by Paul Collins
‘Mice and men,’ Ginger corrected. She stepped out from behind the Banksia. She had two backpacks with her. ‘Do you know what it means?’
Milo took one of the bags. It looked like she was staying for some time. ‘It means no matter how well you plan things, they stuff up.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Ginger said. ‘Now instead of talking outside, where we can be seen, show me this cellar of yours.’
Milo collected the mail and the local newspaper. The phone rang the moment he opened the door. He quickly picked it up. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he whispered. ‘Gotta go. Miss you.’ He hung up.
‘Who was that?’ Ginger asked.
‘Wrong number,’ Milo said.
‘But you said . . . Milo, what’s wrong?’
Milo gulped, his eyes blurring, as he held up the front page of the newspaper.
The headline read:
Couple killed in motorbike accident buried today.
‘Hurry, will you!’
Milo ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Ginger had made him put on his best shirt, and a tie of all things. She’d found a nice coat belonging to his mother – Mrs Chrysler was quite petite – and had put it on over her street clothes.
Then they’d run. It was several blocks to the funeral home and Milo’s stomach started to hurt the nearer he got. He knew what he was going to find. His mum and Ginger’s dad had tried to make a run for it, just like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, though without the barbed-wire fences or Nazi guards, only they hadn’t made it.
They’d run into a truck carrying toilet rolls.
According to the newspaper, death was instantaneous. Milo wasn’t fooled by the names either. They’d called themselves Mr and Mrs Jones. Mrs Chrysler’s maiden name was Jones.
It all fit.
They arrived at the funeral parlour, breathless. The main service was over and people were milling about, shaking hands, dabbing at eyes. No one took any notice of the two kids.
Ginger dragged Milo inside and up the aisle towards the two open coffins, but suddenly he froze. His legs felt like lead and he could barely breathe or move.
Ginger hissed at him, ‘Milo, we have to know!’ Her eyes were filled with tears.
Milo shook his head.
He couldn’t go one step further.
Suddenly, an old couple stopped in front of them. The woman stared at his pale face and nodded sympathetically, patting his hand. She gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The old man put his arms around Ginger, and went to give her a kiss. Milo shut his eyes as the old lady kissed his other cheek. She smelled of peppermint.
The old couple wandered off. Ginger took a deep breath and edged up to the nearest coffin and peered in. Suddenly she burst out laughing, then slapped a hand across her mouth as a dozen narrowing eyes swivelled to stare at her. She immediately broke down and cried.
Milo didn’t know what to do.
Ginger stumbled back to him, still crying and wheezing. She grabbed his hand and led him out of the parlour. By now he was crying, too.
Half a block away Ginger suddenly exploded into laughter.
Milo stared.
‘It wasn’t them, Milo!’ Ginger shouted. ‘It was an old couple – like in their nineties or something!’
Milo felt an enormous sense of relief. ‘But you were crying!’
‘No, I wasn’t. I was trying not to laugh.’
They went back to Milo’s house. After changing out of their funeral clothes Milo pulled aside a floor rug and lifted a trapdoor, revealing the top of a steep staircase. He turned on the light at the top of the stairs. It dispelled some of the cellar’s gloom, but shadows – and cobwebs – still hugged the corners. Milo always shivered when he went down there.
‘Well, this is it,’ he said needlessly as they reached the bottom of the staircase.
‘It’s cold,’ Ginger observed. ‘Lucky I brought some jumpers with me.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘And stuffy.’ Milo was interested to see that Ginger also shivered, though she tried to hide it.
Milo said, ‘How long do you think you’ll be staying?’
Ginger wrinkled her nose. ‘This is your plan, Einstein. You tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, that makes two of us.’ Ginger put down her backpack. ‘Sorry. I’m a little on edge. I wish I knew how long it’s going to take.’
‘I guess it depends on how soon your mum reports you missing.’
Ginger brightened a little, which seemed odd. ‘She’ll report me missing as soon as she gets home and finds me gone. I made sure of that.’
