by John Larkin
Delusional? What do you mean?
She wasn’t exactly a local girl – the outer suburbs, I mean. She’d gone to some straw hat and blazer private girls’ school. And here’s the thing. She said she was going to put me forward for a scholarship at her old school and that with my current grades and her recommendation I had a good chance of getting it. Imagine me with my straw hat, blazer and laptop computer, spending the weekend in the rail yards or under some old dero’s rotted door up at Death Valley Beach.
I’d like to get to the rail yards if we could.
I bet you wouldn’t.
You know what I mean. So did she put you forward for the scholarship?
Yeah she did. But things kind of got out of hand before I got the chance to sit it. We’ll get to that.
Okay. So did the storm hit?
Not until about three in the morning. Just before the dead hour. But when it kicked off it was biblical. I don’t know if you’re into the whole wrath of God thing, but I seriously thought he was having a go at me for all the stuff that I’d been thinking about him. It was so terrifying, even the ghosts would have chucked a sickie. Stayed on the other side. But amazingly the door completely covered my hollow, so apart from a few drips and leaks I was dry. Uncomfortable with my legs curled up, but dry. The pounding of the rain on the door was deafening. It was like I was hiding underneath a castle’s drawbridge while a thousand horses and knights thundered by overhead. I was also worried that those rabbits might go off their veggie diet and turn into a pack off floppy-eared, land-based piranhas.
The only really terrifying moment was when there was no gap between the flash of lightning and the pounding of the thunder because that meant that the storm was directly overhead, on the other side of my door. But my shelter protected me against the worst of it. And in the morning when the storm had blown itself out and I’d emerged from my nest, I was so happy with my door that I completely covered one end of it, so it would stay in that spot and I could use it again.
Sounds almost like a rebirth, you springing out of the earth like that.
That’s exactly what I thought. For some reason when I woke up that morning I felt really good. Recharged. It was like the storm had washed everything away. I’d survived God’s retribution and it was as if I could renew myself. It was like being a born again atheist.
I thought you didn’t like labelling yourself.
I don’t, but you do.
Okay, what did you do next?
I wandered down to the surf to clean my teeth and wash my face. As I was pouring water over my head I noticed a plane high above. The wheels weren’t down yet but I could tell from the sound of its engines that it was coming in to land.
It was then I had another eureka moment and I knew that I was starting to get a little streetwise.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S BRAIN POWER WAS SO IMMENSE, HE USED TO get a headache just putting on his slippers. Sir Isaac Newton, if you need reminding, is the guy who invented gravity. Okay, he didn’t actually invent it, he kind of just . . . well, pointed it out. Gravity has always been around, it’s just that no one really knew what to do about it. Even Ug the caveman understood gravity. He knew that if the hunt went spectacularly wrong and a mammoth chased you over a cliff then it would hurt like hell when you got to the bottom, especially if the mammoth was still behind you.
The problem with Sir Isaac Newton was that his imagination was so out of control and he had so many ideas coming at him all the time, even when he first woke up in the morning, that he barely had time to pull on his slippers before his mind was raging and whirling and churning with something new and extraordinary. Ideas. Ideas. Ideas. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Torrents of them. And that’s the thing that will help me survive. I have to keep thinking. I have to keep generating ideas.
The train slows as it approaches the junction station leading to the city. I look out the window as the blinding sunlight glints off the windows of the countless carriages parked in the yards a little to the north of the station. Because the train system doesn’t operate twenty-four hours a day, the trains have to be parked somewhere at night. And this is obviously one of those places. It’s like a big carriage sleep- over party. A rich guy’s full-scale train set. You could almost imagine Thomas the Tank Engine chugging up and down the line boring everyone rigid about timetables and the importance of thorough engine maintenance.
It’s here the line splits. Left to the city or straight on to the suburbs before that line splits again to the south or to the outer suburbs and my new school. Luckily Narelle lives far enough away from school for me to qualify for a travel card, which the office lady said I could collect next week. Today, though, I’ve bought a ticket – a student day pass – because the last thing I want is to be busted fare-dodging.
