Nature of Ash, The (4 page)

We score a pumpkin, cabbage, broccoli, salad greens and silverbeet, though a quick check of Dad’s cupboards makes it clear this won’t be enough to keep us going for long. So we walk over to the supermarket, where there’s been a rush to stock up on basics. The few items on the shelves have doubled in price since last time I shopped down south. I end up blowing nearly a hundred bucks of the money Dad deposited into my account. All this buys is bread, rice, flour, porridge, milk, loo paper, soap and a dozen eggs. Quite how I’m going to keep on feeding Mikey’s voracious appetite, I’m not sure. If prices keep on rising at this rate I’ll have to use the food bank till I know how much Dad’s worth. Unless he’s got some money stashed away, we’re really screwed.

I cook us up some porridge to fill our guts, then set
up Mikey on the game console again while I try to get my head around what happens next. First I call back the funeral director, who tells me that a simple funeral will cost twelve grand.
Jeezus
. I hedge, saying I need to contact Dad’s lawyer, and hang up fast. Twelve grand? The chances of us finding that sort of money are zilch, I’d have thought, but I’m going to have to get hold of the lawyer anyway, so may as well do it now. And that means finding contact details.

Dad’s study is his sacred place: the one room we’re banned from if Dad’s not here. It’s in a mess, papers spilling right across his desk and others stacked in piles on the floor. I start to sort each stack to separate out his private papers from his work, amazed at how he held all these different projects in his head. At the bottom of the final pile I find four envelopes addressed to Dad, each one numbered and dated on the outside in his distinctive scrawl. I open up the first to find a sheet of paper filled with cut-out letters forming words. An icy charge shoots up my spine as I line up the four sheets in order on the desk.

They prove he bloody knew all right — the last is date-marked Thursday, the day before the bomb. But why in hell are these notes here, not with the cops? I feel sick. Who did Dad think he was? Bloody Superman?

I dial Jeannie’s number again but get her answer-phone, so leave a message asking her to call right back.
Maybe if they do forensics on the paper they’ll catch the pricks red handed. Then, by god, they’d better bloody slam them into jail to rot. Perhaps a little torture too? Yeah, definitely. Enough to make them regret their actions till their dying days.

I force myself to keep on searching through more of Dad’s stuff. Eventually I find the section in his filing cabinet where he keeps his private papers, rifling through all sorts of shit. Now I find a letter from a lawyer confirming that she’s just received his latest will. It’s dated only four weeks back, the day after threat number two. Surely this proves he took them seriously — so why, oh why, has it ended up like this?

I ring the number on the letterhead but it’s an after-hours service. When I explain who I am, the operator assures me he’ll contact this lawyer named Lucinda Lasch. She calls straight back and sounds okay, sympathetic but not too gushy (despite her porn-star name), and asks if I can meet her first thing Monday to talk things through. I tell her about the twelve grand quoted for the funeral. She reassures me Dad has made provisions in his will. Thank god: skimping on his last farewell would truly suck.

I’m trying to find Dad’s bank statements when I hear Mikey holler from the living room. ‘Ashy! Come!’

The little shit has switched over from his game to the TV, and there’s Dad’s picture plastered all over the screen as the newsreader rattles through his life and times: ‘…
longstanding supporter of human rights. Born in Motueka, son of noted immigration lawyer, the late Dennis McCarthy, he graduated from Otago University with an MA in political science
…’

Mikey edges right up to the screen and presses his index finger to the picture of Dad’s face. ‘Look, Ashy, no sores.’

I bite back an impatient explanation. What does it matter if he thinks Dad’s face has been restored? If it helps him to forget what he’s just seen, then so be it. I wish to god I could do the same. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘No sores.’

But now they’re showing a picture of Mum.

‘…
together through many student protests until her unexplained disappearance in two-thousand and
—’

What the fuck?

‘
Despite rigorous searching, Grace McCarthy was never found, declared officially dead seven years later — though it was rumoured she’d gone underground after the cyber attack of the Government Communication Security Bureau, commonly attributed to radical separatists Muru
…’

Are they allowed to broadcast bullshit like this? Surely this can’t be for real? They’re saying Mum could still be alive? That she
deserted
us? Just walked away? The idea that she’d topped herself was bad enough, but
this
?

