Fetch the Treasure Hunter

by Phillip Gwynne

  And they’d seen me.

  Tiny figures were down there, pointing up.

  And I wondered whether there’d be a welcoming party for me if I did manage to make the top.

  I kept going, pushing myself harder.

  I could smell the vegetation before I reached it.

  And then the first tufts of grass came into view, so green against the rock’s grey.

  Then there was no more rock, no more wall, only air. I scrambled over the edge and got to my feet stretched out my body.

  There was no time to waste, the thwocka thwocka was getting closer.

  I ran with stumbling steps into the forest. Lots of tracks, criss-crossing, going in all directions. Which one to take?

  The cross-country runner I once was had the answer: the most worn, of course. The most used.

  I ran down this, stumbling on the occasional exposed tree root. But after all that climbing this felt like home, this felt right.

  Running; arms, legs working together. Air in. Air out. Oxygen-rich blood pumped to muscles.

  The track led to a clearing. A cluster of buildings. The Gebirge Café.

  Now I had a landmark.

  I took out my iPhone. Thank god, there was coverage.

  I went to compose a text to Slim. But how in the hell do you say ‘Can you pick me up’ in French?

  I looked around.

  There was a group of kids about my age sitting on the grass, eating their lunch.

  I approached one of them, a boy with curly red hair.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said, speaking slowly, enunciating each word. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ he said. ‘I’m from Idaho.’

  Hell! I’d gone and picked a group of American college students.

  But then I had another thought.

  ‘Do you speak French?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But Gillian over there is pretty good.’

  Gillian was lying on the grass reading a book called Les Enfants Terribles. It looked very French, so I figured if she could manage that she could manage a few lines of text.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’

  I explained my predicament to her. Well, as much of my predicament as she needed to know. I made no mention of legs lopped off, for instance.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ she said. ‘It’s probably easier if I type it in for you.’

  She did just that and passed me back the phone. I hit send.

  A reply came back almost immediately.

  Je suis sur mon chemin.

  I showed it to Gillian.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ she said.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  Gillian said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, figuring I owed her.

  ‘How did you get so banged up?’

  ‘Banged up?’

  I’d been so busy that I hadn’t had time to consider my appearance, but even a cursory glance revealed that Gillian was right: I was totally banged up.

  And, weirdly enough, now I knew that, I was starting to feel banged up too. Starting to hurt all over.

  ‘It’s just been one of those days,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Gillian, and turned back to Les Enfants Terribles.

  It was a relief when the pimpmobile rolled in. Slim looking cool behind the wheel.

  ‘Well, that’s my ride,’ I said to Gillian. ‘Thanks again.’

  I got into the passenger seat.

  ‘Où maintenant?’ said Slim.

  ‘Roma,’ I said. ‘Aéroport.’

  He nodded, as if this was the most usual of requests.

  ‘And we need to get there by five,’ I said, indicating the time on my watch.

  At this he raised his eyebrows.

  I didn’t blame him – seven hours for a nine-and-a-bit hour trip. Google was a slow driver, but it wasn’t that slow.

  We pulled in for fuel and I rushed in and bought some food for us.

  As Slim slalomed the pimpmobile through the traffic and we ate the sandwiches I tried to keep cool.

  It was no good, however – the anxiety was coming at me.

  I almost wished I was back on the rockface, desperately scrabbling for handholds, because at least then I was – how did that poem go again? – master of my destiny.

  Here I was a passenger, master of nothing.

  WEDNESDAY

  BOARDING PASS

  Slim, the world’s best driver, dropped me off at the airport and after paying him I scampered for the entrance, cursing all the slowcoaches pushing their trolleys with their tottering towers of luggage.

  Inside, I checked the departures board.

  Flight 21 LAX 6.00 pm.

  Damn, just when you want a plane to be delayed, it isn’t.

  I took off to the check-in counter in the vague hope that even now, forty minutes before the flight, they would still be checking in.

  Of course, they weren’t. There were no passengers there at all.

  So I had to get to the departure gate.

  But how the hell do you get to the gate when you don’t have a ticket?

  I mean, that’s the sort of question terrorists usually concern themselves with, not fifteen-year-old kids.

  Just act like you own the place, I thought. That’s the way to do it.

  So I strolled up to the entrance, just like I owned the place, and the guard said, ‘Biglietti, per favoré’, Holding out his hand.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said, though I had a pretty good idea what he was after.

  ‘Boarding pass, please,’ he said.

  I patted my pockets, did what I thought was a very good oh-no-I’ve-lost-my-boarding-pass routine, but to no avail.

  ‘If you lose it, just get them to make a new one,’ he said, not unkindly.

  ‘But my flight’s leaving soon,’ I said.

  ‘Then you better hurry.’

  I hung back after that, tried to think of another strategy.

  It didn’t take long before I found one.

  And it involved large groups of people, because having watched what looked like a soccer team go through, it seemed possible that not all their boarding passes had been checked.

  So I had to find a big group and I had to find one soon.

  If I’d had more time I probably wouldn’t have chosen Jews for Jesus, but I didn’t, so that’s the group I joined.

