Free The Dead I Know by Scot Gardner

Skye complained.
    ‘Robot?’
    ‘He sounds like a robot when he talks, don’t you, Robot? Say something, come on.’
    ‘This does not compute,’ I said, and John Barton laughed.
    ‘Yes, you’re right. He does sound a bit like a robot.’
    ‘Do it properly!’ she said.
    ‘Leave the poor guy alone,’ John Barton said. ‘When you can no longer tolerate this obnoxious child, Aaron, feel free to head home. You’ve done more than enough for one day. You can fix that next time.’
    ‘I’m nearly there,’ I lied. ‘Princess Skye isn’t bothering me at all.’
    ‘See,’ his daughter said. ‘I’m not bothering him and I’m a princess. You listening, Father?’
    He lobbed the ball of paper towel at her. She ducked and it bounced off the side of her head. John Barton chortled, then picked it up on his way into the house.
    ‘What’s it like living in the caravan park?’ Skye asked. ‘Some days it’s okay. Quiet in the winter. In the summer there are lots of tourists. Young people from Europe, mostly. And retirees in huge vans.’
    I’m not quite sure what happened then. It seemed as if I’d cracked open the next day’s ration of words.
    ‘Actually, there are bits about living at the park that are horrible. Like sitting on a toilet seat warmed by someoneelse’s posterior. Like hearing every detail of my neighbour’s domestic disagreements. Like metal music at three o’clock in the morning, not loud enough to disturb the managers on the other side of the park but loud enough to keep me awake. Like stepping over drug rubbish on my way to the toilet and listening to strangers vomit.’
    An unsettling stillness came over Skye. Her chin rested on her knees as she hugged her folded legs.
    ‘Sorry. I . . .’
    ‘It must be hard to get any privacy,’ she said. Her voice had grown soft, contemplative.
    I nodded.
    ‘Hearing people vomit makes me feel sick too.’
    ‘I think that’s fairly normal,’ I said.
    ‘You can use my bathroom,’ she offered.
    ‘That’s kind of you, Princess, but your bathroom is a pigsty.’
    ‘Hoh! Is not.’
    I looked at her, eyebrows raised.
    ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It’s a pigsty. But it’s not syringes or spew, is it?’
    ‘True, and I thank you.’
    She fell silent again.
    ‘What’s it like living next to a funeral parlour?’ I asked.
    She huffed. ‘It’s great. It’s all dead people and crying people and flowers and sad music. I’ll swap you any day.’
    ‘Have you ever seen a dead person?’
    ‘Of course. I see them all the time.’
    ‘You’re allowed in the mortuary and so forth?’
    She nodded.
    ‘How do you feel about death?’
    ‘What? Fine. I’m used to it.’
    ‘Has anyone close to you ever died?’
    ‘No. Not really. Not since I was little. When my grandfather died. I don’t remember much about that. You?’
    ‘I . . . Is it spooky at night?’
    ‘Has anyone close to you died?’
    ‘I think I’d get spooked at night.’
    ‘Have they?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who?’
    A long time passed before I answered. Too long.
    ‘Skye?’ Mrs Barton hollered.
    ‘Get in here. Now!’
    ‘Who?’ she asked again.
    ‘I know about death.’

15
    W E CRUISED THE AISLES at the supermarket, and it was a cruise. I’d lucked upon a fresh new trolley that hadn’t yet developed attitudinal problems. Mam whistled the same tune.
    ‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ I asked.
    She answered without hesitation. ‘It’s the opening phrase from Bach’s Fugue in D Major . Rosy little tune, isn’t it?’
    Rosy? Vigorous, perhaps. A little military.
    A large soft cube – twenty-four rolls – of toilet paper landed on top of the bags of fruit.
    ‘I think we’re okay for toilet paper, Mam.’
    She shrugged. ‘It always gets used.’
    ‘We don’t need it.’
    ‘I think you’ll find we eventually will.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never.’
    ‘Hah! How can you say that? Are you renouncing toilets?’
    ‘I will use the toilet. We live in a caravan park. The