The Sky So Heavy Page 16

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My family.’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘You know, they used to tell me I could do anything, my parents. They said I could be anything, do anything I wanted to do, as long as I worked hard for it. I believed it. I believed that if I worked hard enough I could get a spot at the Sydney Conservatory of Music. I would become a composer because, you know, there are a lot of jobs around for that now.’ She sighs. ‘What a presumptuous dickhead.’

  ‘How does wanting to study music make you a presumptuous dickhead?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I thought I was entitled to it. Just like I thought I was entitled to good food and a nice house and nice clothes. My family had three sponsor kids, for God’s sake. Surely that entitled me to a nice cushy life. Do you ever think about how distorted your view of life used to be? Like, my mum used to say that the greatest tragedy was someone who didn’t make use of their talents and live up to their full potential. The greatest tragedy. The greatest tragedy is children dying of starvation, don’t you think? Who gives a shit if they can play the piano.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know if you’re a presumptuous dickhead or not.’ Lucy punches me softly in the arm. ‘But isn’t there some philosophy about how it’s the arts that separate humans from animals?’

  ‘Really? I thought it was not eating our young.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Just because music and art and stuff doesn’t feed you, doesn’t mean it’s not important. It still kind of makes us who we are. Is that way too corny?’

  ‘Almost.’ She smiles. ‘You are very sweet, though, you know that?’

  ‘You say that to all the guys you flee nuclear winters with.’

  She leans over and kisses me on the lips. ‘And you still taste good,’ she says, and I feel myself blush, just like that day so long ago on the bus.

  Thirty-six

  Ration day. This time I head out with Lucy and keep my thoughts about her safety to myself. She hasn’t been out like this in the daylight (I use this term loosely) before. We walk along the street and she gapes at the state of the place, the rubbish, the desperate chaos of it all.

  The army truck is parked in the same place as it was last time. The line for food is three blocks long. We inch forward at a glacial pace. The worst part is the cold. It eats at your toes and fingers first, then moves on for its share of your limbs. People grow impatient, sighing loudly and muttering ‘Oh, come on’ as if it will make a difference. Then they start comparing stories: ‘We waited three hours last week’, ‘Have you seen the size of the water bottles? It’s a joke!’

  ‘Jeez, there better not be any illegals here,’ says someone loudly. ‘I bet there bloody is, didn’t take this long last week.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Lucy. ‘They’re taking our share, scum!’

  People jeer in agreement. I elbow her, only encouraging her more.

  ‘Should go back to where they bloody came from!’ she says.

  ‘Too right, sweetheart!’ says someone and everyone else murmurs in agreement. The line crawls forward. Two hours later we are metres from the truck. An army officer hands a bag of rice to a man ahead of us.

  ‘Is that it?’ he says. ‘That’s a fucking crime!’

  ‘Move on,’ replies an officer standing beside the line.

  ‘No, I won’t move on. Give us another bag, that’s a fucking disgrace, that is.’

  ‘MOVE ON.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, mate, until I get my share. Wouldn’t feed a rabbit on that.’

  ‘Move on or I will arrest you.’

  ‘Go on then, arsehole. Arrest me.’ The guy shoves the officer in the chest. Three more behind him join in, pushing and shoving the army guy before he has a chance to reach for his gun. The other officer grabs one of them, punches him in the jaw. And then, like a school of sharks after a drop of blood, the people around us start to yell and push, storming the truck, clambering on, grabbing at food. I grip Lucy’s hand as the crowd surges around us. People snatch food from one another, men throw punches, women claw. Others squeal and cry. We are caught in the thick of people as they screech and scramble, kicking, gouging. Lucy is pulled from my grip by the tide of bodies. I scream her name, pushing against limbs. And then there is a loud hissing sound and a mist of smoke cascades over the people. The burn that singes my eyes is agonising. I clamber, tears and salt streaming down my cheeks. Still, I scream her name, stumbling in my blindness. Then comes the spit and pop of gunfire. Screaming. Instinctively I fall to the ground, arms shielding my head, as if they would be of any use. I curl as feet scuff and tread over my limbs. Others fall. I scream Lucy’s name again.

