Nature of Ash, The

by Hager, Mandy

  I have this overwhelming urge to trace the shape with my finger, as if I’ll somehow know. But all I’m allowed to do is stare, look at his face, try to convince myself that welt is nothing more than a sick coincidence. But now I see the scar where his eyebrow has melted into fuzz: he used to say it was the mark of Zorro (some stupid movie from his childhood) but, really, it’s where he fell off his bike when he was small. Oh, Dad.

  ‘It’s him.’ I somehow manage to push it out. But I can’t peel my eyes from that stupid scar. Can’t believe such a little thing is the only real clue to identify this horror-movie zombie.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Part of my brain is screaming No! Even if this battered body was once Dad, this corpse is just an empty shell. But I nod, and it requires all my strength.

  I have to sign various papers, then Jeannie leaves me in the room alone. I nearly call her back as she’s closing the door. Instead, I’m rooted to the spot. My tongue won’t form the words needed to make her stay. All I know is that Mikey must never see this. He’ll never understand. Dad’s always been the rock that anchored him — always so staunchly protected his rights. And it sure as hell hasn’t been easy, insisting Mikey’s treated like everyone else. His kind of ‘different’ is definitely not cool. It’s only been Dad’s readiness to threaten people with the law that’s kept him safe. And me? Untold times I’ve had to step in with my fists to sort some loud-mouth who’s tried to score a point at the poor kid’s expense. I was stood down from school so often it’s a miracle I got through at all.

  I know I should be concentrating, saying my goodbyes, making use of this ‘private’ time. But I can’t equate this broken body with Dad. My heart is pogo-jumping round my chest, lungs struggling to dredge in enough air. If the bastards who did this were standing here right now in front of me, I swear to god I’d kill them with my own two hands.

  I need to run and run and run some more.

  And so I edge out of the room backwards, unable to turn my eyes from Dad till the very last, then make a dash for it, brushing aside Jeannie’s worried questions. I have to get out.

  Only when I’ve burst from the hospital do I remember the vultures with the cameras outside. I pull my hoodie up to mask my face, shove my way through the crowd and start to sprint. I don’t stop — daren’t stop — till I reach the waterfront, even though my lungs are screaming and I’ve got the stitch. The pain is good, it helps to drive away the rage. There’s no wind, and the harbour reflects back the gloomy grey sky as if the weather is holding its breath. There are sirens whining, seagulls screeching and dive-bombing joggers, two dogs locked in noisy combat on the meagre strip of beach. Ahead, a mob of kids swarms across the walkway. Before I really know what I’m doing, I launch myself into the sea and start to swim — clothes, shoes and all — towards Frank Kitts Park. It’s bloody cold but I don’t care. I pound my arms and legs through the water, wishing I was mashing them into the faces of the bastards who killed Dad. I hate them — hate them — hate every single soul who’s let this stupid country get so fucked up that good people die.

  Halfway across the harbour I run out of steam. The cold has penetrated my skin and doused the fire. Cell by cell the chill is settling in my bones. I could just close my eyes now, stop fighting and sink … I raise my hands above my head and plummet down. But Mikey’s face is etched on to my eyelids, his contagious laughter tattooed on my ears … I shoot back to the surface and breast-stroke stiffly towards shore. There’s a small huddle of bystanders watching as I haul myself ashore and set off at a ragged pace through town. My feet are squelching in my shoes, my clothes slapping like frozen weights. My nose is running and I have to sniff like mad, not sure if it’s the cold or unshed tears. All I can think about is reaching home and facing Mikey: how do you tell a kid that the father he thinks is invincible is dead?

  By the time I arrive at our apartment block I’m so damn hypothermic my teeth chatter and my fingers struggle to open up the door. Inside, Jiao is tucked up on the sofa beside Mikey, reading him a book. They look up in unison, Mikey’s grin of welcome morphing into shock.

  ‘Why’re you all wet?’ he asks, while Jiao rises slowly like a stalking cat.

  ‘I thought I’d take a swim,’ I say, forcing out a cheesy laugh. ‘I’ll just get changed.’

