Black Water by David Metzenthen Page B

was a wreck. The whole thing was. A bloody wreck.
    Farren was caught in a torrent of despair so great, so black, the only thing he could do was go with it. And so he buried his head in his arms, and howled into the heat and darkness because he was powerless to stop any of this stuff. His life was a mess, he was finished, and that was bloody that.
    ‘Farren, are you all right? Has somethink happened?’ It was Charlotte, her two timid questions creeping up on Farren like mice.
    Charlotte’s words raked him, Farren lifting his head, knowing only one thing and that was that she could not see him like this. Standing behind him on the path, Charlotte looked as if she was just about to make a run for it, although Farren hadn’t seen her run since school and even then she’d only managed as much speed as a fat, woolly sheep.
    ‘No, I’m not all right.’ Farren cuffed away tears, the soft cloth of his shirt pulling at his face, a loose button scratching under his eye. But there’s not much I can do about it.’ He shrugged, hard. ‘Danny’s got hurt in the war.’
    ‘Oh.’ Tentatively Charlotte put one worn brown shoe forward then drew it back. ‘That’s terrible. That’s awful.’
    Seeing her there, her hands bunched up in her apron as if it was her only protection against the world, Farren felt anger leave him like he imagined a ghost might leave a body. He didn’t want Charlotte to know what he was feeling but he didn’t want to scare her, either, because she was scared by enough things.
    ‘Danny got wounded in the head,’ he added. ‘And he’s coming home. I just got a letter from the army. That’s it there.’ It lay on the ground, bearing the imprint of his fist.
    ‘Oh, dear me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Like cautious moths her hands crept out. ‘D’you want a cuppa tea? I just made a pot. It’s fresh.’
    Farren shook his head. He wouldn’t have minded having a cup of tea with Charlotte, but he was thinking of something more urgent.
    ‘No, thanks.’ He stood and brushed off his pants. ‘I’m just goin’ up to Maggie’s to get my stuff and then I’m goin’ back home. To my place.’ He waved at the bridge that vaulted the estuary. ‘You tell Maggie. And I’ll see yers later, all right?’
    ‘All right.’ Charlotte hadn’t moved from the path. ‘But what about yer letter? You better not lose it, not if it’s from the army.’
    Farren didn’t even look at it. ‘I never want to see it again.’ And he set off for the gate, feeling as if he was already more than half the way home.
    For company, Farren left the door of the firebox open. He sat with Hoppidy on his lap and looked at the fire, his thoughts climbing over one another as the flames climbed through the kindling. He’d swept and cleaned the parlour, brushing away the black mouse droppings before he scrubbed down every flat surface with soapy water.
    It felt good to have cleaned the place and it was nice to hear the fire, but now the house seemed to hover over him as if waiting for him to say something. So he did.
    ‘I’m stayin’ ’ere,’ he announced. ‘I’ll pay the rent and everythin’. And when Danny gets home he can ’ave the big room and I’ll ’ave the little one. That’s it.’ That was enough for now. That was plenty. It was what he intended to do.

EIGHTEEN
    Before it got dark, Farren put Hoppidy in her box, and took it inside. Then he knelt next to the stove, reached back, and took out his dad’s rifle and a small cardboard box of .22 cartridges.
    ‘Back in a while,’ he told Hoppidy, and went out, walking away from the house and climbing two fences until he was amongst the low, bracken-covered undulations where he knew there’d be rabbits.
    Farren stopped to load, the metallic precision of the rifle satisfying. Again he set off, slowly this time, moving with purpose around the fallen skeletons of ring-barked trees, their bleached branches like broken limbs. In the distance a rabbit flickered. Then