My knees give out from under me and I have to hang on to the sofa or else I’ll drop. It’s all too much. Why would Dad lie to us for all these years?
Hold on, hold on
… get real, the media is doing one of its outrageous spins. Of course! Okay, so maybe Mum
did
walk away, but chances are she topped herself somewhere remote, that’s why they never found her … yes, that must be it. Poor Dad. No wonder he was cagey when I used to bring it up. Imagine what he must’ve gone through in those first few days, then months, then years …

While I’m waiting for my pulse to slow, not helped
by trying to fob off confused questions from Mr Please Explain, the ‘breaking news’ music blares out.

‘
The UPR just confirmed several attacks have been carried out on its New Zealand-based factories and farms
,’ the newsreader intones as pictures of fenced dairy farms dissolve into a live feed from some spokesman in the military get-up of the UPR.

‘
We believe the New Zealand SAS are working under orders from the Western Alliance to attack our assets,’
this man says. ‘
As far as the UPR government is concerned, this is an outright act of war
.’ He sure as hell looks like he means it: the veins on his neck nearly pop out through his skin. He says their military have cordoned off all their facilities, including both of the country’s major UPR-owned ports. They’ve brought in extra ‘security’ — from now on no one will get in or out.
Bloody hell
. This means access to most of our food and mineral resources will be cut.

Our PM Bill Chandler’s face flashes on the screen. ‘
Such unsubstantiated claims are dangerous at this time. I urge the United People’s Republic to call off their unwarranted aggression towards New Zealand and our trading partners
—’

I snatch the remote away from Mikey. Kill the TV. Throw the bloody remote across the lounge.

‘Want to watch!’ Mikey yells. ‘Bad Ashy. Mean.’ He scrabbles over to reclaim the remote, but there’s no way I’m going to let him turn the bloody TV back on. I need some goddamned quiet time to think.

Mikey thumps me in the chest. I’m so pissed off I thump him back. And then we’re fighting for real, all our screwed-up emotions spilling out. He elbows me in
the cheek, which hurts like hell. Rolls so he’s got the whole force of his humungous weight on top of me, and starts bouncing to drive out all my air. I claw up at his face, trying to mash his eyes, knowing full well he’s unbeatable once he’s mad. He head-butts me between the eyes, and a bright burst of light explodes behind my temples as I try to pull him off me by his hair.

‘I want my dad!’ he screams. ‘You bring him back!’

‘He’s bloody d—’

He whops me in the mouth with his shoulder. ‘Go away,’ he shrieks. ‘Want Jow Jow.’ He rolls off me and curls into a foetal ball. He’s crying hard out now, still slapping at me until I crawl out of his lethal range.

I hurt all over, but it’s his heartbroken sobs that finally do me in. I’m swept by the most unbearable exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ I drag myself on to all fours and wrap myself around him. ‘It’s going to be all right.’ I hope like hell he can’t hear the lie. It feels like
nothing
will ever be all right again.

He tries to shrug me off but, damn it, I need to hug him just as much as he needs a hug from me. If we’re going to survive, we’ll need to stick together. And I’m going to have to step up to the mark to protect him. I have no choice … because while our little world has just been blown to bits, outside our door the bigger world is now imploding too.

BY FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON
I’m feeling so knacker ed I can hardly stand. I’ve managed to stop Mikey from spazzing out, but now he’s stuck on the sofa, wittering on that I should contact Jiao. I’m buggered if I will: since when has some stranger mattered to him more than
me
? Besides, the UPR is threatening our whole existence and I’m not prepared to hear her try to justify it — no bloody way.

To make things worse, the internet has crashed so I can’t check out all the bullshit about Mum. Those four god-awful letters are prickling at my nerves, and Jeannie still hasn’t called me back. Could the cops already know about them? If so, what does it mean? That they don’t care? That Dad was left to handle sicko death threats on his own?

