The Big Dry

by Tony Davis

  George put on his most cheerful tone. ‘Don’t be worried, Beep. I reckon we’ll be seeing Dad as soon as we wake up.’

  ‘You said that last night.’

  George had no reply. He was glad it was dark. He could at last let a few small tears roll down his face.

  SIX

  Half awake. Half asleep. One nightmare after another. Men in uniforms were trying to take Beeper away.

  ‘I’ll arrest you if you try to stop me doing my duty,’ one man shouted.

  ‘Help me, Torgie!’ Beeper yelled. ‘Don’t let them take me.’

  George ran towards the men and tried to pull his brother to safety. One of the men lifted a muscly arm and pushed George to the ground, as if he were made of nothing more than cardboard. George climbed to his feet and tried to punch and kick him, but the man didn’t seem to feel a thing. Another man twisted Beeper’s arm and pushed him into a big white van.

  George fell to his knees at the edge of the road. He saw Beeper’s brown eyes staring out the rear window. The van roared away, its back wheels spraying George with filth.

  ‘Beeper!’ George yelled. He sat up. He wasn’t in the gutter. He was in his bed. It was dark. Blood drummed in his temples. ‘Beeper? Beeper? Are you there?’

  Beeper’s spluttering breaths rose and fell. George fumbled around in the darkness for the edge of the mattress on the floor. He climbed down onto it and lay next to his sleeping brother.

  ‘They won’t take you,’ George murmured. He put his arm around Beeper’s shoulder. ‘Dad’s just busy. Or maybe even in hospital. He might be helping someone else. If he doesn’t come home, we’ll go out to find him, just like you said. I swear it.’

  George told himself he would keep this promise, even though the thought of it made his stomach tighten. He longed to fall back to sleep, but was terrified of another nightmare. Mr Carey was still playing the piano. George stared up into the blackness and tried to stay awake.

  He could almost see Mr Carey’s bleak, sorrowful notes floating in the dusty air above him as he fell back into an uneasy slumber.

  The windows glowed bright red like the tail-lights of a car. It was early morning. When the sky was that colour, it meant the air was full of desert dust from the inland.

  It was quiet and still outside, apart from a tiny rumble. The sound built up. It was a vehicle labouring up the hill from the direction of the sports stadium. The wheels slipped and chattered. George sat up and listened. Maybe it was Dad, and they’d soon have breakfast together. And cake. George was ready to leap to his feet, to wake Beeper.

  The vehicle changed gears with a gasp and a roar. It wasn’t a car. It was a truck. George’s muscles clenched, his arms began trembling. Welfare? He gazed down at Beeper, curled up and breathing heavily.

  ‘If someone knocks, never open the door!’ George whispered his father’s advice to himself. ‘Never. Ever. Not for anyone.’

  The truck was now outside the house. It slowed. George held his breath, waiting for the sound of the truck stopping, of doors being opened and closed. The engine stuttered and backfired. George found the small hammer, which he’d put beside his bed. He gripped the handle. The truck changed gears again and accelerated. Past the house, down the other side of the hill towards the bay.

  George started breathing again. He let go of the hammer, stood and trudged into the kitchen.

  Beeper coughed himself awake, then yawned loudly as he followed George through the house. ‘You said Dad’d be back, Torgie.’

  George had no answer. He counted up the food that was left, reread the labels. There were ten tins, two bags of dry noodles and three small boxes of biscuits. He picked up a small tin of red salmon. It was something they ate only on special occasions.

  ‘You promised!’ said Beeper.

  George wiped clean the red, blue and green tin, and then placed it back in the cupboard. He decided it was the Special Tin. For the Special Meal they would have when Dad came home. He then picked up a can of Extra Tasty Meat and Vegetable Stew. ‘I’m sorry, Beeper. I thought he would be.’

  George rattled through the drawer for the can-opener. ‘But if he doesn’t come back soon,’ George’s voice started breaking up, ‘we are going out to look for him.’

  ‘Yes!’

  George regretted the words the minute he said them. Even more when Beeper did a little foot-stamping dance and yelled ‘Yes’ two more times. Beeper had no idea of the danger.

