The kangaroo is a silhouette against the moonlit paddock. Dad and I are in the tray of the ute. We do not speak, but our breath clouds in the night air. He nods, and I ready the rifle in my arms. Dad has bagged a few roos already tonight, but he’s finally letting me take the shot. My finger hovers anxiously over the trigger.
Dad flicks a switch, and a beam of light bursts through the night, illuminating the kangaroo. Frozen in the spotlight, it appears unreal, like a statue. I am reminded of the stuffed kangaroo I used to sleep with. On hot nights its plastic eyes were cool against my skin. I shake off the memory. That toy is sealed away in some box now, forgotten with other childish things. Dad says roos are pests, and there’s no place for them on the farm. I pull the trigger, and the kangaroo falls from the spotlight.
‘Got it!’ I cry. ‘Did’ya see, Dad?’
‘I saw. Let’s go check.’
Dad drives through the paddock. Behind us rattles a trailer with the carcasses of tonight’s earlier kills. Ahead, bright headlights stretch like fingers through the shadows, and a grim uneasiness grows within me. Out of the darkness, the fallen kangaroo appears, stark in the white light. It lays on its side, and steam rises from a bullet hole in its head. Dad leaves the headlights on, and we get out.
‘Nice shot, son.’
I’d expected pride at Dad’s praise, but it’s lost before the ugly reality of my own action. Not wanting Dad to see me flinch, I approach the kangaroo to make sure it’s dead. The beast’s belly ripples with motion, and I recoil.
‘It’s alive!’
A tiny nose pokes out of the kangaroo’s pouch. Two black eyes follow, shining in the headlights, and wide with fright.
‘No,’ says Dad. ‘It was a Mum.’
‘What do we do?’
‘It gets the same, son, less the bullet.’
Dad stands over the dead kangaroo. The joey tries to squirm back into the pouch, but Dad reaches in and pulls it out forcefully. He grips its back legs, and the joey wriggles as it hangs suspended upside down.
‘B…but, Dad. It’s only a kid.’
‘So? It’s a pest just the same, and you weren’t so shy to put a bullet in its Mum.’
I drop my head, and Dad raises the joey in the air. He swings it down hard, smashing its head against the ute’s bull bar. A loud clang echoes across the paddock. The joey hangs limp in Dad’s hand.
‘You want the farm someday? Here’s the reality.’ Dad offers me the joey. ‘Put it with the rest.’
I take it in my arms, surprised by the weight, and carry it to the trailer. I place the joey on the other dead kangaroos and it nestles amongst them. It could almost be sleeping if not for its black eyes, open and unmoving. In the pale moonlight, they look like plastic.