There has, however, been a constant stream of other
calls: people I hardly know saying they’d like to help. I end each call as quickly as I can. ‘
Yes, I’ve come home to help Mikey
’ … ‘
Yes, I know Dad was a great, inspiring man
’ … ‘
Thanks for calling but I really have to go
.’ For god’s sake, can’t they leave me be? I understand that people need to express their own shock and grief but the last thing I need right now is other people’s shit heaped on my already over-flowing stack.

To rouse Mikey out of his mood, and to divert my brain, I start to bake a cake, using up the one last browning apple in the fridge. I’ve always been the family baker, from the time Grandma taught me when I was six. And I’m bloody good at it, though I’d never admit this to my new mates down south. I give Mikey the bowl and spatula to lick once the mixture’s in the oven, and he takes them away without a word. I’ve seen him sulk before — god knows, he’s master of the silent treatment — but this is very different, as if the joyful part of him that’s always bubbling just below the surface has leaked away.

I’m halfway through washing up my mess when the phone rings again. I daren’t ignore it, in case it’s Jeannie, so dredge my hands out of the water to answer the call.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Jiao.’
Jeezus, is she psychic?
But I don’t respond, and hear her struggling to swallow before she presses on. ‘May I speak to Mikey please?’

I hold the receiver out as soapsuds dribble down my arm. ‘Mikey, it’s your girlfriend.’ I know I’m being a total arsehole but I don’t care.

He’s off the sofa in a flash, bounding across the room with his hands outstretched towards the phone. ‘Jow
Jow,’ he says, his face splitting into his trademark grin. ‘Come now.’

The smile disintegrates as he listens to her reply. ‘No. Don’t care. You come.’ He’s giving me the hairy-eyeball treatment and, when he sees I’m watching, does the fingers and sticks out his tongue. Usually this makes me laugh (I’m the one who taught him, after all) but, honestly, right now it riles me up — and hurts. We’re supposed to stick together, not fight on different sides.

He holds the receiver out to me. ‘Make Jow Jow come.’ There’s steel in his voice, and when I don’t take it from him straight away he throws it, forcing me to catch.

I clear my throat. ‘Um, hello again.’

‘How is he coping?’ she asks. It strikes me she’s the first person who’s asked about Mikey in such a direct way.

‘Struggling,’ I say. ‘I took him to see Dad.’

I hear her intake of breath. If she gives me shit for this, I’ll cut the call. ‘Poor Mikey,’ she says, and then, very quietly, ‘What about you?’

I snort. ‘Just fine and dandy.’ Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit but it’s a useful ploy.

‘Can I come and see him — please?’

‘I’m—’

‘I won’t stay long. I just want to say goodbye.’

‘Well, that’ll really help.’

I hear her sniff and swallow loudly again. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go away without explaining face to face.’

‘Whatever.’ So she’s going to do a runner now Dad’s not here to pay.
Whoop-de-fucking-do
. Now I’ll have to deal with this drama as well.

‘Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour,’ she says, then ends the call.

When I relay this piece of news to Mikey he shrieks like a demented gibbon and runs off to his room. I finish washing up and frost the cake with the last of the icing sugar. Not my best effort, but the smell is kind of homely and I know Mikey will like it well enough.

He finally comes back into the lounge, and I have to smile. He’s spiked his mop of hair up with water and he’s changed into his best set of clothes. It’s funny in an awful way: he’s consumed by all the usual raging teenage hormones, even though his understanding’s trailing way behind. And now the poor dipstick’s about to learn the first vital lesson of all teenage boys: trust a girl and they will break your heart. I first learnt this at thirteen, when I fell like a total dork for Jasmine Paul. After she swore she was in love with me, I found out she’d also been snogging at least three of my friends. Girls suck you in, then chew you up. It’s happened to me so many times now, I swear I’m over girls for good.

Mikey haunts the window, watching for Jiao, and when he sees her coming up the street he runs down. By the time they step in through the door he’s draped around her like a shawl. Poor boy, he’s got it bad.

Jiao’s nose is red, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, and she’s clearly just as pissed off with me as I am with her. ‘Hi,’ she says, nostrils flaring like I’m dog shit on her shoe. ‘I won’t take too much of your time.’