  George shook clean a couple of bowls, and growled up a muddy cough. He spat in the sink and tried to recapture the resolve of the night before. ‘Yes, Beeps. But not until we’ve had breakfast and done our chores.’

  The can-opener was old and fragile, so he had to be extra careful with it. He cranked the handle and worked his way around the lid of the tin.

  The boys ate without talking. The meat wasn’t Extra Tasty, as the label had promised. It had exactly the same blandness as the vegetables, and the same pasty texture. They ate dry noodles too, shared out just as carefully by George, who shook the packet to dislodge every last fragment. The noodles were meant to be eaten uncooked, but they were hard and sharp, and they stuck to the roof of their mouths.

  George took the four mugs from the cupboard and arranged them in a row. Dad’s mug was big and blue and chipped on one side. Mum’s was grey with a picture of the Eiffel Tower and the word ‘Paris’ on it. George’s and Beeper’s were both plain white. These were the only cups left. The others had all been traded for food or petrol long ago.

  George shook the white mugs clean and poured water into each. He took care to pour as much water and as little silt as possible. He added a spoonful of powdered orange to each drink.

  ‘More orange,’ Beeper pleaded. ‘It’s yummy.’

  George took a sip. ‘There are just four spoonfuls left. We have to make it last until, well, until Dad can get some more.’

  George began straining the water. He worked as slowly as possible. He kept seeing the image of themselves outside on their own, and his hands trembled and wouldn’t grip properly. At least it was a good tap day. They would be able to fill the toilet cistern as well as some jars of drinking water. First, though, George selected two jars in which the water had properly settled. He emptied each into a plastic water bottle.

  ‘We have to plan this carefully, Beeper. We need to walk straight down the hill to the mall, then look for the hospital.’

  ‘Is Dad in the hospital?’

  George hesitated. He hoped his father wasn’t in the hospital, though anything else might be worse. ‘No. Well, only if something’s happened to him, and he needs to get better. But it’s the smart place for us to check first.’

  ‘What about the shops?’

  ‘If he was there, even if the car didn’t work, he’d walk up the hill to the house. We might see the car somewhere, though. Maybe.’ George put their dust masks and goggles into his backpack. The more he thought about this trip, the more dangerous it seemed, and the less likely to be a success.

  ‘We probably won’t meet any wanderers, Beeper. Not during the day, they’d be hiding. But whatever happens, if I say run, you’d sure better run.’

  ‘Like lightning, Torgie. Now let’s go.’

  ‘No, not yet. Listen to me: you’re not to look at anyone. Not at their faces. And don’t talk to anyone, Beeps. If someone asks a question, it doesn’t mean you have to answer. And go and use the toilet right now.’

  ‘Don’t need to.’

  ‘Go! There’ll be nowhere safe out there. And when you’ve done that, wait for me right here. I have to do something important in Dad’s room.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  George paced down the hall and into his father’s bedroom. He closed the door and pushed on it to make sure the handle clicked.

  Crimson light filtered through the barred window. George grabbed the red wooden chair from beside the bed and slid it under the door handle, just in case Beeper followed. He knelt beside t
he wardrobe. Dust puffed around his knees. He breathed out hard to stop himself coughing, but his throat and nose were filled with grit. He spat against the skirting board — there was no choice — then slid his hands underneath the wardrobe.

  George hoped there were no spiders as he stretched his fingers up into a hidden shelf. He felt something smooth and curved and wooden. He wrapped his hands around it, pulled it out into the open.

  He gripped the long cord-wrapped handle. His left hand held the wooden scabbard. He slid the curved blade halfway out. Its silver flank flashed splinters of light around the room.

  It was Dad’s samurai sword. He’d bought it in Japan before George was born. When it was new, Dad said, it was sharp enough to cut a live bull in half with a single stroke. The sword had once hung on the wall as decoration. George showed it off to every visitor, told them about the hammered and folded steel blade, about the stingray skin used beneath the cord to give the handle better grip.

