Nature of Ash, The Read Online Free Page B

pendant Dad refuses to take off.
    I have this overwhelming urge to trace the shape with my finger, as if I’ll somehow know . But all I’m allowed to do is stare, look at his face, try to convince myself that welt is nothing more than a sick coincidence. But now I see the scar where his eyebrow has melted into fuzz: he used to say it was the mark of Zorro (some stupid movie from his childhood) but, really, it’s where he fell off his bike when he was small. Oh, Dad .
    ‘It’s him.’ I somehow manage to push it out. But I can’t peel my eyes from that stupid scar. Can’t believe such a little thing is the only real clue to identify this horror-movie zombie.
    ‘You’re sure?’
    Part of my brain is screaming No ! Even if this battered body was once Dad, this corpse is just an empty shell. But I nod, and it requires all my strength.
    I have to sign various papers, then Jeannie leaves me in the room alone. I nearly call her back as she’s closing the door. Instead, I’m rooted to the spot. My tongue won’t form the words needed to make her stay. All I know is that Mikey must never see this. He’ll never understand. Dad’s always been the rock that anchored him — always so staunchly protected his rights. And it sure as hell hasn’t been easy, insisting Mikey’s treated like everyone else. His kind of ‘different’ is definitely not cool. It’s only been Dad’s readiness to threaten people with the law that’s kept him safe. And me? Untold times I’ve had to step in with my fists to sort some loud-mouth who’s tried to score a point at the poor kid’s expense. I was stood down from school so often it’s a miracle I got through at all.
    I know I should be concentrating, saying my goodbyes, making use of this ‘private’ time. But I can’t equate this broken body with Dad. My heart is pogo-jumping round my chest, lungs struggling to dredge in enough air. If the bastards who did this were standing here right now in front of me, I swear to god I’d kill them with my own two hands.
    I need to run and run and run some more.
    And so I edge out of the room backwards, unable to turn my eyes from Dad till the very last, then make a dash for it, brushing aside Jeannie’s worried questions. I have to get out .
    Only when I’ve burst from the hospital do I remember the vultures with the cameras outside. I pull my hoodie up to mask my face, shove my way through the crowd and start to sprint. I don’t stop — daren’t stop — till I reach the waterfront, even though my lungs are screaming andI’ve got the stitch. The pain is good, it helps to drive away the rage. There’s no wind, and the harbour reflects back the gloomy grey sky as if the weather is holding its breath. There are sirens whining, seagulls screeching and dive-bombing joggers, two dogs locked in noisy combat on the meagre strip of beach. Ahead, a mob of kids swarms across the walkway. Before I really know what I’m doing, I launch myself into the sea and start to swim — clothes, shoes and all — towards Frank Kitts Park. It’s bloody cold but I don’t care. I pound my arms and legs through the water, wishing I was mashing them into the faces of the bastards who killed Dad. I hate them — hate them — hate every single soul who’s let this stupid country get so fucked up that good people die.
    Halfway across the harbour I run out of steam. The cold has penetrated my skin and doused the fire. Cell by cell the chill is settling in my bones. I could just close my eyes now, stop fighting and sink … I raise my hands above my head and plummet down. But Mikey’s face is etched on to my eyelids, his contagious laughter tattooed on my ears … I shoot back to the surface and breast-stroke stiffly towards shore. There’s a small huddle of bystanders watching as I haul myself ashore and set off at a ragged pace through town. My feet are squelching in my shoes, my clothes slapping like frozen weights. My nose is running and I have to sniff like