‘Give Jow Jow cake!’ Mikey demands. ‘You sit here.’ He presses her down on the sofa, then snuggles in beside her, clasping her hand.

‘I know about your dad,’ she says, raising their joined-up
knuckles to brush hers gently against his cheek. ‘It’s lucky you’re so brave.’

‘Yeah, big and brave.’ The tragic little sod drops her hand to flex his muscles in her face. It’s like he’s totally forgotten what he’s been through.

‘I thought you had weekend school?’ I say, nearly choking as I watch Mikey bury his nose in Jiao’s cleavage and wrap her in his arms.

She leaves him there, neither encouraging nor rejecting him, merely patting his back. Her watery eyes meet mine above Mikey’s spiked hair. ‘Things have changed.’

‘You’re damn right there. Just let me know how much Dad owes you — don’t worry about a little set-back like his death. I’ll guarantee you’re paid.’ Even to myself I sound a real prick. Still, she deserves it: one sniff of trouble and she deserts. When I looked after Mikey, I never let him down.

Mikey lifts his head, his cheeks all pink from nestling in between her tits. ‘Go away!’ he yells. ‘Ashy’s a bad, bad boy.’

I’ve had enough. I’ll not be shitted on in front of
her
. ‘Fine! You’re quite right. It’s all my fault.’ I storm out of the room and slam the hallway door. I’m trying to protect the stupid tosser and all I get is
this
. What’s the bloody point?

The hallway’s grown cold now. The sun has swung around to the west and streams into the next-door flat, not ours. I hover, undecided what to do. I should be sorting through Dad’s stuff or trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about returning to university. When there’s a knock on the front door, I stay where I am. Let
her
deal with it. It’s probably another ghoulish
bastard getting their rocks off at our expense.

Mikey flings open the hallway door before I have a chance to step away and, there behind him, stands Jeannie. She’s wearing ordinary clothes and there’s a dark-haired boy with her. He’s around my age, riddled with piercings. He looks about as comfortable as a mouse in a room of cats.

‘Hi Ashley,’ Jeannie says. ‘I’m sorry I missed your call.’ She gestures to the boy. ‘This is my son Travis.’

Travis bro-brows me but can’t quite meet my eye. ‘Gidday.’

‘I brought him just in case your brother needed some company while we talked.’ Jeannie smiles eagerly at Mikey and Jiao, and offers her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Jeannie Smith.’

Mikey grasps her hand and pumps it. Thank god she came in civvies or he’d have another fit. ‘I’m brave,’ he says.

Jeannie looks to me to translate. ‘That’s Mikey the Fearless,’ I say. And, because Dad’s always hammered on about the need for good manners, I introduce Jiao as well. They all shake hands.

Jeannie looks at her son. ‘Do you mind waiting with these two while Ashley and I talk?’

‘We have cake!’ Mikey shouts, dashing away to parade my scruffy cake for all to see. He shoves the plate into Travis’s hands and beams.

‘Thanks mate,’ he mutters. He shoots a horrified glance towards his mum.

‘I’ll get a knife,’ Jiao says, delving into the kitchen like she owns it. She must sense I’m watching, because her eyes flick up to mine. ‘I’ll stay until you’re free and tell him then.’

I take Jeannie through to Dad’s study and show her the four threatening letters on his desk.

‘Did you know about these?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘When I got your message I phoned straight through to work and asked them to check the file, but apparently it’s been misplaced. No one could tell me if your Dad reported these or not.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ I reach over to pick up one of the letters, but Jeannie blocks me.

‘Don’t. Your fingerprints will be all over them already — let’s not add more.’

She sends me off in search of two clean plastic bags, a difficult task since compulsory recycling came in. Jiao’s making coffee while Mikey shows Travis his favourite game. The two of us studiously ignore each other. I finally find a couple of plastic bags in the very back of one of the kitchen drawers and take them to Dad’s study, where Jeannie uses one bag as a glove to slide the letters into the other.

‘Has anything like this ever come before?’ she asks.

