Maybe

by Morris Gleitzman

  I’m peering at the horizon, wondering where Simmo and Rusty and the others have ended up.

  Jack sees me squinting into the distance.

  ‘Felix,’ he says. ‘Fraid it’s not looking good for your mates. I reckon that plane went down in the high country. Very remote, lot of sheer rock, no way an ambulance could even get up there. Anyone on board when that plane ploughed the paddock would have had Buckley’s.’

  I don’t understand every word of this, but I get the gist from the sad look on Jack’s face and the way he gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

  ‘Maybe they all jumped,’ I say. ‘They all had their parachutes. They were all experts.’

  ‘Felix,’ says Anya softly. ‘The plane was in a death dive. I don’t think counting to ten and not holding hands would have been enough.’

  I don’t say anything.

  She’s probably right.

  But everyone has to accept things in their own time, that’s what Mother Minka taught me in the orphanage.

  Jack is giving me a look.

  ‘Everything you’ve copped in your life,’ he says, ‘and you’re still up for giving hope a go. I reckon there’s a few mongrels in these parts could learn from that. Good on you, young fella.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Anyhow,’ says Jack, ‘most of all, I’m glad the three of you made it.’

  Anya gives Jack one of her grateful looks, and his steering goes wobbly for a moment.

  I hope all the Aussies we meet are like Jack.

  Because if they are, even if poor Ken didn’t make it, our trip can still be a success. The Australian government can get someone else to take over. We can still meet lots of people and help them feel better about the war. And we can still be in all the newspapers, including the Polish ones.

  So by the time Gabriek and Celeste arrive on the first boat, and we take Celeste to see her mum, things can be tiptop.

  Anya will have had her baby somewhere very friendly and safe.

  We’ll have sorted out all our problems.

  Even, with the help of the Australian police, the biggest one.

  Jack hasn’t seen Mrs Tingwell for a while. Maybe since he last saw her, she’s developed a painful medical condition. One that’s made her stop being the friendly and generous person Jack described. One that makes her scowl a lot.

  Boils in the rectal passage, something like that.

  Poor lady.

  ‘What’s this, Jack Duggan?’ says Mrs Tingwell, scowling at me and Anya. ‘What trouble have you brought me today?’

  Even with a medical condition, you’d think Mrs Tingwell would be more cheerful than that.

  Her shop is huge.

  It’s more like a Polish department store, but without the rubble. It’s got the same iron pillars as in Poland, holding up two levels of balconies full of clothes and customers. And it’s right on the main street of the town, so it’s not like she has to spend a fortune on advertisements.

  Jack touches the brim of his hat to Mrs Tingwell.

  ‘Couple of waifs from war-devastated Europe,’ he says. ‘Bailed out of that plane that went down last night.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say to Mrs Tingwell and the customers in my best English. ‘We’re very happy to be in your friendly country.’

  The customers are gathering around, inspecting me and Anya suspiciously.

  Specially Anya.

  I can see she’s starting to look uncomfortable.

  I hope she remembers what I mentioned to her about the gun in her pocket. How it’s best not to get it out while we’re shopping.

  ‘Any news?’ says Jack to the customers. ‘About the plane?’

  Most of them shake their heads.

  ‘Terrible,’ says one man.

  ‘I heard it was the Japs,’ says a woman. ‘Having a last crack at us.’

  Jack gives her a look.

  ‘War’s been over for a year, Mrs Gleeson,’ he says.

  He nods towards me and Anya. ‘These aren’t Japs.’

  Mrs Tingwell is staring at Anya’s tummy.

  Anya’s flying suit is too large for her but you can still see the bulge. I wish Anya hadn’t left her big coat on the plane.

  ‘Is that child expecting?’ says Mrs Tingwell.

  ‘I am not a child,’ mutters Anya.

  ‘She is pregnant, yes,’ says Jack.

  The customers look shocked. A couple of them say things under their breath.

  ‘Disgusting,’ says Mrs Tingwell to Anya’s tummy. She glares at me. ‘Is he the father?’

