A week after the fire I drove with Chris along a ridge, heading towards whatever might remain of his home. It was a clear and cool morning. Everything around us had been reduced to stumps of charcoal or the skeletal remains of houses, trees, farm sheds and machinery.
Jack sometimes slept on his back, one arm flung across, face buried in the crook of his elbow. He lay still, hardly breathing. Their bedroom might have been any room, anywhere, but for the smell of wattle-blossom coming in through the fly-screen.
For a few seconds, I’m rendered speechless. I look at the academic hosting our session. She half-smiles nervously, but doesn’t intervene. ‘No,’ I finally answer. ‘No. I will not be releasing an album.’
After my mother passed away, freed from her suffering, the house
felt empty, and the sea, churning waves, glanced up to hill’s crest.
My brother tried to strangle me but a neighbour saw it happen.