  I didn’t have a clue why they were for Jesus, and I didn’t really care.

  As they made for the entrance, I joined them, trying to make myself look as pro-Jesus as I possibly could.

  We were there now, the security guard was checking passes.

  I kept changing my position in the group, keeping my back to him so he couldn’t see my face.

  And somehow it worked: I managed to shuffle through.

  Having got through, I immediately discarded my excellent Jews for Jesus disguise and hurried towards Customs.

  I chose the electronic option: the machine scanned my passport, took my photo.

  A quick glance revealed that the boarding light for that the flight was now flashing. I ran towards departure gate 42.

  And when I got there, disappointment kicked me, Tristan-style, right in the knurries.

  There were only five or six people who still hadn’t boarded, and none of them was E Lee Marx.

  But I hadn’t gone through what I’d gone through to give up there: I joined the queue.

  ‘Your boarding pass, please,’ said the flight attendant when it was my turn.

  I pointed ahead and said, ‘I have to get it from my mum,’ and continued walking.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t –’ she said, but I ignored her, pushing past the people waiting to board.

  ‘Boarding pass please,’ said the exhausted-looking flight attendant standing at the plane’s entrance.

  ‘It’s okay, I know where I’m sitting,’ I said.

  I pushed past some more people.

  �
��Scusa!’ a woman said.

  ‘Manners!’ said somebody else.

  And when I looked behind I could see the flight attendant making for me, not so exhausted anymore.

  But now I could see E Lee Marx up ahead, putting his bag into the overhead locker.

  ‘Mr Marx,’ I said.

  He looked up at me and I could tell that he was having a real problem placing me, that I was totally out of context.

  ‘Dominic Silvagni,’ I said. ‘The boy with the coin.’

  ‘Oh, the fake Double Eagle?’

  ‘Not this one,’ I said, reaching into my pocket, bringing the coin out. ‘Not this one.’

  I could feel the flight attendant behind me, feel her breath on my neck, but I managed to remain focused on the world’s most famous treasure hunter.

  E Lee Marx looked at the coin. At an eagle that was almost lifelike, as if it was struggling to free itself from the coin’s lustrous surface.

  His hand reached out, almost as if it had a life of its own, and gently plucked the coin from my outstretched palm.

  He weighed it in his hand.

  He brought it up to his face.

  And he said, his voice tremulous with excitement, ‘Son, this is no fake.’

  A hand touched me on the shoulder.

  ‘So you’ll come to Australia?’ I said. ‘You’ll look for Yamashita’s Gold?’

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said, and now there was something gold-like in the gleam in his eyes.

  ‘You promise?’ I said.

  E Lee Marx gave me a look that made me feel about two centimetres tall, like I belonged in a McHappy Meal. He’d just said he’d come; E Lee Marx was a man of his word.

  And if we’d all been in a movie, or on a TV show, right then there would’ve been some serious soundtrack, some major da-de-da-da music.

  He went to give me the coin back but I said, ‘You keep it for now.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the flight attendant behind me. ‘May I see your ticket?’

  I turned around to face her.

  From the deep black rings around her eyes, she was even more exhausted than I first thought.

  ‘Actually, I just realised I’m on the wrong flight,’ I said, looking her straight in the eye.

  She hesitated: as far as excuses went, it was pretty flimsy. And I had no doubt that there was some procedure she was supposed to follow that would involve officials and a delay in take-off and lots of complaints from lots of passengers.

  She sighed, and said, ‘Then maybe we better get you deplaned.’

  ‘I reckon that’s a good idea,’ I said.

  After I’d been deplaned, I collapsed into a seat in the departure lounge. A lot of stuff had happened to me, but I hadn’t had the time to process it, because even more stuff had happened. Well, it was like the floodgates were now open: memory after memory coming back at me, demanding my attention.

  Toby at Palazzo Versace. The demonstration outside school. Visiting the Labor Party office. Saving Brandon from drowning. The crazy ride with PJ to the airport. Getting my iPhone stolen in the Colosseum. My trip to San Luca …

  Again, my phone beeped. This time, instead of ignoring it, I checked the message.

  It was from Mr Ryan: Dom, we need to talk to you asap!

  My phone beeped again. Another message, this one from Coach Sheeds: Dom, we need to see you urgently!

  I had no doubt that a whole world of pain awaited me at the Olympic Village, but I figured I would have to face the music eventually, so why not get it over and done with? Besides, I did owe Mr Ryan and Coach Sheeds some sort of explanation. Not the truth, of course – that was too outlandish, nobody would ever believe it, but maybe I could cobble something together that sort of made sense. Maybe.

  So I sent a text to Mr Ryan: love to meet

  And he sent one back: 9 pm at hq

  I replied

  He replied

  But when I arrived at a little past nine Mrs Jenkins, Mr Ryan, Coach Sheeds and another official were seated around the table in the official’s room and I didn’t see too many smiley faces.

  More like .

  ‘Sit down, Dominic,’ said Mrs Jenkins, indicating a chair directly opposite her.

  I hadn’t even settled in my seat before she launched into one of her tirades.