‘What? Threats? Only several times a year, but nothing on this scale, so far as I know. The odd anonymous call, or some rabid red-necked loony on talkback.’ I shrug. ‘Dad always took it in his stride — he reckoned that so long as all the criticism was allowed out in the open he’d be safe.’

My heart goes ka-boom, like the drum-roll finish to a bad, bad joke. Why didn’t I challenge Dad on this? He’s been speaking out about the foreign workers and corrupt free trade for years. He knew full well that he pissed the big boys off, and thoroughly enjoyed the fact he did. He seemed to think he was exempt from retaliation, but you
only have to look at the UPR’s abysmal record on human rights — god damn, they have fleets of execution buses trucking round to ‘subdue’ dissent. And don’t start me on the so-called good guys, the great principled Western Alliance … How the hell could Dad be so naive? How could I?

Jeannie lowers herself into his chair and swivels from side to side, a frown etching deep into her face. ‘There are a number of things that don’t add up,’ she mutters, tapping her two index fingers on the desk.

‘You’re not kidding.’ I look Jeannie straight in the eye. ‘What do you know about my mum?’

Her fingers freeze mid-tap. ‘Only that she disappeared and, in light of no new evidence, the coroner declared her dead.’

‘I didn’t know until I saw it on the news.’ It comes out all accusatory, though it’s clearly not her fault.

Jeannie groans. ‘I’m sorry, Ashley. That’s terrible. This whole thing’s a mess.’

‘You think?’ She doesn’t take my sarky bait, just shakes her head as if she knows there’s nothing she can say. I like that she’s so honest, I like that she has stuck with me. It’s not even her work hours and yet she’s here. ‘How old is Travis?’ I ask.

‘Eighteen next month.’

‘What does he do? He doesn’t look the student type somehow.’

She laughs, though it’s a little forced. ‘Right now very little. He left school last year and hasn’t found a job. He’s at a bit of a loose end.’ It clearly embarrasses her to admit he’s unemployed, though god knows why it should. It’s not like he’s alone in this. Dad blamed it on free trade —
though, come to think of it, he blamed most things on free trade. Reckoned we’d sold ourselves down the chute.

‘Look, I know it’s probably unfair to ask you this, but I really need to know. Do
you
think my mother’s dead?’

‘It’s not my place to say.’

‘The TV made it sound like they thought she was part of Muru.’ I don’t know much about this group, just that they’re shady separatists who no one, except real fringe-types, likes.

‘I heard that too, though I don’t know where they got that from.’

‘Could you find out?’

‘I could try.’ She pushes herself out of the chair. ‘I’d better get these letters over to the lab. Meanwhile, I want you to be careful. Ring me straight away if
anything else
— and I mean anything else — surfaces or worries you. I promise to answer if I can — if not, ring 111. You understand?’

‘Holy shit. You think that
we’re
at risk?’

She pats my back, all motherly. ‘You’re going to need some friends over the next wee while. I’d like to help. Besides, politically things are heating up. There very well could be some kind of localised unrest. Sit tight and keep your head down. Okay?’

‘Do you reckon it’ll come to blows?’

‘Ashley,
you
of all people should know that it already has.’

‘You mean the bomb?’

She shakes her head. ‘In my opinion it’s all the opening volley of a bigger game. But that’s just me — I hope I’m wrong.’ She scoops up the letters in the plastic bag. ‘I’d better move.’

‘Jeannie, wait!’ Something that’s been shadow-boxing
in my subconscious is now clamouring for air. ‘Do you think that when the bomb went off …’ I cough, then try again. ‘Do you think Dad knew what was happening? Was he conscious, do you think … in pain?’

‘Oh, Ashley.’ Now Jeannie actually hugs me, and when I pull away, scared I’ll start to blub, there are tears in her eyes too. ‘I understand he was very near the bomb — I truly doubt he knew or felt a thing.’

I know this is supposed to reassure me but ‘truly doubt’ is not enough. What if Dad knew his feet had blown off? What if he lay there knowing he was going to die — all on his own? But I let the matter drop. What difference does it make, anyway? Dead is dead.

I blow out a deep breath and open the door. The next deadly explosion will be when Mikey hears about the desertion of his not-so-loyal girlfriend Jiao.