Fetch the Treasure Hunter

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘It’s pretty chocolatey,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Pretty chocolatey? It was chocolate multiplied by chocolate and it tasted amazing.

  After I’d finished, slurping every last bit, I said, ‘Everybody’s really worried about you, Tobes.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Tobes?’

  He pushed the shades up onto his forehead, revealing eyes that were red and puffy.

  ‘Do you think ice-cream’s easy?’ he said, before he launched into a monologue about the precarious world of making ice-cream, about how it was both a foam and an emulsion, how …

  I let him go on. And on. And on.

  When he’d finished he looked down at his fingernails. He looked up at me again and said, ‘I just didn’t want to muck it up. Not in front of all those people. Not in front of Mom.’

  ‘Mom wouldn’t care if you mucked it up or not,’ I said.

  Toby just gave me this look. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know Mom like I know her.

  Okay, it was a look, not an essay, but it took a while to absorb it. Would Mom really care if Toby mucked up some ice-cream?

  My phone was ringing like mad, jumping around in my pocket, and I knew it wasn’t fair to keep Mom and Dad in suspense.

  ‘Hey, what say we go home?’ I said to Toby. ‘Gus is waiting outside.’

  ‘I guess so,’ he said, getting up.

  I noticed the tears glistening on his cheeks.

  ‘Look, you want a hug or something?’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You’d really give me a hug?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ I said. ‘Hey, you’re my little brother, aren’t you?’

  Toby nodded. I am your little brother. I do want a hug.

  So I hugged him.

  He felt sort of squishy. And he smelt really chocolatey.

  ‘Okay, that’s probably enough,’ said Toby, attempting to de-hug.

  But I wasn’t letting go of my squishy little brother.

  Not yet.

  SUNDAY

  BARBIE TIME

  Later that night I sat on the leather couch in Gus’s office, the only light coming from a lamp on the battered wooden desk. All the books, all the posters on the wall, all the newspaper clippings, were hidden in darkness. But I knew that Dr Roger Bannister was still there, breaking the four-minute mile; John Landy was still there, setting the 1500 metres world record in 1954; and Hicham El Guerrouj was still there, setting the current world record of three minutes and twenty-six seconds. And as my father, sitting at the desk, heated up the tip of the branding iron with an ancient Zippo lighter, I felt sort of glad that they were there. Because they were my friends. I know that’s pretty ridiculous, because I’d never met any of them and probably never would. But at least I knew who they were. They wouldn’t suddenly become somebody else, they wouldn’t doublecross me, or trick me.

  ‘You ready, son?’ said Dad, standing up.

  I’m not sure you can ever be ready to have the skin on the inside of your thigh branded, but I gave him a ‘yes’ anyway.

  I looked across to where Gus was sitting on the other couch, stump pointing at me like an oversized thumb. He shook his head slowly, mournfully, as if to say, I’m sorry this has to happen.

  Well, I’m sorry, too, I thought as I undid my shorts and pulled them down so that my thigh was bared and the letters PA were visible.

  I’d caught the Zolt, I’d turned off the lights, and now I’d brought back the Cerberus.

  Dad approached, the brand in his hand, the letter G on the tip of the brand glowing white-hot. He had this look on his face that’s hard to describe. Like he was sorry he had to do this, but maybe not that sorry.

  He sat down on the couch next to me. And already it seemed I could smell that barbecue smell.

  Dad clamped my leg with his hand.

  ‘You don’t have to do that!’ I said, pushing his hand away.

  ‘Just helping,’ he said, and again I couldn’t work out the look on his face.

  ‘Dave, just get it over and done with,’ said Gus, his voice full of gravel.

  ‘You ready?’ said Dad, and I could feel the heat of the brand as he brought it closer to my leg.

  ‘Just get it over and done with,’ I said, using Gus’s words, his gravel.

  I was trying to convince myself that it wasn’t that bad, that it wouldn’t hurt that much, but my body was having none of it. My body was sweating, and had gone from dry to damp in a second. My body wanted out of here.