  ‘No,’ I say indignantly.

  Anya looks hurt.

  ‘I’m not the father scientifically speaking,’ I say to Mrs Tingwell, ‘but I will be giving the child lots of love.’

  Anya smiles at me.

  Jack explains to the customers about the Russian soldier. They look even more shocked, but a few of them look sympathetic as well.

  ‘And you believe that story, Jack Duggan?’ says a man wearing expensive-looking riding boots.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ says Jack, giving the man a fierce look.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.’

  ‘I think you’re out of your depth,’ says the man.

  ‘The Russian communists are grabbing power in Europe and we know they’re trying to worm their way in here. Just how much do you know about these two individuals?’

  Jack rolls his eyes.

  ‘Grow up, Carson,’ he says to the man. ‘These two war orphans are not communists.’

  Mrs Tingwell snorts.

  ‘If the commos wanted to win us over,’ she says, ‘these are exactly the types they’d send.’

  The man in the riding boots comes closer to me and Anya.

  ‘You two,’ he says. ‘Do you believe we should share everything equally?’

  He speaks very loudly as if he thinks we’re stupid. Well, I’m not stupid. I’ve learned my lesson about telling lies in a new country. And this man obviously doesn’t believe in sharing equally. His boots would have cost more than all the other boots in this place put together.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do believe in sharing.’

  The man nods grimly, like he was hoping I’d say that. Well let him gloat if he thinks he’s won. I’m glad I told the truth.

  One of the shop assistants, a girl about Anya’s age, hurries over.

  ‘I’ve called the police,’ she says to Mrs Tingwell.

  She looks at me guiltily. ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  Jack looks alarmed.

  He pulls out a battered old wallet, takes out some money and pushes the notes into my hand.

  ‘Me and the police don’t get on too well,’ he mutters to me. ‘And given the mood here, I don’t think we’ll ask for credit.’

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze and takes one of Anya’s hands and kisses it.

  He turns to Mrs Tingwell.

  ‘These customers would like a well-made shirt and trousers,’ he says, ‘and a baggy frock.’

  Then he hurries out of the shop. A few moments later we hear his truck starting up and driving away.

  Mrs Tingwell grabs the money out of my hand.

  ‘Don’t be too choosy,’ she says. ‘You haven’t got long. The police station’s only two doors away.’

  This cell is cold.

  I think it’s because the sun’s gone down and it’s so damp in here.

  I rub my bare arms.

  What a crazy country. Scorching one moment, freezing the next. With a large clothing emporium that didn’t have a single garment in our sizes with long sleeves. And a police force that locks people up just because they’re foreign.

  For a few moments I miss Gabriek so much that my cardiovascular system hurts.

  I just wish I could tell him how crazy Australia is and how I’m already having doubts about the Australian police force.

  But that would only make him worry.

  Stop it, I tell myself. Gabriek’s not here. You’re the one who h
as to fix this.

  ‘Any ideas?’ whispers Anya next to me on the wooden bench.

  ‘I’m still thinking,’ I say.

  Anya is shivering in her short-sleeved baggy frock. If we weren’t both in full view of the police officers, I’d give her a hug to warm her up.

  Instead I go over to the cell bars.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the police officers. ‘When can we have our flying suits back?’

  ‘You can’t,’ says one of the officers in a very unfriendly voice. ‘They’re evidence.’

  He dumps Anya’s flying suit onto a desk and starts searching the pockets.

  In about two seconds he finds her gun.

  He stares at it, opens it, sees it’s loaded, stares at it some more, then takes it over to show the other officer.

  They both give me and Anya a long look.

  ‘We were in the war,’ I say. ‘It’s left over.’

  I see what the other officer is doing. Sitting with my flying suit on his desk, holding Celeste’s letter.

  Reading it. Or trying to.

  ‘That’s private,’ I say.

  ‘I think you mean secret,’ says the officer.

  He waves the letter at me.

  ‘What is it?’ he says. ‘Instructions from Moscow?’

