Arms Race by Nic Low Page B

Christie’s gentle breathing. I scoured
the tang of sex from my skin, shaved and walked to meet the surveyor at the mouth
of the mine. A faint mist trapped the sun between the trees. I was pleased to hear
my boots upon the road, and to see parrots launch their bodies through the air, and
to know that Christie, lying warm inside the house, might already be pregnant. I’d
spent my youth in fear of procreation. I could barely comprehend this new pleasure,
to hold her close and shut my eyes and let life flow unhindered. I wore my shirt
half unbuttoned under my high-vis vest and did not care if I looked foolish.
    I reached the road at the bottom of the gully and then the mouth of the open-cut
mine. One side remained sheer. The other had collapsed utterly, its viscera spilled
onto the floor. Among rocks the size of cars, mature trees reached for the light.
I stood and studied the mess.
    Just on eight the surveyor pulled up. He was very young. He had a clean-shaven, undercooked
face and an ambitious handshake that made me embarrassed for him.
    Morning, I said. I’m Steven.
    Pete. Sorry about Saturday—I got called away. You guys settle in all right?
    I nodded. Thanks. Great place. I hadn’t realised we’d be so close.
    Yeah, the only houses round here are on mining land.
    We saw the clearings from the plane. Neighbours?
    Nah, Pete said. Ruins mostly. They were all bought from the mine by the one family
but they’re gone now. Not much missed, either.
    So it’s just us?
    Yeah. The cave-in finished the town. Everyone left for Kal.
    And that was—?
    Nineteen sixteen. Have a look at this.
    Pete returned to his ute and fetched an old black-and-white photo of the mine before
the collapse. The cut was narrow and twice as deep as now, its dark expanse latticed
with props fashioned from whole trees. A crew of serious-faced men looked from their
century into ours.
    Lot of men working that, I said.
    It was a miracle no one was hurt. Happened on a Sunday. All the old machinery’s still
down there.
    And you live locally?
    Market Road. Family’s been here forever. My grandparents still talk about getting
this place reopened.
    Well, it doesn’t look—I said, but then I saw the expression on Pete’s face. It doesn’t
look easy, but we’ve got a month to figure it out.
    Pete nodded slowly. So, is that your daughter you’ve come with?
    I stared at the man, but there was no malice in his eyes. If anything, a trace of
bovine hope. I felt embarrassed again, and that made me spiteful.
    Yes, I said. My daughter.
    Nice. Family time?
    Family time. Let’s get started.
    When I got back to the house that afternoon there were six .22 calibre bullets of
faded brass strewn across the kitchen table. Someone had cut the tips off with a
hacksaw.
    Christie, I called. Christie?
    The sliding door to the bathroom rolled open. Christie was wearing running shoes
and shorts, and an old T-shirt of mine she’d shrunk in the wash, the week she moved
into my place in Mandera. Her face was glowing. Hi, she said.
    Where did these come from?
    I found them in an old ute. Why are they like that?
    Do more damage. Where’s the ute?
    You want to go for a walk?
    We strolled down to the road among slender saplings the colour of ash. Blackberry
sprawled from the ditches. The track went past our lone letterbox and climbed the
other side.
    Christie held my hand. How’d you go today? she said.
    Not too bad. Pete’s a nice-enough bloke. It doesn’t look good for the mine, though.
The lateral subsistence is much worse than they made out.
    What’d Pete say?
    I shrugged. The locals are all keen to make it work… You know, he asked if you were my daughter.
    Christie groaned. What’d you tell him?
    I said you were.
    Christie pulled her hand away and rabbit-punched me in the shoulder. You’re kidding,
right? She looked me in the eye. Steven! What the hell for?
    I don’t know. Avoiding