Milo hoped so. He found it very stressful that things were happening so fast, but consoled himself with the thought that the sooner all this was over the sooner he would have his mum back.
‘Now,’ Ginger said, ‘I’ll need a sleeping bag and blankets. I brought a couple of books and a jigsaw puzzle my dad and I were going to finish, but . . .’ She stopped then hurried on. ‘I have food to last a few days, but no fruit. Oh, and water. I’ve been reading up on being stuck in places and they say you can survive a long time as long as you have water. I also need a knife. A big one.’
‘What do you need a knife for?’ Milo wondered.
‘Just in case something tries to attack me down here,’ Ginger said. ‘I know it’s highly unlikely but you never know. At any rate, I’ll feel a whole lot better if I have something to protect myself with.’
An hour later Ginger seemed content. She had made the place fairly comfortable and had taken out the jigsaw puzzle and spread all the pieces – one thousand of them – face up on an old table. Milo stared at it. The image on the box showed a cutaway picture of an old sailing ship. There was lots of detail but the main picture was of the captain’s cabin where the captain was reading a book to his red-haired daughter. The scene looked very cosy and safe.
Ginger said, sounding slightly embarrassed, ‘My dad used to be in the navy. He loves old ships.’
‘Is that you he’s reading the story to?’ asked Milo.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Ginger. ‘It’s just a jigsaw puzzle!’
Milo realised he must have said the wrong thing. ‘Sorry.’ He hurried up the stairs and paused on the top step. ‘There’s three pieces missing, you know.’
Ginger stared up at him, then at the jigsaw.
‘How could you possibly know that?’
Milo looked at the pieces as though he had made a mistake.
‘You counted them? Just by looking at them?’
He shrugged again. Couldn’t everybody count things just by looking at them? Unsure what to say, he said, ‘Well, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight? Toby, it’s not even dark yet! You’ll be coming back here throughout the night, won’t you? To make sure I have everything I need. You’d better!’
‘Right,’ Milo said. He was already beginning to feel like a servant in his own house. Perhaps this was why his mother had left. He had certainly made similar demands on her. Especially when he was sick. He switched off the light and shut the trapdoor without thinking.
‘Argh!’ Ginger screamed.
Milo swung the trapdoor back open. He half expected a horde of rats to come streaming up the stairs. ‘What happened?’
‘The light, Toby. Don’t turn off the light!’
‘Oh.’ Milo switched it back on then lowered the door again. He wished again he had had more time to think things through. If he had, he might have solved a few of these problems beforehand. Stuff like not switching off the light would by now be second nature. It had all seemed simpler when the idea was just inside his head.
‘Toby?’ came a muffled plea.
Milo looked at the cellar door. He opened it slowly. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m wondering if perhaps we could leave the trapdoor open while your father’s not here. I mean, it’s kind of crazy me being stuck down here all the time when he’s not even here.’
‘But what if he sneaks in the back and finds the trapdoor
open?’ Milo sat on the top step. He had a feeling this might be a drawn out conversation.
Ginger’s face looked pale in the cellar light. ‘Why would your father sneak in?’
‘Well, he might have lost his key. Or he might want to surprise me.’
‘Does he do those things often?’
‘No,’ Milo admitted.
‘There you are then,’ said Ginger. ‘So let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. But I can’t see how I can spend all day and every day down here without going completely mad.’
‘We’ve got a Scrabble set. Trivial Pursuit, too.’
‘Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit?’ Ginger scoffed. ‘No one plays those games anymore.’
‘We do,’ Milo said. ‘Or used to, when Mum was around,’ he corrected himself.
‘I just bet you did,’ Ginger said. ‘Anyway, it’s a bit hard playing games by myself.’
Milo thought of I Spy and Patience but didn’t think Ginger would appreciate the suggestions. There wasn’t much to spy down there in the cellar and as for Patience, he doubted she had a whole lot of that. His was certainly running out.