  That sounds like one of those questions where the person already thinks they know the answer, so I don’t bother replying.

  The officer picks up one of Zelda’s drawings.

  He studies it closely.

  ‘That’s private too,’ I say. ‘It belongs to a war hero who was killed by the Nazis.’

  The police officer frowns. He stands up and brings the scorched and crumpled piece of paper over to the cell.

  ‘This diagram,’ he says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s not a diagram,’ I say. ‘It’s a drawing. A six- year-old girl did it to cheer herself up.’

  ‘These chickens,’ says the police officer. ‘What do they mean?’

  I sigh.

  If this is what all the Australian police are like, I might as well just lie down in the street and wait for Zliv to cut me open.

  ‘We’ve got important chicken farms in this region,’ says the police officer. ‘An alien invasion force would be looking for food supplies. So tell me, what do these chickens mean?’

  ‘They mean,’ I say to him, ‘that Zelda liked chickens.’

  The police officer gives me a scowl and goes back to his desk.

  I give him a scowl in return.

  When he and the other officer came to the clothes shop, I told them exactly who Anya and me are. They didn’t even let me finish explaining about Ken and our tour of Australia. Just accused me of making up stupid stories.

  Well even if I had been, my story wouldn’t be as stupid as his one about chicken farm invasions.

  I feel Anya tugging my shirt.

  ‘All I can think of,’ she says quietly, ‘is trying to get in touch with Ken and the others. In case any of them are still alive, to let them know where we are.’

  ‘Good thought,’ I say. ‘But how?’

  Anya reaches inside the folds of her new frock and pulls out the flare pistol, just for a second, then puts it back.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah, well calm down,’ mutters Anya. ‘I’ve only got one flare left. So we’ve only got one chance.’

  She flicks her eyes towards the ceiling.

  I see what she means. A small window, up high, with bars but no glass.

  ‘We need to distract the officers,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say.

  I take my glasses off and put them safely under the bench. Then I go to the bars.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the officers. ‘I need to pee.’

  ‘Bucket in the corner of the cell,’ says one of the officers without looking up.

  ‘I need some privacy,’ I say. ‘In my country that’s how we always do it.’

  ‘Plus,’ says Anya loudly, ‘the smell of male urine is dangerous for a pregnant woman. It can bring on a birth too early.’

  I look at Anya. I’ve never heard that. It’s probably not true, but what a great imagination.

  One of the police officers gives a loud sigh, comes over, unlocks the cell bars, grabs the front of my shirt and marches me across the office.

  ‘It’s this way,’ he says. ‘I’ll be with you the whole time, watching every drip.’

  I use a trick a partisan showed me once. It’s how you unbalance a person. But I change it slightly. Instead of cutting the ligaments behind the officer’s knees with a knife, I use the edge of a chair, pulling it hard into the back of his legs.

  As he topples, I pull myself free and hurl myself towards the office door.

  I know it’s locked, I saw them do it. But that’s not the point. I just want their attention on me.

  I get it.

  I also get both their big heavy bodies, flattening me onto the floor.

  Nearby there’s a loud pop and a hiss.

  The police officers roll off me. They stare into the cell.

  Anya is standing on the bench, arms raised, pointing the barrel of the flare gun between the window bars.

  Through the window we can see a small patch of sky, lit up by a red glow.

  ‘Poop,’ says one of the police officers. ‘She’s sent a signal. A code message in communist red.’

  ‘That does it,’ says the other officer, his voice wet and hot in my ear. ‘You stupid mongrels are very much gunna wish you hadn’t done that. I’m ringing Melbourne.’

  Melbourne is where the good police are. The ones who’ll listen. The ones who’ll believe what we’re telling them. Instead of leaving us here all night in a cold dark cell.

  I roll over, trying to get comfortable on the stone floor. It’s not easy. This blanket is very thin. I lived in an abandoned cellar in a wartime Polish ghetto once and the blankets weren’t this thin.

  Suddenly the cell light comes on.

  Loud voices, close.

