Nature of Ash, The (2 page)

We drive around the bays and hit the party-belt of Courtenay Place. The place is pumping. Business as usual. Groups of corporate men are reeling down the streets, leering after skanky-looking underage girls — all off their faces. By Jervois Quay the place is overrun with cops. I peer down Hunter Street, trying to glimpse the building where Dad works through the slew of police cars and emergency vehicles. Everywhere there’s smoke and flashing lights and figures racing around in luminous yellow vests. But this stuffy airlock of a car is messing with my ears. All sound is muffled, the chorus of sirens a tooth-grinding underwater whine.

‘Who the hell would do this?’

‘We’re still not absolutely sure.’ Jeannie’s eyes meet mine for a second before she looks back to the road ahead. ‘No one’s claimed responsibility. But, given that your father’s union was stirring up a hornet’s nest about the sweat shops and the factory farms, there’s already speculation in the media it’s masterminded by the UPR.’

This makes sickening sense. If the United People’s Republic can launch a bloody great torpedo at an Aussie ship, I doubt they care too much about a few poor sods with the thankless task of backing workers’ rights in little old NZ. But why a bomb? Are they really that desperate to protect their interests?

We’re almost home now, driving up past Parliament, then into Hill Street where we live. We pull up outside our apartment block and Jeannie makes to walk me up the stairs. I brush her off — I need these few precious minutes to myself — but when she reassures me that she’ll pick me up later this morning, around nine, I’m glad it’s going to be her. She’s way more human than I expected from a cop.

Now I’m faced with the two-storey climb. It’s like wading through fast-setting concrete. I stop for breath outside our door. I’m too damn young to deal with this shit. It isn’t fair. Not only do I have to break my brother’s heart, but first I have to tell a total stranger — some sucky girl whose countrymen have just killed my dad. I hate her before I even turn the key.

The TV’s on, following the ‘breaking news’, and as the door clicks shut Jiao startles, jumping from the sofa to her feet. She’s not what I expected — curvy, with voluptuous tits and spiky hair that’s dyed bright
red. Our eyes meet, but I have to look away. She’s totally freaked.

Onscreen, the carnage carries on. I’m mesmerised for a moment by the wreckage, by the emergency workers hefting a body bag out to the street.
Fuck
.
That could be Dad
.

My knees go weak. Start buckling. I lean back against the door. ‘Thanks for waiting up.’ My voice sounds like it’s been relayed from Mars.

Jiao gestures at the screen. ‘Is there any chance Mr McCarthy—’

I blow out one long breath and launch myself towards a chair. ‘I doubt they’d just have flown me here if he was safe.’ It comes out all sarcastic. ‘You know they think it was the UPR?’

Her eyes fill up with tears. She turns her back, collecting her things in such a jumble that when she turns again she drops her books.
The Complete Works
of Shakespeare
and
The Collected Poems of Walter de la
Mare
. Well, la-di-da.

‘I’ll go now,’ she says, edging past me. ‘I’m so, so sorry—’

‘Yeah.’ She’s still fumbling with the doorknob when my brain clicks in. I need her here tomorrow. ‘Look, can you be back by nine to stay with Mikey while I’m with the cops?’

‘I have a weekend class …’ She glances towards Mikey’s darkened room.

‘I’ll pay you for your time.’

She shuffles on the spot, then sighs. ‘Okay. Yes, sure.

Tell him I’ll be here again just after half past eight.’

Thank god. Alone at last. I snatch up the remote
and switch the TV off — can’t watch those wide-eyed reporters speculate with such excitement on who did the deed. It’s like they’re getting off on it … like disaster porn. It makes me sick. Besides, I promised Mikey I’d wake him when I arrived home.

But first I take my phone out, plug it in to the charger and ring through for my messages. Dad’s voice sounds bloody tense.
Listen, things are looking grim — I want you to come home. I’ve put two hundred dollars in your bank account. Just catch the next train up, then grab the ferry. Text me and I’ll meet you — if need be I’ll borrow George’s car. Just come home, eh? It’s better that we’re all together in one place. I’m sure the university will understand. I love you, mate
.

I can picture the way his forehead would’ve crinkled as he spoke, and when I listen again his presence is so strong it’s like he’s standing right behind me, just out of visual range. God knows where he scored two hundy from — he’s never got that kind of cash. He must’ve been bloody keen to get me home.

I play the message —
I love you, mate
— three more times to hold him in the room. Then I save it and listen to the other two calls. It’s obvious Mikey panicked when the cops came to the door — thought he’d landed up in trouble again. I can reassure him on that count at least.

