George was pitched forward off his bed and hit his head on the floor. He pressed his eyes tight and held his breath while waiting for the falling debris to stop. Then he pushed himself off the floor and into the dusty daylight, dragging Beeper up with him.
The boys covered their mouths and noses with their hands and waded through the dirt, plaster and wood. The door was still blocked by Beeper’s mattress. George dragged it aside and wrenched at the door handle.
They stumbled down the hall and into the day room. The girl was sitting at one end of the dining table. She stared at them but didn’t stand up.
George sunk down against a wall with his head between his knees. His neck ached where lumps of plaster had hit him, and his right temple throbbed where he had hit the floor. His face stung, he couldn’t focus. He could hear Beeper spitting and coughing nearby.
‘Hell of a mess you’ve made there,’ the girl said. She went out to the hall, pulled their bedroom door shut, then began coughing too.
George started hacking up sludge. He had no choice but to spit it onto the floor. ‘What happened?’ he finally croaked.
‘A cave-in,’ the girl said, sitting back at the table. ‘Dust gets in between loose roof tiles. Builds up on the plaster until it’s weighing so much, the ceiling falls in.’
George lifted his head from his knees, then began a new bout of coughing and spitting.
‘You probably hurried it up with all your hammering, kiddos. What are you building in there?’
Beeper was on his hands and knees, near the back door, struggling to breathe. George clomped across and thumped his brother’s back. It made no difference. George struck him between the shoulder blades a second time. Beeper noisily coughed up a throatful of grit.
‘I’ll get you a drink, Beeper,’ the girl said.
George jumped to his feet before she could move. Even though he could scarcely see, he stumbled to the kitchen bench and dizzily grabbed two jars.
Beeper drank his water in one go. George passed him the second jar, then returned to his place against the wall with a jar of his own. He rubbed his eyes furiously. Rubbing made them hurt more, but his vision improved. He was looking straight at her, and realised what she was doing. She was drinking from the Paris mug.
‘Don’t use that!’ George said. ‘It’s Mum’s.’
She ignored him, refilling the mug a few minutes later.
‘Where are we going to sleep?’ Beeper asked.
‘You could start digging out your mattresses and move them in here,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll help you Beeper, if you like.’
‘Don’t want your help,’ said Beeper sheepishly, half-glancing at George. He downed the last of his drink and went for more. ‘You … you can’t be trusted.’
George scanned her face and could see no reaction to Beeper’s comment. He wanted to keep on the pressure. He stood, shook the dust from his hair, and slapped at his clothes. ‘And we’ve nearly run out of clear water, thanks to you!’
‘I have a name,’ she said. ‘It’s Emily. And I have to go outside to do something very important.’
‘Good. There’s nothing left to eat or drink, so there’s no reason for you to come back.’
The girl stared at George for a few seconds, then her mouth curled into a grin. She headed down the hall and left the house.