Fetch the Treasure Hunter

by Phillip Gwynne

  Her phone rang out, however.

  I walked past her house hoping to get even a glimpse of her at her bedroom window, but the curtains remained resolutely closed. And I guess Mr McFarlane would have said they were some sort of symbol that represented how closed Imogen had become to me. Yeah, well, Mr Mac didn’t know about ClamTop.

  I powered up it up. Brought up local networks. Imogen’s network was up, her computer connected to it.

  But instead of feeling ashamed as I had last time, I felt weirdly justified. I mean, Imogen was behaving stupidly. I hadn’t done anything that warranted her cutting me off so completely. Even the detestable knurrie-kneeing Tristan had admitted that I wasn’t to blame for his accident.

  I cloned her desktop but this time, instead of the icons sitting there, turdlike, they were moving about as though they were in a Beyoncé video.

  I read an article once that said in girls this part of the brain called the corpus callosum is bigger than it is in boys. This results in more traffic between the two hemispheres of girls’ brains, which means they are much better at multitasking.

  Well, Imogen’s corpus callosum must’ve been humungous, because wow! was she multitasking or what?

  There were about a thousand websites up. Facebook was open and she had three conversations going with three different people. And Windows Mail was open on a half-written email. uTorrent was downloading an episode of Modern Family. And she was listening to music in iTunes.

  Where to start?

  Emails, I thought.

  I scanned the list of senders, expecting to see sixpack, sixpack and more sixpack, but there actually weren’t that many from Tristan.

  Imogen’s dialogue with Joy Wheeler seemed to have continued since last time I’d snooped … I mean, looked.

  Dear Imogen,

  While I am personally sympathetic to your requests, I hope you understand that I must adhere to Labor Party regulations regarding this matter. I would also like to inform you that, tragically, most of the Gold Coast Labor Party archival material was destroyed in a flood some years ago.

  Yours sincerely,

  Joy Wheeler

  What flood? She hadn’t mentioned any flood when I’d gone there. All I’d got was that ‘rich history of which we are immensely proud’ crap. And what about all that stuff Helen was digitalising?

  Joy Wheeler, emoticon on legs, was telling lies, and big ones at that. But what was she hiding?

  When I come back from Rome I’ll find out, I promised myself.

  But it would be more than a week before I got back from Rome and by then, going by what Helen had said, all archival material might be off site.

  If I was going to do it, it had to be tonight.

  I recalled the surveillance inside the Labor Party office. The lack of cover outside the office. How in the hell could I get ClamTop anywhere near it? Then it came to me – of course! That’s how.

  But at one in the morning, when my alarm went off, I managed to convince myself yet again: Of course you’re not going to do it, you idiot. You’ve got to catch a plane at 9.30 am! I rolled over, readjusted my pillow, closed my eyes. And changed my mind yet again.

  I was going to do it tonight.

  Sneaking out of the house wasn’t an issue. Because of the care I took each morning not to disturb anybody when I went out for my run, I knew where each loose floorboard, each creaky door was.

  But sneaking out of Halcyon Grove: not so easy. I couldn’t just leave through the front gates, because there was no way Samsoni, or whoever was on duty, would let a minor like me through. And since I needed to get into the stormwater drain anyway, then why not do it from here?

  I slunk past Imogen’s house, past Tristan’s house, but instead of continuing on, I turned left and into the recreation area. Please Do Not Walk on Grass said the sign, the sign I disobeyed.

  Right at the back of the park, hidden by some gardenia bushes, was the grate. When we were little kids, monsters lived beneath this grate. The biggest, meanest, ugliest monsters the world had ever seen. But later, when we were older, they went somewhere else to live.

  One day we even managed to prise the grate up and Nathan Cordeiro climbed down.

  ‘There’s a tunnel!’ he said, but then he froze.

  He just wouldn’t move, so we had to get his mum to coax him out. They concreted the grate in after that.

