Nature of Ash, The

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘Love you,’ Mikey says, ambushing Jiao with a sloppy kiss right on her mouth.

  ‘I love you too,’ she says through a watery smile. She subtly wipes her mouth dry on his shoulder, making it look like she’s nuzzling in. It’s pretty nice, the way she leaves him with his self-respect intact.

  ‘So what about it?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks …’

  Mikey punches air. ‘Yus!’

  ‘But just for now,’ she says. ‘If things get worse, I’m heading for the hills.’

  ‘You and me both.’ For the first time we smile at each other, before she goes all red and looks away. Good job. I’d hate for her to notice that I’m blushing too.

  ‘You want to come with me to pick up my things?’ she says to Mikey, and I have the feeling she’s asked him so I’ll get a break.

  Mikey bolts straight to the door.

  The flat is eerily quiet once they’re gone. I just wander from room to room, not knowing what to do. I feel ninety … no, two thousand — so old that if I stand still for a moment I’ll petrify. I should probably watch the news again. I know I should phone back the funeral guy. As for sorting uni and my part-time job … Instead, I find myself back in Dad’s bedroom, staring at the framed photo of him and Mum, trying to make out what’s written on Dad’s T-shirt, dusting off the glass with my manky sleeve. I reckon Dad’s about eighteen in this. My age. He looks so young and carefree. So happy with Mum. Yet the man who raised me and Mikey on his own looked grey and strained. I guess that’s understandable when you’re forced to go through years and years not knowing if your wife is dead. What a bitch.

  I turn the photo frame over and open up the back to see if there’s a record of exactly when the picture was taken. As I do so, these tiny squares of newsprint flutter to the bed. Each is neatly trimmed, and all five notices are the same. Some random message in the personal column, dated on Dad’s birthday, for each of the last five years.

  Happy birthday SMcC. Enduring love c/o Maungaroa General Store.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OKAY, THESE NOTICES could come from anyone, right? Maybe Dad had a secret admirer. Or, bloody hell, perhaps he had a girlfriend and I didn’t know. That would be good: the poor bastard deserved a little snake-charming in his old age. So why do I immediately jump to the conclusion they’re from Mum? The idea that she materialised five years ago to send him creepy little messages is nothing short of sick.

  If I think back five years to the date of the first message, I’d have been thirteen and Mikey nine. Thirteen … thirteen … It was the year I started secondary school. The year Dad was made the president of the CTU. He was all over the news and, if I remember rightly, launched straight into a big campaign to reinstate the minimum wage. Dad was gutted when he lost … or so I thought. Maybe he was gutted about something else.

  I reconstruct the picture frame and take the notices through to his study, taping them to a clean sheet of paper so I can view them all at once. The longer I stare at them, the more convinced I am that they’re from Mum. Don’t ask me why: I’m buggered if I know. Not that it gives me any comfort. If there’s one thing I absolutely hate it’s people who play games to mind-fuck someone else. It’s a real politician’s trick. A game for scum.

  I start to pore through Dad’s personal papers again, feeling like a spy. There’s a whole stack about Mikey, from when Dad was fighting with the school to keep him with his peers. He must have scoured the internet for days, there’s so much research to back up his bid. Perhaps one day I’ll show all this to Mikey and he’ll understand how hard Dad fought.

  There’s a mass of letters from the school about me, too: disruptive, fighting, blah, blah, blah. They never understood the shit I went through protecting Mikey. Never asked me if I was hurt. I tried to keep as much of it as I could from Dad, who had enough on his plate. Besides, he might’ve shifted me somewhere else, and that really would have left poor Mikey up shit creek without a paddle — or a friend.

  I find a pile of printed bank statements and sort them into months and years. It’s just as I expected: money in quickly converting into money out. I knew we lived close to the breadline, despite Dad’s job, but seeing this in black and white brings it right home. This past year, between my board and Grandma’s care, we’ve eaten through all Dad’s reserves. There was only nine hundred and eighty-two bucks left at the beginning of this month … minus the two hundred Dad sent me, plus Mikey’s shoes — and anything else he’s spent since then. Fuck knows where the lawyer thinks the funeral costs are coming from, but they’re sure not here. Will we have to sell the flat? Judging by these statements, I doubt I’ll have a shit-show of paying even one round of annual bills. And then there’s power, water, phone and food … oh god, and Grandma … and Jiao’s pay …

  That’s it then. I’m totally screwed. I’ll have to quit uni and try to find a full-time job.