  And so I take my second shower of the day, trying to ignore the disapproving conservation Nazi in my head. The hot water stings my gooseflesh and by the time my paltry two minutes is up I’m lobster red. I put on dry clothes and muck around a little longer in the bathroom, borrowing Dad’s razor to shave. I don’t really need to, but anything is better than what’s coming next — even the two clumsy nicks caused by my shakes.

  When I’ve run out of excuses I return to the lounge and sit down next to Mikey, who’s still flicking through the book. Jiao brings me a mug of coffee and I nurse it in both hands, trying to stop trembling long enough to drink. She perches on the arm of Dad’s old La-Z-Boy and I know from the way she holds her body that she’s waiting for The News.

  Finally I look directly at her and nod my head. Her eyes widen. ‘You want me to stay?’

  There’s a part of me that really wants her to. But I don’t know anything about her and, quite frankly, right now the fact she’s Asian only makes things worse. ‘No.’

  ‘What about Monday?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  She rises quickly, crosses to Mikey and pecks him on the cheek. ‘See you, Batman,’ she says to him. ‘Take care.’

  Mikey frowns. ‘Why’re you going? Ashy’s only just home.’

  ‘I’ll let you have some family time.’ She ruffles his hair as he looks up at her.

  Mikey does his funny little three-fingered salute. Our salute. ‘Over and out, Robin!’

  Jiao scrawls something on the notepad by the phone, then gathers up her bag and jacket. ‘My number’s on the pad. Just let me know if you need me again.’ She shuffles at the door for a moment before she leaves. ‘Good luck.’

  This is it. If I don’t tell him now, someone is sure to blab. ‘Hey mate, we need to talk.’ I pluck the book out of Mikey’s hand and lay it on the coffee table, putting my arm around his shoulders as much for me as him.

  ‘When’s Dad coming home?’ he asks.

  ‘The thing is, mate … the thing is, Dad’s not coming home.’

  He looks at me like I’ve farted, half disgusted and half expecting me to share the joke. ‘Is he at work?’

  ‘Something’s happened, Mikey. Something bad. Very, very bad.’ I blow out a long breath to calm myself. It doesn’t work. There’s nothing for it now but tell him the truth. ‘Some very bad men put a bomb in Dad’s building and it exploded. Dad is—’

  ‘A bomb?’ He fires up, giving his best impersonation of an explosion while he throws his hands around in full dramatic style. ‘I’ll chase those bad men and I’ll—’

  I grab his hands and make him look at me. ‘Mikey, listen. Dad is dead. The bomb went off real close to him. It smashed him bad.’ Saying it out loud like this, so baldly, so plainly, eats me right up.

  ‘Make the doctors fix him, Ashy, then bomb the bad men back.’

  Oh Jeezus, this is never going to work. The only time he’s ever had to cope with death was when his bloody pet frog died, and then Dad instantly replaced it, which kind of killed the lesson if you ask me.

  ‘They can’t fix him, mate. He was hurt too bad.’

  He’s starting to get agitated, throwing off my hands and rising to his feet. ‘They have to fix him. Tell them that.’

  ‘There’s nothing they can do, okay? Dad’s dead and gone. He’s never coming back.’ I shouldn’t shout but, honestly, somehow he has to understand.

  His cheeks flush pink and he rushes me, hitting me full-force right in the chest. I’m thrown back against the sofa, bashing my head on the hard rail at the top. ‘You’re bad, Ashy. You tell lies.’ I swear to god the little thug is bunching up his fists to take another crack.

&n
bsp; I scramble up and flip myself over so that the sofa stands between us. ‘I saw him, damn it. Saw him dead.’ All I want to do is howl.

  ‘Show me!’ Mikey demands. ‘I want to see Dad too.’

  Oh shit. ‘No, Mikey.’ I shake my head to emphasise my words. ‘He looks a mess.’

  ‘I want to see my dad!’ He says it again, over and over, stamping his foot as his fists press to his hips. ‘I want to see my dad!’

  I don’t know what to do. He’s spazzing out now, building to a full-on tantrum, and I know there’s no point trying to reason with him. If I touch him he’ll lash out, and he’s so damn strong and dense he’ll munt me if those fists of his connect.

  I back off further, leaning against the wall while Mikey throws himself on to the floor and starts to pound it with his hands and feet.

