by John Marsden
I looked up their number in my little address book. We were already at their boundary.
Homer dialled and waited for a bit.
‘Just the answering machine,’ he said, cutting the call off.
‘What about ringing the cops?’
It seemed funny suggesting that. We’d never before been in a situation where ringing the cops was an option. Times had changed.
‘Yeah right, and tell them what? That they should get out here fast because Alastair Young has been playing with a light switch?’
I didn’t bother answering that, just said, ‘Well, we’d better not go through the front gate. Let’s cut across the paddock here.’
We made our way along the ploughed furrows, trying not to break too many ankles. From a row of trees we could at last see the house. There was no movement. And no light going on and off. Homer and I both looked at Gavin. He spread his hands out, palms up.
‘Hey, don’t blame me.’
‘What do you think?’ Homer asked me.
‘We’ve come this far. Might as well finish the job.’
It was difficult in broad daylight to work out a good approach. We took the obvious route, towards the massive machinery shed, which would put us reasonably close to the house.
We were being a bit casual, not casual exactly, but I imagine we all thought the same thing, that nothing was wrong and we were on a wild-goose chase. And we reached the machinery shed with no drama. By then Homer was getting embarrassed.
‘Shannon and Sam are going to give us heaps about this,’ he complained.
I just shrugged. We were committed, for better or for worse.
Unlike most machinery sheds this one had a side door. And unlike most machinery sheds this one was spotlessly clean and tidy. Put ours to shame. We snuck in through the side door. All was quiet, except for us. No matter how careful we tried to be, our footsteps echoed a bit. I kept to the shadows and went past the workbench. I stood there, hidden by a big yellow Kubota.
By then I was starting to swing back to thinking that Gavin might be right. It was one of those ‘nothing is wrong and that’s what’s wrong’ situations. Both the cars were in the carport yet the place was dead still. And I hoped I didn’t mean ‘dead’. At this time of day, in this kind of weather, the Youngs should have been zigzagging all over the place, from the house to the machinery shed, from the shed to the fuel pumps, from the bowsers to the dumpster, from the dumpster to the chooks, etc etc etc. Instead, if a blowie hadn’t been buzzing past me in the machinery shed, nothing would have moved.
Gavin came up beside me, touched my elbow, and pointed down. I looked. There was a fresh red line of blood drops on the concrete floor.
I felt a lurch at my heart, like someone was trying to pull it out of position. I looked at Homer and he looked back at me. I suspect his face was mirroring mine: a kind of sick expression of ‘No, please, not again’. He may have been a member of Liberation and he may have enjoyed the excitement of war, but at that moment I think he’d had enough. I know I had.
‘It mightn’t be human,’ he muttered.
I shook my head and turned my attention to the house. I wanted to try to get in the upstairs part, because I thought it would be safer. Whoever had flashed the light had done it from upstairs, so for a time at least they had felt safe up there. And going that way would give us the advantage of surprise. General Finley had sometimes used the word ‘hostiles’ to describe enemy soldiers. I quite liked it as a word. If there were hostiles in this house the last thing they would expect was visitors through the upstairs windows.
I looked at Homer and said, ‘Let’s get in through the first floor.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘A trampoline?’
I didn’t answer, just kept looking, impatient to start moving, but reminding myself that reconnaissance was three-quarters of any battle. ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.’
There was a triangle of water tanks immediately beside the house, and they had flat tops. That had to be the route. This wasn’t like some old house in an Enid Blyton story, with ivy conveniently growing up the wall. The Youngs’ place was quite English looking, in a slightly fake way: one of those brick houses with a tiled roof. At least all the upstairs windows that I could see were open.
I gave Homer a look that was meant to say ‘I don’t know about this but do we have a choice?’
I’m not sure if he understood the look, but I was not happy. In spite of our conversation about the agony and ecstasy of these combat episodes, taking a majorly dangerous route into a potentially lethal situation wasn’t how I wanted to spend the afternoon. It was an afternoon that had been going along in a quiet and straightforward fashion. Maybe I’d find nothing in the house more shocking than Alastair watching ‘South Park’. Sure hoped so.