  The front door bangs. I drag my sleeve over my face. Jeezus. Stop crying and harden up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, blubbing every five minutes when I haven’t cried for years. The last thing Mikey needs is me behaving like a girl. Besides, I’m damned if I’ll let Jiao see me in this state.

  She’s returned with a shabby grey suitcase and a school bag bulging with books. ‘I told them I was staying the rest of the weekend with a school friend,’ she says. ‘So long as they don’t have to feed me they won’t care for now.’ There’s an edge of bitterness in her voice.

  ‘You can sleep in my old room,’ I say. ‘I’ll share with the Snore-Meister.’ She looks so bloody relieved it makes me wonder where she thought I’d make her sleep. Give me a break! I’m not the kind of perv who tricks a girl into bed … well, not so blatantly. The only two times I’ve had sex I was so drunk it’s now just a sweaty blur.

  While Mikey helps her stow her gear, I peel a pumpkin to make soup, hoping this will be enough to stave off Mikey’s hunger for tonight. We’ll need to eke out the little food we have until I see the lawyer, and god knows what we do after that — probably grovel to the people who’ve offered help, though even this will be only a short-term fix.

  The peeling, dicing and stirring at least keeps me distracted for a while. When we sit down at the table, Jiao and Mikey dig in like starving refugees, and my own appetite kicks back in as well. Between the three of us we demolish the entire pot of soup and half a loaf of bread — not exactly holding back, but I figure we’ll need our strength to survive the next few days.

  Only once the pot’s scraped clean and we’re sitting back, stalling on getting up to do the dishes, do we properly start to talk.

  ‘So,’ I say to Jiao, ‘tell me more about your family.’

  I can see a blush bleed up her neck. ‘They emigrated from the Mainland when I was two. It cost them everything they had. They thought that once they got here they’d have a better life.’ She shakes her head, then lets out one derisive snort. ‘No such luck.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Why am I even asking? I’m not Dad’s son for nothing: even though his rantings drove me mad, much of what he said has stuck.

  ‘They only get to stay here if they sign away their lives. They’re doing it for me. To give me what they couldn’t give me back at home.’

  ‘Then how old were you when they sent you down here for school?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘You’re joking? On your own?’

  ‘No joke. I only get to see them twice a year — one week over Christmas and three days mid-year.’ She rubs the corner of her eye. ‘When I was little I used to cry because I missed my real mother so much. My foster-mum would beat me up. You soon learn how to hold it in.’

  Mikey’s listening intently and, though I doubt he understands the subtleties of what she’s saying, he can read her pain. ‘Bad people. I’ll bash them.’

  Jiao pats his hand but looks at me. ‘My father always says: Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’

  ‘I’d better buy a spade then,’ I say under my breath. ‘’
Cause you can bet your arse l’m going to seek revenge for Dad.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s not about your father, Ashley—’

  ‘It fucking is.’

  ‘You’re wrong. This conflict’s been building for years and years. We’re just the meat in the sandwich. Collateral damage.’

  God I hate that phrase — it’s bullshit-speak. Anyway, who does she think she is, teaching me to suck eggs? My father raised me on this stuff; I don’t need her to tell me that we’re all just pawns in a few greedy pricks’ ego game — that’s more than bloody obvious. But it’s also not the point. ‘You think I should just forget? Someone sent Dad threatening notes. If that’s not personal, then what is?’

  Jiao’s eyes widen. ‘You know this for sure?’

  I glance over at Mikey, who’s shuffling in his chair as he picks his nose behind his hand. ‘Can you put the kettle on for Jiao, mate? She’d like a cup of tea.’

  Mr Raging Hormones nearly trips over himself as he leaps to his feet. ‘Coming up!’ He beams at Jiao and heads off to the kitchen like a love-sick fool.