‘Didn’t you bring your iPod?’
A sudden muttering seemed to indicate a ‘no’.
‘I think your dad will come home the moment he hears you’re missing,’ Milo said.
‘You’d better bring me down a radio so I can get the news,’ Ginger said. ‘I want to hear all the nice things my mum tells the media about me. She’ll probably turn on the waterworks for the cameras, too. It should be really cool.’ A moment’s pause. ‘I don’t suppose you have a portable TV, do you?’
Milo got up. ‘There’s no electricity down there,’ he said. ‘But I can get you a battery radio. You’d best keep the volume down, though.’
‘Before you go,’ Ginger said, ‘I’d better stock up on fruit. I don’t want to get scurvy. Apples, pears and bananas will do.’
Milo wondered if he had scurvy. There hadn’t been fruit in the house since his mother left. Distracted, he asked, ‘Anything else?’
Milo knew the moment those words left his mouth he would be sorry. But something else happened.
Ginger suddenly swayed to and fro, then sagged to the ground, groaning.
Milo rushed down the stairs and bent over her. ‘Ginger? Ginger, what’s wrong?’
Ginger’s eyes fluttered. She opened them and looked at Milo. ‘Ohmigod,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’m so stupid! I’m – I’m a diabetic.’ She looked away when she said this. ‘I’ve forgotten my insulin. Toby, I need at least one shot a day!’
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s in the fridge at home.’ She tried to stand up but slipped and fell again. This time Milo managed to half catch her, cushioning her fall. ‘I’ve got to have my insulin, Toby.’
Milo backed up the stairs. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. It was clear she would never be able to walk four blocks.
Ginger closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said feebly.
Milo stopped halfway up the stairs. ‘Ginger – your mum won’t give me your insulin, will she?’
Ginger’s eyes fluttered open. ‘She won’t be home yet. Take my keys.’
‘Isn’t there any other wa –?’
‘Toby, I don’t have a lot of time. If I don’t get my shot I’ll go into a coma, and then I’ll die. Mum won’t be home for another hour and a half. She goes shopping Monday afternoons.’ Ginger drove on through Milo’s indecision. ‘The insulin’s on the top shelf in the fridge. There are three vials.’
Milo nodded. The last thing he wanted was for Ginger to die down in the cellar. On his way out through the door he collected his backpack. He had seen enough movies to know he needed gloves, so he took those, too. Luckily there were some disposables in the kitchen drawer.
Sure as eggshells
It didn’t take long to reach Ginger’s house. Not the way he was walking. He went past the house as nonchalantly as he could, checking that no one was watching. Then he doubled back and ducked into the driveway. He stood panting with nervous exhaustion at the corner of the garage, not moving an inch in case anyone had spotted him. This close to the street he could still escape should anyone call out to him. But no one did. A neighbour’s dog barked. A lawnmower roared. Milo’s heart continued to thud.
If he hadn’t stopped to collect his thoughts he would not have noticed the Rottweiler stalking him. The beast had one foot poised. It stood immobile, every muscle in its sturdy body twitching in anticipation.
Milo leapt forward just as the Rottweiler charged.
Milo felt the dog’s snout on the seat of his pants. Then the Rottweiler did a sudden howling backflip as its extendable leash jerked to a stop, nearly throttling it in the process.
Milo gulped and hurried past the straining dog, afraid that at any moment the neighbours would start poking their heads over the fence to see what all the barking was about.
The key to open the door was the last one he tried, naturally. He got the door open and hurried inside, slamming it shut behind him. It was dark. The Holland blinds were pulled down and the only light spilled in from the window panel in the door behind him. There seemed to be a lot of flies in the kitchen. He tiptoed across to the fridge, his heart banging against his ribs.
Halfway to the fridge he passed an open door. Through it he could see a staircase leading up into shadow. He had a powerful urge to race upstairs and check all the bedrooms and the closets, especially for solitary red shoes, the dancing kind.