  But now I’d come prepared – a raid of the gardener’s shed had yielded a hammer and a cold chisel. I used these to chip away the concrete, loosening the grate, until eventually I was able to remove it.

  I put on my headlamp, took the waterproof holder with the stormwater map I’d found on the internet out of my backpack and hung it around my neck.

  I zipped up the pack and put it on my back, tightening the straps so that it didn’t bounce around. If there had been any hint of rain, there’s no way I would’ve lowered myself into that stormwater tunnel. But the skies were clear, and had been for weeks, and the tunnel was dry, so I started crawling on hands and knees, my headlamp picking out the concrete cylinder ahead.

  According to my map the pipe had a diameter of one and a half metres, but it seemed much, much smaller than that. It also smelt much smaller than that, that dusty, irritate-your-nostrils smell of places that don’t get a whole lot of fresh air.

  But it didn’t smell damp and that was the main thing. Technically I was coimetrophobic, not claustrophobic, but I still wasn’t that happy to be in such a confined space.

  And if I’d wanted to turn back: bad luck, this was about as one way as a one-way street gets.

  After about half an hour of crawling I came to a T-junction, where another pipe joined the one I was in. According to the map, I was below Chevron Heights, and the next major feature, a large sump, was about the same distance as I’d already come.

  I kept crawling.

  And crawling.

  And crawling.

  Something’s wrong, I told myself as I checked the map again. I should be there by now.

  I wouldn’t say I was panicking, but I could feel my heart rate going up, sweat forming on my palms. So when I heard voices I figured they were some sort of hallucinatory response to the discomfort I was feeling. But as I continued and those voices became louder and more distinct, I knew I wasn’t imagining them.

  ‘Pass us the vodka, will ya?’ Male voice.

  ‘You’ve had enough!’ Female voice.

  The drain became wider, higher, and I could feel the waft of fresh air in my face.

  ‘I said, you’ve had enough!’ Female voice.

  ‘Who cares what you say?’ Male voice.

  I better say something, I thought, or I’m going to scare the hell out of them.

  ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ I said, thinking that the comedic approach was often effective.

  Except my voice reverberated outrageously: there were hundreds of honeys in hundreds of homes.

  The tunnel opened out and I dropped down into a sort of chamber, like a square room with other tunnels leading off in four directions.

  Candles threw a surprisingly strong light over the scene, over the sleeping bags and vodka bottles and empty Pringles containers. And two street kids: a boy and a girl. I knew them; in fact, I’d once employed them. It was Brandon and his sister PJ. I was aware that they hung around the stormwater drains because I’d seen them disappear down one at Preacher’s Forest. Brandon looked even gaunter than the last time I’d seen him. Again I thought of that Neil Young song, ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’.

  He looked at me with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Hey, what you want?’ he demanded.

  I noticed that his sister was holding a spray can, finger on the nozzle – what, she was going to graffiti me? – but then I realised it must be pepper spray.

  ‘Hey, chill,’ she said, putting the can down. ‘It’s what’s-his-name. The dude from Cozzi’s that day. The one we got the phone for.’

  The last time I’d seen her she’d had black hair,
now it was blonde. It was the same messy style, though. And she still looked like an anime character.

  Brandon squinted at me.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, and he closed his eyes and slumped back.

  PJ shrugged.

  ‘He’s a bit sick,’ she said.

  ‘Look, I’m totally out of here,’ I said, pointing to the entrance to a new tunnel. ‘Is that the way to the city?’

  PJ nodded. ‘Rich kid like you, thought you could afford something better than these rat runs.’

  I’m not sure why I thought she deserved an explanation, but I did.

  ‘Everybody at school’s into urbex these days,’ I said.

  ‘Urbex?’

  ‘Urban exploration,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, is that what you call it at Grammar?’ PJ smiled and her whole face seemed to come alive. ‘Take care.’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  Brandon had toppled right over now, the vodka bottle still clutched in his hand.