The few steps to his bedroom door are like a bloody execution march. But tension shifts to aching sadness when I see his sleeping body curled up in the bed. I kneel down beside him. Study his wide flat face, his almond eyes, his sturdy neck, his tiny ears … he’s grown a bit of bum-fluff on his chin and there’s the hint of side-burns darkening his cheeks. I love this kid
so much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d gladly throttle him sometimes, especially when he drops me in the shit. But Mikey’s got a sweet, sweet heart. And I’m about to break it.

God damn, he looks so peaceful. What’s the point of waking him and ruining his sleep? His life? Besides, maybe Dad wasn’t inside the building after all, just held up somewhere else … Why get Mikey all het up until I know for sure?

And so I slide on to the bed beside him, dragging up his discarded blanket to keep out the chill. He doesn’t wake, not really, but senses me and smiles. He wraps his short plump arms around me. I lie here in my little brother’s smelly grip to wait it out till daylight.

I get no sleep.

AROUND SIX IN THE MORNING
I give up even trying. I feel sick and hollowed out, and can’t stop sneaky tears from seeping out into my ears. Beside me, Mikey’s loose snoring sounds like an old man’s fart.

I slip out to the lounge and switch on the radio to catch the early news. Can’t face the images on TV.

‘…
and Combined Trade Unions President Shaun McCarthy is thought to be among the dead
…’

They state it so damn plainly they destroy all hope. They say at least seven people are still missing, another five taken to hospital, one with burns so bad they doubt she’ll live. Now they call on so-called ‘experts’. These self-important blow-hards threaten to do in my head. It’s pretty bloody obvious who did this: the UPR came over here with their cheap labour, totally ignoring basic human rights along the way. Most people don’t give a
toss about indentured workers from overseas — our lives these days are hard enough — but Dad and his union have staunchly held the line that if they work here, then they should be covered by our laws. The union’s had all kinds of threats, but Dad has always laughed them off. ‘Don’t worry mate, that’s positive — it’s proof we’re doing something right!’

Now our Prime Minister comes on, declaring the police will do ‘whatever’s in their powers to apprehend the terrorists’, adding that he’s told the cops to lock down the entire CBD. Dad hates this guy. I hate him too — his eyes are two Death-Star black holes, and when he talks about protecting people’s ‘quality of life’ it’s clear he means his corporate mates and no one else. Whenever Mikey sees him on TV he breaks into one of his half-moon grins and shrieks ‘Arsehole!’ — knowing Dad can’t punish him because Dad said it first.

In truth, this is the first time I’ve turned on Public Radio since I went down south. Here at home it’s blaring every morning as we get up but, even though I’ve known this shit was building, this year I’ve only seen the TV news — hardly the place to gather real facts. All I wanted was
one
year where I could be like everyone else: drinking way too much and having one hell of a good time. I mean, give me a break … force-fed gloomy politics by Dad, and having to take care of Mikey after school. Until I went to Christchurch, I had no life at all.

‘Ashy!’ Mikey bursts into the room, leaps, and lands like a psycho pitbull on my lap. He nearly bloody flattens me — has no idea of his own strength — as he plants one of his sloppy halitosis kisses on my lips. ‘You didn’t wake me up!’

I hug him first, then jab him in the ribs, indulge in a little wrestling before I twist out from under him to flick off the radio. ‘Sorry, Sleeping Beauty, I tried but you didn’t budge.’ My heart has started hammering.
What the hell am I going to say?

‘Where’s Dad?’

Trust Mikey to leave me no bloody time to think. ‘Something’s happened at his work,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m here. I need to go and see if I can help.’ Not
exactly
a lie, just not the truth.

‘Did you see my shoes?’ Mikey’s already running to his room. He’s back in under two minutes, hobbling as he tries to pull a pair of Velcro-fastened trainers on to his pudgy feet. ‘They’re new! No one else, only me!’

He’s so goddamned proud of them, prancing around like a seventy-kilo fairy high on meth. I can understand his excitement: he has a serious shoe fetish, though mostly we buy second-hand or make do with hand-me-downs from Dad’s few better-off friends. We’ve never had a lot of cash, but since we’ve had to pay for Grandma’s care and I’ve started uni things have been worse than tight — that’s why Dad sending down two hundred bucks and buying Mikey brand-new shoes seems mighty weird.

‘They’re choice, mate. Real choice.’ His face flushes with pride and I’m glad for the chance to stall for time. I go to check the contents of the fridge. There’s not much there except a few scrappy veges from the community garden down the road and the eggs delivered every week by Dad’s friend George. ‘You hungry?’

‘Hungry, hungry, hungry!’ Mikey grabs the bowl of eggs and shoves it at my chest. ‘You cook!’ He’s always
like this first thing in the morning — like a parent-gobbling baby bird.

