by Leanne Hall
We hang a right into Oleander Crescent, a broad street with wedding-cake houses perched on withered lawns. Even though it’s just around the corner the houses here are worth twice as much as mine, on account of their river views. A faint haze hangs near the ground, and the street looks like an abandoned film set. I can go for weeks without seeing another person walking the streets near my house. Wildgirl slows down. A trick of the lone streetlight makes the shadows cast by our bike wheels elongate until they look like spiders zooming in our wake.
‘Who lives in these?’ Wildgirl points to the mansions, breaking the silence.
‘Most of them are empty.’ The rich people on Oleander Crescent were some of the first to leave Shyness. Most owned other houses they could run away to: beach houses or rental properties in other suburbs.
‘Why don’t people move in?’
‘They’re protected by armed security services, or electric fences. People hope things will change one day and they can come back. It’s impossible to sell them anyway. No one in their right mind would buy into this place.’
‘Do Paul and Thom live near here?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’ My voice is sharper than I intend.
‘I don’t have to know if it’s a secret.’
I swerve to avoid a gaping pothole. ‘I’ll take you to see their house if we come out of this alive. It’s worth a look.’
Wildgirl doesn’t take the bait about whether we’re going to live or not. For some reason it’s enough for her that the Kidds did something wrong. Her eyes have an evangelical glint. I’ve seen the same look on godbods and social workers.
But Wildgirl gets to leave. I don’t. Even if we don’t get caught tonight, there’s always the chance that the Kidds will come for me later.
Oleander Crescent curves down towards the river and then flanks it all the way to the Avenue and the gates of Orphanville. I push my legs harder. The road banks steeply around the next bend—we used to race go-karts down here as kids—and I pump my brakes as I prepare to jump the gutter at the bottom of the hill. I don’t warn Wildgirl. If we’re gonna do this, she has to be able to keep up.
I hit the gutter harder than I intend and nearly fly off the bike, pulling on the handlebars to keep myself seated. We hurtle down a thin path between two houses. My back wheel sheers sideways on the gravel and I narrowly avoid a fence as I try to bring the speed wobbles under control.
I wait for Wildgirl at the end of the passageway, but she’s been with me almost all the way. Running behind the mansions to our left and right is the dirt path that Blake suggested we take. The path goes all the way to Orphanville along the riverbank.
‘Shit!’ Wildgirl puts a foot on the ground to steady herself. Her shoulders are heaving. She uses the beanie to fan her face. ‘I’m really unfit.’
‘You ride well.’ She didn’t hesitate on the curb, and she knows a bit about bikes too. I wasn’t expecting Blake and her to bond over them. I still feel slightly out of place on mine. The handlebars are too low and the pedals are unreasonably small. I’d be almost as quick on foot.
‘We’re not going to be seen, are we?’ Wildgirl asks.
‘Not if we do our job properly.’
‘No, what I mean is, no one’s going to see me wearing this, are they?’
She looks down at her outfit with distaste. I can’t believe this is her main concern right before we go into enemy territory. The black turtleneck doesn’t hide her off-the-chart body, but I’m not in the mood to reassure her.
‘You look okay. I suppose.’
She gives me the finger. I guess I deserve it.
‘So we take this path all the way?’
I haven’t been down to the river since I stopped school. The riverbank used to be densely wooded, but now there’s only a labyrinth of dead shrubs and trees. The moon has climbed high into the sky and shines down on the ribbon of water, making the surface look slick and glossy. The river is higher than I remember. In front of us is a wooden bridge.
‘I’ve got a better idea. Come this way.’
My bike shudders across the uneven timber slats of the bridge. We’ll take a slightly different route. My old school, St Judes, is on the other side of the river and there’s an identical path on the other bank. I used to ride this way to school every day for almost five years.
The path is further away from the river’s edge and unlit. I let rip. Wildgirl, for all her claims of being out of shape, manages to keep up. We cycle down into a dip, leafless twigs grasping for our arms and faces. I ride with one arm shielding me until the path climbs higher. On our right the ground drops sharply towards the river, and to our left it falls away gradually into a wide plain. The moon throws off enough light to see in all directions: the black river, the silvery plain and ahead the lights of Orphanville. I lower my head and pedal.
