Read Online Last Day in the Dynamite Factory by Annah Faulkner - Free Book Online

Rudges. Not inspiring
     company unless you happen to be obsessed with archaeology
     or anthropology or whatever-other-ology. I felt sorry for their
     daughter, Diane. She may as well not have existed for all the
     attention they paid her. She wanted to swim but wouldn’t go in
     unless Chris did and I could see he was torn. I know it’s wrong
     to let him avoid water all his life so I encouraged him to go. It
     wasn’t the beach; there were no waves and it was too shallow
     for harm. So he went in, but only knee-deep. Then Ben joined
     him and they all mucked around in the shallows together which
     was nice. Then – when they were coming out – I saw it and I
     thought, my God, my heart will explode. I felt faint, sick to my
     stomach. I knew I should be expecting it sometime but so far it’s
     only been the occasional look or mannerism. But today, seeing them side by side like that, watching where they stepped with the
     same look of concentration, their hair springing up from their
     foreheads exactly the same way and that wheezy laugh they both
     have – it was obvious to anyone with eyes that they are father and
     son. Thank God the Rudges were too self-absorbed to notice.
     Chris will. He’s bound to. He can’t help it. I must warn Ben
     to expect it. Thank heavens Ian has gone. I shouldn’t say it,
     poor man, but at least no-one can prove anything.
    Chris reads again.
    And again. The words look peculiar:
father and son
; hieroglyphs on a page whose meaning he can’t grasp.
Father and son
– addling his brain –
father and son
– huge, wraparound words –
father and son
– that tighten –
father and son
– and squeeze his throat.
    The diary falls to the floor, face up; the dirty mess of it displayed beside his bare foot.
His
foot?
His
legs? The skin, the hair, the creepy familiarity.
    Ben’s
.
    Despite the fan, the den is stifling. Chris feels dizzy, nauseous. He lurches up and teeters into the passageway, just making it to the ensuite before throwing up. He tries to dodge the mess but slips on it and crashes onto his back. The ceiling swoops down and his ears shriek, warning of oblivion. His eyes close. A face looms – the face of a traitor, a liar, a thief; the face of his – his father.
    How
…
    his breath comes in streaks,
    could …
    he …?

‘Chris!’
    He blinks, but can’t focus.
    â€˜Chris – what happened? Can you talk?’
    He opens his mouth and the sea rushes in. Liam’s body presses on his chest, his lungs scream for air. Liam … his brother. His
brother
.
    â€˜Oh, my God, Chris … can you understand me? Can you see me? Smile … smile, Chris –
please!
’
    Breathe … it’s all he can do to breathe.
    Diane takes his hand. ‘Can you feel my hand?’
    He can feel her hand, yet he seems to be shrinking away from it, becoming smaller, smaller; doll-sized … marble-sized … a baked bean … a dot … the absence of a dot. A hand touches his face. His own – waxy and alien.
    He struggles to sit up.
    â€˜Thank God.’ Diane touches his face. ‘Can you feel this?’
    He nods.
Water
. But he has no voice.
    Diane heaves a sigh of relief. She helps him up and walks with him back to his den.
    â€˜What happened?’ she says as he sinks onto his chair.
    Jo’s diary is still open on the floor. He kicks it. She picks it up and slides on her glasses that dangle from the rope-thing on her chest. As she reads, a vertical line appears between her brows. She turns a page and the sound is shocking, it’s so casual, as if she’s reading nothing more significant than a newspaper.
    â€˜Oh,’ she says, her eyes round as olives. ‘Oh – Chris. I can’t believe it – in all that time I never saw it.’ She stares at him, scouring his face and connecting the dots. ‘There were things – easy to say now, I