Five Parts Dead by Tim Pegler

members ever get back in sync again? How long does the aching absence last before the blessed, horrid numbness kicks in? When do they stop asking themselves what might have been? How many birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries rip their wounds open all over again?
    I’m getting pins and needles in my arm when the Cruiser rumbles onto the driveway. Pip straightens up and rubs her eyes. ‘I’ll stow the logbook back up at the lighthouse,’ she mumbles and crunches up the path as Mum, Dad and Mel bundle out of the car.
    I stretch out my arms and cup my hands at the three of them. ‘Spare a coin for an injured man?’ Mum whacks me with a newspaper. Dad chuckles and reaches over to help me up.
    Mel shakes a shopping bag. ‘Barbecued chicken, fresh bread and salad. Get in here and help, slacker.’
    Pip’s quiet at dinner. When the others aren’t looking, I give her shoulder a quick squeeze and see a glimmer of a smile in return.
    I go to bed still thinking about what Pip’s seen, how Death entered her home and, over time, stole her father and changed her family forever.
    And I think back to a day with my dad, a day when understanding and awe and terror rushed like a king tide, the first time I appreciated that life and death can pivot on as little as the direction of the wind.
    Dad had been asked to photograph an old plane crash on a tiny Bass Strait island. When he asked if I’d like to come along, I figured it would be more exciting than a day at school. Exciting didn’t quite cover it…
    It’s a single-engine aircraft with barely enough room for the pilot, Dad, his camera gear and me. Pressed against a wall that’s as thin as a soft drink can, I clamp my molars together as we lift off.
    When we reach the island, the pilot grumbles through our headphones. ‘There’s the wreckage, just down from the cliff top. It’ll probably get a bit bump—’ The plane leaps and plummets, stealing his syllable and leaving my stomach a hundred metres behind. ‘Told ya,’ the pilot grunts. ‘No wonder they crashed. When the wind hits that cliff it goes straight up…There it is. Twin engine Cessna. Prob’ly didn’t allow fer the wind.’
    Dad lifts his camera, aiming it at the shredded metal below.
    â€˜I’ll try and hold ’er still,’ the pilot offers. The engine’s baseline drops an octave. The lone propeller spins so slowly we’ll surely fall from the sky. Come on, Dad! Take your photos and let’s get the hell out of here. Now.
    I yank my gaze from the steel carcass below and stare out to sea. A tantrum of dark clouds is approaching from the south.
    â€˜Don’t have much time,’ the pilot mutters. ‘Storm comin’.’
    Moments later, Dad says he’s done and the plane swings away. My jaw aches with tension. I strangle the handgrip beside me and watch the storm race us to the mainland.
    Raindrops pound the windows. Wind gusts punch the fuselage. Then, as we descend towards the aerodrome, grey smoke starts streaming from the engine bay.
    â€˜Bloody fuel line must be leaking again, damn it.’ The pilot grimaces. ‘Bear with me, lads. We’re gunna have to switch the engine off…coast in.’
    I discover religion. Ask favours of a God I’ve never called on before. Argue a case that my time can’t be up. Not yet. No way. Please.
    We fall, careening towards a seam of pine trees and clipping the upper branches. Nosedive.
    The runway pounces at us. I brace for impact, only to be whipped back as the pilot wrestles us skyward. We jag sideways, the ground in the wrong place. There’s a crunch and screech as the right wing carves the bitumen, showering sparks. The plane pirouettes and then slams onto the tarmac.
    A fire truck hurtles across the runway.
    The pilot hisses like a punctured tyre. ‘Bugger me. Better buy a lotto ticket tonight.’

QX: REQUEST