  ‘I … want … to … see … my … dad …’ Tears and snot smear down his face. On and on he sobs those same six words — so simple yet impossible to make come true.

  After five excruciating minutes his tantrum slows. He lies spread-eagled on the floor, his snotty face mashed into the carpet. ‘I … want … to … see … my … dad …’

  I know I can approach him now, so I squat down next to him to rub his sweaty back. Maybe I’ve got this wrong, trying to protect him? Maybe he needs to see Dad dead to understand? Hell, I don’t know. I sure never want to go through that identification process again.

  But then I think of Mum and how bereft I felt when she just disappeared. It sucked. Made it impossible to accept she was dead. God damn.

  I wrap my arms around Mikey’s sobbing frame and put my mouth against his ear. ‘Okay,’ I say, not even sure how I can wangle this. ‘I’ll take you to see Dad.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  I PHONE THE NUMBER Jeannie left with me, half hoping she’ll tell me it’s a shit idea. But, damn it, she says she thinks it’s wise. She’ll tell the hospital we’re coming back, and if I need other support I should let her know.

  ‘I need to warn you, though,’ she says. ‘Now he’s been identified his death has been reported to the press.’ She doesn’t need to spell it out: they’re circling for any hint of blood.

  We take the bus through town and as we near Dad’s building I figure — in Jeannie’s spirit of openness — it might help Mikey to see the mess caused by the bomb. Besides, what is the rush? Dad isn’t going anywhere, and I need every stalling tactic in the book.

  We jump off just shy of the police cordon, and push through the crowd of onlookers until we’re right up at the barricade. They’ve brought in cranes, diggers and heavy trucks, and the site is swarming with rescue teams. Mikey’s rapt, oblivious to the fact that this was where Dad died. I’m trying to explain this when someone taps me on the shoulder. I glance around, straight into a TV camera lens.

  Some skinny chick in heavy make-up presses a microphone right into my face. ‘You’re Shaun McCarthy’s son, aren’t you?’

  How does she know? I grab Mikey’s arm and start to bustle him away. But this bitch is persistent, I’ll give her that. She chases after us, her camera-monkey close behind. Her face is coming back to me now: she did a profile on Dad sometime last year. She probably wouldn’t have recognised me on my own but you can bet she’d not forget Mikey.

  ‘Ashley, wait! How do you feel?’

  How do I feel? My father’s just been blown to bits … how does she think I feel? I shoulder past her roughly, while bloody Mikey grins into the camera and gives her an excited wave.

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ he drawls. Not that anyone will understand him, especially as he’s aping Dad’s bad parody of Elvis, this fat old rocker who died before Dad was even born.

  ‘Shut up,’ I hiss, knowing how they’ll spin this little bit of footage for tonight’s news.

  ‘Who do you think’s responsible?’ she presses as I try to lug Mikey-frickin’-Presley out of the camera’s eye.

  ‘Who do you bloody think?’ God damn, if Dad was here he wouldn’t run, he’d stand up and tell them what he thought. ‘Who has the most to lose from Dad upholding human rights?’

  She’s loving this: her face is flushed with pink. She licks her lips as if she’s eyeing her next meal. ‘You blame the United People’s Republic?’

  I steady myself on Mikey’s arm. Bugger, I’ve been trapped. I should never have said a word. The last thing Dad would want is for me to be the media bugle-boy against the UPR, no matter how much I’m convinced they’re to blame. I eyeball the camera lens. ‘I do know this: my Dad would not want his death used by our government as an excuse to go to war.’

  ‘But they’ve killed—’

  ‘That’s all I have to say. Now, rack off.’ If I go on, I will explode with more expletives than are good for human health.

  I drag Mikey back through the crowd, using my killer underarm pinch to keep him in control. As a bus noses into view I force him to make a run for it. We only just make it aboard. My heart is thumping like a kangohammer and I have to fight back tears.

  ‘Never,’ I say to Mikey, ‘talk to anyone with a camera ever again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They don’t tell the truth. Look, I’m sorry, but Dad would say the same. They’ll make you look a dick.’

  He giggles and pats his crotch. ‘I already got a dick.’

  It’s like trying to explain the Koran to the Fundy Christians: some things just don’t connect. I close my eyes and start to count to ten to calm myself, but it’s impossible — Dad’s bloated face materialises in my head. What the hell am I thinking, taking Mikey to see that?

