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  Phil had told Steven to be humble, but for Steven humility was best reserved for concession, or outright apology. He had promised to at least look out to the runway, planes landing safely, not in spite of the people so obsessed with measurement, but because of them.

  When gauging Phil in comparison with Steven, most noted certain things in the former: distance lenses to aid and ascertain the flight paths; dark, straight hair that matched a heavy moustache; a basketball belly more at home on a much older man.

  In another industry, he would have stood out. In air traffic control, he was more prototype than exception.

  17:15

  So often, Steven tapped his brake pedal, a nervous tic, or perhaps a source of comfort. And indeed, he’d always loved the sensation. A way to slow the pace. Knowing the brakes were within reach, however fast he was travelling.

  Steven had lost track of time. Moments, hours left scattered along the Great Eastern Highway while driving to and from work. Seconds entered in the till by an underpaid, overworked cashier. A day, maybe two, left hanging in the change room at the airport, with his dinners and breakfasts shovelled down to make it to the tower in time for changeover.

  He tried to take solace in signs, symbols of life as it was being lived, and yet there were days when he wanted to fill the bin with toys, books, and drink bottles. Nights when he wished only for a clean carpet, a child who inherently knew what an object was, and where it belonged.

  His evenings were now a series of half-thoughts, chased away by the next impending crisis: the whereabouts of Alex’s blue blanket, or Jay’s giraffe; or the words to ‘Heart and Soul.’ His head filled with trivial but essential information, unlearning almost everything else he had previously learned. To turn on the cold tap first, without the hot, and to never leave them running unattended. To fasten safety belts— always testing that they were definitely fastened. To push pot handles towards the back of the stove.

  So strange for one’s family life to be defined by highs and lows, and one’s work life to be so methodical, shift after shift, seeing blips on a screen and guiding them home.

  Not that you could guarantee their safety. Whatever the preparation at work, there was always the chance you’d miscalculate. Whatever the preparation at home, your children still might trip or stumble as you were thinking about something, anything, other than their inherent vulnerability.

  The chance that, on an otherwise forgettable day, you might misjudge the necessary clearance, as Steven had, at Tullamarine, September 1975.

  He’d kept that to himself as one might hide a broken plate or a blood-stained shirt. Kept going, knowing sometimes you had to do things for the common good, although you won’t always get such guidance. Sometimes, you had to make a call. You had to use your judgement, which was what he was employed to do. Or had been, up until today.

  The officers had been comparing notes on the landing of Ansett flight 224 into Perth. They turned their chairs away from the monitors and one officer spoke, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘I’m Officer Roberts, Incident Management.’

  Phil sat, having pulled across a nearby office chair, but Steven remained standing.

  ‘Why are we here?’ said Steven.

  The officer moved forwards with his chair, a slight squeak as the wheels rolled over the linoleum. ‘I wanted to talk to you about adequate separation. About the dangers in miscalculation.’

  ‘It’s wasn’t miscalculation. It was judgement, sir.’

  ‘It was poor judgement.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Steven.

  ‘So, you’re telling me that you deliberately lost the picture?’

  Steven shrugged his shoulders. They stared, took each other in. Roberts conceded, swung his chair to the right. ‘What do you think, Phil?’

  Phil paused. ‘Well, when assessing the flight pattern——’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a dissertation on the mechanics of flight,’ said Roberts. ‘I want your opinion.’

  ‘Avoidable.’

  ‘You see the fix we’re in,’ said Roberts. ‘Is there anything else we need to know? A previous event that suggested the need for intervention or retraining?’

  *

  15:45

  His drive home from work stretched from thirty to fifty minutes. Great Eastern Highway was backed up, an accident near Ascot, a freight truck taking out a car that had dared to turn right. He hoped the driver was okay. Saw the front of the car when he passed, and guessed that he wasn’t.

  Further back, a smattering of motels. Garish places, red-brick finish and tinted windows. Ugly as an East Freo fullback, but still Steven couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to rest in one of these lodgings. A day off: no kids, just him and a TV.

  But then, he didn’t want to be childless. In all of this, he had Alex, Em, and Jay: six, five, and four. Three sweet, funny kids. Reasons to get up; to go again, and be kinder, wiser.

  And still, his wife had gone silent. Tired. Forgetful. You’d be forgetful too, if you’d not had a decent sleep in six years, said Jen, and he wanted to understand, or maybe that was just something he said to stop from feeling selfish.

  They hadn’t had sex since before Jay’s birth. Even then it was a rush, the slamming of the bedroom door, and push, push, done.

  A phone conversation later that night. Sophie saying, She’s got a lot on right now, and he’d wondered briefly if that meant just that, or if Sophie, in her own way, was trying to hint at something else. Something that, in times past, was rarely spoken of, for fear that naming it might stain the sheets, or break a spell.

  He had told Jen about the conversation, said, Opinions are like arseholes, everybody has one, and, once he’d got that off his chest, Jen sighed and said, Love, do you not see just how bad it’s become?

  Steven coughed and looked to Phil, who nodded.

  ‘Define “incident”,’ said Steven.

