fight over every little thing—it was going to be a great marriage,
Lorna sighed.
    She knew, as
only an intimate outside observer could, that Chrissie was entirely
the problem. She truly had not been able to put Ruapehu behind her,
as Lorna had, and was becoming a nervous wreck.
    Her asthma
troubled her and she burst into tears at the slightest provocation.
She had migraines almost constantly, and fits of temper that were
completely contrary to her previous gentle nature. Lorna wouldn’t
have married her either, the way she was. And the silly girl was
getting worse.
    In the three
months since Ruapehu, she had changed shrinks three times, attended
all manner of counselling and self-help groups—was obsessed
completely with all that ‘improve yourself’ nonsense—and it was
only deepening her trauma. Lorna, who showed no indication of
traumatic stress, had submitted for a while and often went along to
Chrissie’s sessions and saw how little good it was doing. The poor
girl was going out of her mind and now it was breaking up her
relationship as well. John Burton was a wimp and the most tolerant
of boys, but even he had run out of patience with her.
    Last night
Lorna gave Chrissie some sleeping pills and put her to bed, then
went home, deeply troubled herself. It was as if whatever troubled
Chrissie was contagious and she had caught it too. She didn’t sleep
and was late for work for the first time in years. And now
this.
    Okay, looney or
not, she had regained her breath and a skerrick or two of
sanity—time to sort out her more immediate problems.
    She had skinned
her knee and holed her pantihose, and got the one shoe she still
possessed off so that she could stand. She had almost drowned, but
right away her biggest concern was that her little green dress had
gone completely see-through—the pervs were having a big day and the
fishermen stood in a line along the pier above her, loving it. She
took the old man’s hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet,
and then leaned on his shoulder for a moment to steady herself—but
then she was fine. Soaked to the skin, deeply ashamed, totally
indecent, very embarrassed, but fine.
    As she climbed
the steps up to the pier, she was able to take in a clearer view of
the landward side of her surroundings. Herne Bay, no doubt about
it. She could only shake her head in dismay. Around her the men
were growing very excited and all talking to her at once. They
wanted to carry her off to hospitals or ambulances but she ducked
them with a neat double-baulk and then backed away from them.
Policemen would never believe that it wasn’t a suicide attempt;
medical staff would know that