But he didn’t. He knew he was on a mission and people on a mission had to ‘stay on target’, like Luke Skywalker near the end of the movie when he had to blow the Death Star to smithereens.
The three vials of Ginger’s insulin were exactly where she said they would be. Milo swept them up and shoved them in his pocket.
He went to close the fridge door, and that’s when he realised he was standing in something really sticky. He looked down, puzzled.
And went absolutely still.
Even by the fridge’s faint interior light, he could see that he was standing in a pool of blood.
Milo gasped and backed hurriedly away. A fridge alarm went off, telling him he’d forgotten to shut the door. In a panic, he rushed back and slammed the door. Not because of the alarm, but to stop the light gleaming on that ghastly patch of blood.
Milo didn’t remember reaching the back door, the frenetic barking or running as fast as he could. Maybe neighbours came out to look but Milo barely noticed. Later, when Ginger asked, he would not remember a thing between leaving the kitchen and arriving home in a sweat-soaked terror.
At the back door he stumbled, almost blindly, into something that splashed and left an acrid smell in the air. He had no idea what it was and didn’t care. He darted inside and got the door shut as quickly as possible then leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. After several long minutes, his hoarse breathing slowed a little and his vision cleared. The first thing he saw was the phone. He picked it up and dialled Fluke’s number. His hands were trembling.
Mrs Duc picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello, it’s Milo. Is Fluke there?’
‘One minute,’ Mrs Duc said. In a louder voice, she yelled, ‘Phuc, is that nice boy Milo. Your friend. He call you.’
Fluke must have picked up the upstairs phone. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
There was a click.
‘Milo? You okay?
Milo breathlessly related what had happened. He didn’t want to tell him about Ginger, because that might make him an accessory or something. But to give solid advice Fluke had to know everything. So Milo told him.
‘You have to concentrate now,’ Fluke said. His voice had an unfamiliar steely edge to it. ‘Hide the clothes you were wearing, specifically the shoes. They’re bound to have bloodstains on them. Take a shower – no, wait, before the shower you need witnesses to say where you were at the time of the crime.’
‘There is no crime,’ Milo said. ‘I didn
’t do anything.’
‘Okay, but sure as eggshells you’ll be blamed for it. So you need witnesses to say they saw you somewhere. You’d better get out of your sneakers and clothes if they have bloodstains. The police will get a search warrant for your place so get rid of them anywhere. Then you need to go public and make sure people see you.’
‘But –’
‘Do it now,’ Fluke said. ‘You’re skating on thin lice. The longer you leave it the less good the alibi will be.’
‘Okay,’ Milo said. ‘Thanks, Fluke.’
‘My pleasure,’ Fluke said.
Milo stuck his bloodstained sneakers in an old shopping bag. He’d get rid of them in a drain down the street then make for the shops. He hurriedly changed clothes.
The phone rang but Milo picked it up and put it straight back down. He needed an alibi and fast. Mum would understand. Checking that he had money on him, he headed for the door. He would keep the scurvy at bay if nothing else.
Milo arrived back from the local supermarket laden with fruit. All up he had spent twenty dollars. Ravenously hungry, he’d already eaten three oranges and a mandarin on the way home. He was tempted to eat a banana as well but figured he should leave them for Ginger.
On the way, Milo had disposed of his sneakers in an industrial waste bin, which seemed the more ecologically-friendly thing to do. He hoped Fluke would approve.
He checked that he hadn’t left any incriminating evidence lying about then went to the trapdoor and threw it open.
Immediately, something struck him as very odd but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Then it hit him. The light was switched off.
That meant Ginger had gone. But gone where?
‘Ginger!’ he called out. He tried turning on the light but it had blown.
Crouching down on the top step, he tried to see down to where Ginger had set up her sleeping bag. He didn’t want to go down there; the hair on the back of his neck was bristling. Why wasn’t she answering? Had something happened to her? Had someone gone down there and attacked her?