  ‘Is he okay?’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, he’s just a bit sick,’ said PJ.

  I hoisted myself into the drain and started shuffling as quickly as I could away from there. It didn’t take long, about ten minutes, before the drain opened up again into another chamber, this one smaller than the previous one. Overhead there was a grate, streetlight filtering in. I didn’t even need my headlamp to check the map.

  There was a makeshift ladder made from milk crates stacked on top of each other and I figured this was at least one of the places where Brandon and PJ got in and out of the drains.

  I was exactly where I’d hoped I’d be.

  Now I had to take the tunnel to my left. I did this, and after fifteen more minutes of crawling I was at my destination, another sump. The one the cat had been rescued from. Again an overhead grate provided some streetlight. There was enough room for me to sit down, my back against the concrete.

  I took ClamTop out of my bag, out of the plastic sleeve I’d put it in, and powered it up. There was only one network available in this area, and that was LABORNET.

  Of course it was secure, but ClamTop and its little red devil had no trouble cracking it. And in what seemed like no time I was in there, on the main server.

  I had a quick look through the directory – it was very complex, lots of directories, with lots of layers.

  How to navigate through this and find what I was looking for when I really didn’t know what it was?

  But then I had a brainwave: if Helen had been working this week, digitalising files, then all I had to do was run a file search where the date modified was ‘earlier this week’.

  I tried that and it worked a treat.

  Now I knew where all the documents she’d digitalised were stored.

  But again, there were so many of them I could sit here all night searching through them and still not find what I was looking for. I needed to make a copy.

  But how did I do that on ClamTop?

  I racked my brain for a while before it occurred to me: the obvious way, that’s how.

  I highlighted the directory and dragged it out of its window and into ClamTop’s window.

  And of course it worked.

  If ever they marketed ClamTop, that should be its motto – The Obvious Way.

  Satisfied that I now had everything, I put ClamTop back in its plastic sleeve and back into my backpack.

  I had planned to return via the stormwater drain but now I was having serious second thoughts. It was past three, so I’d been underground for more than two hours. It was time to get some fresh air.

  And yes, I’d have to get back into Halcyon Grove via the main gate, but that was something I’d deal with.

  I crawled back to the previous sump, the one that looked like it was one of the places where PJ and Brandon got in and out. Taking advantage of the milk-crate ladder, I reached up and pushed the grate aside.

  Hoisting myself up through the hole wasn’t that difficult. Still squatting, I slid the grate back over the hole. It was only when I stood up that I realised I had company. Of the uniformed variety. I also realised something else. There was a low guttural rumbling and the sky was host to jagged strikes of lightning.

  FRIDAY

  RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

  ‘So how many of you?’ asked the policeman, the pimply one who looked like he wasn’t much older than me.

  Plop! A fat raindrop landed right on the tip of my nose.

  ‘They’re not actually my friends,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said the other copper. ‘Forecast is for torrential rain and if anybody is caught in there they’re goners.’

  I thought about those two kids who not long ago had been caught in one of these tunnels and swept out to sea.

  Their bodies had never been found.

  I thought how quiet it had been in the chamber – there was no way they would know about the rain until it came gushing in on them.

  ‘There’s a boy and a girl,’ I said.

  ‘Christ!’ said pimply cop, and he was on his radio, calling in Special Ops.

  Another seismic peal of thunder, a violent crack of lightning, and the rain got serious. It didn’t fall, it pelted down, and I knew I had no choice.

  ‘I’m going back down there,’ I said, wrenching the grate away.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said pimply cop, trying to grab me.

  I easily slipped out of his grasp, however, and dropped down into the hole. The milk crates collapsed under me and I tumbled to the bottom of the sump.

  Back on my feet, I dived back into the tunnel. If I thought I’d crawled quickly before, I was flying now.

  There were no voices this time and when I reached the chamber I could see why: PJ and Brandon were sleeping, the guttering candles throwing weak light over their pale faces.

