Free Rose Leopard by Richard Yaxley

the doors, my dwarves eagerly behind him. ‘Mum!’ they clatter but it is in celebration, a word shouted with the expectation of shared moments. ‘Mum,’ they want to screech again as they tumble towards her, ‘Mum we had ice-cream and Uncle Stu drove really fast and we went to the park and had a ride on the train —’
    Milo stops, stares, pulls back. His sister’s mouth is open, lips quivering uncontrollably then she yawps, enormous soulful cries that rush from her like old winds released from a forgotten cave. I see Stu gathering them up, shushing and caressing, turning to me, a mask of disbelief blanking his features, then I am pitching forward, screaming: ‘Don’t do that! Don’t pull a sheet over her!’
    Then the words will not come: At least leave her hands free, I want to say. Leave her hands free that I may worship them, rejoice in the temple of her fingers.
    Ah it’s funny, talking of hands, it’s funny because there’s a photograph of you and me, Kaz. You know the one? We used a timer and my new SLR camera, the anniversary present — photography, another one of my unfinished phases — loaded good quality film, snapped pictures of us outside, naked as new-borns, standing together in the wild swaying grass behind our farmhouse. Remember it? I do. I can still hear the crows barking their discordant displeasure but we didn’t care because we were front-to-front, bellies pressed, thighs pressed, arms wrapped and hands fanned carefully across each other’s buttocks. I remember looking down, seeing brown fingers on white little dents. We looked like we were kneading flesh, making loaves of love. Your hands were petite, mine hard and hoary — the stems of flowers, the clods of earth — but we held hard as the camera clicked automatically and we were snared forever in a kind of amalgam made of mercury and steel, quicksilver and ice.
    Remember it? I do. Beyond us the trees roared as a cloud fell, rain spattered our sticky skin then we slid forward and merged. We were centred by desire: writhing, nibbling, tasting, feasting on our juices as the season gathered and rollicked and plunged insanely, and lightning creased the sky.
    The digital clock says 4.11. My watch tells me 4.13 — Tuesday morning. Curious, I think; last day I knew was a Sunday. Fed the children, thought about writing, transported my wife’s hand to hospital in our small blue car.
    I lift myself up. Surprisingly, there are lights on throughout the house — halogens, bulbs, lamps, even a candle smouldering on the kitchen table.
    Throughout the house? Scan the view; it does look oddly familiar. See my windcheater slumped in the corner, worn threads on the couch where I am lying, a devil-shaped splotch of spilled coffee stained into its usual place on the rug.
    My head hurts. I lie back, try to haul in the past two days, find nothing.
    Stu is sitting at the table, back bowed, crazy head slumped forward onto his flabby arms, small snorts fizzing from his lips. I feel a plop of affection: he is wearing the same suit he wore on Sunday. Now it’s crumpled and mussed. His hair is ropey, hanging in impromptu dreadlocks. His skin is seriously flushed. A near-empty bottle of bourbon sits next to the candle, both sentinel and damnation.
    â€˜Hey Stu,’ I croak. The roughness of my voice surprises me.
    No response. I get off the couch, stretch, shake the tightness from my limbs, stare down at the same clothes I wore on Sunday. Fading denims, bush-walker socks, blue button-down shirt rolled to the elbows.
    Still stiff, still re-gathering my shape, I creak awkwardly towards Stu.
    â€˜Hey!’ I touch his shoulder, shake him, lightly at first then harder. ‘Hey Stu! Hey baby! Wake up. Wake up!’
    BIG bleary eyes flicker, open, widen a little, register my presence.
    â€˜Vince.’ His speech is vaguely slurred. ‘You’re awake.’
    â€˜Brilliant,