I whip him up two eggs on toast and one for me, but I can’t eat. My stomach somersaults every time I lift the fork. In the end I push my plate across to Mikey and make do with a cup of tea — though even that’s a struggle to force down.

It’s still not even seven when I’ve cleared the breakfast things. I know it’s cowardly, but I plug our ancient game console in and settle Mikey with his favourite shoot- ’em-up. He’s such a sucker for this stuff: hopeless at playing, but engrossed for hours and hours. I can’t face his questions, have too many of my own. And every minute ticking past is tugging at my nerves. Do I really have the balls to see Dad dead? I have no idea. What if he really
has
been blown to bits? If all they have to identify him is meat and bone?

I do a runner to the loo. Chuck up my cup of tea. Why can’t they ask somebody else? George, or someone from Dad’s work? It’s not as if the cops don’t know what Dad looks like … I bet they’re flashing pictures of him on TV right now. And
that’s
the other thing freaking me out: the media will be circling like vultures over road kill. I’ve seen the way they treat mugs like me — put words into your mouth then twist them up for their own means.

After brushing my teeth I take a shower, wishing just for once I didn’t have to stick to the two-minute rule. To hell with water shortages — sometimes hot water is the only salve.

When I’m dressed again, I’m drawn to Dad’s room, and stretch out across his unmade bed. It smells of
him, a kind of musty earthiness that’s so familiar and comforting I want to bottle it, always keep it near. He has a photo by his bed of him and Mum. They’re at some protest march when they were teenagers, smiling into the lens with such confidence it’s hard to meet their eyes. I look a lot like Mum, I know: I have her curly hair and hazel eyes. It’s the only photo of her here — the other pictures on the bedside table are all of Mikey and me. It’s funny, but the only time I notice Mikey’s face is different from the norm is when I see it in a photo. I’m so used to staring at his ugly chops I’m always genuinely surprised when some ignoramus freaks about the fact he’s Downs. My brother’s got the most amazing smile, the widest, happiest, daffiest one you’ll ever see. I wonder if, after today, he’ll ever smile again?

The next thing I’m conscious of is Mikey jumping on the bed. ‘Ashy wake up! Jow Jow’s here!’

I can’t believe I’ve slept. I stumble out into the lounge, aware that Jiao is watching me closely. She’s wearing truly ancient jeans, so patched there’s patches on the patches, offset by a checked lime shirt that pings against her hair.

‘Thanks for coming.’ I sound as lame as hell.
I’m not prepared
. If Jiao is here, that means it must be heading towards nine.

She shrugs. Her face is closed.

‘Jiao’s going to stay with you till I get back from town,’ I say to Mikey, whose arm is draped around her shoulders.

He smiles up at her like she’s his girlfriend. ‘You wanna play my game?’

Her whole face softens when she looks at him. ‘In a
mo,’ she says, gently unbridling herself to push him back towards his game. ‘I need to speak with Ashley first.’

I have to give her credit: she seems to understand what Mikey says, and doesn’t revert to patronising baby-talk the way most people do. They can’t decipher the thick-tongued way he speaks, and don’t realise what an amazing feat it is that he can talk at all.

‘Ash,’ I say to Jiao. ‘Just call me Ash.’

She nods, her eyes still on Mikey until it’s clear he’s back in digi-land, then follows me into the kitchen. She scoops a pen from the bench top and starts to click it on and off.

‘I saw the news before I caught the bus this morning,’ she says.

‘Yeah.’

‘I can’t believe it’s true.’ Her gaze flicks across my face for just a second. I feel it as plainly as if she’d brushed me with her hand.

‘Yeah,’ I say again. ‘They want me to identify him this morning — that’s where I have to go.’

‘All on your own?’

It’s my turn to shrug. I have to tough it out. Be A Man. She looks about to say something else, but we’re interrupted by a knock.

‘Look after him, eh? I gotta go. I haven’t told him yet.’

I open the door wide enough to confirm it’s Sergeant Jeannie Smith, yell goodbye to Mikey and slip out through the gap.

‘Hey there, Ashley. I hope you managed to get some sleep.’ She says it like she knows that’s wishful thinking. She doesn’t look too rested either. In fact, she looks like shit. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Have you got anyone
you’d like to come with you for support? We could call in on the way.’

I feel like kissing her, I’m so relieved. ‘There’s Dad’s best friend, George Silverman, he’s—’

‘George Silverman who works for Amnesty?’

‘Yeah. You know him?’

She stops mid-step. Rests her hand ever so lightly on my arm. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’

‘Damn. When’s he due back?’

