The Glass Mountain Read Online Free Page B
Author: Celeste Walters
â¦
Again he hears the clomp of heavy boots. Oneâs coming back.
The Turkâs face appears around the curtain. Grey stubble, grey pony-tail streaked with black.
âDonâ worry, Nom, heâs a bit pissed.â The face peers closer. âHey Nom, ya got blood all on ya sheet.â
Joanna Murphy, charge nurse, is addressing a tangle of curls as she changes a bed. She flicks a bloody pillow slip into a bin.
âBeing angry is good. Gets lots of nonsense out of your system and you havenât been angry enough. And you, a bikie! Angerâs good, cryingâs good. My old pop was a bikie, real he-man my grandpa, put his boot through the box because his team was losing. But listen to a soppy song and heâd blubber like a baby. Bawled his eyes out every time he heard âDaddy Wouldnât Buy Me a BowWowâ ⦠If youâre going to just stare at the ceiling at least be a bit constructive about it. Start imagining things, like ways to escape from maximum security cells, or an infallible means of spiking meat pies â work out how to get fat santas down skinny chimneys ⦠Youâre grinning and Iâm being serious.â
She helps her patient back into the bed. âNom,â she says, âlook at me. Youâve had a punctured lung, two broken ribs, a fractured arm and plates put in one leg. But bodies mend ââ she pauses. âYou were to be transferred to the Rehab Centre next week. This is your fifth month and youâre not mending quickly enough. No, donât turn away. Nom, itâs your body, not anyone elseâs and youâve got to help it. Itâs that simple ââ
âHello!â The curtain is thrown back and the physiotherapist stands there.
âWhat did you do to your arm?â
âA small accident,â replies the nurse. âItâs not serious.â
âSee you down there in ten minutes,â says the woman in white and strides off.
At the back of the gym, a group is working out to an up-tempo beat. Otherwise the place is empty.
âWeâll start with the treadmill,â announces the physio.
Sister Murphy click-locks the wheelchair into position, helps the boy out and hands him his sticks.
He moves towards the machine slowly, carefully. Then suddenly he stumbles and one stick falls. He looks at the nurse who has stayed to watch for a few moments. The nurse looks back. He tries edging it closer with his foot, using the other stick to balance himself. That doesnât work. He tries bending, stoops lower and lower. Heâs only a centimetre or two from it when he goes over. He stares at the nurse. She stares back.
Then he speaks.
âI canât get up,â he says.
âYes, you can.â
The young bikie is momentarily silent. Then he lets out a cry, the cry the lamb makes before the thrust of the knife. He reaches for the stick. Again and again and again and again he strikes and swipes and belts and bashes until, with a crack, it snaps in two â¦
Then all is quiet.
But for the quietness of sobbing.
Joanna Murphy bends down, pushes back dark hair.
âItâs alright,â she whispers. âItâs alright â youâre on the way now â¦â
9
Almost seven months have passed since the young bikie drove his machine into a tree, summer has come and gone and now the soft winds of autumn waft through the land.
Itâs mid-morning and heâs standing outside the swing doors of the Rehabilitation Centre clutching a cracked helmet, a sandwich and a bag of bits. A newborn taking his first step into the world. He unfolds the map someone has drawn and walks into the new day, along streets heady with honeysuckle, down lanes wild with the tangle of blackberries. At Elm Avenue he stops, checks a number on a gate and continues on.
Overhead, aged elms link branches to form an arch, an avenue of honour. At a turn in the road stands number forty-five.
The
Again he hears the clomp of heavy boots. Oneâs coming back.
The Turkâs face appears around the curtain. Grey stubble, grey pony-tail streaked with black.
âDonâ worry, Nom, heâs a bit pissed.â The face peers closer. âHey Nom, ya got blood all on ya sheet.â
Joanna Murphy, charge nurse, is addressing a tangle of curls as she changes a bed. She flicks a bloody pillow slip into a bin.
âBeing angry is good. Gets lots of nonsense out of your system and you havenât been angry enough. And you, a bikie! Angerâs good, cryingâs good. My old pop was a bikie, real he-man my grandpa, put his boot through the box because his team was losing. But listen to a soppy song and heâd blubber like a baby. Bawled his eyes out every time he heard âDaddy Wouldnât Buy Me a BowWowâ ⦠If youâre going to just stare at the ceiling at least be a bit constructive about it. Start imagining things, like ways to escape from maximum security cells, or an infallible means of spiking meat pies â work out how to get fat santas down skinny chimneys ⦠Youâre grinning and Iâm being serious.â
She helps her patient back into the bed. âNom,â she says, âlook at me. Youâve had a punctured lung, two broken ribs, a fractured arm and plates put in one leg. But bodies mend ââ she pauses. âYou were to be transferred to the Rehab Centre next week. This is your fifth month and youâre not mending quickly enough. No, donât turn away. Nom, itâs your body, not anyone elseâs and youâve got to help it. Itâs that simple ââ
âHello!â The curtain is thrown back and the physiotherapist stands there.
âWhat did you do to your arm?â
âA small accident,â replies the nurse. âItâs not serious.â
âSee you down there in ten minutes,â says the woman in white and strides off.
At the back of the gym, a group is working out to an up-tempo beat. Otherwise the place is empty.
âWeâll start with the treadmill,â announces the physio.
Sister Murphy click-locks the wheelchair into position, helps the boy out and hands him his sticks.
He moves towards the machine slowly, carefully. Then suddenly he stumbles and one stick falls. He looks at the nurse who has stayed to watch for a few moments. The nurse looks back. He tries edging it closer with his foot, using the other stick to balance himself. That doesnât work. He tries bending, stoops lower and lower. Heâs only a centimetre or two from it when he goes over. He stares at the nurse. She stares back.
Then he speaks.
âI canât get up,â he says.
âYes, you can.â
The young bikie is momentarily silent. Then he lets out a cry, the cry the lamb makes before the thrust of the knife. He reaches for the stick. Again and again and again and again he strikes and swipes and belts and bashes until, with a crack, it snaps in two â¦
Then all is quiet.
But for the quietness of sobbing.
Joanna Murphy bends down, pushes back dark hair.
âItâs alright,â she whispers. âItâs alright â youâre on the way now â¦â
9
Almost seven months have passed since the young bikie drove his machine into a tree, summer has come and gone and now the soft winds of autumn waft through the land.
Itâs mid-morning and heâs standing outside the swing doors of the Rehabilitation Centre clutching a cracked helmet, a sandwich and a bag of bits. A newborn taking his first step into the world. He unfolds the map someone has drawn and walks into the new day, along streets heady with honeysuckle, down lanes wild with the tangle of blackberries. At Elm Avenue he stops, checks a number on a gate and continues on.
Overhead, aged elms link branches to form an arch, an avenue of honour. At a turn in the road stands number forty-five.
The
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