  ‘In all my time as an administrator I don’t think I’ve encountered an athlete with such a blatant disregard for the rules as yourself!’ She followed this up with a thermonuclear glare that, I guessed, was supposed to reduce me to cinders.

  Just as Mrs Jenkins was about to launch into another tirade, Coach Sheeds butted in, ‘Dominic, you’re racing tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Mr Ryan.

  I looked over at Mrs Jenkins, the boss of everything.

  The chins wobbled. The lips pursed. And she said, ‘I’m afraid they’re right.’

  But how could that be? I had broken the team rules; I deserved to be disqualified from competing.

  ‘The IOC has taken an interest in this,’ said Mr Ryan.

  ‘Somebody by the name of Hurford,’ said Mrs Jenkins.

  ‘Given that you are by far the fastest qualifier, they’ve asked us, in the interest of the race, to waive our rules,’ said Coach Sheeds.

  ‘So I really am racing?’

  ‘You don’t deserve to, but you really are racing,’ said Coach Sheeds.

  I looked at Mr Ryan.

  ‘You’re racing,’ he said.

  Finally I looked at Mrs Jenkins.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You’re racing.’

  I thought of what they said – get on the wrong side of her and your career’s ruined.

  And maybe mine was. But tomorrow, I was racing!

  ‘Who else made it?’ I asked, feeling embarrassed that I had to even ask this question.

  The officials exchanged looks.

  ‘You’re the only one,’ said Coach Sheeds.

  ‘So how about you go to your room and you get into your bed and you stay in your bed for the whole night?’ said Mr Ryan.

  ‘The whole night!’ added Coach Sheeds.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I said.

  And, after firing off some emails, that’s exactly what I did.

  THURSDAY

  THE FINAL

  I woke to the sound of my phone ringing.

  I checked it.

  Gus ringing …

  No, how could that be possible?

  Gus is one of those old people who thinks that ringing somebody while they are overseas is about the most expensive thing a human being can do. That the whole American military budget is less than the cost of a five-minute call to Europe.

  I answered it.

  ‘I got your email,’ he said. ‘So you’re definitely running?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said.

  ‘You know they’re going to give you a hard time.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Don’t be naive. Run a heat time like that and you set yourself up as a target. If you sit in the pack they’re going to smash you.’

  ‘But that’s what I am, a sit-and-kick runner.’

  It’s what Gus had told me a million times.

  It’s what Coach Sheeds had told me a million times.

  It’s about the only thing they agreed on.

  ‘It’s not going to work this time,’ said Gus.

  Jesus! It didn’t seem fair – I was going to get punished for running the best race of my life.

  ‘Okay, so what do you suggest?’

  ‘You’ve got access to YouTube there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Nineteen seventy-two Commonwealth Games, a runner by the name of –’

  ‘Filbert Bayi. Gus, I’ve seen that race, like, a thousand times.’

  ‘Okay, you know what to do, then.’

  ‘You want me to run from the front?’

  ‘Believe me, it’s the only chance you’ve got,’ said Gus
. ‘And this bloody call is costing me a fortune, I’ve got to go.’

  And with that he hung up.

  I kept it low-key that morning: no climbing over the Colosseum, no skating down mountains, just kept my still-aching body in bed and flicked compulsively from one news channel to the next, looking for something, anything, on a killing in Switzerland.

  Nothing.

  I searched on the internet as well.

  Nothing.

  Had I imagined it all?

  No, of course I hadn’t, but already yesterday was taking on a sort of cinematic quality.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Immediately, I imagined a squad of Swiss Guards, or gendarmes, or whatever they call themselves, come to drag me back to Neuchâtel to face some serious questions.

  ‘Who is it?’ I said.

  ‘It’s me, Mr Ryan,’ answered one voice.

  ‘And me, Coach Sheeds,’ answered another.

  ‘Come in,’ I said.

  They may not have been gendarmes, but they were wearing some pretty serious cop-like faces.

  ‘The shuttle bus leaves in an hour,’ said Mr Ryan. ‘We’re here to make sure you’re on it.’

  Coach Sheeds was more concerned about other matters.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ she said, indicating my bare legs.

  I looked down at them, and even I was surprised at what bad shape they were in: they were scratched, they were bruised, they looked more like a warzone than the legs of a supposedly elite athlete.

  I just strugged.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ said Coach Sheeds.

  ‘And I have some matters to see to,’ said Mr Ryan.

  Coach Sheeds returned by herself, a bottle of massage oil in her hand.

  As she set to work on my legs, I said ‘Aren’t you going to ask me any more questions?’

  She said nothing, but she hit some sort of knot in my left hamstring.

  I screamed. ‘That hurts!’

  Again she said nothing.

  Now I understood the game: she was going to interrogate me with her thumbs, not her voice.

  And that was going to be much, much more painful.

  By the time I boarded the shuttle bus to the stadium my legs felt almost normal again.

  That girl whose name I should’ve known but had forgotten was sitting in the front seat.

  Again, she was dressed from head to toe in the green and gold of Australia.

  I sat across the aisle from her.