‘I’m sorry, Ashley. He was in the building with your dad. I’ve just had word his family positively identified his remains earlier this morning.’

That can’t be right. Not George as well. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to an uncle — hell, to
anyone
— apart from Grandma. Jeezus, poor Vidya, his wife. Poor Lizzie, Joe and Matt. He was an awesome dad.

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sorry, mate, but yes. The family aren’t in any doubt.’

It’s hard to navigate the last flight of stairs: my knees have turned to mush and my peripheral vision’s gone to hell. It’s like being swept down a dark tunnel, the stairwell’s pissy stench the only thing that registers. Dad
and
George? And god knows who else. I probably know them all in some way, most of them since I was small. Dad’s whole universe of friends and colleagues, all wiped out in one big bang.

Jeannie drives along the waterfront, dodging the road blocks set up around the CBD. There’s cop cars everywhere, and at the cordon closest to Dad’s building TV crews are interviewing groups of sightseers. The day is cold and overcast, appropriate considering what’s
going on, but even though I’m wearing two warm layers I’m shaking just as bad as Mr Ferris, the nice old dude with Parkinson’s who lives next door.

There are camera crews outside the Emergency Department at the hospital as well. Jeannie detours round the side, past all the ambulances, and parks around a corner where we can’t be seen. We’re right outside the entrance to the morgue, and as we wait to be admitted Jeannie pats my arm.

‘Right, Ashley,’ she says, her eyes bleeding sympathy. ‘I’ll come in with you and do the official paperwork, but then just let me know if you’d like some time with him alone.’ She draws in a long breath as though steeling herself.
Bets are on there’s something else she wants to say
. ‘There’s one thing more …’
Bingo
. She pauses at a set of solid double doors. ‘They’ve done their best to clean him up, but it’s still going to be a shock. No one will blame you if it’s just too hard. Do you understand?’

I nod. There’s no way I can speak. My head is full-on shaking, my tongue so dry and thick it makes me want to choke. There’s a buzzing static in my ears and a cold band squeezing around my temples in a vice-like grip. The weird thing is my ears and hands are burning — tingling — and the world’s gone into slow motion, every move demanding conscious will to act.

Now a nurse swings the door open and Jeannie slides her arm around my shoulders to guide me through. She’s not like a cop, more like the mother of one of my friends. Even so, my shaking grows steadily worse.

Inside, it’s just an ordinary corridor. The nurse unlocks another door and leads us into a darkened room. She flicks on the lights, and I brace myself. But
there’s nothing here except two shabby sofas and a table with a lamp.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to view him through the glass,’ she says. She unlocks what looks like a cupboard but is, in fact, a pair of shutters. Behind them lies a solid double-glazed window.

And there he is — well, there
someone
is. Laid out on a bench right up against the other side. He’s locked in a small cage-like compartment, separated by a metal grille from some kind of operating theatre beyond. Is lying inside a white vinyl body bag, zipped from ribs to feet. They’ve kept his head and chest exposed, the contour of his body visible beneath the vinyl shroud.

I let my gaze drift from head to toe. Already I can see that where his feet should be forming a peak beneath the covering there’s nothing but flat empty space.
Oh god. Oh, holy shit
. Jeannie’s arm is pressing tighter as we edge closer to the glass. The nurse hands her a clipboard full of papers and steps away, then Jeannie gives me one more squeeze and lets me go.

‘Are you all right, Ashley? All I need from you is confirmation that this is your dad.’ I swear her voice is shaking too.

I try to talk, but all that comes out is a croak. I have to clear my throat and try again. ‘Okay.’

This person could be anyone, the face so swollen it’s all out of shape, the skin burnt to an ugly mottled red, cross-hatched with livid gouges where shit from the explosion’s lodged into the flesh. This can’t be him. Dad still has a full head of gingery-grey hair, and long eyelashes, while this poor sod has none. ‘I don’t think it’s—’

‘Look closer, Ashley.’ Jeannie’s very calm now,
placing a steady hand into the small of my back. ‘Remember that the blast has burnt away his hair.’ She steps forward, until she’s standing right beside me again, and gestures to his chest, where the scalded skin is pocked and pitted to a shiny red. ‘I’m sorry that you have to view him like this, but until they do the post mortem they have to leave him in this state.’

For a moment I think I’m going to faint. I close my eyes and gulp down a few shaky breaths.
Come on, come on. Just get this over with
. I try again, pressing my forehead to the glass to inspect that blistered, ravaged skin. There’s a strangely defined welt on his chest, below his throat. Shaped like a fish hook, branded there. Just like Hei Matau, the greenstone pendant Mum gave Dad that’s meant to signify prosperity. The greenstone pendant Dad refuses to take off.