Free Game Theory by Barry Jonsberg

in full darkness, for one thing, and Mum was nothing more than a looming bulk against the black. All those buried tales of monsters coming to get you in the night momentarily resurfaced. For a second I was five years old again. I sat up further. My eyes were sticky and I was conscious I was naked beneath the sheets. I pulled them up instinctively, rubbed my eyes with one distracted hand.
    ‘Wake up,’ said Mum.
    ‘I’m awake,’ I muttered, though that was not entirely true. ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s your sister.’
    I thought at first she meant Phoebe. That she was ill, had to be rushed to the hospital or something. I reached over to mybedside lamp. The green numerals on my alarm clock flashed over to three-thirty. Saturday morning at three-thirty. I turned on the light and ran a hand through my hair, kept the sheets firmly in place with the other. Mum resolved from monster-in-the-cupboard to Mum, hair akimbo and face taut with anxiety. A different kind of monster.
    ‘What is it?’ I repeated.
    ‘She’s been arrested.’
    Even then it took a second or two to make the connection. Phoebe had been arrested? What had she done, stolen another kid’s peanut-butter sandwich? My brain started working again. Summerlee.
    ‘What’s she done?’
    ‘God knows,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve just had a call from the police station. We need to get down there now, so get dressed.’ She stomped out of my room, not exactly slamming the door behind her, but not being too gentle either. I swung my legs out of bed and searched for my clothes on the floor. I brought my T-shirt up to my nose and took a sniff. A bit smelly, but it would do.
    Dad was standing by his bedroom door when I came out. He clutched the belt of his dressing gown, nervously tightening and untightening it. Maybe it was a substitute for Summerlee’s neck. I tried a smile and so did he. Neither came out well.
    ‘Summer, huh?’ I said and shrugged in a kind of ‘what-can-you-do?’ way. No one could ever accuse me of being at my verbal best at gone three in the morning.
    ‘I just hope it’s drunkenness,’ said Dad. ‘Drunk and disorderly, something like that.’
    I nodded. Was it my imagination or was his hair turning greyer and thinner by the day? Can a daughter do that to you, like a virus sapping your strength, eating away unseen?
    ‘We’ll bring her home, Dad,’ I said and this time he nodded.
    I turned to the stairs and remembered that time when Mum had put Summerlee’s lunch box back in the fridge, the day when Summer blew up and refused to go to school. I experienced that profound sense of sadness all over again. And it occurred to me that maybe, over the years, Mum had been given no option other than to be strong, that all the women in my family were tough and Dad and I were content to let it be that way. I shook my head and padded down the stairs.
    Mum was pacing, jingling car keys in her hand. I thought about asking if I had time for a piece of toast, but the expression on her face convinced me it wouldn’t be wise. I grabbed my runners from beside the front door and stuck my feet into them, but didn’t bother tying the laces. Within two minutes of my rude awakening I was in the passenger seat of the car, barrelling through the night and encased in threatening silence. I kneaded my eye sockets with the balls of my palms and blinked furiously.
    ‘You’ve got no idea what she’s done?’ I asked. The silence was too brooding. It demanded I break it.
    ‘Arrested, that’s all I know,’ replied Mum. ‘The police officer gave no details. I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.’
    Maybe it wasn’t surprising that my brain was not at its sharpest. Being woken at three-thirty in the morning probably does that to you. But it was only now that an obvious question occurred to me.
    ‘Mum?’
    She adjusted the rear-view mirror slightly.
    ‘What am I doing here?’ I continued. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to keep you company. But . . .