CHAPTER 20
WE CHOSE A wooden stepladder because it would make less noise than a metal one. I had a quick look out the door and the coast seemed clear. Now was as good a time as any other. I swallowed hard and did a dash to the tank. I felt incredibly exposed. At least the ladder was light. I reached the first tank and leant against it, trying to get some oxygen into my lungs, which felt empty of everything. At the same time I tried to press myself so far into the corrugations that I would disappear.
Homer and Gavin arrived at speed beside me. Immediately they started peeping around the sides of the tank. I left them to do the looking, but really, what was the point of looking anyway? If hostiles suddenly turned up and Homer and Gavin saw them, well, it would give us extra time to hold our hands up and surrender, but that would be about the only advantage.
As soon as I had some breath I turned towards the tank, propped the ladder against it, and scrambled up.
Putting my head over the top, I was aware again that I was totally exposed. I got up there anyway. The top was all muddy and covered with leaves and dead insects, like the top of every tank in Wirrawee I’d guess. But I wasn’t bothered by that. I crouched down and waited for Homer and Gavin.
When the three of us were there Homer and I hauled the ladder up, as quietly as possible. Unfortunately complete silence wasn’t possible. It knocked and banged against the tank a couple of times, and to make it worse the tank sounded empty, so there was a booming echoing effect which probably wasn’t all that loud, but to me could have been a tenpin bowling alley on a busy day.
There was no point waiting though. We tiptoed to the part of the tank roof closest to the house and set the ladder against the wall. I looked up at it and swore quietly to myself. There seemed like an awful big gap between the top of the ladder and the window, and I’m not that fond of heights anyway. But I knew if I waited any time at all Homer would try to beat me up there and I didn’t want that. Only because the suspense would have killed me if I’d had to watch him go into the house first.
I gulped again, put my foot on the bottom rung, settled the ladder a bit more, nodded at Homer to thank him for holding it, and started on up.
Standing on the second rung from the top was difficult. I had to try to get a grip on the bricks because there was nothing else. I was so close to the wall that I couldn’t use the lean of my body for balance. And what was worse, I still had to get onto the very top rung, and even then it would be a stretch to the sill.
I forgot the famous advice about not looking down, glanced in that direction, saw Homer and Gavin’s anxious faces, and wished I hadn’t. I knew I had to get onto that top step fast. To keep my balance I needed a lot of energy. I couldn’t hang around until I got tired. But I’d be pressed flat against the wall and then have to try to reach the win-dowsill. I wasn’t sure if that would be possible: in fact I thought it probably wouldn’t. But I knew I had to try it.
Suddenly into my imagination came an image of me reaching for the window, failing, and falling backwards, breaking my spine in a dozen places when I hit the unforgiving top of the tank.
Sometimes I hate having an imagination.
I hoped Homer was holding that ladder with maximum power. I had nothing to grip with my hands, so all I could do was press them against the bricks. I slid them up the wall inch by inch, feeling the rough surface scrape my palms. As I did I brought my right foot out and, trying to keep perfect balance, trying not to let my leg tremble too much, I eased it up.
Slow slow slow. It would have been hard enough doing this under any circumstances, but to know that at any moment an armed hostile might appear below me, or even at the window above, made my whole body tremble, not just my leg. That phrase of my father’s, ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted’, floated into my mind again and became like a litany, till it was a meaningless jumble. ‘Time spent on reconnaissance.’ Stay calm. ‘Seldom wasted.’ Nice and calm.
I got my right foot onto the top step. ‘Time spent.’ I was surprised at how I rose. I’d now moved about twenty or twenty-five centimetres higher. ‘Reconnaissance.’ The sill was still an awful way above though. Pressing my sweaty hands hard against the wall, but not too hard, I kept going. ‘Seldom wasted.’ It wasn’t easy to take that left foot off its rung. It hadn’t been feeling too safe on that rung but it was a lot more comfortable there than it was in mid-air.
