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now.’ He caught his dad looking at him but he was on a rapid he didn’t want to get off. ‘Yeah, Woody. Lou’s hanging onto the bloody lion’s mane. Instead of lying in a bloody box, stiff and hard and cold...’
    â€˜...and dead’, his father said. Max stared into Dave’s face, his eyes lost at sea, his face shadowed by the rushing storm clouds.
    â€˜...yes, and dead’, Max said. He let his head rest on the table, nose squashed against the wood, puddles of tears running into pools, while his father put his arms around Max’s shoulders and buried his face into the nape of his son’s neck. There in the warm toast-filled air of the kitchen.
    â€˜If there was something that could fix it for you, I’d do it or buy it or say it... but I don’t know what it is or where it is.’ Dave looked across at Woody, smiled and said, ‘Unless of course, it’s Woody’s jam.’
    In the days and nights that followed, the memory of Fatman and the night on the bridge faded. And Dave slowly stopped asking him if he was alright. But Lou never went away.

6

    M AX'S FATHER HAD BEEN A NURSE for about ten years. Every third week Dave had night shift at the hospital and Max was expected to stay home and look after Woody.
    One night he and Woody were alone in the house eating take-away in front of the telly. It had been nearly a week since Lou died. Dave had given Max some time off from school which he’d spent alone, watching television, playing Nintendo, sleeping in and moping around the house.
    Max never talked much to Woody; there was something about Woody’s mind that reminded him of a minefield. So he stuck to questions and commands.
    â€˜What do you want for tea Woody?’
    â€˜Have you had your shower yet?’
    â€˜What time did Dad say you had to be in bed?’
    â€˜Don’t switch the channel, mate. I’m in charge of the remote.’
    Or, on this particular night: ‘Don’t let those bloody ants out of your farm Woody. They’re not like bloody dogs, y’know. You can’t take them for a walk.’
    Woody ignored most of his brother’s remarks but this one made him think of large black ants with small dog collars around their necks, their owners commanding them to ‘heel’.
    â€˜They’re really interesting, Max. They’ve all got a job to do and they just get on with whatever they have to do.’
    Max stared at the television.
    â€˜And they help each other. Whenever danger’s around they grab their eggs...’
    Max tossed the remote onto the coffee table with a sigh. ‘And whenever one of their mates breaks a leg, they cart ‘em back and eat them. Great friends to have, I must say, Woody.’
    His little brother was not to be put off. ‘Yeah well. That helps to keep them going. They don’t seem to worry about dying. Just accept it. It happens to all of them. It happens to us. Dave says that’s the only thing you can rely on – that and birth. He says everything that lives has to die.’
    Max got up from the couch. He felt heavy and his heart was leaden. ‘Geez, Woody...’
    The TV droned on. Some crook was caught, his pregnant girlfriend fell in love with the copper, the cop couldn’t handle the idea of bringing up another man’s child (especially the child of a crim), they both parted sadly wishing it had happened in another time, another space.
    Woody watched his brother from the corner of his eye. He slid his fingers along the top of his ant farm.
    â€˜Max. You know, coming back as an ant wouldn’t be all that bad. What do you want to come back as, Max?’
    â€˜A younger brother,’ replied Max. ‘Then I could get my own back. You better go to bed. And don’t forget to switch off the telly.’

7

    W ALKING ALONG WELLINGTON ST was the best part of the school day. There was every kind of shop imaginable but the ones that