The Night Is for Hunting Read Free Page A

hide-out, with a sign saying FOOD – HELP YOURSELF. But to my surprise, they hadn’t touched it. It was strange, because I was sure they were hungry. When they mugged us in the alley they seemed desperate for food. If they were city kids, like we thought, they probably weren’t too good at foraging for food. Before the war they’d probably had a life of supermarkets and milk bars, opening the fridge door and helping themselves to a yoghurt or a tomato or a Mars Bar. Like the Grade 2 kids from the city who’d camped on the Mackenzies’ property. One of them asked Mr Mackenzie, ‘How do you get the wool onto the sheep?’
    Anyway, whoever suggested having a go with the kids certainly started something. Fi in particular got quite worked up at the idea of making contact with them again. I suppose enough time had passed for her to forget how scary it was to be at their mercy. My talking about Christmas set her off in a big way. I think she immediately imagined a happy Christmas dinner with everyone sitting around a decorated table and Santa making a surprise visit down the chimney. I didn’t get the same picture when I brought it up on my monitor. These kids would eat the reindeer and strangle Santa. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to spoil her dreams.
    Fi’s the last of the great romantics.
    Kevin wasn’t so tactful. ‘Are you kidding?’ he said, when we started talking about it. ‘You guys told me they were a hair and a freckle away from killing you.’
    ‘I agree,’ Lee said. ‘We’ve got enough problems of our own. We’re just setting up a lot of grief for ourselves if we think we can save everyone.’
    We didn’t go as far as putting our hands up for a vote, but we were obviously divided. Our discussion, which was in Grandma’s lounge room, broke up without a decision.
    But I didn’t confess to the others that I’d been keeping an eye on the ferals anyway. They were hanging out in a deserted milk bar on Mikkleson Road. I’d taken to going past it at night, just quietly, across in the park, a hundred metres from the shop, so as not to provoke them. I’m not sure why I did it, just some vague feeling that I wanted to make sure they were OK. If I was in the area anyway, it was easy enough: no big deal.
    Then I did get closer to them, briefly, but not in a way I’d expected.
    It was late in the afternoon. We never seemed to see the motorbike patrols between four and six o’clock, maybe because they were changing shifts. I was doing a little patrol myself, at the other end of West Stratton, near one of those shopping centres that have only a milk bar and a fish-and-chip shop, and a newsagent and a chemist. This one had a computer repair shop and a Red Cross op shop as well, but it was pretty boring, and of course there was nothing valuable left in the shops.
    In both Wirrawee and Stratton there were certain houses that seemed to attract attention. Any nice-looking place, or big rich place, was guaranteed to be worked over by looters. My grandmother’s was one of the biggest in West Stratton, so it had been plundered, but not as badly as some. We’d learned not to bother with big places much because there was never anything worthwhile left in them, just like the shops. We mainly checked out the smaller houses.
    So I don’t know why I went into this big house on Castlefield Street. No particular reason. I was wandering. The house was solid dark brick and stretched along the street for a hundred metres. It wasn’t pretty but it sure was big. They had a pool in the backyard. Like all pools these days it was filthy and stagnant, the water such a dark green it was almost black. The front door was so solid no-one had even tried to smash it down, and the back door had been attacked but not broken. Around the corner though, was a side door which had been easily forced. It led into a rumpus room, a big area with a polished wooden floor.
    As I stepped into that I heard voices. For a moment I thought,