  The scramble quietens. When the burning in my eyes has eased I lift my head. Around me some are doing the same. Others are not moving at all, their bodies lying twisted and lifeless. Metres from me the man who complained about illegals lies with half his face missing. I feel the tingle of blood rushing from my head but fight it, knowing that if I pass out I won’t find Lucy. My legs arrange themselves so I am standing. I pick my way through the people. There is moaning and sobbing, pools of blood and vomit and piss. I scream for Lucy again. I can’t remember what she was wearing and peer down at the faces of the fallen as I make my way to the side of the road. Around me, people stumble, clutching at each other.

  ‘Have you seen a girl? Dark hair, pretty, my age?’

  They look at me as if I am speaking a foreign language.

  I wander along the footpath calling her name and then, cowering in the doorway of a shopfront, I find her. She is curled in a ball, hands clutching her ankle.

  ‘Lucy?’

  She sees me and begins to cry. I wrap myself around her.

  ‘Are you hurt? Your ankle?’

  ‘Someone stomped on it. Fin, I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Can you stand?’ I try to help her to her feet.

  She tries but I see her wince with pain when she attempts to walk.

  ‘Put your arms around my neck.’

  She does and I lift her up. I walk back to the car park with her in my arms. She closes her eyes, head against my chest.

  ‘Tell me when I wake up that this has all been a bad dream,’ she whispers.

  Word about the riot has already spread to the car park by the time we get back. Noll is layering up, ready to come looking for us. He visibly relaxes with relief when I walk down the ramp with Lucy. The whole place is subdued with a new tension that evening, nobody feels completely at ease. We eat little and turn in for the night. I hold Lucy close as we sleep.

  The mood among our group has flatlined. Except for Max. He deals with uncertainty by maintaining a constant stream of chatter and has taken it upon himself to be chief morale-booster. He does this mainly by telling us inane facts that he learnt from National Geographic.

  ‘Did you know that octopi are really smart? It’s true. They collect coconut shells and use them to build houses.’

  I have one of those moments when my affection for him is so fierce, it is frightening. Somewhere inside I think I should be doing the opposite, I should be trying to let go – trying to let go of him, of everyone, so when the end comes the blow won’t be as hard. But how do you do that?

  I wonder how the octopi are doing now, if much has changed for them.

  The cold is getting into my bones, burrowing through the blankets like they’re tissue paper. Some of the women in the camp have gone into the shopping centre and collected all the plastic shopping bags. Rosa shows us how they can be torn into strips and knitted into blankets that insulate well. Everyone in the camp starts to work on blankets. It’s weirdly peaceful. Noll and I tear the bags into strips and wind the lengths into balls to be knitted. Lucy knows how to knit and she shows Max how to do it – it’s the kind of weird thing he finds fascinating. The days start to feel different now we have something concrete to wor
k on, there’s a rhythm to them that lifts the mood in the camp and people have started chatting to each other again.

  More people come to the car park. More illegals. It makes Rosa nervous, she paces from one camp to another, craning her neck, supervising.

  In the middle of the night someone screams and it ricochets around the concrete bunker, stabbing into the silence. There is a scuffle of shadows in the south corner, near the exit ramp. More yelling. People around us start to get up and head toward the noise, carrying torches. We follow.

  There is a guy in an army uniform backed up against the wall. Shouts are flung at him and he cowers a little. He holds up his palms like he is trying to calm a pack of wild animals.

  ‘I’m a deserter, I’m a deserter,’ he repeats. ‘I’m lookin’ for shelter. Please.’

  They aren’t listening. The men are shouting at him. Women – mothers – throw random objects, the children copy. One kid, about eight years old, throws a glass bottle and it shatters against the wall.

  ‘He’s army and now he knows we are here,’ yells someone. ‘We have to deal with him.’

