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.
Oliver’s wife didn’t move. She just stood there. Like a statue. Her face turned away as if she didn’t want to see, as if she was deliberately looking the other way. For God’s sake, what was wrong with her? What was wrong with all these stupid people? My God, my God, my God.
Harry’s face was hot with rage. The little girl was drowning right there in front of those idiotic, irresponsible people. Shooting was too good for them.
He tried to pull up the window so he could yell out, but it was jammed closed. It hadn’t been opened in years. He banged so hard with both fists on the glass it hurt. He yelled, louder than he’d yelled in years. ‘She’s drowning!’
Finally the woman looked up at him. Oliver’s wife. Their eyes met. Thank God, thank God. ‘She’s drowning!’ screamed Harry. He jabbed his finger at the fountain. ‘The little girl is drowning!’
He watched her turn her head towards the fountain. Slowly. As if there were no great hurry.
And still she didn’t move. The stupid, idiotic woman didn’t move. She just stood there, looking at the fountain. It was like something from a nightmare. Harry heard himself sob with frustration. Time was running out.