The trembling was getting worse. I broke into an all-body sweat. The ladder gave a jolt. I bit my lip, cursed Homer and every molecule in his big stupid body, but knew it was too dangerous now to look down. My left foot got to the top step and I tried to stand straight and tall, even though I didn’t want to.
I stretched higher and higher. ‘Reconnaissance seldom wasted.’ Oh God where was that windowsill? My face was pressed into the wall and I didn’t dare look up.
‘Time seldom.’ My fingertips brushed the bottom of the sill. And that was at full stretch. This was my worst nightmare. I knew exactly what it meant. The only way I could reach was to take a jump and try to hang on. If I missed I was dead. OK, not dead, just a paraplegic. My hands were now so sweaty that I didn’t know how I could hang on to the windowsill even if I did catch it. The danger was that I’d just slip off. Funny, I’d survived aerial bombing, a train wreck, a bullet, and captivity –and now a few centimetres between my fingertips and a piece of painted wood could kill me.
But I had to go, and I had to go now, because every moment I waited would make it harder. ‘Seldom reconnaissance.’
I reminded myself that I had to reach right in and grab all of the windowsill, not just the edge of it. I crouched as much as I could – which wasn’t much – to get a bit of spring. ‘Wasted.’
I took off.
I seemed to fly upwards for an amazing period of time. Yet I knew I wasn’t getting much height. My fingers touched the windowsill. I couldn’t tell which part of it. It didn’t seem like enough. I scrabbled for another inch or so. Like I’d feared, my palms were so wet that they slipped, slipped, slipped. I grabbed harder. I felt every little crack and bubble in the paintwork. It too was rough but very different to the bricks of the wall. I grabbed again for the last time and gripped.
I hauled myself up. The muscles in my arms were bulging. My armpits were as sweaty as my palms. I got my head over the sill, my right shoulder, wriggled the left shoulder over, and at last knew I’d made it. I still hadn’t been able to give a thought to what might be waiting. Enemy soldiers with guns? No good thinking about that until I was safe from falling. Sam Young with a camera trying to focus, at the same time as he was rolling around laughing? No good thinking about that either. In a truly stupid and bizarre way I would actually have preferred to find enemy soldiers than Sam Young laughing at me.
I was in a bedroom. I realised it was Shannon’s. I took it in with just one glance but even that was enough to appreciate how good it looked. Three walls were light mauve, the other lime green. The cornices were dark purple, good enough to eat. Doesn’t sound like it should have worked, but it did. She had a big bed made of some reddish-brown timber, maybe jarrah, and a desk to match. There were some fascinating paintings on the walls. One of them was a face of great beauty, a woman who looked at the same time peaceful, wise and worried. Shame I didn’t have time to look closely.
It seemed almost too serious a room for Shannon, because she was always laughing, but still, it had to be hers. I knew that because, as I ran to the bed and ripped a sheet off it, I saw a drawing I’d done for her just a week ago: a kind of tangram thing. She’d pinned it to a curtain, right next to the bed. I was pleased about that.
I rushed back to the window. Peeping out I saw Homer and Gavin, looking up anxiously. I trailed the sheet down the wall so they’d have something to hang on to as they came up the ladder, then hung on to it myself as hard as I could.
Gavin came up first. It wasn’t a problem holding him – he weighed about as much as a newborn calf – but Homer was more like a Grand Reserve bull at the Wirrawee Show.
Homer came through the window, grunting with the effort. As soon as he was in the room I said, ‘Grab my legs,’ and started going back out again, head first. He got the idea fast enough. I felt his strong hands grip me around the knees, then the ankles, as I dangled down. Down and down I went, like I was on an elevator. ‘Don’t drop me, Homer,’ I pleaded silently as I got closer and closer to the top of the ladder. On my first swing towards it I missed by a couple of centimetres. On my next, my fingertips brushed against it. I still needed a few more centimetres. I tried to look up, but couldn’t very well. It wasn’t comfortable, with the blood running to my head. I had a sense of Homer leaning dangerously far out of the window. I hoped he didn’t overbalance. I hoped no enemy soldier grabbed him and suddenly took him away.