  Eighteen months ago, Dad built the shelf under the wardrobe and hid the sword there. Only he and George knew they still had it. The sword was a last resort, never to be used unless lives were threatened.

  The sight of even a few centimetres of exposed blade sent a quiver through George’s insides. He’d been happy enough to talk about the blade, but had never been comfortable with the sight of it.

  It would be silly to take the sword with them now. He wasn’t at all sure he could use it properly. Anyway, you had to be careful with a weapon. It could be used against you too.

  George slid the sword back into the scabbard, and pushed it under the wardrobe.

  Back in the day room, George nervously pulled on his backpack and refilled the white mugs with plain water. It was going to be very, very hot out there. They needed to drink as much liquid as they could spare.

  As George passed Beeper his mug, there was a clicking noise at the end of the hall. The boys turned their heads — someone had unlocked the front door. The boys put down their mugs and glanced at each other. The security bar popped out of its brackets and fell noisily to the end of its wire. Only the two boys and Dad knew how to do that from the outside.

  ‘Yes!’ George yelled.

  ‘Yes!’ Beeper echoed, with another quick foot-stamping dance.

  The front door swung open on its creaky hinges.

  Beeper tore out of the kitchen and down the hall. ‘Dad!’ he yelled. ‘Dad! Dad! Dad!’

  George followed, then stopped abruptly.

  A figure stood in the open doorway. But it wasn’t Dad.

  SEVEN

  It was a girl. The dirtiest girl George had ever seen. Her face was caked with so much dust, she was like a ghost. Her long wiry hair, her face, her dress, her long thin arms were all the same ashen colour.

  George couldn’t tell who she was, or even how old she was. He hesitated, trying to work out what to do. Then he ran forward. He planned to barrel her out and kick the door shut, but she swivelled on one foot and stepped sideways around Beeper. George found himself next to the open door, with the girl already halfway down the hall.

  ‘Who are you?’ George yelled. ‘What do you want?’

  The girl looked at George and Beeper. Calmly. ‘I’m not one for answering questions.’

  ‘Get out of our house.’ George slammed his hand on the front door. ‘Get out or …’

  ‘Or?’ She smiled, and glided down the hall like she was in her own home.

  ‘Or … or … our dad will chase you out.’

  ‘I’m not seeing him anywhere.’

  ‘He’s out. At the supermarket. He’ll be back soon.’

  Beeper scooted behind George. ‘Yes,’ he added. ‘Soon.’

  The girl smiled again, then ambled towards the kitchen. George ran after her and lunged at her shoulders. She weaved sideways into his bedroom, leaving George to stumble and fall on his knees in the hall. He scrambled back to his feet and stood in the doorway, blocking her exit.

  She was still smiling. ‘Hold your horses, kiddo. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘No, because I’m going to throw you out. Right now.’

  The girl was taller than George, but thinner. He now guessed she was maybe fourteen or fifteen. He could knock her off her feet if he had to. He rushed at her again. She stepped sideways: smoothly, quickly and without losing her carefree grin. George lost his footing on Beeper’s mattress. By the time he steadied himself, the girl was in the kitchen.

  ‘Get out!’ George yelled again.

  ‘I’m seeing you’ve traded most things,’ she said, opening the cupboards one after the other. ‘A couple of saucepans left … I’m liking this one, nice and big. A few tins of food, a small collection of water jars. Not very much, is it?’

  George grabbed Beeper and held him close. ‘Get out of our house!’ he shouted at her.

  ‘Yes, you keep saying that,’ she replied. ‘It’s Sunday morning, by the way.’

  ‘So what?’

  The girl put her filthy hand around one of the white mugs George had filled a few moments earlier. She used her other hand to slap some of the water onto her face. ‘If there’s one time for being sure no supermarket is open, it’s Sunday morning.’

  The water made streaks of mud run down her neck and onto her grimy dress. Under the dirt, her wet skin glowed dark brown. She had a small silver stud in the side of her nose. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say it’s two little boys telling one big lie. Your father hasn’t just slipped down to the supermarket. You’re all on your lonesome ownsome.’

  George let go of Beeper. He stepped towards her. ‘That’s our water. Leave it.’