I stare at the trains as we slide past the yards. All those empty carriages. Dry. Safe. Locked. All those long empty seats. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but tonight I’m going to be sleeping in one of those empty carriages.
The doors slide open and several families pour on. The kids are excited, leaping about from seat to seat trying to get the best vantage point for the bridge and the approach to the city. There are a couple of single fathers with backpacks and weekend kids, heading for the movies or the museum and then inevitably onto McDonald’s. One of the married guys locks eyes with a weekend dad and looks away, snuggling up closer to his kids and wife.
A couple of the younger kids soon tire of the scenery and elbow each other about my sleeping bag. I snap my book closed and stare at them. They giggle at each other and look away. They obviously see me as someone to avoid. A dangerous creature that you poke with a stick and then run away from.
Once we’ve crossed the bridge the train disgorges the happy families and broken fathers into the city, while I carry on beneath it, heading to the subject of my eureka moment. My great idea.
I opt for international rather than domestic. It’s only one more stop but it’s about one hundred times more exciting.
I head straight to departures; I’m not here to greet. I’m here to go. It’s Sunday morning but already the place is buzzing. I’m buzzing. This is the one place where no one will look twice at a kid wandering around with a backpack and sleeping bag. A place where I can relax and feel safe. Free from scrutiny. Free from danger. I haven’t been this excited in years.
I wander over to the huge departure board and scan the destinations.
LHR. HKG. TOK. LOS. AKL. ROM. DUB. I don’t even know where some of these places are or what the abbreviations mean but that just adds to the thrill. They all sound so different and other-worldly. It doesn’t matter if they happen to be the biggest shithole on the planet. Anywhere’s better than here. Because in all those places, there isn’t a single person who wants to murder me and bury my dismembered corpse in a forest. Not yet, anyway.
I search for the old country. My parents’ home. The land of ghosts. But it doesn’t appear on the list. No national carrier. None of the abbreviations even remotely resemble the capital city. So I guess I’m not going there. There’s also no mention of Paris or Africa either but I know that Paris is close to London and as it’s British Airways that’s flying to LHR, I figure that LHR must mean London. So London it is.
I wander over to the food court and gorge myself on a McBreakfast, then I follow the signs to the observation deck.
No sooner have I got to the top than the aroma of aviation fuel wafts up my nose and clatters around the inside of my head like a startled rodent. To hell with fresh sheets, cut grass, eucalyptus trees, road tar, and Serena’s lavender scented candles, this is something else. It’s the scent of escape. I could happily breathe this in for ever. If a perfume company could bottle the fragrance of aviation fuel, Cologne d’aviation, I’d buy it in bulk.
I spend the rest of the day moving between the food court, the observ
ation deck and the duty free shops. The perfume counters don’t have any Cologne d’aviation, which is a shame, but I buy myself a diary to jot down my thoughts and to-do lists. At the far end of the airport, near an out-of-the-way café, I find a quiet corner to sit and read. It’s so peaceful compared to the chaos of the check-in section and general excitement that, using my rolled-up sleeping bag as a pillow, I curl up and am soon drifting off. Caught in that special place between dreams and reality.
I float over to the British Airways sales desk.
‘A single to London, please.’
The sales clerk flashes a fake smile on and off like a torch and asks to see my passport.
‘I’ve been here visiting my father,’ I reply, handing over my passport. ‘My barrister mother was supposed to buy my ticket at the other end but there’s been a mix up.’
She tilts her head to one side in a sort of gesture of support. Fortunately everything seems in order with my passport so she hands it back. ‘Return or one way?’
‘One way.’
It’s three times as much as economy but I decide to travel business class. I opt against using the same ruse as the hotel and pay in cash. The sales clerk gives me a funny look when I drop the money on the counter, but she takes it without any further questions. Maybe she works on commission. She tells me it’s getting quite late and that I’d better get a move on or I’ll miss my flight.