  ‘Hey, wake up,’ I yelled, my voice echoing. ‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!’

  PJ opened her eyes, but Brandon remained slumbering.

  ‘It’s raining!’ I said. ‘There’s water coming!’

  She blinked a couple of times.

  Drunk, half-asleep, I could understand why she was having trouble taking it all in.

  ‘Raining,’ I repeated. ‘There’s water coming!’

  ‘Hell!’ she said, and she started shaking her brother. ‘Brand, wake up, it’s raining.’

  Brandon remained motionless. But when PJ slapped him hard across the face he opened his eyes.

  ‘Rain!’ she said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘Rain, rain, go away, come back another day,’ said Brandon in a little kid’s singsong voice.

  I could hear it now, the distant gurgle of water, and it was coming from the drain I’d just been in. Going back that way wasn’t an option, then.

  ‘Where does this go?’ I said, pointing to another drain.

  ‘The sea,’ said PJ.

  Also not an option, I told myself, thinking of those two drowned kids.

  ‘This one?’

  ‘Preacher’s,’ said PJ. ‘It’s the fastest way out.’

  ‘We head for Preacher’s, then,’ I said.

  The gurgling was getting louder and then dirty brown water, carrying with it a flotilla of cigarette butts, ice-cream sticks, twigs and leaves, burst into the chamber.

  ‘We have to go now!’ I yelled.

  Brandon had nodded off again.

  PJ slapped him again, so hard that the sound reverberated around the chamber.

  She was small, I could see the ladder of her ribs against the thin material of her T-shirt, but she sure packed a wallop.

  ‘What the –’ he said, bringing his hand to his reddened cheek.

  ‘We’ve got to go, Brandon!’

  ‘There’s water coming!’ I added.

  The proof was pretty irrefutable: the water, ankle deep, was rising quickly, and the smell, of all the accumulated muck that had been washed off the street, was almost overpowering.

  The second slap seeme
d to have done the trick because Brandon stumbled to his feet, and we all splashed our way over to the drain entrance.

  ‘You go first, Sis,’ he said.

  PJ scurried into the tunnel.

  ‘Okay, you’re next,’ he said to me.

  ‘You sure?’ I said.

  If Tristan had – or used to have – the Smirk, then Brandon had the Snarl, a permanent look of disdain on his face.

  ‘We live down here, kid. You’re just a tourist.’

  I got a glimpse of the resourceful kid Brandon must’ve been before the needle or whatever it was got to him.

  I dived into the drain.

  Crawling, I figured, was just the precursor to running, so I did all the stuff I did when I ran: I concentrated on form and rhythm and I tried to ignore the pain.

  Mostly the pain was coming from my hands, because all that friction against the wet concrete floor was rubbing them raw, and my knees, too, were starting to react to the battering they’d had.

  It wasn’t long before my headlamp picked out the bottom of PJ’s shoes.

  ‘Keep it moving,’ I said, splashing through water.

  ‘Is Brandon behind you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, though I didn’t know if he was or not.

  PJ slowed.

  ‘Keep it moving!’ I said, my voice echoing back down the drain.

  We picked up speed again.

  But then slowed again.

  ‘Keep it moving!’

  And despite the predicament I was in, the pain I was feeling, I had this sense of – I’m not sure how to describe it – teamwork, togetherness, like me and these street kids were in this together, and together we were finding a way to get out of it.

  ‘Here!’ echoed PJ’s voice from ahead.

  The tunnel opened out into another chamber, on the side of which was an iron ladder that led to another level, high above the water. Up there I could see sleeping bags.

  ‘Where’s Brandon?’ said PJ.

  I manoeuvred my head so the headlamp illuminated the drain.

  A river of water, gushing, gurgling, but no sign of Brandon.

  He’s dead, I thought.

  Drowned.

  ‘Let’s go!’ I said.

  But PJ didn’t move.