Truly Madly Guilty

There were two little girls running about. One of them had wings on her back like a tiny fairy. The other one was wearing an old-fashioned-looking little pink coat. Elizabeth would have liked that pink coat.

He could see the bloody dog zipping back and forth. Yip-yap-yapping. It had been digging up Harry's garden today, as happy as you please. Harry had given it a kick up the backside, to show it what's what. It wasn't a hard kick but it was true that both Elizabeth and Jamie wouldn't have laughed at that. They would have stopped speaking to him, probably. He and Elizabeth had been going to give Jamie a dog for his ninth birthday. They should have done it for his eighth.

He looked out the window. The electricity bill for all those tiny lights must be exorbitant.

He could see the people from two doors down. Oliver. Namby-pamby name but he was a nice enough bloke. You could have a sensible conversation with him. (Although he rode a bike, and wore those shiny tight black shorts. Looked like a bloody galah when he did that.) He couldn't remember his wife's name. One of those worried, skinny women.

No kids. Maybe they didn't want them. Maybe they couldn't have them. The wife didn't have good child-bearing hips, that's for sure. Although now they could mix them up in test tubes.

Elizabeth would have liked a little sister for Jamie. She always looked at little girls. She liked their dresses. 'Look at that little girl's pretty dress,' she'd say to him, as if Harry ever gave two hoots about a little girl's pretty dress.

She was looking at a little girl that day, a little girl clutching a stick with a giant ball of fluffy pink fairy floss. Elizabeth said, 'Look at that, it's nearly as big as her,' but Harry had just grunted in response, because he was in a bad mood, he wanted to leave, it was a Sunday afternoon and they had a long drive back and he was thinking about work and the week ahead. The union was giving them grief. Harry didn't like Sunday nights to feel rushed. He liked to feel sorted for the week.

He hadn't wanted to drive all the way out to bum-fuck nowhere to come to this crummy little country fair. He shouldn't have said 'bum-fuck nowhere' to Elizabeth because she hated that, it really offended her, he was just thinking about the union rep, a tough bugger, that one, and the battle ahead. (The union rep came to the funeral. He hugged Harry and Harry didn't want to be hugged but he didn't want to be at his wife's funeral either.)

He should have been nicer to Elizabeth and Jamie that day. He would have been nicer if he'd known it was the last day they'd ever have together. He wouldn't have said 'bum-fuck nowhere'. He wouldn't have told Jamie that the games were all rigged and he was never going to win. He wouldn't have grunted when Elizabeth pointed out the little girl with the fairy floss.

But then again, he should have been grumpier. He should have been firmer. He should have said no when they wanted to go on that ride for the third time.

He did say no, but Elizabeth didn't take any notice. She grabbed Jamie's hand and said, 'Just one more turn.' And off they ran.

If he saw them again he would shout at them. He would shout, 'I said no! I was the man of the house!' Then he would hold them both in his arms and never ever let them go.

If he saw them again. Elizabeth believed in the hereafter, and Harry hoped she was right. She was right about most things, except that day she hadn't been right.

It was called 'The Spider'. It had eight long legs with a car at the end of each leg for up to eight people. The legs went up and down, up and down, and then the whole thing spun around in a circle.

Each time they'd flown by he'd seen a brief glimpse of their pink, laughing faces, their heads flung back against the seats. It had made him feel sick.

The Spider had been built ten years earlier by an Australian manufacturer with a German name: Flugzeug Amusement Rides. Flugzeug Amusement Rides had provided only rudimentary maintenance and inspection procedures for The Spider. The company that ran the funfair was called Sullivan and Sons. Sullivan and Sons was in deep financial shit. They made staff cuts. A dedicated maintenance manager called Primo Paspaz was let go. Primo had set out his own maintenance schedule for all the rides in a red notebook. The red notebook disappeared when he lost his job. Primo thumped his fist against his knee when he testified in court. He had bright tears in his eyes.

One of the mechanical bearings malfunctioned on The Spider, and a car spun free.

All eight laughing, screaming passengers died. Five adults and three children.

The court cases dragged on for years. It consumed Harry. He still had the files: big foolscap binders filled with a story of negligence and incompetence and idiocy. Nobody ever stood up and took responsibility. Only Primo Paspaz said, 'I'm sorry' to Harry. He said, 'It would never have happened on my watch.'

People needed to take responsibility.

Harry turned away from the window and spun Jamie's globe so that all the places Jamie never got to see sped by his finger.

He looked back out the window at the neighbours. It occurred to him that if Elizabeth had lived he would have been down there at that barbeque, because Elizabeth was so sociable, and the Arab was always inviting Harry over, as if he really wanted him to come. It was peculiar. For a moment, Harry could see it so clearly; the way this night was meant to be: Elizabeth sitting at the table enjoying the music, Harry pretending to be grumpy about it and everyone laughing, because Elizabeth made his grumpiness funny.

Harry watched the two little girls run about the yard. It seemed to be a game of chasing.

The littler one got herself up onto the side of the fountain. She was carrying a little blue handbag. She ran around the edge. The fountain was the size of a swimming pool. 'Careful there, little girl,' said Harry out loud to her. 'You could fall in.' Was anyone even watching her?

He scanned the backyard. The adults were all gathered around the table, not even looking at the kids. They were laughing their heads off. He couldn't hear their laughter over the music. He couldn't see Oliver, but he could see his wife, Erika, that was her name, standing on the pathway that led from the back door. She'd be able to see the little girl.

He looked back at the fountain and his heart dropped.

The little girl was gone. Had she climbed down off the wall? Then he saw it. The pink coat. Christ Almighty, she was face down. She'd fallen in. It was like he'd made it happen by predicting it.

He looked for an adult. Where was that Erika? She must have seen it. She was standing right there with a direct line of vision.

But she was just standing there. What was the stupid woman doing?

'She's fallen in!' He banged his hands on the glass.