I gather up my stuff and hurry through the entrance to the departure area. It’s a long way to the British Airways gate, so long in fact that I’m forced to run. I arrive panting like an asthmatic steam train and hand over my boarding pass to the flight attendant. She ticks me off her list and lets me on board, closing the door behind us.
The business class seats are enormous. Well, they are if you’re thirteen years old and weigh about thirty kilograms wringing wet. I pull out Pride and Prejudice and stuff my backpack and sleeping bag in the overhead locker. Then I slump into my seat and get myself comfortable. To think, Jane Austen never flew business class. Jane Austen never flew. She probably never even left England. She never knew about laptop computers or even typewriters. Never thought to contemplate that Keira Knightly would eventually play her great heroine in a movie adaptation of her masterpiece. Never knew about movies. Time marches on. And I’ve spent enough of it living in fear.
I’m drifting in and out of consciousness as we taxi away from the gate. The engines rev and I’m thrust back into my seat as we power down the runway and slip gracefully up into the afternoon sky.
‘Bye Creepo,’ I sneer as we muscle our way out over the suburbs. ‘You’ll never find me in Paris.’ I look down at the patchwork maze of streets and parks. I think we might be approaching their suburb. I used to watch the planes overhead when I lived with them and dream of another life far, far away on the other side of the horizon. I think I spot the park near their house but from this high up I can’t be sure, so, just in case, I flip Creepo the bird.
‘Excuse me. Hello.’
In next to no time we land in Paris and before I know it I’m in Africa, wrestling with a gigantic worm that’s dragged me kicking and screaming into a river.
‘Wake up!’
The worm has wrapped itself around me like a boa constrictor and is dragging me under for the final time while telling me to wake up. My life flashes before my eyes as I struggle to hold on to it. The highlight reel’s rather lacking.
‘Hey, you!’
Each time I thrash my way to the surface, the worm drags me under again.
There’s the sound of heavy crackling. ‘Sector nine. Stand by, over.’
At the intrusion of noise the worm releases its hold and I struggle back to the surface, my things strewn about me. I sit up gagging for breath.
‘What do you think you’re doing here?’
‘What?’
I look around, trying to piece things together. I can see through the window that it’s dark outside. That’s something, I suppose. At least I know when I am – night. Though just where I am is still a bit of a mystery. Chairs. Café (closed). Lots of space. Shops (some still open). Counters. Ah. That’s it. The airport. I put my head in my hands trying to take everything in. The security guard nudges me with his foot, reminding me that he’s still here and has to be dealt with. ‘Well. What are you doing here? Are you lost?’
Now there’s the million dollar question. Am I lost? I wonder if he means metaphorically.
‘No. I know where I am. I’m here.’
There’s more crackling from his walkie-talkie. He presses a button and leans into it. ‘Copy that. I’m interrogating her now.’
Interrogating me? Could this guy be any more pathetic if he tried? What’s he think I’m going to do? Hijack a plane? Fly a jumbo jet? I can hardly ride a bike
‘Are you waiting for a flight? Where are your parents?’
Their bones are turning into dust somewhere out in the forest, I imagine. I decide against telling him this and go with barrister mum instead. I prefer her to Narelle, even if Narelle does have a distinct advantage over barrister mum by actually existing.
‘My family?’ I finally reply. ‘My mum’s in London. She’s a barrister.’ A pretend cop is not going to mess with a barrister, surely. Even a gun-toting, walkie-talkie using, hip-swinging, foot-nudging, interrogating pretend cop. ‘I was supposed to fly out today but the plane was full so I’m going tomorrow.’
‘Well, it won’t be safe for you to stay here. There is a designated area where you can wait, but the airport closes at eleven because of the curfew.’
I’m not sure who has the curfew – me or the planes – but I decide to leave it. So much for sleeping here all night. ‘Do you have a ticket?’
No. ‘Yes.’
