14
I’m almost home when my feet hit a puddle, smashing the water sideways. In tiny drops, it spreads. That’s when the image comes. Dad on a routine patrol. Heat haze. Rifle across his chest and he’s laughing with the guys in his unit, his head turned and looking over his shoulder. He’s in front; it was always his job to look for the devices. But he doesn’t concentrate, turns to laugh at a joke – some stupid joke – his detector goes sideways. He takes one step off the road.
The puddle explodes as I kick it with the other foot, the water spraying to my thighs and soaking my trainers.
I’m thinking that Dad’s body must’ve shattered like this, turned into a human firework. Legs and ribs and bits of brain became gunk. His blood sprayed out, melted into desert air. Dad became red mist.
And it should’ve been Jon Shepherd.
Should’ve been anyone but my old man. ’Cause he never did nothing wrong.
I see drops of water land on my shoes. On the pavement. I see it spray out towards the entrance of our flat. And I know that Dad’s smashed up for always now, and Ashlee’s gone.