Max by Michael Hyde Page A

as though it had caught a wave to hell. Its nose smacked into the water, hitting the stopper that rushed down the fall in a concave swoop that collapsed back on itself.
    The water curled backwards, looping the kayak into the air, pushing Max down into the turbulent depths below.
    He tumbled over and over, the tan brown water infused with millions of tiny, throbbing bubbles. The intensity of the moment – being hurled and chucked around like a matchstick in an ocean – gave Max some clarity. As he gulped water down like air and his heart hammered in his ears, his hands instinctively grabbed for the spray cover. He flipped it off and pushed with all his might, ejecting himself into a murderous tumult that ripped his helmet from his head and thumped him into the hidden ledge.
    Thunder rose from the bottomless river, grabbed Max in its arms and hurled him through the stopper wall into the river current, a crimson line trailing behind him.
    How long had he floated face down? How long had he been dying? Max felt the claws of death on his back, piercing his flesh. He dreamt of big arms wrapped around him, hauling at him, heaving his waterlogged body up and out into pure sweet air. He dreamt of coughing and spluttering and spitting blood – of lying on grass and somebody breathing life back into him...

18

    T HE CHARGE SISTER SCANNED the record sheets that were clipped on a metal board, then hung it back on the end of the bed.
    â€˜Your son is sedated, Mr Fairchild, but he’s perfectly alright. No fractures. Concussion, a bit of hypothermia and shock. It was mainly the water he swallowed but somebody had expelled most of that. Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Fairchild?’
    Dave stood by the bed while Woody sat in a chair. Max lay as though there was little of life left in him. Dave stroked his son’s head. Woody stared at his brother, transfixed by the paleness of his face and the darkness of the hair.
    Max half-opened his eyes. ‘Hi.’
    â€˜Hello, mate,’ Dave said. ‘You sore?’
    â€˜Yeah, pretty much.’
    â€˜Tired? Too tired to talk?’
    â€˜Yeah. More tired than sore. Can hardly speak. Sorry.’
    â€˜Don’t bother saying sorry, Max. Just get well. I rang your mother. Told her you were OK, more or less. I’ll ring her again tonight. Soon as you’re well, you can take a week off school and go up there, if you like. Mum thinks it’d be good. So do I. She’d love it – and you could get away from us.’
    â€˜Dad,’ Max raised his hand to stop his father’s babbling.
    â€˜Sorry. Sorry, son.’
    Woody fidgetted. ‘Max, tell us about going over the Falls. The nurse says...’
    â€˜Shut up, Woody,’ Dave barked. ‘One of us blathering on is enough. You want to go to sleep, Max? We’ll go if you like.’
    But Max was already in a bottomless pit of sleep.
    His father and brother didn’t leave immediately. They sat there for some time in silence, Dave drinking his cup of tea and Woody sipping hot chocolate.

    Janet Turner came to visit and brought him a book of poetry by somebody called Dylan Thomas. ‘There’s a poem in there I thought you might like,’ she said. ‘I put a bookmark on the page so you could find it. Hope you don’t mind. It seems teachers can never stop being teachers.’
    Mai came to visit and looked around the room. She saw Max immediately but something held her back from rushing over to him.
    He looked at her and saw her eyes. Without moving from the doorway Mai almost shouted, ‘I thought I said I didn’t want a dead boyfriend!’
    Max gave a pathetic shrug of his shoulders. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘here I am half-dead in a hospital bed and she’s really pissed off.’
    He smiled and Mai softened a little and moved towards him. ‘Can I kiss you?’
    â€˜Yeah. Why not! To tell you the truth, I’m hanging out for it.’
    Her