Passport.
Yes. ‘Yes.’
‘Show me!’
‘No! I haven’t done anything wrong,’ I snap. ‘I just fell asleep. Is that a crime?’
‘Who dropped you off? Who’s looking after you? How old are you?’
What is this? Fifty questions? I fire back just as quickly. ‘Dad. No one. Sixteen.’
‘So where’s Dad now?’ He says this in a sarcastic tone, as if Dad doesn’t exist. I suppose technically he doesn’t, unless you count his ghost. And pretend cop doesn’t appear the sort of guy who’d happily debate meta-physics or the nature of existence. Not while he has a walkie-talkie, a gun, and really shiny shoes, anyway.
‘He’s with his other family. His preferred family. My parents split up.’ If some violins kicked in right now they would be very welcome. But there’s nothing but the dim drone of a distant vacuum cleaner. And besides anything else, I don’t think his heartstrings would easily be tugged by a bit of maudlin music.
‘I don’t think you’re sixteen at all.’
I stare up at him. ‘And I don’t think you’re a cop at all.’
‘You’re right,’ he says, calling my bluff. ‘So why don’t we call one?’ He starts speaking into his walkie-talkie again while I quickly gather up my stuff.
When he’s finished he tells me not to move. Being the obedient citizen that I am, I stand up and slip on my backpack.
‘I told you to wait right there!’ he commands.
I start to walk off but he holds out his arm to stop me.
‘You touch me and I’ll scream rape.’
He backs off for a moment, but clearly the level of professionalism required for a career in the police force doesn’t extend to the private security sector. ‘You’re a little psycho bitch, aren’t you?’
‘And you’re a big, fat, hairy wannabe cop,’ I snarl back at him. ‘So we’ve both got issues.’
‘Wait a minute, I know you.’ He pulls something out of his pocket and stares at it. ‘I thought I recognised you. You’re Tony and Serena’s kid. The runaway.’
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I can feel the blood draining out of my face, but I try to stay calm.
‘What are you talking about?’
He grins at me. ‘Don’t try to deny it. I’ve been to your house. For barbecues. You always were a cute little thing, handing out cabanossi and cheese and spanakopita on your little serving tray. I do a bit of work on the side for your uncle. He’s been saying he’s worried about you, really wants to find you.’
‘You’ve made a mistake.’ I’m almost pleading now. ‘I’m not who you think I am.’
He actually laughs at this. Then he grabs my backpack with me still in it. I try to stay calm because it’s all I’ve got. I try to think. The only advantage I’ve got is my disadvantage. This guy is huge. It’s like Godzilla versus a squirrel, so he’ll underestimate me. Underestimate what I’m prepared to do. He’s holding me with one arm while pulling out his mobile phone with the other. As he’s paging through his contacts, I drive my knee straight up and through his nuts. He didn’t expect that. There’s not much of me but I use every ounce of strength I’ve got and the effect is immediate. Pretend cop squeaks. I mean literally squeaks. Like he needs oiling. Then he drops to his knees. I’ve heard that it’s a man’s most sensitive zone, but I hadn’t realised quite how tender it actually is.
He’s still clutching my backpack, with me in it, but I spin around and pull back as hard as I can. He’s far too focused on the pain in his gonads to worry about hanging onto my backpack, so he lets go and falls over backwards, his hands still holding his crushed cashews.
I race over to the escalator and jump down the stairs three at a time. When I get to the platform there’s a train already waiting, so at least something is going for me. I hurry on board panting and panicking but trying to find calm. It’s all I’ve got going for me. I have to outthink him.
I’m begging the doors to close but, I don’t know, maybe it’s waiting for a plane to land or something. Come on! I look over to the escalator and swallow. Pretend cop is hobbling down, talking into his mobile. Talking to Creepo, probably. My heart is pounding like it was when I was hiding under my old bed and Creepo came into the room. I’ve got to stop putting myself in these situations. I’ll give myself a heart condition.
