Free The Dead of Night by John Marsden Page B

onto the tank to shut down the valve. Running out of fuel was only one of so many problems.
    Our work for the evening was just beginning. We drove out to a property right up in the hills. It was a small place that I'd forgotten about, owned by people called King, whom I'd only met once, at the Post Office. He was a part-time social worker at the Hospital and she taught music at the Primary School two days a week. But their real interest was in becoming self-sufficient. They'd built this little mud-brick place on some land they'd bought from Mr Rowntree—poor land too, and' they'd paid a premium price. Dad thought they'd been ripped off. Anyway, they were out there at the end of a dirt road with no electricity and no phone, running a mixture of cattle and pigs and chooks and geese and coloured sheep, with a couple of very grubby, very shy kids.
    The scene there was the usual depressing sight. Decaying buildings and fences, too many carcasses, a paddock full of hungry sheep who'd eaten all the feed in it and were very thin and wonky. At least we saved them by opening their gates. I hoped the work parties were allowed to feed and move stock: a lot of animals would need hand-feeding to get them through winter, and some places should have started already, if they wanted the stock kept in prime condition.

    I'd half thought the Kings might have still been there, hiding, but there was no sign of them. I think Mrs King had some of her violin students performing at the Show, so they'd probably gone into town that day and been caught But in the house, and in the shiny new galvanised-iron shed behind it, we struck a jackpot. Bags of spuds and flour, jars of preserves, a carton of canned peaches that they'd got cheap because the cans were dented. Chook food, tea and coffee, and a dozen bottles of homebrew, which Chris eagerly carried to the car. Rice, sugar, rolled oats, cooking oil, home-made jam, chutney. Tragically, no chocolate.
    When we'd finished, we grabbed all the bags we could find and headed off to the fruit trees. The trees were young but, despite the possums and parrots, were bearing well. I'll never forget the first crunchy juicy bite of the first crisp hard Jonathan I picked. I've never seen anything so white and pure, never tasted anything so fruity. We'd eaten the apples at Corrie's a few days earlier, but these seemed different. It wasn't really that the apples were different of course; it must be that I was different. I was looking for absolution and in some strange way the fruit gave it to me. I know that once you lose
your innocence you never can get it back, but the immaculate whiteness of the apple made me feel that not everything in the world was rotten and corrupt; that some things could still be pure. The sweet flavour filled my mouth, a few drops running down my chin.

    We stripped the trees. Johnnies, Grannies, Fujis, pears and quinces. I ate five apples and got a bit poohy again, but I felt a little better, a little more alive, after picking that beautiful fruit, that cool sharp evening.
    Our last pick-up was an impulse. We were back in the Landie, bumping slowly down the road, all very quiet. I had the parking lights on, because we were under a canopy of trees, so it seemed safe. Driving at night without lights is nightmarishly frightening. Of all the things we'd done since the invasion, that was almost the scariest. It was like driving in nothing, in a dark limbo. It was weird, and no matter how much I did it I never seemed to get used to it.
    Anyway, in the little light we had, I saw a couple of pairs of eyes peeping curiously towards us. Most of the stock we passed these days was already getting quite wild and running away, but these little critters didn't. Bad luck for them that they didn't. They were two lambs, about six months old,'black wool, and probably twins. I'd guess their mother had died, but not till they were old enough to wean themselves. They were in good nick.
    "Roast lamb!" I said, and