  ‘You never seen one? Or been part of one?’ said Roberts.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘What happened in Tullamarine?’

  ‘I don’t work at Tullamarine.’

  ‘And why’s that, Steven? You want me to remind you?’

  Steven felt a twinge in his neck. ‘They said they wouldn’t report it.’

  ‘It wasn’t reported,’ said Roberts. ‘But they recorded it. Everything’s recorded, you know that, surely.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ said Steven.

  ‘Nothing?’

  Close enough to it. A blind spot; clearance given to land and to depart, but he’d not seen the conflict within his field of view. A near miss, but not so near as to need further involvement, or investigation.

  A near accident was just that: the lack of an accident, the preservation of lives. Did it matter what could have happened? he thought. Am I accountable for what-ifs now, as well?

  ‘I withdrew the clearance as soon as I could,’ Steven said. ‘What did you want me to do?’

  15:15

  Phil came into the tearoom after clocking off, mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger—a show of support.

  ‘They all right?’ said Steven.

  Phil nodded. ‘Close call. I’ll take you back over.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ said Steven.

  ‘They just want to talk, find out what happened.’

  But he knew what had happened.

  ‘Reckon they’ll soften if you back down,’ said Phil.

  ‘You think I’m going to back down?’ said Steven.

  ‘No. But it was worth a try.’

  They walked to Control with barely a word spoken. Hurried past security and down the main hallway.

  ‘You all right?’ said Phil.

  Steven nodded, and they entered the room.

  None of the officers spoke. It was as though they were waiting for clearance, or permission to talk.

  Steven guessed that, off the record, they’d have told him it was okay to make mistakes. That, if y
ou make a misjudgement and no-one’s dead, then you’re luckier than some.

  He knew that their options were limited. That their need to adhere to protocol was far greater than their scope for compassion.

  Today was his second incident, a near collision, and one of sufficient gravity that warranted suspension without pay . . . or immediate termination.

  Enough of a wage to pay the mortgage on the house if he took on other work. What kind of work? Something in the evening, most likely, as he’d long become accustomed to a later working day than the majority of Perth’s working population.

  He could lie about it, as he’d lied about Tullamarine. But this time, truth would wear him down. He knew every aspect, the variables, known and unknown, that had contributed to the second incident. And, if they asked, he had no option but to tell them.

  11:45

  Steven scanned the reports and checked the memos, having no desire to be blindsided by updated code or a change in procedure.

  They’d been frequent of late. New roles created specifically for the purpose: uniformed officers who worked upstairs and did not consult with controllers. Changes made for the illusion of activity, while they’d already begun cost-cutting at the regional airports.

  Protocols shifted away from Centre liability. You made the call, you dropped the ball, they used to say, laughing at first, at least until the first guy was fired, along with a couple of ground crew.

  Steven shut his eyes, temporarily. Wished he’d drunk another coffee, or two. Waited for the call as fatigue started to kick in.

  ‘Perth Centre, this is Ansett 224. Requesting immediate clearance.’

  Steven switched on the radio. ‘Go ahead. Suspected cargo fire as discussed, concur?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to discuss or revisit, Centre. Need clearance, now.’

  ‘Hold, Captain,’ said Steven.

  Steven studied the picture. Line of thunderstorms coming through, estimated arrival: twenty-five to thirty minutes. Charted airspace, and as far as he could tell, no conflicts, although he’d have liked to have conducted a more structured scan.

  He hit the hotline through to Phil. The two of them shared quick-fire stats, competing flight patterns, as it wasn’t the first time they’d stumbled through a shift, one picking up the slack for the other more tired, stressed, or distracted colleague.

  ‘There anything we’re missing?’ said Phil.

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘You’d know,’ said Phil, and they ended the communication.

  As Steven went to re-engage with the pilot, a voice came through. ‘Perth Centre, this is Ansett 224. Vertical clearance required, can you grant it?’

  ‘You’re clear,’ said Steven.

  And, with clearance granted, he saw that they were anything but, and he wished he hadn’t rushed, that he’d taken time to assess surrounding climb clearance.

  And, with the chance of a collision now not possible but likely, he barked out orders, curses, pleas, knowing all the while they’d mean little in the end.

  Steven smoothed his beard. In his mind, heard the sound of a dying engine.

  While most incidents could be attributed to human error, chance was often just as culpable in here as it was in life: a foot making contact with the edge of a tilted paving stone; a cut on a finger effortlessly attracting further knocks.

  And yet he knew that in air traffic control, chance was just another way of saying, You screwed up big.

  ‘You lost the picture,’ said Roberts, sitting back in his chair. ‘It’s not as if it never happens.’

  Steven looked at Roberts. ‘What about you? You ever made a mistake?’

  ‘Just the one,’ said Roberts. ‘I headed up a department to ensure that it never happens again.’

  08:15

  Phil filled the kettle, flicked the switch. Gazed out at the runway in quiet contemplation.

  ‘How have you been?’ said Phil. ‘You good?’

  ‘Great,’ said Steven, shovelling in a mouthful of scrambled egg.

  ‘How’s Alex?’

  ‘Bit stubborn of late.’

