‘She’s OK. I saw her in the hospital,’ I said, casting my mind back to the hellish journey I had made to get to Gabbi before they switched off her life support. ‘I got there just in time to see her show some signs of improvement. She’s still not out of the woods, but I think she’s on her way.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. That’s wonderful to hear, really wonderful. So, Tom, what brings you around here again?’
I quickly thought back to minutes ago when I’d played out this conversation in my head, planning what I would say to Melba to explain my sudden arrival.
‘I’m on my way to visit my uncle,’ I said, ‘and I know it’s late, but I thought I’d stop by and say hello and let you know that I dropped that book off to your friend Elvira’s letterbox, back in the city, a few weeks ago.’ I paused, slightly nervous about asking for a favour from this kind-hearted woman. ‘Would it be OK if I stayed here for the night? I’ll be off again early in the morning.’
‘Of course!’ Melba beamed. ‘You can have the couch again, if you don’t mind it! I’ll put the kettle on and look in my son’s old things again for some dry clothes. Make yourself comfortable. And Timmy,’ she waved a finger at her pet, ‘you leave Cal alone!’
Cal? Did she just call me Cal?! My heart started racing as the old woman hummed away to herself in the kitchen, then wandered down the hallway to fetch some of her son’s clothes. Did she know who I was? I was pretty sure I heard her right!
‘Here,’ she said, passing me an old grey tracksuit top and pants. They had three white stripes down the sides, and were clean, but smelled like they’d been in storage for years. ‘These should fit you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said tentatively, placing them beside me on the couch.
She poured us some tea in the kitchen, and then brought it out on a tray. I took mine and let the cup warm my hands.
‘Mrs Snipe?’ I asked.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘You just called me “Cal”.’
She gasped, bringing her frail hand to her mouth.
‘Oops,’ she said, before moving her hand to my knee. ‘So I did. Love, in spite of my age, and my forgetfulness,’ she continued with a bit of a cheeky grin, ‘I do realise who you are. It wasn’t too hard to put two and two together since you were last here. But you have nothing to worry about, you have my word. I’m not interested in dobbing you in.’
‘Really?’ I asked, shocked and pretty embarrassed that I’d just assumed she had no idea. I should have realised when she invited me into her house after finding me hiding out in the boot of her car, last month, that she was no ordinary old lady.
She looked deep into my eyes and nodded sincerely. ‘Promise. I don’t believe the reports,’ she said with a sweeping wave of her arms. ‘I know you’re not capable of such savagery … and unfortunately I know very well how a boy’s luck, and maybe a couple of bad decisions, can send his life into a spin. It’s just important that one day you gain control again.’
I nodded back, appreciatively.
‘I think it will happen for you, Cal. You’re such a clever boy, and you have a kind heart, I can feel it. Oh—’ she said, the serious tone of her voice suddenly changing to one of surprise, ‘I used to have one just like that,’ she said, tapping the guardian angel pin on my T-shirt.
She sat back again—a teary glaze washed over her eyes. ‘Anyway, not to worry, OK? You should clean up and get some rest.’
225 days to go …
I left sweet, old Melba Snipe a little while after breakfast, and promised her I’d be back to visit another time.
I really hoped I would see her again—I felt strangely connected to her. I still couldn’t get over how she knew who I was, but was OK with it. If only everyone else could be that trusting of me.
The rain had stopped as I walked alongside the highway, but evidence of the downpour was everywhere. My sneakers were soaked from the puddles.
Gratefully, I hopped into a van that had slowed down for me, after jumping back so that it wouldn’t spray me with water. The driver, a middle-aged guy with a cattle dog in the back, introduced himself as Brian, and the dog as Dodger, before asking my name.
‘I’m Ben,’ I said, in answer to his question, hoping that this Ben Galloway ID wouldn’t cause me any problems. I stowed my backpack on the floor while the dog sniffed my neck.
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Mount Helicon.’
‘You’re in luck. My place isn’t far from there.’