  ‘I found them in Dad’s office today,’ I say, quietly so he can’t hear. ‘That’s why Jeannie came — she’s a cop.’

  ‘Wow.’ She shakes her head, as if sifting the words into her brain. ‘Does she know who it might be?’

  ‘Nope, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess.’ If she can’t see it has to be the UPR, she’s purposefully playing blind.

  Jiao goes all quiet, her eyes downcast. She picks up her discarded spoon and twirls it in her hand. Taps it on the table. Places it back carefully in her empty bowl. ‘We’d better check the TV,’ she says at last, sounding almost as knackered as I feel.

  I turn it on as Mikey brings us hot drinks. It’s not hard to find out what’s happening: almost every channel’s cancelled its usual programming to keep up with the breaking news.

  There’s been a curfew put in place in all the major cities: no one’s allowed out after dark. And there’s picture after picture of mobilising troops — tanks rolling into towns and Unimogs patrolling city streets. Offshore, there’s now a build-up of container ships that can’t get into the blockaded ports at New Plymouth and Clifford Bay. And on board the various navy ships amassing in our territorial waters, the Aussies and the big boys of the Western Alliance are playing cat-and-mouse with gunships from the UPR.

  ‘Ho-ly shit!’ It’s hard to comprehend that this is real.

  When the reporters start to check in from the regions, Jiao tenses like a cornered rat. ‘Look! Look! That’s where my parents work,’ she says, all squeaky, pointing to the screen. It’s easy enough to make out the armed guards patrolling the perimeter of the heavily fenced factory farm. Then the camera zooms in on a large group of workers being drilled in how to handle guns. Frightened faces, thin and pale from crappy food and little rest, come into view. As the camera pans around, Jiao yelps.

  ‘That’s Ba! There!’ She springs up to point at the screen, but the camera moves on before I can identify who she means. She rocks back on her heels, her cheeks two pink starbursts. ‘Human shields,’ she mutters, then she looks at me. ‘Somehow I have to get them out.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. You really think you can just march up there and expect them to release your parents ’cause you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Okay? I just don’t know. But I can’t sit here doing nothing — they’d expect more from me than that.’

  ‘Come on. Surely they can’t—’

  ‘You don’t understand. I owe my parents everything. I’m their one hope for a better life.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. They can’t hang that on you. You’re just a girl.’

  I shrink back from the furnace in her eyes.

  ‘Exactly. They could have aborted me — waited for a son — but they said I must be female for a purpose, so they brought me over here to give us all a better chance at life.’

  Bloody hell. She has this way of making me feel real dumb. I mean, I know about the UPR’s one-child policy and their preference for boys, but never thought what it must feel like to know you’re a disappointment to your family before you’re even born. Of course I should’ve had a hint: after all, Mikey’s in much the same boat — in fact, the only real difference is that he has no idea how close he came to never being here at all. Maybe that’s why Jiao’s so nice to him. Maybe she’s figured out this connection too — though right now I’d be a suicidal fool to ask.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it will. If we can see what’s going on, then the rest of the world must too. Surely the UN will have to act.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ She looks as though she doesn’t believe a word. Trouble is, I’m not sure I do either.

  I’m ambushed by a yawn and check the clock. It’s only seven-thirty. If I go to bed now I’ll never sleep. I drag out a copy of Mikey’s current favourite movie, hoping for a distraction from the pictures in my head.

  I watch the stupid slapstick antics on the screen, while Mikey snuggles in between Jiao and me, but I can’t connect. It’s like I’m floating underwater, the words and images filtered through murky brine. When the damn thing’s over I pull the plug and do the dishes while Jiao reads Mikey a story before we go to bed.

  Without even discussing it, Mikey and I end up in Dad’s room — not only because his bed is bigger for the two of us to share, but also for the comfort of Dad’s smell. We nearly have one final meltdown when Mikey refuses to take off his new shoes, but in the end I let him wear the bloody things to bed. If this is what he needs right now, who am I to stop him? In fact, I slip on Dad’s old dressing gown with the same intent. Then I climb in next to Mikey and offer to scratch his back. It always calms him down and, in the process, calms me too.