Somehow he found another centimetre or two because I lurched down again. I tried not to panic, and grabbed the top rung. He waited a moment, I guess to be sure I’d got it. There was no way I could give him a signal. Then he started hauling.
It was heavy for me. I don’t know what it was like for him. And somehow I had to get in through the window without dropping the ladder. Homer ended up on the floor with me off-balance and the ladder sticking out from the house at ninety degrees. Gavin came to the rescue, holding it till Homer and I got our balance back enough to take it from him.
We manoeuvred it in. Seemed like Shannon now had another piece of furniture for her bedroom. I left Homer to move it away from the window and turned around to see what Gavin was up to. Typical. He’d already opened the door and was peering down the corridor.
‘Geez, Gavin,’ I said, which wasn’t a lot of use as he couldn’t hear me.
I raced to the door. Standing above Gavin I did my own peering.
My eyes had to get used to the light but I couldn’t see any movement. I tapped Gavin on the shoulder. He looked up. I gestured ‘Do you see anything?’ and he shook his head.
Between us we eased the door open. We took our first step. By now Homer was right behind us. I thought this was a bad idea. If a soldier suddenly appeared he would be able to take all three of us with no trouble. I turned around and whispered to him, ‘You should hide. Just while we check out this floor.’
He thought about it for a moment. He looked disappointed but he knew I was right. After all, he’d forced us to make some tough decisions in the past. Now he made a face, looked around, and then opened a door right next to me. It was a kind of hall closet, where they stored their suitcases and winter clothes. With a little smile at me he shrugged, disappeared in among the coats, and closed the door behind him.
Gavin and I tiptoed forward. I didn’t want to do much, didn’t want to take on an army of hostiles. I just wanted to know what was going on. I could see the head of the staircase and I moved carefully towards it. I thought the stairwell would amplify any sounds from downstairs.
In fact the first sound I heard would have reached any corner of the house. A door opened downstairs, to the left, and a roar of laughter came out. I grabbed Gavin by the arm, hard, and we both stopped dead.
Maybe the Youngs were having friends for afternoon tea? I didn’t thi
nk so. I snuck closer to the edge and peeped over. I caught a glimpse of the man. He didn’t look like one of the Youngs’ friends. He walked across to a pot plant in a big blue and white tub, unzipped his daks, and started pissing in the plant.
I grabbed Gavin’s arm again, just as he tried to grab mine. As the man sprayed all over the broad green leaves he kept talking in a loud voice to other people in the room he’d left. Someone answered him and there was another shout of laughter, even louder.
I couldn’t believe him. I hated him, the way he was so calmly and arrogantly taking over my friends’ house. Plus my most hated thing is people spitting in the streets and here was this guy going about a hundred degrees worse.
The pungent smell drifted up to us and I wrinkled my nose. Seemed like these guys urinated every time I got near them. I thought of yelling out ‘You’re killing the flamingo flower’, just so I could see his expression.
The man finished and started back to the room. The door closed and everything went quiet again.
I looked at Gavin and shook my head. He looked at me. His eyes were the size of my watch face, which is big. Without saying a word we both snuck back a metre. Then we tiptoed down the hall to the cupboard. I knocked on the door, which might seem stupid, but I didn’t want Homer bopping me with a walking stick. I opened the door and Homer emerged from the coats, brushing them away from his face.
‘They’re here all right,’ I whispered. ‘Downstairs. Sounds like they’re having a party.’
‘How many of them?’
‘I don’t know. We only saw one. They’re in a room to the left, the sitting room I think.’
‘Any sign of the Youngs?’
‘No.’
‘We should check the rooms up here, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
We knew Shannon’s bedroom was clear, so we started with the next one. We didn’t go about it like the professionals – well, the professionals we’d seen on TV anyway, the ones who bust down the door and cover each other while they search. We didn’t have any weapons to speak of, so we quietly turned the knob of each door and let it swing open, then waited a minute. If nothing happened we snuck in and had a good look.