  ‘Who’s being Mr Meany?’ The girl picked up the second mug and took a large gulp. ‘A young lady goes strolling into the wrong house by accident when she’s trying to visit a friend, and you deny her a freshen up and a tiny sip of water.’

  ‘You didn’t stroll in by accident. The door was locked,’ said George.

  ‘With the bar across it,’ added Beeper, poking his head out from behind George. ‘Only we know how to open it. Dad made it like that in case one of us was ever locked out.’

  ‘Ssh!’ George hissed, turning around.

  ‘I like you, littl’un,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Don’t tell her anything, Beeper.’

  There was silence. George blushed. How could he be so stupid?

  The girl laughed softly. ‘Is Beeper really a name?’

  ‘It’s my name!’ said Beeper. He stepped out a little from behind George. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Cute,’ she said. She eyed every corner of the room. ‘And what’s your big bro’s name?’

  Beeper tightened his lips and shook his head.

  ‘Hmm,’ the girl said with a tiny lift of her eyebrows. ‘Loyalty. You don’t see much of that these days.’ She cruised back into the hall and looked into their father’s bedroom. ‘How long’s he been gone, your dad?’

  Beeper shook his head again but his cheeks started to redden. ‘Two nights,’ he whispered.

  ‘Quiet!’ yelled George.

  ‘We’re going out to find him,’ added Beeper.

  ‘Beeper! I told you!’ George growled.

  The girl was now inside their father’s bedroom. George watched her open the chest of drawers, swing out the wardrobe doors, stand right beside where the sword was hidden.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘As I said, kiddo, I’m not one for answering questions.’

  George walked into the room and ran around the other side, keeping his eyes on her, and not where he was going. He knocked over the red chair and bruised his knee. ‘If I give you something, will you go? Some tins of food. Some more water?’

  ‘Don’t need a thing in the world,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I’m leaving anyway. Lots to do. But I might come back and visit some other time.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘I’ll be doing as I like.’ The girl grinned. ‘Bye, little Beeper. You too, Mr Whatev
er-Your-Name-Is.’

  She stepped past the boys, sauntered down the hallway, through the open door and out of the house. George followed, a couple of steps behind, to the end of the hall. He slammed the front door, waited for his heartbeat to slow, then squinted through the peephole. The yard was empty, apart from a scrawny grey bird sitting on the letterbox. The girl was already gone.

  George reset the metal bar then turned to Beeper, who was right behind him. ‘I told you not to tell anyone anything!’

  Beeper slumped onto the floor and put his head on his knees.

  ‘Nobody can know we’re on our own, Beeper! Say you’re sorry. Say you won’t do it again.’

  Beeper tightened his arms and legs further. He said nothing.

  George slapped his open hands against the wall. ‘You said you’d come home quickly, Dad,’ he yelled. He hit the wall again. ‘And you didn’t.’

  EIGHT

  George flung shut the wardrobe doors in his father’s bedroom. He picked up the red chair and thumped it back into place.

  He took the hammer and went to the front door. He had no idea how the girl had forced her way in. Maybe the bar hadn’t been properly pushed into its brackets. George hammered at the mechanism that closed the brackets and used the other end of the hammer to twist a couple of levers that might have been loose. He didn’t know what he was doing. But doing something was better than doing nothing.

  ‘We can’t go out, Beeps. She might come back.’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘Let’s wait a bit.’ George sat at the table in the day room.

  Beeper went and stood next to the front door. ‘You promised!’

  George stayed put. Sitting there, he could almost feel the gears moving inside his head. There weren’t many options, and they were all bad. He could break his promise to Beeper. But it was a promise. And what if their father was somewhere near, needing their help? It was a small chance and yet. Did he want to be the boy — the son — who did nothing?

  He could go outside. Into a world that was dangerous. Frightening. Terrifying. If so, he should go by himself. It was no place for a six-year-old. But that meant leaving Beeper alone in the house. And what would happen then if George went missing too? Even doing nothing was making him restless and nervous. He knew why but didn’t want to admit it to Beeper. The girl might come back at any moment. And she scared him.