Free Nature of Ash, The by Mandy Hager Page B

government’s shut them down indefinitely. I’m stuffed without access to the web. With TV and radio now the only news outlets, I know damn well we’re only being told what Death-Star Eyes wants us to hear.
    Overnight there have been some skirmishes between our army and people loyal to the UPR. Two guys were shot in Tauranga and the police defused a bomb under a wharf at Auckland’s port. There are mini-riots everywhere as rumours grow of shops running out of basic supplies and people rush to stockpile food and bottled water. The PM’s called an emergency sitting of Parliament, despite its being the weekend, and thereare rumblings that he’s considering martial law. I don’t even really understand what this means but it sounds seriously dodgy.
    Apparently today’s also the day people feel compelled to visit us, rather than phone, to check that we’re okay. By lunchtime we’ve already had five groups of guests — each bringing food and sympathy, though little cash. I know I should be grateful (and I guess I am), but I still can’t shake the feeling that they’re mostly here to talk about their own reactions to Dad’s death — making me a captive audience while they comb over every detail of the breaking news. The only upside is that Mikey laps up the attention — he’s in fat-boy heaven when every single bloody visitor brings a cake. Do they really think an overload of sugar can put things right? In Mikey’s world, perhaps. Meanwhile, Jiao earns her keep by making pots of tea.
    Just after one o’clock, the undertaker, Mr Bodrum, calls to say that now the autopsy’s complete it’s important we have another talk. He comes at two, complete with folders filled with photos of expensive coffins — velvet-lined crates of overpolished wood and garish brass. They’re all so totally not what Dad would want. Only when I’ve turned up my nose at every single one does he pull out a shabby flier for a recycled cardboard box. Thank god . Dad always said he’d be cremated, so what’s the point of flashy shit when it’s just going to be nuked? Hard-arsed, maybe, but I reckon Dad would think the same.
    It’s so surreal discussing coffins, readings, songs to sing, wording for the notices … It’s just not right. Not fair. Parents are supposed to die when you’re old enoughto cope alone. I’m not. I’m shaky, shitty, plain worn out already, and the thought of having to stand up and speak in front of strangers at his funeral freaks me out.
    I ask Mr Bodrum how I can explain all this to Mikey — how I can help him through — but all he offers me is yet another leaflet, this one about handling grief. What’s the bloody point? Mikey can’t even read, and if I follow its instructions and tell him about life cycles and autumn leaves he’ll think I’ve lost the plot. Dad is dead, not cyclical — even Mikey’s got the nous to figure that .
    Bodrum suggests we set the date for Tuesday afternoon at Old St Paul’s. At least we can agree on this. Dad loved that building. But then, as Bodrum starts to pack away his creepy folders, he says, ‘I take it you’re happy for him to be embalmed?’
    I’m not too sure what embalming involves, but when he tells me I’m completely grossed out. My father’s been blown to bits, cut up for the coroner, and now this guy intends to drain what’s left of his blood and pump him full of toxic shit?
    ‘No way.’
    ‘The problem is the body starts to decompose …’
    ‘Then stick him in a freezer.’ Bodrum gets all spewy now, but I refuse to budge. Dad’s body has been through enough. I’ll not be held responsible for more abuse.
    I win the argument, but by the time Bodrum’s left I’m so wound up I feel like I need air or else I’ll self-combust. Mikey and Jiao have cabin fever too, so the three of us head off up the bush track behind the motorway. It’s a cool, clear afternoon, sunlight dancing off the slight chop of the sea. Usually the harbour would be littered with