Suddenly aware of his own empty plate, Rudd asks the priest if he has eaten.

“Yes. I sat down with the doctors earlier. Sounds like a tragedy out there.”

“I know. Brutal.”

“Wish there was something I could do, but without the mission truck …” Father Norman twists his hands palm upwards, then his fingers fall back to their tapping.

“No idea about your truck. I heard Jacobus’ was okay by some miracle.”

The priest shrugs, and pushes his chair back from the table, hands now still and folded in his lap. “Maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, will try to make myself useful here. As Jacobus says, a truck is just a truck.”

“No.” Rudd shakes his head. “A truck is way more than that here. No transport and you can be in real trouble.” He slumps into a brooding quiet. On the wall beside him, the last of the rain-soaked sun catches on a painting of teapickers. Beneath it, the long serving table sags with dirty plates.

“You must be tired,” Father Norman says after a few seconds of silence.

“One way of putting it.” Rudd’s body begins to drift, every bolt loosened to its limits. His mind too is fraying, threads pulling free faster than he can catch them. He starts to speak without meaning to. “Wish I’d cancelled yesterday when I saw that report. All this damage … it’s like some kind of punishment. ”

“Punishment? Why? You couldn’t have done anything. If you’d tried to cancel, nobody would have listened. Not this lot. I know wedding crowds, and there was no stopping this one.”

“Maybe.” Darkness seeps between them. Then another thread pulls. “Storms are nightmares for me.”

“Nightmares? Why?”

“It’s Stephen,” he says, too weary to stop. He thumps his elbows on to the table, one either side of his plate. His head drops between his hands.

“Stephen?”

“Trying to get in.”

“Get in? Where?”

“I shut him out. Out of the dormitory at school.” The words collapse out of Rudd, broken as a dam. “There was a massive storm. He was terrified, and I just kept him out there on this balcony begging to get in. He was so terrified. Had a thing about thunder.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I wasn’t the only one, but I was the one who held the window closed. Me. And I was supposed to be his friend. But I just joined in. With everyone.” He looks up at the priest, and jeers the taunts, mouth smirking. “‘Keep the little wimp out there.’ ‘You want us to throw you outside too?’ That kind of stuff …” The words fade.

“How old were you?”

“First year. 12. Stephen and I were the ‘wimps’. Always bullied. Then I tried to dodge it. To join in. To be the bully. I was so pathertic.” The words stab, faster and faster. “I was the one holding the window closed. Me. And it was my friend out there. My only real friend. Stephen. And I did that to him.” Rudd slaps a hand across his heart. “To my friend. Now, he’s always there. In my head. Trying to get in.” He drills a finger into his temple. “Always in my head.”

 “What happened?” Father Norman asks quietly.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023