  Another guy grabs him by the arm, twists it behind his back. It’s then that I see the army guy has an assault rifle slung across his back. The guy that holds him takes the rifle, passes it to another guy who aims it at the army guy’s head. I move through the people to try to get a better view. Alan is behind me, he yells for calm in his booming voice. Nobody pays any attention.

  ‘Shoot him!’ yells someone. Others join in. I get close enough to see the army guy’s face. He sees mine.

  ‘You! Fin!’ he yells. ‘Fin, please!’

  People turn and look as if they want to kill me too.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘He’s with me. He’s safe.’

  The guy still has the rifle pointed at him. I push my way to the front of the group.

  ‘He’s safe, let him go. He’s with me. Please, please, put the gun down.’ The guy with the rifle holds my gaze. ‘Please.’

  He throws the weapon onto the concrete and shoves the army guy toward me. I lean down and carefully pick up the rifle. People drop their improvised weapons as if they are disappointed that the entertainment is over.

  I lead the army guy back to our camp, still holding his gun.

  ‘This is us,’ I say. He nods. ‘Have a seat.’ I point to the end of my mattress. He nods again and takes his backpack off. Max is staring, wide-eyed, as I carry the rifle to the car and he follows me. I unlock the boot and put the weapon inside.

  ‘That is so cool,’ says Max.

  ‘I’m concerned about your perception of cool.’ I close the boot and lock it. The army guy sits, back rigid as if he is ready to jump up again. He unzips his backpack and pulls out a heap of sealed foil packets. The backpack is full of them.

  ‘Rations,’ the army guy says. ‘I took all I could carry. I’ll share them with yez, if I can stay here.’ He looks to each of us, desperation on his face. ‘Look, there’s more, there’s meat and beans and chocolate—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Noll says. ‘We just need to talk.’

  The four of us, with Alan, walk a few metres from the camp.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Noll.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Lucy. ‘Can we trust him?’

  ‘He didn’t rat on us,’ I say. ‘Besides, I think we need him, his uniform anyway. I might be able to get past the barricade to my mum if I’m in uniform.’

  The others agree. Army Guy can stay. When we tell him he nods, a bobbing up and down of his head, his gaze placed somewhere in the middle distance. He begins to put the rations back into his pack and I can see his hands trembling. Lucy crouches down to help him.

  Noll drags another mattress over. Alan tries to help but can’t quite manage. I tell him to sit down and he doesn’t argue. Lucy gives Army Guy some blankets. He takes them with a small ‘thank you’ and places them neatly next to himself.

  ‘So, ah, this is Noll, Lucy, Max and Alan.’

  Alan offers his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, mate.’ Army Guy shakes his hand.

  ‘Matt,’ he says.

  ‘You’re the guy from the checkpoint,’ Lucy says.

  ‘I, um, talked to Matt a bit when I went back that night,’ I explain. I wait for Matt to offer some information about why he’s here, but he says nothing, just sits with his hands kneading at the handle of his pack.

  ‘Did they move you from border patrol?’ I venture.

  ‘Yeah. ’Bout two weeks or so ago. Maybe.’

  ‘Right.’ We all wait. He offers nothing more.

  ‘Well, you can stay here, son,’ says Alan. ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I don’t know if he’s safe. But he gave me the gun back that night and he didn’t squeal on me and Noll at the ration line. He knows things, army things, survival things. He will be useful.

  When we turn in for the night, Matt stays awake, knees drawn up to his chin. When I wake in the morning he is in the same position as if he hasn’t moved all night.

  In the morning we sit around our fire and talk, although Matt never says anything. Lucy gives him a bowl of rice but he doesn’t eat it and gives it to me instead. Afterwards, Noll, Max, Lucy and I wash our clothes in buckets of icy water and hang them on a line strung between our car and another. Rosa has pegs that she lends to us. I am stretching out the wet slop of my T-shirts when Matt comes up to me, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  ‘Fin, I was . . . I just wanna see if . . .’ He speaks as though he is about to divulge a state secret.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I have to get out of this uniform.’ His eyes roam around the camp and he rubs his palm over the stubble on his scalp. ‘You got any spare clothes?’