Brian was a CB radio fan, and the minute I got in and closed the door he took off, continuing the radio chat that had been interrupted when he stopped to pick me up.
From the boxes in the back, and the oranges and lemons on the floor, I gathered that he had an orchard or some other sort of citrus farm. He certainly had the leathery look of a man who spends most of his days outside in the sun and wind. His skin was almost the same colour as his brown hair.
Being in Brian’s van reminded me of my ride with Lachlan. I hoped there wasn’t going to be a repeat of the tailgating nightmare. Anxiously, I looked behind us, but all was clear.
Brian was fiddling with his CB radio, changing bands and channels, muttering to himself. ‘Don’t know what’s the matter with this thing. There’s some local interference. You haven’t got some program running, have you?’
‘Me?’ I asked, surprised. ‘I haven’t got anything electrical running. My mobile’s not even switched on.’
‘Well the darn thing is playing up for some reason,’ he said, switching it off. ‘Maybe there’s a UFO nearby!’ he joked.
‘Now what’s this all about?’ said Brian, slowing down.
I looked ahead and immediately clenched in fear. Halfway across the road, a police car was parked and an officer was waving us down with a glowing red baton. I tried to relax, remembering I had fake ID now, hoping it would stand up to scrutiny. I also hoped that Sligo didn’t have the authorities looking for Ben Galloway, although I didn’t think that was likely—I’d be no use to him locked up and out of his reach.
The police officer was waving us down and our car stopped completely.
The cop stood back and squinted hard at both of us through the window. Finally, he strolled around to my side while I sat trying to look relaxed and curious.
‘What’s the problem, officer?’ asked Brian.
‘No problem for you,’ he said. ‘It’s your passenger I’m interested in. Got any ID, son?’
I fumbled in my backpack and finally pulled out the Ben Galloway bus pass. ‘I’ve got my bus pass,’ I said, as casually as possible.
I passed it to him and he checked it out, glancing from my photo to me.
‘Hang on a minute. I need to check this out.’
It seemed to take forever for him to return from his patrol car.
‘What’s he doing?’ I asked Brian, hoping that I sounded like any interested teenager.
‘He’d just be checking your name against the police records,’ he said dismissively.
Eventually, the police officer returned and handed me my bus pass. ‘OK, driver,’ he said, looking already to the car that had pulled up behind us. ‘On your way.’
Brian turned to me. ‘What are you going to do in Mount Helicon?’
‘I’m hoping to get a job on one of the properties there,’ I said.
‘What’s the name of it? I know most of the people there.’
I risked giving away too much information if I told the truth, but if I lied, chances were that Brian would become suspicious, especially if he knew most people in the area.
‘You probably wouldn’t know it. It’s some way out of town.’
‘Try me,’ he challenged, ‘I bet I do know.’
I knew I couldn’t make anything up now.
‘It’s called “Kilkenny”.’
Brian swung round to face me, looking surprised. ‘Old Barty’s place? No way!’
‘Why?’ I asked, starting to get worried.
‘Oh boy, you
don’t know? The old guy’s absolutely bonkers. He carries a shotgun and takes a pot shot at anybody who comes onto his property.’
‘Anybody?’
‘Everybody,’ corrected Brian. ‘I’d be careful going near the crazy old guy if I were you! Anyway, not far to go now,’ he said, as we swung around the Mount Helicon turnoff. ‘Hopefully he won’t shoot at you!’
I stood on the roadside, shivering. I zipped up my tracksuit top, and hitched up my backpack. The sky behind the tall trees along the horizon was glowing with sunset, and for a second it seemed like a warning.
Brian’s tail-lights slowly vanished in the distance, and I wondered what I was in for next. I really didn’t want to be greeted with a gun.
I swung the long, country-style gates open, closed them behind me and started walking up the long driveway, towards the house, which I could just see behind a mass of dark trees.
