Free Blue Skies by Helen Hodgman

focus. I sat at the table. It was very quiet. From time to time the old fridge in the kitchen rumbled and shook, the only sound. The blinds were up and the moonlight was just strong enough to see by without extra light. I played patience, a game of Japanese Rug with four packs of cards. The cards were placed alternately straight and sideways in a multicoloured quilt. I got three games out from five played and went to bed while still ahead.

    Monday morning. James was shaving. Cleaning his teeth. Getting papers together. Polishing his boots. He walked to the door, where he paused and fixed his let’s-be-grown-up-about-this face on. Turning, he showed it to me and said:
    â€˜Look. I just don’t know when I’ll be home. If it’s tonight it will be late, so don’t expect me and don’t wait up. You know how it is. I can’t help it—got so much work on just now.’ He excused himself through the door, which squeaked appreciatively after him. Another squeak: his head came back round the door and spoke again.
    â€˜Sorry. I’ll fix that bloody door, soon as I get a chance. See you later. Take care.’
    So I took care all day long. No point, I thought, in phoning Jonathan now. I’d be seeing him tomorrow. If he needed anything he would call me anyhow. He knew I’d do what I could to help. I looked forward to our lunch together. With luck he’d have his sense of humour back—have got things more in proportion.

    That evening I laid out my going-up-to-town clothes, choosing them with care and anticipation. Next morning, as early as I dared, I put them on, and after the usual trip round to the next road to deposit Angelica, sat in them on the bus composing opening lines in my head. I got off the bus at the square with the fountain in it and walked quickly to Jonathan’s flat, climbing the wood-and-iron stairs at the side of the warehouse and knocking on the large brown painted door. There was no answer. I called out.
    â€˜Hi Jonathan. It’s me. Can I come in?’
    No answer. I pushed at the door, and it opened: it was on the latch. I went in. Obviously Jonathan had gone out for a minute and had left it open for me. Inside I crossed straight over to the record shelves to choose something to play. The shelves were empty, the stereo deck gone. Looking round the walls, I saw that the best pictures were gone too, their empty frames leaning against the walls. There were also gaps in the bookshelves.
    I went into the bedroom. All seemed normal. I opened the wardrobe. There were clothes hanging there, but again there were gaps. I returned to the living room and sat at the table, feeling sick and frightened. Tuesdays had done a bunk. What should I do? I sat staring down at the floor. At my feet were little splashes of blood, dried brown and powdery at the edges, still red and sticky at the centre and making a neat trail to the door. I started to cry—because he had left here bleeding, because I had lost a friend, because I couldn’t think what to do with the rest of my free day.
    I went back into the bedroom and lay down on the bed to cry properly. The beautiful fur rug was gone. There was a crumpled newspaper on the bed: a weekly paper, a tabloid printed on the mainland, Australia’s biggest-selling scandal sheet, which was always good for a superior laugh. ‘Wife-swapping circle uncovered in respectable suburb.’ This story, written in a polished style of shocked journalese, ran in neat black lines beside a photograph of a naked girl straddling some rocks on a beach. There was a front-page story of great local interest. Jonathan’s face looked out, in a slightly younger version, from a maze of smudged print. There were other photographs: the outside of the restaurant, two young girls smiling arm in arm in summer dresses, a middle-aged man, his mouth open, roaring from the page with righteous indignation. Underneath it said: ‘Outraged father of