direction of the living room. ‘Hey, Max! They’ve found Dad!’
‘Might have,’ said the cop. ‘We haven’t confirmed it’s him.’
I didn’t let myself hear that. I led CSI into the house. Max practically jumped up off the couch.
‘When’s he coming home?’ he asked.
‘Again, I have to confirm it’s him,’ said CSI. ‘But soon, hopefully, buddy.’ He walked casually around the place, sort of like he was looking for something. I thought he was just making sure we weren’t living in complete squalor.
‘There’s thousands of people displaced by the snow,’ he went on. ‘And with all the phones down and the power out, relaying information is a nightmare. The army has been working to clear the roads so we can transport people and get them home, but rather than easing off, the snow’s just getting worse. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.’
‘Um, yeah.’
His eyes wandered in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Where’s your food? You got enough?’
‘We’re good.’
‘Got it somewhere dry? You haven’t stuck the box out the back have you? Someone’ll nick it.’
‘No, it’s safe.’
He went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards.
‘Hey, you don’t have to do that,’ I said. ‘It’s safe. It’s taken care of.’
‘As long as you’ve got the rice somewhere nice and dry. You don’t want it getting damp. Where is it?’ He opened the corner cupboard, the pantry. ‘You’ve got a bit here. Stock up early did you?’
‘Yeah.’ I walked over and closed the cupboard. He looked at me and our eyes stayed locked for a moment. ‘It’s fine. It’s dry.’
‘So you’ll let us know about Dad?’ said Max.
CSI kept his eyes on me, taking a minute before he turned to Max with a big smile.
‘Absolutely. I’ll be back to check up on you guys.’
I walked to the front door and opened it.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it.’
‘Thanks,’ Max said. ‘’Cause we’re really busy, totally snowed under.’ He started cracking up.
CSI gave a short laugh, then cleared his throat. ‘Like I said, I’ll be back.’
I didn’t wait until he had finished putting his boots back on before I closed the door.
‘You’re a tool,’ I said to Max. He responded with an awesome display of his superior intellect and gave me the finger.
I didn’t know why exactly, but I felt sick in the stomach.
Ten
Our world was made of the dull light filtered through the gauze of the sky. It became a small, self-contained thing, a snow dome of our very own. The rest of the world may as well not have existed. CSI didn’t come back with Dad. And I wasn’t surprised. The army with their truck of dehydrated goodies didn’t come back either. We didn’t get a visit from Lokey or Mrs White or Mick. No one walked through the bleak picture framed by our living room window. I went back to Lucy’s house, knocked on the door. Still nobody was there.
I had stopped testing the light switches ages ago.
I waited until we had finished all our other food before we started on the army rations. My jeans had started getting loose around my hips. We went days without words other than ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
Eight weeks without power. Eight weeks since I last saw my dad. Ten since I last saw my mother.
When we ran out of newspaper to light the fire we started on Kara’s magazines. When they were done we started burning books. It sounds like a horrible Nazi-style travesty, but all we were burning were Kara’s self-help manuals and Dad’s Jon Cleary collection. Problem was there weren’t that many in the house and we soon ran out of those too.
In my social studies class we had done a unit on asylum seekers. A guy from a refugee advocacy group told us about the refugee camps in the Sudan; he said it was common for members of a family to take turns eating on alternate days.
I decided I would eat every second day.
Max didn’t like it. He said he should do the same but I told him that was bullshit and that I was in charge.
Eleven
The axe was where I had last left it: around the side of the house, under the tarp, like the body of an accident victim. I picked it up, heavy in my hand, and walked down to where our back garden edged onto bushland. I selected my victim: a young grey gum, tall but relatively skinny. I swung the axe and the blade thudded into the trunk. I swung again and the blade landed several inches above the first cut. I tried again, making a third and equally inaccurate cut. Clearly there was a technique required that I had failed to factor in. There had to be an easier way. I looked back toward the house and my gaze fell on our patio, where the seven-piece timber outdoor setting Mum had chosen from Barbeques Galore stood unwittingly. I walked back across the lawn and up the patio steps. I pulled one chair away from the huddle, its legs scraped the concrete in protest. My hands were white with the cold and I was distracted for a moment by the way they looked like a skeleton’s. I thought of my seventh birthday when my uncle Mark dressed up in a skeleton costume and I was so scared I peed myself in front of half my class, who were at the party.
I put one foot up on the seat of the chair and lifted the axe. Between the moment that I put my weight behind it to swing and the moment it cracked into the lacquered timber, I imagined it glancing off and carving through my ankle. I would bleed to death on the porch. At least it would be quicker than starving.
Would Max eat me? He should. I thought of how I should have told him – before I went out there – that if I accidentally cut my foot off and died, he should eat me to survive. Just like those rugby players in that plane crash movie we had to watch for PE. Take one for the team.
The axe split the seat of the chair and thudded into the concrete. It took longer to break up the chair than I thought it would. I took the dismembered parts into the house. I would chop up the rest as we needed them.
Twelve
We ran out of washing-up liquid so we started using laundry detergent. I started to take pride in keeping the kitchen orderly, didn’t let the dirty plates stack up. Mornings were for the maintenance of the living space, afternoons free time. Free. Ha.
We waited for the army to show up again or the police with Dad. Neither did.
Mick came round again. Not as rectangular any more. A full beard. He told me Zac had bad asthma and Ellen had been vomiting. He had put chains on the tyres of his car and was going to take her and Zac to find a doctor.
‘Can’t Doctor Ketterly help?’ I asked. ‘At number nine? He’s a surgeon or something.’
Mick shook his head, he’d clearly been down that road and it had worn him out. ‘Zac needs medication, and Ellen… he says he can’t help her. I’m going to try the hospital.’
He paused after he said that. He cleared his throat and looked away.
‘Look, mate, you seem like a good kid.’
I didn’t know what to say.
