Free On Brunswick Ground by Catherine de Saint Phalle Page A

we walk, I feel as if we are carrying something. But I shouldn’t – both our lives bear more of a negative load, a body of memory, rather than a weight. The weight comes from waiting.
    Tonight I understand that waiting is an action, a travail. Night is nearly upon us and Sarah glances at her watch.
    â€˜I must get to the bar soon; it’s my night.’
    I turn round to look at the setting sun. It looms like a larger orange moon, straddling the creek, slowly descending on us. But I also catch sight of something else. Going down the bridge behind us is a tall man in a tracksuit, but instead of looking baggy they look as taut as if he were wearing a pair of jeans. Even in the lengthening shadows, his body has a muscular presence.
    In front, the lycra man is coming down the last steps to our side of the river. Suddenly I am aware of them both together. They know each other. They have talked to each other by the water. I know it like I know my mother is dead. They are so different, but their movements have the same slow, withholding darkness. I grab Sarah’s arm.
    â€˜Sarah, these guys, it’s not good. Be careful.’
    Now they are walking faster together towards us. A cold comes over me. My thoughts slow down, distilling each idea to make it completely useful. Sarah casts one sharp glance at me and I hear her soundless intake of breath. There is hardly any time now. It has all been sucked away. The only thought I have is water – rushing, cold and clean on the black stones – killing air, murdering bubbles of oxygen to stay whole.
    I feel the shadow behind me closing off the setting sun and at the same time I see the other man waving a knife in front of Sarah, who is standing on firm legs, half turned towards me. I hear her voice cut through the air.
    â€˜A knife. So you’re planning to kill us both, are you?’
    Her words jump into the present moment, killing anything else, keeping us on the tight rope of what is happening to us right now, holding us firmly here, where we can survive this, not leading somewhere else or believing anything other than this . Fear is a strange, powerful thing. It wakes you up quick smart. Everything that is not essential, everything that leeches onto you, that is not part of your soul, is burnt. In a brief, studded instant, I see Jack. His face. But I don’t start checking out my life like a film in front of my eyes; I look for clues. I look for a big branch. I look at the water again. I don’t focus on the men. They are not moving, as if Sarah’s cold words had checked them an instant. Then before I can think the big one makes a step. I can sense him just behind me. I know that once he touches me I will not be able to move anymore. That’s when I jump towards Sarah and grab her and launch us both into the creek. As the waters lift and splash at us, she seems to spring to life and we are thrashing blindly ahead. We are doing the right thing – we were stuck – but now we are moving. They have not jumped in after us. They are still on the bank. We wade and wade and push ourselves forward, to the other side of the creek, away from the setting, dying sun.

8
    THE ARCHAEOLOGISTS
    Sarah’s bar, The Alderman, is full.
    â€˜Attempted rape and possible murder are good for business,’ she whispers to me, walking by to stoke her wood fire, with small logs under her arm.
    It’s 8 pm. You can still feel the dusk in the air, though it’s already dark. People smell of fresh showers and newly applied make-up. The night is almost a darker day, a new beginning, back to front: faces resting from pursuing something, men’s jaws loosened and women smiling understandingly. It’s been a week now since our Merri Creek promenade. We’ve given the two men’s descriptions to the police. They think we’ve had a close call. The idea of jumping in the water has put everyone in stitches, but the police, surprisingly, are the