‘Slow down,’ Wildgirl calls. ‘I want to look at where we’re going.’ She’s pulled her beanie back on and she looks remarkably like a cycling pixie.
We slow right down until we barely have enough speed to keep us upright. Wildgirl gets her breath back in gulps, her attention fixed on the towers ahead. Orphanville looks solid and majestic from a distance, the towers sequined with specks of light. There’s an orange flare at the top of one tower—someone must be having a bonfire.
Wildgirl rides closer and grips my handlebars. I reach for hers so that we’re cycling along linked by our crossed arms. ‘I thought I’d be scared by now.’
‘I thought you’d be scared already too.’ I’m enjoying the way her arm pushes against mine but I’m also annoyed that I’m swayed so much by her. Thom’s words from Little Death come back to me. You gonna give up this opportunity
’cause one hot chick pays you a bit of attention?
The dead trees thicken around us once more, masking the river and the plain. Several times I think I glimpse figures standing in the bushes, schoolboys in maroon blazers, but when I look at them directly there’s no one there. If anyone’s getting spooked it’s me. There are parts of Shyness where dreams and memories come thicker, and it must be this way close to the river. I wonder if Wildgirl feels it too. I have to keep talking.
‘How come you know so much about bikes?’
‘I used to be a real tomboy. Mike and I rode everywhere when we were kids. We’d go as far along the beach paths as we could, for kilometres and kilometres, on our own. We’d disappear for whole days.’
I tighten my grip on Wildgirl’s handlebars. We’re getting good at this tandem riding. I’m finding it hard to stay mad at a cycling pixie.
‘Who’s Mike?’
‘He was my best friend. He lived in the apartment below us.’
‘Was your best friend?’
‘He moved away when I was twelve.’
I let my grip loosen a little. The path dips once more and our bikes gather speed. If we keep going along this path we’ll reach the remains of a car dealership, some sports fields, and then see the spires of St Judes.
‘Is that the bridge Blake was talking about?’ Wildgirl points and our bikes wobble violently. I let go and we break apart.
A wooden bridge arches over the river to our right, between two large rocks. Someone has spray-painted faces on them. We must be directly behind Orphanville now. I peel off and skid to a halt at the foot of the bridge. There’s a shower of dirt behind me as Wildgirl brakes.
The bridge is falling apart; almost every third plank of wood is missing. One safety rail has broken off completely. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to do this one by foot.’ I hop off my bike and lift it so the crossbar rests on my shoulder. Pieces of splintered wood litter the bank below. A layer of mist shifts on the surface of the river. The moon has disappeared behind an armada of clouds and everything is dark and still.
I stand close to the edge of the bridge where it looks sturdiest, and grasp the remaining safety rail with my free hand. Wildgirl does the same. The bridge curves steeply enough that I can’t see what lies on the othe
r side once we start crossing. We’re just past the apex when three figures step out from under the bridge.
This is not good news.
Wildgirl lets go of her bike and keeps walking forward as if she’s in a trance. I grab the bike before it falls to the ground. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to act.
seventeen
They’re dressed in black, white and red, that’s the first thing I notice. Two girls, one boy. Around thirteen or fourteen years old, although it’s hard to tell with their costumes. All three wear ruffled shirts and puffy black pants. Units often have a dress code, in the same way that Dreamers like to wear white and all necroheads are bald. I lay our bikes on the ground at the mouth of the bridge. I’ve got at least twenty centimetres and almost as many kilograms on each of them. If they’re unarmed and not sugared up then I should be able to handle this.
Wildgirl calls out to the strangers, ‘Who are you?’
The tallest girl speaks. It’s obvious she’s the leader seventeen because she wears a big Napoleon hat and the other two stand behind her. Her hands are perched on her hips as she addresses us. ‘Actually, fair maiden, the question is: who the hell are you, trip-trapping over my bridge?’
There’s barely a beat before Wildgirl replies, ‘Well, we’re not goats, if that’s what you’re asking. There are three of you. So that makes you the goats, doesn’t it?’