  Squinting, I find my glasses.

  Above me, on the wooden bench, Anya props herself up on an elbow, blinking.

  ‘Alright, you two,’ says one of the police officers. ‘You’ve got visitors.’

  The cell door swings opens and two men come in. They’re both wearing dark suits. They don’t smile or say hello or do any of the friendly things visitors usually do.

  I get up and stand between them and Anya.

  ‘You might as well sit,’ one of the men says to me.

  ‘We’ll be here for a while. And we won’t be dancing.’ They’re still not smiling.

  ‘I’m Mr Petrie,’ says the man. ‘This is Mr Chase.’

  I’m not saying hello if they’re not.

  I sit next to Anya. We look at the men without saying anything.

  ‘So,’ says Mr Chase. ‘Quite an adventure you two have been having.’

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ I say. ‘We’re not Russian spies. Those police officers have been reading too many library books.’

  Mr Chase does a little smile.

  Just with his mouth.

  ‘We know you’re not spies,’ he says. ‘We know exactly who you are, and why you were brought to Australia. We know about Mr Ken Matthews’ mission for the Australian government. Your roles in it. Or rather the role of one of you.’

  I know you shouldn’t interrupt men in suits, but I can’t stop myself.

  ‘Is Ken alright?’ I say. ‘And the others?’

  Mr Chase thinks about this for a moment.

  ‘We found the plane,’ he says. ‘The remains of five bodies were on board. I’m sorry.’

  Anya and I swap a look.

  I can see she’s feeling as sad as I am.

  Poor Simmo and the others. Including Ken, who didn’t turn out to be a very nice person, but still.

  I pull myself together.

  Gabriek taught me how in wartime, whenever sad or shocking things happen, you mustn’t forg
et about the mission.

  ‘We can still do it,’ I say to Mr Chase and Mr Petrie. ‘We don’t need the plane. We can still tell the Australian people what a great job their family members did in Europe. We can still bring sad and happy tears to their eyes.’

  ‘That’s a kind offer,’ says Mr Chase. ‘But the project has been terminated. Your services are no longer needed.’

  I stare at him, horrified.

  I know what terminated means.

  Terminated means my photo won’t be in the newspapers, not the Australian or the Polish ones. Terminated means now there’ll be nothing to make Zliv believe my letter. Terminated means he’ll try to track me down in Poland instead, and when he discovers I’m gone he’ll take it out on Gabriek.

  Who will still be in Poland, because terminated also means no places on a boat for him and Celeste.

  ‘Please,’ I say to the two men. ‘We want to do the mission. Let us. Please.’

  ‘Calm down,’ says Mr Chase. ‘You’re not in any trouble. If you co-operate with us, you can stay in Australia. But before we go any further, I need you to answer some questions. Truthfully.’

  He takes something from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  A photograph of a man.

  The man is looking over his shoulder, scowling. I don’t think he liked having his photo taken.

  ‘Do you know him?’ says Mr Chase.

  Anya and I study the photo. Anya shakes her head. I study it some more. The man is ugly and brutal-looking. He reminds me of somebody else. I’m starting to get a bad feeling.

  ‘Recently,’ says Mr Chase, ‘this man approached the Australian consular officials in Poland. Making enquiries. About you, Felix.’

  I shiver.

  And not just because this cell is cold.

  ‘I think I know who he is,’ I say. ‘I think I knew his brother.’

  My head is spinning. That was quick. The postal service in Poland must be improving. Or maybe my letter was sent as a telegram. Sometimes, since the war, when postal deliveries are hopeless, kind postmasters send letters as telegrams.

  ‘His name is Zlivandel Dragomir,’ says Mr Chase.

  ‘Gangster, mercenary, killer for hire. How do you know him, Felix? How do you know a man like this? And his brother?’

  Mr Chase and Mr Petrie are both looking at me suspiciously.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ says Anya. ‘Felix is planning a career as a professional gangster. He’s studying to be a mercenary. Zliv used to help him with his hired-killer homework. Idiots.’