Tomorrow 6 - The Night is for Hunting

by John Marsden

  There wasn’t really time for thinking about that though. We spent ten minutes standing in silence, like we were at Anzac Day or something, watching and listening. It was partly the effect of the burning sky but to be more practical, it was a safety measure too. If there were people on Tailor’s Stitch we wanted to know about them before they knew about us. But it was quiet enough. And the right kind of quiet. Not the dead silence where the air is beating with tension. And, on the other hand, not the anxious noises you get in the bush when something’s wrong: the clatter of frogmouth wings, the scrabble of possum paws up a tree trunk, the wild flight of a sleeping bird sud­denly disturbed. None of that.

  So it seemed OK, and when Homer glanced at me and raised his eyebrows I nodded ‘Yes’.

  We moved softy and silently. Homer first, Fi sec­ond, me third. We didn’t so much walk, more prowl. Soft feet. Mr Addams, the PE teacher at Wirrawee High, talked about soft hands when he was teaching us cricket. ‘The best players have soft hands when they’re batting.’ I didn’t know quite what he meant but I remembered the expression, because it sounded funny. But walking along Tailor’s Stitch I concen­trated on having soft feet.

  We’d gone about two kilometres – in fact we were about to turn off the ridge to go down towards my place – when I first heard a noise that didn’t belong. I didn’t even know what it was. But there’s no mistaking a noise in the bush that doesn’t belong. I think it was probably a scrape of a boot on rock. Whatever, I knew straightaway that we had a problem. Fi was a fraction too far ahead to call her but I don’t know if I would have risked it anyway. Instead I picked up a pebble and chucked it at her. Typical Fi, she didn’t notice. Just kept gliding quietly over the rocks. It was a terrible moment. I thought if I made any noise I might cop a bullet in the back, but of course I couldn’t let her and Homer keep walking if there was danger. So I ran for­ward. The trouble was that the buckles on my empty pack rattled and jingled as I accelerated. I hadn’t bothered to do them all up. I cursed myself for not thinking of it earlier. But even that noise didn’t catch Fi’s attention. It wasn’t until I tapped her on the shoul­der that she turned around. She got a huge shock too, when I did tap her; she jumped as though a drop bear had gone down the back of her shirt. I wished she’d been paying more attention, but that’s the trouble when you’re travelling in the middle of a group: you think you can relax.

  At least Homer was quick to react. He heard the noise Fi made when she jumped around, and he jumped around too, then came back to us very quickly. And quietly for a big guy. Neither of them said anything; just looked at me. When I nodded behind me they melted into a band of trees so fast that I was quite impressed. It struck me, almost for the first time, that we had learned a few things, that we’d actually become rather good at this. We’d become genuine bush fighters, even Fi.

  Before the war she wouldn’t have done anything more dangerous than stay at a party till midnight.

  But there wasn’t time for congratulations. I melted into the trees as fast as the others, and stood behind a medium-size trunk gazing out at the track. I felt the heat of Homer’s body, then the heat of his breath as he whispered in my ear.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know. A boot maybe.’

  Homer edged away. I stood and waited. A cool breeze played up my legs and onto the back of my neck. A few minutes earlier I’d been thinking the breeze was sweet and pleasant. Now it seemed cold and unfriendly. But I didn’t think about that for any longer than I thought about how we’d become such great bush fighters. Instead I strained my ears so hard I could almost feel them growing longer and longer, out of each side of my head. I was like the guy in the Shakespeare play, the bloke who turned into a donkey. But try as I might I couldn’t hear a thing.

  After fifteen minutes Homer loomed up beside me again in the shadows. He looked at me with a big question mark written all over his face. I knew what the question was. ‘Are you sure you heard some­thing?’ He didn’t have to say the words.

  Of course by then I wasn’t sure. At first I’d been confident that someone was behind us. The longer I stood anxiously behind my tree the more I started to doubt myself. The problem was there are just so many noises in the bush at night. It always seems like there’s more noise at night than in the daytime. I don’t think there really is; it’s because at night-time you hear them so strongly. They stand out. I knew I’d heard something. I just didn’t know what it was.

  We were under pressure of time too. If we were to get to a farmhouse a fair way away – and it had to be a good way off so no-one would connect us with Hell – we had to get a move on. By dawn we needed to be back in the mountains, back in the safest place we knew.

  So after another five minutes I shrugged at Homer and Fi and moved out onto the edge of the track. We stood listening for a couple more minutes then took up the same positions as before, me in the rear. And off we went.

  The road, rutted and rough as it was, did a few funny things on its way down to the paddocks. Dad and I had put in detours where there were wash­aways, and in a couple of other places where wheel ruts were so deep that even a four-wheel drive would get lost in them. One of these detours was a faint track over soft grass, on a flat piece of land. Homer chose that track rather than taking us through the deep ruts. We were on the grass when I heard another noise that I knew simply didn’t belong.

  I stopped hard. This time Fi was paying close attention, and she stopped too, within two or three steps. And Homer, watching through eyes at the back of his head, stopped straightaway. We all moved quietly off the path, to the left. I tiptoed up to where Fi was waiting for me, arriving at the same time as Homer.

  ‘Well?’ he breathed.

