The Break by Deb Fitzpatrick Page B

couldn’t get the stuff directly into the engine opening. He mopped up as best he could with a grotty rag he found in the boot — an old pair of jocks — and then eased off the radiator cap.
    Forty minutes to Margs. Should he go straight to the farm, or drop in at a real estate agent’s first? He was going to have to get work pretty quick if he was paying rent. No more DSS. Social security.
Dole
. He could apply down there if he really needed to, but he wanted to work, keep busy, make a real break, show everyone. Show Ferg. How could he ever get back his brother’s trust? Ferg still ground that axe, oh yeah, he couldn’t put it down. And why the fuck should he? And Sam — he didn’t want Sam thinking he had a no-hoper for an uncle. Mike wanted to be able to take him pressies. Stuff for the computer. Things from Mike.
    It was now or never, Mike reckoned.
    The old tree-lined avenue leading in and out of Brenn Head brought to mind the marri he used to sit in as a kid to throw honky nuts at Ferg. He grinned at the memory. But beyond that, Mike struggled to remember how it felt to live there before — twenty years ago. Twenty
years
! Before he grew up, before he was who he was now. Before Dad died. Before Mum had white hair and watched the afternoon soapies, before Sam was born. Before he was a user, before Jen left him. The world was different now.
    He tried to clear his head. He was bloody starving. And he needed a piss. Why hadn’t he gone before he’d handed his keyin? Mike didn’t want to have to ask that dicknose manager for any favours. There was a bit of bush he could pull into a few minutes from here where he could relieve himself. His hunger would have to wait.
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    The earthworm pushes through dark, wet soil, searching for decay, something to work on and ingest. It slides against other worms, their bodies half hidden, protected against predators: the New Holland honeyeaters, the magpies and kookaburras. Ants, sometimes. Earwigs.
    A coming: feet crunching over sticks. The pink fleshy earthworm elongates, retracts, elongates, burrows. Then: golden spray hard against the tree, a sprinkling of warm moisture over the leaves above.
    The earthworm threads deeper down, comes across something soft, decomposing, as the steps retreat.

24
    Liza straightened up from the paper. A car. And somehow, she knew.
    But he was meant to
ring
first!
    She wanted to go out to Mike with smiles, put on the kettle for a pot of tea, welcome him as he stood awkwardly at the door, feet making sounds on the verandah, and she wanted to send him away again, tell him to do it properly, for Ferg’s sake, for their sake, for god’s sake!, because he said he would, because this was the start, the beginning, the end of all that.
    â€˜Hello?’ he said through the flyscreen door.
    The verandah creaked in the easterly, little tocks of falling seeds and skitters of leaves across the wood.
    Liza leaned out, peered through the dark of the flyscreen.
    â€˜Mike!’
    She nearly said something stupid about door-to-door salesmen, but thought better of it. ‘What a surprise!’
Oh, beautifully done, Liza.
    â€˜Well, yeah, sorry, Lize, hope you don’t mind, I just …’
    â€˜No, no, of course we don’t mind.’
    He was holding a paper bag gingerly. She eyeballed it. ‘What’s in
there
? I’d better put the kettle on.’
    Mike put the bag on the table in the kitchen, and then stood at the door that opened out to the farm.
    â€˜Pip’s in the orchard, checking to see if there’s anything to pick.’ Liza sighed. ‘We haven’t really been looking after it, it all needs a good pruning and tidy-up. There’s never enough time.’ She laughed, but felt guilty about it. The orchard was her job, really. It was too much for Pip these days, though Liza still saw her out there on sunny mornings. Ferg was all dayin the plantation, and