The captain’s lip curls. She flicks her plaits over her shoulders. Her face is thin and alert and freckled.
‘We’re trolls, don’t you know? We guard the bridge.’
‘Well, you look more like pirates to me.’
Wildgirl is right. I may not be following the conversation at all, but the Kidds do look like pirates. The smaller girl even has an eye patch, although she’s wearing it above her eye, rather than over it. Patch-girl speaks now, in a reedy voice that matches her reedy arms and wispy hair. ‘No-oooh. We’re trolls.’
They’re all wired to the moon, Wildgirl included.
The captain steps up to Wildgirl, gets right up in her face, and to her credit Wildgirl doesn’t back off one inch. They eyeball each other until somehow they reach a wordless agreement not to punch each other’s lights out.
‘We’re freelancers,’ says the captain. ‘Freelance mushroom-merchants and bridge-keepers.’
I check all three pirates for weapons, but I can’t see anyone packing. My muscles loosen and I rise from the slight crouch I didn’t know I’d dropped into. Patch-girl carries a wicker basket covered with a tea towel.
‘How much do the Kidds pay you to guard the bridge?’ I ask the captain.
Patch-girl steps forward. ‘We’re not slaves. We work on our own.’ She probably intends to sound disgusted, but her high voice makes her sound more like a little girl who’s found fairies living at the bottom of her garden.
‘So do we,’ says Wildgirl. ‘Me and Sasquatch here. We’re trained ninjas. We studied with the Grand High Master for three years on an isolated mountaintop.’
She glances at me and I roll my eyes. Lunatic conversation. Yeah, that’s exactly what we need right now.
The two girls look at me without interest and then return to Wildgirl. They don’t question her unlikely story. They’ve realised Wildgirl’s from outside and that makes her far more interesting than me. The pirate-boy hangs back, looking at us from under a scarf decorated with skull and crossbones. I nod at him but he’s blank as anything. Wildgirl and the captain both have their hands in their pockets now, seemingly having a friendly conversation.
Wildgirl looks at patch-girl’s basket. ‘What’s in there?’
Patch-girl pulls the towel away. ‘Midnight shrooms. You want some?’
Wildgirl shakes her head and patch-girl smooths the towel back into place.
‘What are you doing at the river? Your sort never come around these parts.’
To my surprise, after all the ninja talk, Wildgirl tells the truth. ‘We’re going to break in to Orphanville. The Kidds stole something from us, and we’re going to steal it back.’
Great. Tell the strangers our secret plan.
Patch-girl’s eyes are a pair of shiny coins. ‘Coooool.’
The captain isn’t as easily impressed. ‘Are you sure that’s where you’re going? Because as soon as I saw you I thought to myself, they’re off to the velo for sure.’
‘The velo?’
I’m as puzzled as Wildgirl is. I look to where the captain is pointing, further along the river, past St Judes.
‘The bike place. The dog place.’ She must be talking about the velodrome, but I’ve got no idea what it has to do with dogs. Maybe they used to race greyhounds there. I’m about to ask her exactly what she means when Wildgirl leaps in.
‘Nope. Orphanville. That’s where we’re going.’
‘What did the Kidds steal?’
‘Something important.’
‘Which unit?’
I answer for Wildgirl. ‘The Six-Sevens.’
‘The Elf?’ The captain is surprised.
‘He came this way not fifteen minutes ago,’ patch-girl butts in. ‘All of them, heading back to base. It looked like something really exciting was going on!’
The captain shushes her and thinks for a moment, tugging on the waterfall of white material at her throat. When she finally speaks all the silliness has gone from her voice. ‘You need to find their safe room. Every building has safe rooms. One room for every unit that lives there. The Kidds in each building are sworn to secrecy on the location of their rooms, but people talk.’
‘How do you know about that?’ I ask.
‘I used to be a Kidd. But I didn’t like the rules, so I left.’
The captain looks me straight in the eye. Against all better sense, I believe her. Behind her, pirate-boy has dropped to his hands and knees as if he’s looking for something in the dirt.