As I got closer, I wondered whether I should yell out first, so that Great-uncle Bartholomew knew that I was his nephew, or whether I should go right up to the door and call out from there.
I was still trying to make up my mind when something swooped down on me from the trees. I jumped back in fright, waving my arms around my head to fight whatever it was off me. But it happened again. A sharp beak and claws scraped my hair—it was a big bird of some sort! I fought it off again, waiting to see if it would attack again.
I didn’t know where it had gone so I cautiously stepped onto the verandah. Things didn’t look very promising. Great-uncle Bartholomew’s house was in darkness and seemed to be defended by some vigilant attack bird. I couldn’t see any lights coming from the windows. Maybe it was deserted, I thought. Great-uncle Bartholomew might even be dead.
The night wind rustled in the trees near the house, spooking me. With a deep breath, I took a step forward and knocked on the door.
‘Uncle Bartholomew!’ I called in what I hoped was a strong and friendly voice.
I waited. Someone stirred inside; he wasn’t dead.
‘Bartholomew?’ I called again.
‘Get off my property! If you don’t leave in one second, I’ll shoot! I’ve got two barrels loaded, so if I miss you the first time I’ll get you the next!’
I jumped back from the front door. He mightn’t be dead, but if I didn’t convince him to put the gun down, I could be!
‘Don’t shoot! It’s me! Cal! Your nephew! Tom’s son! I need to talk to you!’
A huge explosion sounded inside and stumbled back off the verandah, tripping over into a bush. The deranged old man had fired the shotgun!
‘I warned you! Get off my land or I’ll shoot again!’
My eardrums were deafened from the sound of the shotgun. I lay back in the bush, dazed, ears thick with throbbing. The fear inside me quickly faded, and was replaced with red-hot anger. I’d been through hell trying to get to this place. I wasn’t going to let him scare me off! Or kill me!
‘Listen here!’ I yelled. ‘I’m your nephew! I’m Cal! Cal Ormond!’
I struggled to get back on my feet.
‘People have been trying to get rid of me for months!’ I continued yelling. ‘I’ve been kidnapped! I’ve escaped drowning, being flattened by a train, a psychiatric asylum … I’ve been on the run for almost five months, and I’ve come here hoping that you’d be the one person left in my family that could help me out of this nightmare! So if you’re determined to shoot your own nephew, go ahead! It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been shot at! I’m innocent, and I need help! I’m not leaving until you’ve told me what you know about the Ormond Singularity and the Ormond Riddle!’
I waited, on my feet now, tensing up for the next shot.
But nothing happened.
I stood in the dark, waiting.
I was about to start yelling again when I heard the front door rattle. I braced myself.
After a number of bolts were released the front door opened just enough for Great-uncle Bartholomew to stick his nose through.
‘Did I hear you say “Ormond Riddle”?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘And did you say “Ormond Singularity”?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re Winifred and Tom’s son?’
‘That’s right.’
Another pause.
‘You’re Callum?’
‘That’s me.’
The door creaked open wider.
‘So it is! It is you! You’ve changed quite a bit since I saw you last. You’re just like Tom was at your age!’ Bartholomew said, slowly stepping out to look at me. He ran his flashlight over me. I stared at the shotgun in his other arm.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, shakily putting the gun down against the wall. ‘You’ve got to protect yourself around here, especially when you’re as old as I am.’
I tried to smile back, but it was hard to forget that this grinning old guy in front of me was taking shots at me just seconds ago.
‘Welcome to “Kilkenny”,’ he said pulling his saggy trousers up. ‘I was just on my way to check the Ormond Orca. Come with me and let’s get acquainted.’
Ormond Orca? What else was there that carried my family’s name?
‘The Orca’s been my life’s work,’ he said, switching on a powerful light that was angled to shine on a large shed to the left of the house.