  I slip my arm around his shoulders. Somehow I have to try to prepare him. Make sure he understands. ‘When we get to the hospital, mate, we can’t touch Dad. We can only look. Okay?’

  He pouts his lips and scratches at the bum-fluff on his chin. ‘Why?’

  ‘They have to do tests on him to try to find out who made the bomb.’

  He nods like he understands. But then he says, ‘Will he come home with us?’

  Jeezus. Back to square one. Thanks, Dad. Thanks very much. If you cared more about us than your work I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. But as soon as I think it I feel crap. It’s not Dad’s fault. He didn’t choose to die … not like our Mum.

  Oh joy. Thinking of Mum reminds me of Grandma. I guess I’ll have to tell her too, though I doubt she’ll understand. And there’ll have to be a funeral, though I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to sort it — or how I’ll pay. The whole money issue is so huge and messy it does my head in. I have to keep my mind on Mikey … sort his pain, take one step at a time.

  The bus stops right outside the hospital, but I lead Mikey around to a side street and go in through the back. The media can go get screwed. It takes a while to find the Emergency Department — but, thanks to Jeannie, the staff are expecting us. One of the nurses ushers us through to the morgue.

  The woman who escorted me in earlier comes to greet us, her eyes widening as she registers that Mikey’s got Downs. You’d think the one place where this shouldn’t freak anyone out is a hospital — though, come to think of it, this is the place where they abort all the future Mikeys, not wanting another ‘drain on the state’. Dad told me that when he was young Down Syndrome was not so rare, but by the time Mikey was born technology had pretty much weeded the next generation out. It makes me sick, the way Mikey’s perceived as some kind of mutant, when he’s worth twice as much as some of the tossers deemed fit for birth.

  As she unlocks the shutters I wrap my arm tightly around him, bracing myself. I keep my gaze locked on his face, ready to react. I don’t think I can look at Dad again. But Mikey steps right forward, hands and nose pressed to the window. ‘Dad!’ he yells, knocking on the glass. ‘Wake up! It’s me!’ He doesn’t question for a second that it’s Dad.

  ‘He can’t hear you,’ I say, choking back tears. ‘He can’t wake up. He’s dead.’

  Mikey ignores me and knocks again. ‘Dad! I’m here. What happened to your face
?’

  I try to frame an answer in my head, knowing full well that nothing will sink in. ‘His heart has stopped, mate. We can’t bring him back.’ I point at Dad’s red-scalded chest. ‘If you look really hard you’ll see it doesn’t move. No heart, no breath. He’s gone.’

  ‘He’s not!’ Mikey slams his fist against the glass. ‘Bring him back.’ He continues to pound the window as he chants this new mantra at the top of his voice. ‘Bring … him … back …’

  The nurse, panicked, looks at me, but all I can do is shrug. I want him back as well.

  ‘Wait here.’ The poor nurse flees the room.

  Once she’s disappeared Mikey starts to whimper, mashing his face from side to side against the glass. I rub his back and try to calm him. If I take him home in this state he’ll redirect all his emotions into blaming me.

  I’m buggered if I know how long we’re stuck like this — me trying to soothe him, him trying to permeate the glass to get at Dad — but it seems like bloody years. I feel as if I’ve morphed into a sick old man: my body hurts, my brain won’t think straight, and all I have is the certainty that, one by one, everyone I love will die. I shouldn’t have brought him here. I should’ve told him Dad was just away for work, then figured out how to explain it so he’d understand. I’m such a useless jerk.

  I can see the nurse in the operating theatre beyond the grille now, speaking to an old guy who glances through at us, then nods. The nurse returns to our room with a disconcerting smile.

  ‘Come with me,’ she says to Mikey. ‘I’ll take you to your dad.’

  ‘I thought we couldn’t—’

  She shrugs. ‘You’re lucky Mr Prakeesh has come in early — he’s the boss.’ She leads us around the corner and guides us through a door. The whole place glistens with stainless steel, with big body-sized benches and troughs … Of course! It’s not an operating theatre at all. This is the place they do the autopsies, the place they chop up bodies to search for cause of death.