‘What’s with him?’
‘Cabin Boy Pete? He doesn’t like talking much. Now. We gave you something. It’s time for you to pay the toll.’ ‘Says who?’
‘Says me. It’s the rules. You cross the bridge, you pay the toll.’
‘Sure. How much is it?’
I have some cash. You never know who you’re gonna have to pay off around here. It’s time to wind this up before someone else comes along and sees us. Two people dressed in black can fly under the radar if they’re careful. Five people, including three flamboyantly dressed pirates— that’s another matter.
‘It will cost the handsome price of one kiss,’ says the captain.
‘No way.’
There’s no chance I’m getting any closer to the captain than I already am. I’m no authority on pirates or trolls, but I’m guessing dental hygiene isn’t high on their list of priorities.
‘I didn’t mean you, stupid.’ She gives me a withering look and then turns to Wildgirl. At first I think the captain has a nervous twitch, but then I realise she’s trying to flutter her eyelashes. She can’t be serious.
Wildgirl steps forward without hesitation. ‘That’s fine. Pucker up, you piratical wench!’
‘Wait,’ says Cabin Boy Pete. He sits on his haunches and points at our bikes. The front wheel of mine still spins lazily. I look at him more closely. I’ve heard his voice before. ‘No!’ The captain is adamant. ‘We don’t ride bikes anymore, remember?’
‘Sell them,’ insists Pete, gnawing on his lip. I stare at his face, trying to figure out why he’s familiar to me.
‘To who? Kidds?’ The captain spits on the ground and turns away from Pete. He falls back on all fours, moving his hand in a circular motion above the ground. It takes me a moment to realise that he’s washing the decks of an imaginary ship with an imaginary scrubbing brush. Something catches in my brain. Pete. Peter. I do know this guy.
‘Peter Kouros?’
Pete doesn’t acknowledge me. He steps up his pretend-scrubbing efforts. Peter Kouros was in the year below me at school. Nice guy. He came top in nearly every subject but you would never hear
him brag about it. Sometime after the Darkness began, while Paul and Thom and I were still going to classes, he disappeared. Paul knew him better than I did because they used to play chess together at lunchtime, and even he couldn’t find out why Peter dropped out or where he went. Now I know. He joined the Kidds.
‘What did he ever do to you?’ I ask the captain. I can’t believe that the boy grovelling in front of me is the same guy I used to go to school with. He’s skin and bones.
‘Cabin Boy did something bad. And now he wants to make it up to me.’
‘What have you done to him?’
‘What have I done?’ The captain’s voice rises. ‘I rescued him. You should be asking what did they do to him.’
Wildgirl puts herself between the captain and me. ‘We can’t give you our bikes. We need them to get away.
What else do you want?’
The captain is sulking now. ‘I was joking about the kiss,’ she says to Wildgirl. ‘I might catch something off you anyway, something from outside. Sunstroke, or sunburn or something.’
‘Well, I wasn’t joking,’ replies Wildgirl. As much as I want to throttle her for dragging this out she’s undeniably better at diplomacy than I am. ‘But stop stuffing us around. We’re kind of in a rush. What do you want?’
Patch-girl pipes up. She’s still looking at our fallen-down bikes. ‘I want THAT. The red thing. I want that.’ We all look at Wildgirl’s red handbag pinned underneath the handlebars. I look at Wildgirl. She shrugs, way too casually.
‘That old thing? Sure, I mean, if you can put up with all the stains and the broken zip and the funky smell. Why not?’
Patch-girl looks pleadingly at the captain. Beside me, Wildgirl holds her breath.
The captain sighs. ‘I guess we can use it to carry mushrooms.’
Patch-girl jumps up and down and claps her hands. Wildgirl lets out a lungful of air. She walks to her bike, gallows-slow, unhooks her bag from the handlebars, then comes up behind me and unzips my backpack. The straps tug at my shoulders when she tips the contents of her bag into mine. The ukulele doesn’t fit so she slings it across her shoulders again. She passes the bag to the captain, who gives it to patch-girl, who hugs it to her chest. Good. Now we can finally get a move on.