  Between Max, Noll and I we manage to pull together enough clothes to keep him warm. Max has a spare beanie that he gives Matt, the red and white Swannies one. Lucy is the first to get an almost-smile out of him when she jokes she has some woolly tights he can wear too if he wants.

  Matt strips off his uniform and pulls on the clothes we have given him. He carries his uniform over to the fire.

  ‘Wait!’

  He visibly jumps at my voice.

  ‘Don’t burn it. Give it here, I’ll keep it.’

  There is an afternoon soccer match. Matt doesn’t play but sits with Alan, watching from the sidelines. The rest of the people in the car park are noticeably wary of him and the rest of us. But no one says he has to leave. Maybe they all want him where they can see him.

  Afterwards we sit around, waiting out the time before the evening meal. Lucy asks Matt if he knows where his family is. Matt just shakes his head.

  ‘We’ve been trying to find Fin’s mother,’ she tells him. ‘We think she might be able to help us, she works for the government. Disaster response management, isn’t it, Fin?’

  Matt’s face changes. It’s a look of subdued anguish. He swallows, glances at me. ‘You want to find her?’

  It’s a strange question.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  He nods that absent sort of head bob of his, like a nervous tic.

  ‘I think she’s at Town Hall. But I can’t get in,’ I tell him.

  ‘Knew a guy who was workin’ in there. Good guy, my corporal. He was a good guy, yeah. A real good guy.’ Matt’s eyes are far away. He draws his knees to his chin. ‘But workin’ in there? It screwed him up. Me, I just follow orders, don’t have to make decisions . . . the really shitty decisions. That’s what screws you up.’

  That night I am shocked from my sleep by a yell. I sit up and, for a moment, I think I am at home in my bedroom, until the cold finds my cheeks and arms. There is another yell and in the smoulder of the fire I can make out the scrambling shadow of two figures entangled.

  ‘Get your hands behind your head!’ It’s Matt. H
e’s kneeling on someone’s back as they flail against the concrete.

  ‘Matt? What the hell?’

  He doesn’t answer me.

  ‘Get off me ya psycho!’ the pinned man yells.

  ‘Matt! What are you doing?’

  He looks at me and there is a blankness in his face – a vacancy – almost as if he is actually asleep. The guy beneath him takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet, but Matt snaps back into action and grabs him by the back of his hair.

  ‘Matt, I know that guy, he’s from here. He’s one of us.’

  Matt looks at me, then back to the guy.

  ‘Let him go, man.’

  Matt’s eyes go from unfocused to panicked and he releases his grip, jumping back from the guy. I try to help the guy to his feet, but he shrugs me away.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, it was a mistake, he didn’t mean it.’ It’s like I’m apologising for my disobedient rottweiler.

  The guy points at Matt. ‘You . . . you’re a bloody psycho.’

  Matt doesn’t speak. The guy gives him a final glare and lopes away, rubbing at the back of his head.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’

  Matt raises his eyes to mine and he looks confused, dumbfounded. He shakes his head. Alan is now beside us.

  ‘You need to go to sleep, mate.’ He speaks to Matt gently as if he is a startled horse.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, sit down. Sit here next to Fin.’ Alan guides him to the mattress. ‘I’ve got something that will help you.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t want drugs.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, son,’ Alan says. ‘You need to get some sleep otherwise you’re going to lose your mind. Got it? Sit down here, next to Fin. You’re okay, you’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you, mate.’

  Alan goes to his things and rummages around. He comes back with a small plastic bottle. He shakes some pills into his palm and hands them to Matt.

  I sit with Alan, neither of us is able to get back to sleep. Alan polishes his boots on a sheet of newspaper, says he may as well make use of the time. He has a flat round tin of Dubbin and he works the oily cream into the leather with a grey rag. I can see in his face that he has lost weight.