along the bank to the old kids playground with its rusted swings and the seesaw angling into the sky. They built the footbridge when I was about ten, to encourage more kids to walk to school from this side of town. In summer we dived off it into the muddy water, knowing exactly where it was deep enough. I check it out in the moonlight for a good ten minutes before I make a move. There’s no sign of it being watched so I cross quickly. From here, I run up the hill and cut through to the back lane that leads to our old house.
For that first year after Mum died, I used to come back here now and then to visit Dad’s grave. But the memories became too much to cope with, haunting.
The door to the shed is rusty on its hinges. Dad would never have allowed that to happen. When I force it open and pull the torch from my back pocket, it’s like everything inside has been frozen in time, with only a few cobwebs to show how long it’s been since anyone came in here.
My mountain bike is where I left it, wedged in behind the foldaway table-tennis table. I’m pretty sure there are no punctures since the tyres aren’t fully flat. Shining the torch around sends a stab of pain right through me. Dad was a stickler for keeping the shed neat and tidy and the whole side wall is marked with the outlines of saws and hammers and chisels and screwdrivers. None of the actual tools are left—they were stolen early on—but the outlines are like their ghosts, as though someone has been using them on a building project and forgotten to put them back. The sight of the empty wall hits me harder than I can put into words. It’s about Dad and me and everything we had before the virus.
I find the pump on the floor. With the tyres holding air, I rustle around under the bench and find an old oilcan, one of those ones with the small plunger for your finger and a long nozzle. It’s perfect for oiling the chain and gears. Then I wheel the bike into the yard and scooter out to the road.
Riding the bike again feels good. I realise I haven’t moved this fast for ages—maybe surfing on a big day, but not on land. Ina couple of minutes I’m back over the footbridge and following the river track. I slow down to check the sentry on the road bridge then turn further inland to wind my way back home.
I’m barely in the back door when I hear Rose call me. I flick on the torch and see she’s sitting up, the empty soup cup on the bedside table.
‘I’ve thought of something,’ she says. She’s got the leather strap with the ring attached wound around her fingers. ‘Take this. Kas will recognise it. It will help her to trust you when you find her.’
She loops it over my head, then puts her hand over the ring and pushes the cool metal into my chest.
Out in the kitchen, I put the backpack on to check its weight, then ease it off onto the table. Rowdy gets up and starts leaping against the back door. I bend down and cup his face in my hands.
‘Sorry, old boy, you have to stay here and look after Rose. She needs you.’
Then I go back to say goodbye to Rose.
‘Don’t turn on the torch,’ she says as I stand in the doorway. So I have to try to picture her sitting there, the blanket hugged up around her chest and her hair falling over her face. It seems there’s nothing to say that we haven’t said already, and I listen to the silence.
‘Go,’ she says.
And without a word I turn back down the hallway, through the kitchen and out into the yard. I pull the backpack on, get on my bike and ride out onto the street.
By the time I cross back over the footbridge, the clouds have cleared and the moon is bright enough to cast a shadow. I follow the track along the opposite bank of the river.
Within an hour, I’m lying low in the last of the bush before it meets the farmland, checking the hayshed for any sign of life. It all seems quiet. I need to ride parallel to the fence for a few hundred metres to the gate by the corner of the paddock. It’s open.
For that first year after Mum died, I used to come back here now and then to visit Dad’s grave. But the memories became too much to cope with, haunting.
The door to the shed is rusty on its hinges. Dad would never have allowed that to happen. When I force it open and pull the torch from my back pocket, it’s like everything inside has been frozen in time, with only a few cobwebs to show how long it’s been since anyone came in here.
My mountain bike is where I left it, wedged in behind the foldaway table-tennis table. I’m pretty sure there are no punctures since the tyres aren’t fully flat. Shining the torch around sends a stab of pain right through me. Dad was a stickler for keeping the shed neat and tidy and the whole side wall is marked with the outlines of saws and hammers and chisels and screwdrivers. None of the actual tools are left—they were stolen early on—but the outlines are like their ghosts, as though someone has been using them on a building project and forgotten to put them back. The sight of the empty wall hits me harder than I can put into words. It’s about Dad and me and everything we had before the virus.
I find the pump on the floor. With the tyres holding air, I rustle around under the bench and find an old oilcan, one of those ones with the small plunger for your finger and a long nozzle. It’s perfect for oiling the chain and gears. Then I wheel the bike into the yard and scooter out to the road.
Riding the bike again feels good. I realise I haven’t moved this fast for ages—maybe surfing on a big day, but not on land. Ina couple of minutes I’m back over the footbridge and following the river track. I slow down to check the sentry on the road bridge then turn further inland to wind my way back home.
I’m barely in the back door when I hear Rose call me. I flick on the torch and see she’s sitting up, the empty soup cup on the bedside table.
‘I’ve thought of something,’ she says. She’s got the leather strap with the ring attached wound around her fingers. ‘Take this. Kas will recognise it. It will help her to trust you when you find her.’
She loops it over my head, then puts her hand over the ring and pushes the cool metal into my chest.
Out in the kitchen, I put the backpack on to check its weight, then ease it off onto the table. Rowdy gets up and starts leaping against the back door. I bend down and cup his face in my hands.
‘Sorry, old boy, you have to stay here and look after Rose. She needs you.’
Then I go back to say goodbye to Rose.
‘Don’t turn on the torch,’ she says as I stand in the doorway. So I have to try to picture her sitting there, the blanket hugged up around her chest and her hair falling over her face. It seems there’s nothing to say that we haven’t said already, and I listen to the silence.
‘Go,’ she says.
And without a word I turn back down the hallway, through the kitchen and out into the yard. I pull the backpack on, get on my bike and ride out onto the street.
By the time I cross back over the footbridge, the clouds have cleared and the moon is bright enough to cast a shadow. I follow the track along the opposite bank of the river.
Within an hour, I’m lying low in the last of the bush before it meets the farmland, checking the hayshed for any sign of life. It all seems quiet. I need to ride parallel to the fence for a few hundred metres to the gate by the corner of the paddock. It’s open.
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