  ‘You told him who’s boss?’

  ‘It’s him,’ said Steven. ‘Never been any doubt about that.’

  They checked in with the day crew, who were out the door before they had finished the last of their questions.

  The men acclimatised to the darkness, though outside it was fine, at least for now, until a later line of storms. Not much time to find one’s feet on any particular shift; the picture gained from a series of indicators, an intuitive process of collating data, assessing flight patterns, and ensuring safe transit for all, however harried the pilot might be, however essential their demands.

  The static cut out. ‘Perth Centre, this is Ansett 224. We’ve got a problem, suspected cargo fire, and we’re needing to land.’

  ‘Hydraulic indications are good?’

  ‘All good.’

  ‘And the engine temperatures?’ said Steven. ‘They’re normal?’

  ‘As expected.’

  ‘Track via STAR 2 to Perth,’ said Steven. ‘Hold clearance and stand-by.’

  ‘Roger.’

  Steven checked in with Ansett Operations. They queried the severity of the fire, said that dependent on the risk there was a compelling case for getting the plane down. He told them what he’d said to Phil: hold clearance, and no point in panicking—just yet.

  ‘I’m ready to talk,’ said Steven.

  Roberts nodded, ushering away Phil and the other two officers.

  ‘What happened at Kingsford Smith?’ said Steven.

  ‘You recognised the name,’ said Roberts.

  ‘I read it in the papers.’

  ‘Miscalculated.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Roberts waved away Steven’s compassion. ‘More honourable this way—the taskforce as opposed to the scrap heap.’

  Steven bowed his head, sighed quietly. ‘Roberts.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m not right,’ he said, his leg tapping the linoleum.

  ‘You mean——’

  A deeper breath. ‘I knew, could tell I was going. Tullamarine, I cleared take-off. They would’ve gone, but they double-checked. I did too, on their insistence.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘They weren’t clear,’ said Steven. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘A mistake,’ said Roberts.

  ‘I don’t know why I thought they were good to go.’

  ‘You don’t have to know everything.’

  ‘They said I had to go. Demotion? I asked, but they shook their head, and it seemed we’d pretend this was fate, a necessary step in my development. All fine, I guess, but then we’re in Perth, I already have the job, and I walk into the hotel lobby, wait a minute, two, praying Jen will walk away, give me time enough to work out the lie.’

  He was crying by then. Hit the arm of his chair so that it shook with each punch.

  ‘I don’t know how to fix this,’ said Steven.

  Roberts shuffled his chair closer, put his arms around Steven. They embraced, a distant A-shaped hug, until it was safe to retreat again.

  ‘This isn’t something to solve,’ said Roberts.

  ‘Then what do I do?’

  ‘You go home, tell your wife. You spend time with your family. You hope they understand, not like you, but like normal people do, where they hear the words you’ve said, but it’s not the words that matter, it’s the thought that you’re in pain.’

  Wouldn’t work, thought Steven, but he’d give it a try. In time, go in search of work with weight and meaning. Knew that money was not so much an issue, but that time, so unencumbered by routine, would need to be spooled each day, held tight, for fear that it might strangle him.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Roberts. ‘I’m here if you need to talk. Don’t want you to feel like you’re alone.’

  Steven thought about his wife, who he’d neglected, or she’d neglected him, or maybe they were both just tir
ed, which was fine, a phase, but one in need of change. He planned to hold her close, and for longer, if she’d let him once she knew he’d lost his job.

  One time swinging his kids off the ground with Jay on one arm and Emily on the other, their matching ‘whoas,’ as he lifted them higher and then swung them down to safety.

  And, in all that precision, amid all his meticulous, unassailable thoughts, he was already in freefall: seeing sky, ground, sky, as he tumbled to earth.

  Wallpaper

  Jen and Steven had been arguing about the walls all afternoon. He had wanted light blue, sky-like. She said that with kids, you had to go with wallpaper. You needed to be able to wipe away the smears of coloured pencil, the handprints they left when moving from one room to another.

  It mattered how things looked, said Steven. Without beauty, a home was just four walls and a roof. You can get beautiful wallpaper, insisted Jen, to which he had retorted, that’s fine, but what if it peels away? You’re left with an exposed wall, and you’d better hope that’s pretty, too.

  Since Steven had started at Supa Valu, they’d often find spot fires, such as this. And since he’d come clean about Tullamarine, he was forever riled, calm as crows, waiting for her to say the wrong thing.

  Although the mortgage was taken care of, it wasn’t as if they’d gone beyond the Black and Gold brand since Steven’s redundancy. Alex had already stopped eating the peanut butter, which he called ‘poo-nut butter.’ Emily had asked if they could please buy Sorbent, as the cheaper brand was like wiping with the White Pages, and Jay still loved the frozen berries, whatever the brand, because he liked the way they squished between his fingers.

  Steven and Jen would fight over who would look after the kids, while the other went to the supermarket. The younger Slaters already losing interest in perusing the supermarket aisles, as it had become less of a trip to the shops and more of a barn dance, crazy cold once you hit the fridge aisle, further in, finding crime-scene cordial spills and the lino covered in skid marks.