  ‘Ashy?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Can Dad come back?’

  ‘No, mate. No, he can’t.’

  ‘You’ll stay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise?’

  I think about the UPR and WA armies readying their troops. No guarantees. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Say it,’ Mikey demands. ‘Pinky promise.’ He shoves his hand into my face.

  I loop my little finger through his, darkness hiding my deceit as I cross the fingers of my other hand. ‘Pinky promise, mate. Now go to sleep.’

  He sighs, sounding extremely grown-up. ‘Okay. Night night. Love you, Ashy.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  It’s not long before he’s snoring, but he’s restless as hell, tossing and turning as if he’s staked by a rotisserie and can’t break loose. I roll over to the side of the bed and stick my head under the pillow to block his nasal drum-roll, but it does no good. Every snore reverberates inside my head like a death-metal solo … At one-thirty I sneak into his empty bed in search of peace.

  I’m finally just drifting off when I’m jerked wide awake by a tortured roar: ‘Where are you?’ He’s upright in the bed, freaked out of his tiny mind.

  ‘It’s okay, mate, I’m here.’ I climb into bed with him and rub his back. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Want Dad.’

  ‘I know. I want him too. But I’m still here. And Jiao.’ He’s crying, and my eyes start watering too. God damn.

  ‘Tell me the dragon story,’ Mikey whines.

  It’s one I made up when he was small and must have told him at least three hundred times.

  ‘All right,’ I say, snuggling in beside him so I can feel his breath on my cheek. ‘Once upon a time …’

  As I settle into telling it, I glance up at the bedroom door. Jiao is standing there in a T-shirt and pants. ‘Okay?’ she mouths.

  I nod.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUNDAY STARTS WITH A BANG when Mikey insists he help Jiao to make porridge and then drops the whole bloody lot on the floor. The day does not improve. The internet and mobile phones are still off-line — rumours are the government’s shut them down indefinitely. I’m stuff
ed without access to the web. With TV and radio now the only news outlets, I know damn well we’re only being told what Death-Star Eyes wants us to hear.

  Overnight there have been some skirmishes between our army and people loyal to the UPR. Two guys were shot in Tauranga and the police defused a bomb under a wharf at Auckland’s port. There are mini-riots everywhere as rumours grow of shops running out of basic supplies and people rush to stockpile food and bottled water. The PM’s called an emergency sitting of Parliament, despite its being the weekend, and there are rumblings that he’s considering martial law. I don’t even really understand what this means but it sounds seriously dodgy.

  Apparently today’s also the day people feel compelled to visit us, rather than phone, to check that we’re okay. By lunchtime we’ve already had five groups of guests — each bringing food and sympathy, though little cash. I know I should be grateful (and I guess I am), but I still can’t shake the feeling that they’re mostly here to talk about their own reactions to Dad’s death — making me a captive audience while they comb over every detail of the breaking news. The only upside is that Mikey laps up the attention — he’s in fat-boy heaven when every single bloody visitor brings a cake. Do they really think an overload of sugar can put things right? In Mikey’s world, perhaps. Meanwhile, Jiao earns her keep by making pots of tea.

  Just after one o’clock, the undertaker, Mr Bodrum, calls to say that now the autopsy’s complete it’s important we have another talk. He comes at two, complete with folders filled with photos of expensive coffins — velvet-lined crates of overpolished wood and garish brass. They’re all so totally not what Dad would want. Only when I’ve turned up my nose at every single one does he pull out a shabby flier for a recycled cardboard box. Thank god. Dad always said he’d be cremated, so what’s the point of flashy shit when it’s just going to be nuked? Hard-arsed, maybe, but I reckon Dad would think the same.

  It’s so surreal discussing coffins, readings, songs to sing, wording for the notices … It’s just not right. Not fair. Parents are supposed to die when you’re old enough to cope alone. I’m not. I’m shaky, shitty, plain worn out already, and the thought of having to stand up and speak in front of strangers at his funeral freaks me out.