Free Wrath by Anne Davies Page B

it’s what’s going to happen.”
    â€œWhen will I get to see you, then?”
    â€œMaybe not for a while. Let’s just take things easy.”
    Pushing my chair back, I walked as steadily as I could to our room. I didn’t want to cry or yell like Katy had. Round the corner I could hear her sniffing away, but I didn’t want to comfort her or have anyone near me. I sat on the end of the bed and watched the light fade out of the room. Somewhere in that time, I heard Katy’s breathing become deep and even, and then darkness fell. Still, I sat.
    Finally, I got cold, sitting in the dark. I lay down, suddenly desperate for sleep, but I needed to go to the toilet. Inching the door open so they wouldn’t hear me, I crept outside and piddled off the edge of the veranda into the lantana bush. The air was crisp, and the sky was that dark mix of blue and black just before night is completely here.
    The front door light flicked on, and I pushed myself back against the wall into the shadows. Dad and Mum stood in the doorway. I could tell Mum was crying. “I don’t know what to say, Dan,” she said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just finished; that’s all. We’re too far apart to get back again. It’s been a long time coming…” Her voice trailed off.
    There was a long silence, and I held my breath in case they could hear me. The crickets started up, and O’Brien’s old kelpie started woofing away as he always did when the moon came up. Dad used to say he must have a bit of werewolf in him.
    â€œThat’s your decision, Sylvie, but the kids…” His voice choked off, and I heard the door creak as though he’d leant against it.
    â€œMaybe,” Mum mumbled, “Luca could live with you. You know what you mean to him.”
    â€œNo. How could you separate him and Katy? They’re twins.” Dad moved clumsily through the door. I could see he had a large case at his side. “I’ll come past tomorrow and get the rest of my stuff when the kids are at school,” he said, and then he stepped off the veranda awkwardly and out through the gate.
    The light flicked on as he opened the truck door and heaved his case inside. He walked around the other side, his boots crunching the gravel, swung up into the driver’s seat and the pulled the truck down the road. I stood there in the darkness, watching the red of his tail-lights growing smaller before he turned the corner and was gone. My ears strained, but within a minute, I could hear nothing—just the dog baying at the moon. Mum sighed, a long, shuddering sound and then switched off the light and went inside. I snuck in through the back door and slid into my bed.
    A few minutes later, Mum pushed open the door and stood, framed there, for a long time. I breathed as lightly as I could.
    â€œDo you want some tea, Luca?” she whispered. I didn’t answer. She must have known I was awake somehow, but I couldn’t speak. She stepped back and closed the door, and soon after, I heard the shower running. Still no clear thoughts came to me, and I didn’t want them to. This numb feeling was the best way to feel right now, I knew, and I hoped it would last for a long time.
    I’d run home straight after school the next day, but no truck was out the front. Mum wasn’t home either, and instinctively, I ran straight through the house and out the back to the shed. It was bare. The 44-gallon drum Dad used for rubbish was full of old offcuts of wood, bits of sandpaper and empty oil cans, but the shed was swept clean. My eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, and I saw a large wooden chest—Dad’s grandfather’s tool chest—which I knew had come from Italy. There was a large sign on it in Dad’s writing that read: For Luca.
    I opened the lid, and there, laid out neatly in rows, was a full set of tools, Dad’s best ones—his screwdrivers,