  The familiar sensation of hairs singeing, white-hot metal searing flesh, the nauseating smell, and then the pain – pain upon pain.

  I looked over into the shadows for support, towards my friends, Dr Roger, John, Hicham.

  ‘Done!’ said Dad, removing the brand.

  I went to zip up my shorts but Gus said, ‘Don’t you want to put something on that?’

  ‘I can deal with it!’ I snapped.

  Three instalments repaid, four brandings, and he thought I didn’t know what to do?

  MONDAY

  ANOTHER DAMN PROTEST

  To say it was tense in the car as we made for school the next day is a bit like saying that Israel and Palestine don’t quite get on.

  ‘Toby, I want you to personally go in and apologise to the police,’ said Mom, firing the first missile from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Why?’ said Toby, with a retaliatory strike from the back seat. ‘They couldn’t even find me. Dom did.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody brat,’ said Mom. ‘And when you’re finished apologising to them, you can apologise to the Ready! Set! Cook! people as well.’

  ‘Why? It was the highest rating program in their history,’ said Toby.

  I wanted to step in, UN-style, and make them stop.

  But it was Mom who fired the next Scud missile. ‘And when you’re finished with them, I wouldn’t mind an apology, either.’

  I looked over at Toby.

  He said nothing, but he didn’t need to because his eyes said it all: right then, he hated our mother.

  It was actually a relief when we pulled up at the school drop-off zone and Mom said, ‘Damn! Looks like there’s another protest.’

  The way she said it made it sound like protests were a weekly event outside the wrought-iron front gates of Coast Boys Grammar, but from memory the last one had been about two years ago when some local residents had got upset that our school had acquired an adjoining playground.

  ‘Haven’t these people got jobs to go to?’ continued Mom.

  There were many more demonstrators than last time, maybe fifty or sixty people swarming around the entrance to the school, many of them holding up placards.

  Coalition of Islam Youth was written on one.

  A Fair Race for All Races! was written on another.

  Obviously this wasn’t about the acquisition of a playground, but what, exactly, was the Coalition of Islam Youth protesting against?

  Refugees Always Run Last, said another placard.

  I opened the door and got out of the car.

  As I made for the entrance there were shouts of ‘That’s him!’ and ‘There he is!’

  That’s who? I wondered. There who is?

  But when I was engulfed by a group of jostling protestors I realised that who was me, that they were protesting against me being awarded third place in the 1500 metres at the national titles.

  I had no doubt that Rashid had beaten me, but somebody – The Debt? – had got to the photo and doctored it so that it looked like I had beaten him. So it ended up that I was on the team going to Rome for the World Youth Games and Rashid wasn’t.

  A man pushed his placard right into my face. Then somebody gave me a shove from behind. Just as it was about to get ugly, five student protection officers pushed their way through the protestors and surrounded me.

  Now, with me inside, this carapace of SPOs made towards the entrance. Once we were safely in through the gates
I said, ‘It’s okay now.’

  But the carapace kept going, moving me towards the headmaster’s office. It was only when we were inside that they released me.

  Mr Cranbrook, the principal, was there in his suit. Mr Iharos, the vice-principal, was there in his suit. Another man, who I think was head of security, was there in his suit. Mrs Zipser, the school PR person, was also there in her suit.

  Seriously, it looked like a suit-off – and may the best suit win.

  ‘Please take a seat, Dominic,’ Mr Cranbrook said.

  I took a seat, and there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mr Iharos.

  A man entered; he was very smooth-looking, wearing – you guessed it – a suit.

  If the suit-off did happen, I had all my money on his; it looked like one of those Italian jobs my dad wears.

  Mr Cranbrook introduced him as Mr Theissen; apparently he was going to assist Mrs Zipser with the PR on this ‘delicate issue’.

  Firstly Mr Cranbrook gave him a ‘heads up’.

  Which was pretty fortunate for me, because I learnt some things that nobody had bothered to tell me.

  The most surprising being that Rashid was no longer attending this school.

