Praise by Andrew McGahan

wasn’t worried about anything. I hadn’t known her long, but it’d been intense, there wasn’t much we hadn’t covered. Cynthia was
right
.
    The kiss stopped. Cynthia rolled onto her back, grabbed for a cigarette. ‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘why do I do these things to myself? The folks will freak. The plane goes in about twelve hours.’
    â€˜How bad will it be?
    â€˜Oh, bad. But I’ve done it to them before, they won’t be suprised, it won’t kill them.’
    â€˜When will you tell them?’
    â€˜Tonight maybe. Or in the morning. Christ, Christ, Christ. Be good to me, Gordon. I’m taking a big chance here. If it all fucks up I can still go up to Darwin I suppose, but if it comes to that ...’
    â€˜All we can do is give it a try, Cynthia.’
    â€˜I know. I know.’
    She drummed her fingers across her lips.
    â€˜Should we go?’ I said.
    â€˜Okay. Let’s get moving. I just can’t believe I’m doing this again. I’m gonna kill myself this way. And your name is Gordon. It’s fucking
Gordon
.’
    â€˜Well, I can’t help that.’
    I got her out of bed, into the car.

E LEVEN
    We got back to the hotel. Cynthia was opening her door. The door opposite, her parents’ door, popped open. It was her mother. ‘Cynthia, you’re here. Quick, I think you father’s been concussed.’
    â€˜Christ,’ said Cynthia. ‘How?’
    We went in. Her parents’ room was much smaller than ours, only one double bed and no couches. Her father was sitting on the bed, holding a hand to the back of his head. He was wearing shorts.
    â€˜Mum, Dad, this is Gordon Buchanan.’
    Mrs Lamonde looked me over. She was much taller than Cynthia, and thinner, but she had the same instant grace. ‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said.
    â€˜Hello, Mrs Lamonde. Mr Lamonde.’
    He squinted up at me. He looked very much like an army major. Big, solid and hairy.
    â€˜How’d you do it?’ Cynthia asked him.
    â€˜I was soaping my toes in the shower. I slipped.’
    â€˜I heard this huge bang,’ added Mrs Lamonde.
    We discussed concussion. No one was sure how you could tell if someone had it or not.
    â€˜Can you remember your birthday?’ Mrs Lamonde asked.
    â€˜Of course I can remember my birthday.’
    â€˜How many fingers am I holding up?’ Cynthia asked him, holding up all four.
    â€˜Will you
stop
it, I’m not concussed.’
    Mrs Lamonde wasn’t convinced. ‘Do you feel dizzy?’
    â€˜I’m fine.’ He stood up, swayed, and sat down again. ‘All right, just a little dizzy.’
    â€˜I really think you should go to hospital.’
    â€˜I’m not going to hospital.’
    But Mrs Lamonde kept at him. Eventually he agreed. ‘I’m only doing this for you,’ he told her. ‘I know I’m fine.’
    We decided that Cynthia and I would take him, in my car. We drove to the casualty ward of the Royal Brisbane. The nurse took him away. Cynthia and I sat down to wait.
    â€˜Your mother seemed very nice,’ I said.
    â€˜She is. They both are. Not that we get along any better for it.’
    â€˜You would’ve been a hard sort of daughter.’
    â€˜Maybe. They’re a strange couple. I never would’ve thought the army life would suit Mum. And Dad, what’s he still
doing
in the army? He could do better, they both could.’
    â€˜People have to settle somewhere, Cynthia.’
    She was looking away towards the examination rooms.
    â€˜I don’t want them to die, though,’ she said. ‘It’d kill me if they died.’
    The casualty ward was busy and we waited about an hour without any news. It was a long hour. We both needed sleep. We’d only had a few hours in the last two days. We took turns at going outside for a smoke. Finally Cynthia went and asked at the desk, then came back.
    â€˜He’s not