Nature of Ash, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

that anyone will understand him, especially as he’s aping Dad’s bad parody of Elvis, this fat old rocker who died before Dad was even born.
    ‘Shut up,’ I hiss, knowing how they’ll spin this little bit of footage for tonight’s news.
    ‘Who do you think’s responsible?’ she presses as I try to lug Mikey-frickin’-Presley out of the camera’s eye.
    ‘Who do you bloody think?’ God damn, if Dad was here he wouldn’t run, he’d stand up and tell them what he thought . ‘Who has the most to lose from Dad upholding human rights?’
    She’s loving this: her face is flushed with pink. She licks her lips as if she’s eyeing her next meal. ‘You blame the United People’s Republic?’
    I steady myself on Mikey’s arm. Bugger, I’ve been trapped. I should never have said a word. The last thing Dad would want is for me to be the media bugle-boy against the UPR, no matter how much I’m convinced they’re to blame. I eyeball the camera lens. ‘I do know this: my Dad would not want his death used by our government as an excuse to go to war.’
    ‘But they’ve killed—’
    ‘That’s all I have to say. Now, rack off.’ If I go on, I will explode with more expletives than are good for human health.
    I drag Mikey back through the crowd, using my killer underarm pinch to keep him in control. As a bus noses into view I force him to make a run for it. We only just make it aboard. My heart is thumping like a kangohammer and I have to fight back tears.
    ‘ Never ,’ I say to Mikey, ‘talk to anyone with a camera ever again.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘They don’t tell the truth. Look, I’m sorry, but Dad would say the same. They’ll make you look a dick.’
    He giggles and pats his crotch. ‘I already got a dick.’
    It’s like trying to explain the Koran to the Fundy Christians: some things just don’t connect. I close my eyes and start to count to ten to calm myself, but it’s impossible — Dad’s bloated face materialises in my head. What the hell am I thinking, taking Mikey to see that ?
    I slip my arm around his shoulders. Somehow I haveto try to prepare him. Make sure he understands. ‘When we get to the hospital, mate, we can’t touch Dad. We can only look. Okay?’
    He pouts his lips and scratches at the bum-fluff on his chin. ‘Why?’
    ‘They have to do tests on him to try to find out who made the bomb.’
    He nods like he understands. But then he says, ‘Will he come home with us?’
    Jeezus . Back to square one. Thanks, Dad. Thanks very much. If you cared more about us than your work I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit . But as soon as I think it I feel crap. It’s not Dad’s fault. He didn’t choose to die … not like our Mum.
    Oh joy . Thinking of Mum reminds me of Grandma. I guess I’ll have to tell her too, though I doubt she’ll understand. And there’ll have to be a funeral, though I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to sort it — or how I’ll pay. The whole money issue is so huge and messy it does my head in. I have to keep my mind on Mikey … sort his pain, take one step at a time.
    The bus stops right outside the hospital, but I lead Mikey around to a side street and go in through the back. The media can go get screwed. It takes a while to find the Emergency Department — but, thanks to Jeannie, the staff are expecting us. One of the nurses ushers us through to the morgue.
    The woman who escorted me in earlier comes to greet us, her eyes widening as she registers that Mikey’s got Downs. You’d think the one place where this shouldn’t freak anyone out is a hospital — though, come to think of it, this is the place where they abort all the futureMikeys, not wanting another ‘drain on the state’. Dad told me that when he was young Down Syndrome was not so rare, but by the time Mikey was born technology had pretty much weeded the next generation out. It makes me sick, the way Mikey’s perceived as some kind of mutant, when he’s worth twice as much as some of the