  ‘You suspended Rashid?’ I said, ready to be outraged.

  Mr Cranbrook did that thing men in suits like to do, where they smooth down their lapels.

  ‘Let me explain,’ he said.

  I let him explain, and explaining was something the principal of Coast Boys Grammar did very, very well.

  The school hadn’t suspended Rashid at all, he’d suspended himself.

  Apparently the school had received an email from the Coalition of Islam Youth saying that as a protest Rashid would no longer attend the school.

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ I said.

  Nobody was arguing with me.

  ‘Rashid loves Grammar more than anybody I know,’ I said. ‘He’s a girly swot from hell.’

  Mr Cranbrook concurred. ‘Rashid is certainly one of our more diligent students.’

  Apparently they’d tried to contact him directly to ascertain whether it was he who had made this decision or it had been made for him. But they hadn’t been able to get through.

  It was, Mr Cranbrook said, ‘a very delicate situation and one that needed to be handled astutely’.

  Mrs Zipser and Mr Theissen exchanged knowing nods. Very astutely.

  Apparently, there was the school’s brand to consider. Not to mention emerging markets in predominately Muslim countries like Indonesia and Malaysia.

  Mr Cranbrook continued. ‘What we wanted to talk about, Dom, is some strategies we intend to put in place this week in order to circumvent any other unfortunate events like this morning’s. Fortunately there’s only a week of the school term left, so this makes it much easier for us.’

  He went to say something further, but I thought I’d save him a whole lot of breath – and enunciation – by getting in first. ‘It’s totally okay with me if Rashid goes to Rome instead of me.’

  It actually wasn’t totally okay, it wasn’t even just plain okay, but this was crazy – Rashid belonged at Grammar!

  The principal and the vice-principal and the two PR people exchanged looks and Mr Cranbrook said, ‘That certainly won’t be happening.’

  ‘But Rashid did actually beat me,’ I said, trying to convince myself as much as them.

  ‘Not according to the judges, he didn’t,’ said Mr Iharos. ‘Not according to the photo.’

  So I sat there and listened to the strategies that were going to be put in place. Basically they involved me sneaking in through the back entrance when I came to school tomorrow.

  When I walked into the classroom fifteen minutes late, Mr Travers looked up from his desk and gave me a look.

  But that’s all it was, a look, and a pretty feeble one at that. Because we both knew that I had something on him.

  As I made for my desk I could sense there was something different about the classroom today.

  And it didn’t take long for me to work it out, because suddenly – biff! – I got a playful punch on the shoulder.

  Playful for him. Painful for me.

  Yes, Tristan was back.

  I hadn’t seen him since the day I’d given him up to the cops at Electronic Bazaar.

  The day he’d been tasered.

  ‘Dom, as you can see, Tristan has joined us for the last week of term.’

  ‘Welcome back, buddy,’ I said.

  But I could tell that this wasn’t the Tristan who’d woken up from the coma.

  That Tristan had been sort of sleepy, but it was like that taser had given this Tristan his old electric energy back. And when I say electric I mean electric: Tristan was dangerous, he was lethal.

  The next lesson, English, was even more of a disaster than usual, because all I could think about was Rashid.

  One part of me was absolutely sure that it was only right that I should go to Rome.

  But another part of me was absolutely sure that it wasn’t.

  And these two parts kept brawling, no holds barred, UFC style, in the Octagon of my mind.

  ‘And Dom, what do you think Whitman is saying here?’

  Mr McFarlane’s voice managed to find a way through all this conflict.

  I looked up.

  Mr McFarlane was standing at the front of the class. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, gave him an owlish look.

  ‘Whitman?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Walt Whitman. You do remember him, don’t you, the poet we’ve been studying this term?’

  This brought forth some tittering from the class – Mr McFarlane, when he puts his mind to it, has a solid line in sarcasm.

  I looked at the board, on which was written in chalk: Walt Whitman, 1819–1892

  And under that, I am large, I contain multitudes, which I gathered was a quote from Walt Whitman, 1819–1892.