I cautiously followed my unusual relative, and took a good look at him. He wore an ancient leather jacket lined with wool, over a slightly moth-eaten jumper. I half expected him to have flying goggles on his head but, instead, a bright red woollen beanie was pulled down low over his ears, matched by a red-check scarf tied jauntily around his neck. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for several days—white bristles poked out in patches around his jaw. His face was lined and wrinkled, but his eyes twinkled behind a pair of bifocal glasses.
‘Sounds like you’ve been having a rough time lately,’ he said, referring to my earlier outburst.
‘You could say that. I’m surprised you haven’t been following it in the news.’
‘I don’t pay much attention to the news these days,’ he said as we crunched through the gravel towards the big shed. ‘I don’t care for TV or newspapers, I only listen to my transistor radio. I’m too old and my time is too precious to worry any more about what’s going on beyond my gates. Here, give us a hand with the door. I check the Orca every day, do a walk-around. It’s an essential part of aviation safety.’
We pushed the door open, and a floodlight filled the room.
I gasped in surprise. A streamlined aeroplane, black and white, gleamed, every line of it seeming to reach forwards and upwards, as if it was straining on a leash, just dying to be let off. Towards the end of the aircraft, sitting down the back and framed by the V-shaped tail fins behind it, was the distinctive elongated egg-shape of a jet engine.
‘Wicked!’ I said, already forgetting for a moment that I had just narrowly avoided being shot by this wild old man. ‘You’ve built a jet!’
My stunned surprise pleased my uncle as he walked proudly around the beautiful craft.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘cool registration—52-ORC. Oscar, Romeo, Charlie,’ I quoted, remembering what I’d learned as an air cadet.
The eccentric aviator smiled and patted me on the back. ‘Yes, I was lucky to get those letters.’
Ahead of the Ormond Orca was another set of double doors, which opened wide onto a vast paddock. I could just make out the shadows of the distant hills beyond.
‘So, what do you think?’ he said, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Built it myself. My own private jet. Pretty well designed the launching system, too. The RATO.’
‘RATO?’
‘Rocket Assisted Take-Off,’ said my uncle, patting a sleek cylinder underneath the aeroplane’s body, and above the wheel housings. ‘Takes a while for a jet like this to warm up. If you want to get away OK, you need some help, that’s why the front doors of the shed are always open, ready for take-off.’
&nbs
p; ‘Unreal!’ I said, turning to him with respect. ‘I’m learning to fly,’ I said, then corrected myself. ‘I was learning to fly, until Dad got sick. But I’ve only flown regular small aeroplanes, and paragliders, nothing like this. Not a jet!’
‘You’re your father’s son all right. Tom was crazy about flying.’
Outside, the wind rose, whistling through the cracks in the big shed, filling the sad silence that followed my uncle’s words.
My great-uncle began his inspection of the Orca, walking around its sleek length, carefully examining it with the help of a powerful flashlight, squatting and peering to look under it, checking the rocket cylinders, and lastly climbing up onto the wing to check the canopy. I followed closely.
‘I kept the console as straightforward as possible,’ said Bartholomew, as I peered inside the cabin to see the dials that were familiar to me—the control yoke, the floating compass indicating north, south, east and west, the two large levers of the throttles in the centre of the console, the altitude indicator with its artificial horizon, and the airspeed indicator, like the speedometer in a car.
I jumped down and my uncle clambered back to the ground slowly and carefully, grunting with the effort.
‘Some people lock up the chickens every night, or tuck the kids in … but I check the aeroplane,’ he said, his face lighting up with a grin. He put the torch back on the shelf and closed the door of the hangar-like shed.
‘So you still fly?’ I asked, as I followed him back to the house.
‘Not for a long time now. I’ve got a dicky ticker—a lousy heart—and just in case I need urgent help, I keep the aeroplane here, so that I can be flown to the nearest intensive care. Plenty of fuel in the tanks. There’s a chap in town who’s agreed to act as my safety pilot, for when I finally take the jet out. They reckon I’m too old to go up alone.’
Back on the verandah, the old man picked up the shotgun he’d left propped on the wall, and carried it broken open over his arm.
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