  Mr McFarlane continued, ‘So what do you think Mr Whitman is saying here? Bevan, for example, believes he might be referring to obesity and the multitudes is, in fact, a multitude of hamburgers.’

  Like I said, a solid line in sarcasm.

  The two parts of me had stopped brawling, however. It was like they, too, were reading the quote. I looked over at Mr McFarlane, at his owl eyes, at that haircut that was some sort of relic from the swinging seventies. He had this encouraging look on his face: Just say it.

  So I just said it. ‘Is it like he’s saying, even though we’re the same person we can have different ideas and opinions inside us and that’s sort of okay?’

  Just then the bell went and Mr McFarlane wasn’t able to say anything over the resulting noise. But he smiled at me, raising his eyebrows, tilting his head.

  I left the classroom and hurried straight to Mr Ryan’s office.

  Knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he said.

  ‘Dom,’ I said. ‘I need to talk.’

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  He was leaning back in his chair, several mountains of paper on the desk in front of him. But I didn’t think he’d been doing much marking because his ear buds were in. He waved at the chair and as I sat down he started playing air guitar. Whether it was for my benefit or not I’m not sure, but it was pretty embarrassing. When he’d finished his solo he removed the ear buds.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Your father is so right: those early Rolling Stones albums really do stand up well.’

  ‘I want to pull out of the team for Rome,’ I said.

  Mr Ryan’s boyish mood instantly changed – he was my teacher again. And a fellow runner.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said emphatically.

  ‘If I pull out and they reinstate Rashid in the team and the demonstrations stop, then I’m sure he’ll come back to Grammar.’

  Mr Ryan considered what I’d just said in that calm, unhurried way he had when he wasn’t playing embarrassing air guitar.

  ‘Possibly,’ he conceded.
/>   ‘So how do I officially withdraw from the team?’ I said.

  Mr Ryan seemed to choose his words very carefully. ‘If you withdraw, you might do your career irreparable damage, Dom. And yes, you are withdrawing for noble reasons, but even that will work against you. You see, successful athletes have a certain mindset where they … now, what’s the best way to put this …’

  ‘They always look after number one?’ I said.

  ‘I guess that’s one way of putting it.’

  I fully understood what Mr Ryan was saying. And I wanted to say, ‘Forget it, then.’ Or ‘Hey, I was only joking.’

  But I couldn’t.

  ‘I’ve made my mind up,’ I said. ‘Could I send them an email?’

  ‘You could do that,’ said Mr Ryan with a resigned shrug. ‘Let’s find the appropriate email address, shall we?’

  We found the appropriate email address and Mr Ryan helped me compose the email.

  All I had to do now was hit the send button and it was done: Rashid would go to Rome instead of me and my career would be trashed.

  I hesitated.

  ‘It’s often a good idea to sit on these things for a day or two,’ said Mr Ryan. ‘Give it some considered thought.’

  A day or two?

  I grabbed the mouse and I clicked on send.

  As I left his office and walked along the corridor I was feeling really good about myself – I’d made absolutely the right decision.

  Not for long, though. Because Tristan Jazy, all one hundred and ninety-five centimetres of him, all one hundred kilos of him, ran straight into me and kneed me in the knurries.

  Before his accident Tristan Jazy was a champion cricketer, a gun rugby player, a state-ranked swimmer, but now I knew that these talents were nothing compared to the one he had as a knurrie knee-er. I collapsed onto the floor. I rolled around the floor. And I screamed out in agony.

  Tristan Jazy looked down at me, not a skerrick of pity in his conventionally handsome face, and said, ‘Payback for the pool, Silvagni.’

  ‘What pool?’ I managed to say, but this was more for the benefit of the quite large crowd that had quickly gathered to enjoy the spectacle of a fellow student and his shattered knurries.

  Tristan knew that I’d set fire to his pool. I knew that I’d set fire to Tristan’s pool. I knew that Tristan knew that I’d set fire to his pool. Tristan knew that I knew … Put it this way, Tristan and I shared the same body of knowledge about the fire and the pool.