  ‘Same again.’

  ‘What is it exactly?’ Fi whispered.

  ‘First time was a boot I think. On a rock maybe. This time was a stick breaking.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back on the main part. Where we went off on the detour.’

  No-one said anything for a few minutes, as we waited and listened anxiously.

  Finally Homer murmured to me, ‘We’ve got to take the initiative.’

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  The last thing I wanted was to stand around wait­ing to be caught. Without any more discussion Homer and I moved off in different directions. I went to the right, Homer to the left. Fi, sort of knowing this wasn’t her scene, stayed put.

  I went so carefully. I lifted one foot, let it hover like a helicopter while I looked for a good place, then planted it firmly but gently. Then the next one. At the same time I peered through the darkness, looking for the slightest sign of a patrol. In a way – incredibly stupid though this is – I half-hoped some soldiers would be there. I’d be left looking like a complete idiot if they weren’t. And I’d have held up our trip for a dangerously long time.

  Of course I didn’t really want them to be there. I just hated to think of the act Homer would put on if he found a wombat caused the noises.

  When I was within twenty metres of the place I’d heard the stick breaking I stopped again and stood, sniffing the wind like a dingo. And knew at last that I wasn’t mistaken. Someone was there. I smelt him, I felt the vibrations of the air as he moved slightly, I sensed him. That was as much as I needed to know really. I got ready to withdraw. Now that I was sure, everything became easier. We would have to abort the food trip, take to the bush, circle back to Tailor’s Stitch, and at the same time try to check out who was shadowing us in the darkness.

  I took three steps backwards but as I did I saw a glimmer of movement. It seemed like the person on the track had gone to the left, a little further down­hill. I felt a flare of fear in my stomach. I was fairly sure he was moving as a reaction to my movement. I hadn’t been as careful and quiet as I thought. Suddenly this whole situation, dangerous enough before, was out of control. And a moment later I realised something worse: i
n moving to my left the soldier was likely to run into Homer.

  We had no weapons on us, but I was desperate enough to look for one. I crouched down and ran my fingers across the ground. There were plenty of stones, but at the furthest reach of my hand I felt my fingers close on a rock the size of an orange. I would have liked one even bigger, but this would have to do. I grabbed it and started creeping forward. I had to be quicker than before, so I paid a bit of a price as far as silence went.

  Suddenly everything happened at once. It was like a game of chess became a game of football. A patch of black in the darkness ahead moved quickly, even further to the left. At the same time I saw Homer’s bulk loom up on the track. He was coming up the hill towards the guy. Homer yelled out, a kind of grunt of surprise, when he realised they were about to run into each other. I yelled, to distract the man, and chucked the rock as hard as I could, straight at the dark shape. A rock versus a rifle didn’t seem like a good deal, but it was all I had. I missed, but only by the width of my little finger. And I was already fol­lowing up, charging straight at the guy, bellowing like a thirsty heifer. Anything to distract him and give Homer a chance.

  As it happened Homer and I sandwiched him. Or we would have done. We arrived either side of him, simultaneously. He’s lucky we didn’t sandwich him. We would have broken every bone in his body. He deserved it too. Bloody Gavin. A steak tartare sand­wich, that’s what he deserved to be. And the worst thing was, he thought it was funny. He laughed when we grabbed him. A nervous laugh, sure, but a laugh, no doubt about it. He was a tough cookie, but some­times I wondered how much the war had stuffed up his common sense and judgement. That particular night I wondered in a big way.

  ‘What are you doing, you moron?’ Homer said, shaking him like he was a clogged up tomato sauce bottle. Homer was even angrier than me. I was angry, but probably more relieved than anything. It could have been someone much worse than Gavin.

  I don’t know how much Gavin could lip-read in the dark, but you wouldn’t have to be Einstein to work out what questions we were asking. He grinned at Homer and said, ‘I followed you.’

  We didn’t have to be Einsteins to have worked that out already. ‘Why?’ I asked, but Gavin was looking at Homer and didn’t see me, so Homer repeated it.

  Gavin shrugged. ‘I’m not a baby. Whatever you do, I can do. I wanted to come.’ I realised he was actually very nervous. Close up you could see his body trem­bling. And behind the grins he did look anxious.

  Homer looked helplessly at me. ‘What do you reckon? What do we do with him?’

  I’d already made my decision. ‘We have to take him along. Otherwise he’ll just follow us again. The only choice is for us all to go back to Hell.’

  ‘No way,’ Homer said, to that last suggestion. He rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘Have we still got time to do it tonight?’

  ‘Well, I guess. Depends how far we go. I was think­ing of the Whittakers’ place. We’ve got time to get there, but we wouldn’t get back to Hell by dawn.’

  ‘I guess that’s not such a big problem. We can hang out around here somewhere.’

  So the decision was made. We set out again, going as fast as we dared. Gavin, give him his due, kept up without a complaint. He was second last, between Fi and me, so I got a good view of him, and he seemed able to go the pace. We went past the outlying build­ings of our property – just the old machinery shed and the barn – but we were too far away to see the house. Perhaps that was for the best. I could get by most days without the grief that had paralysed me so many times since the war began, but I never knew when it would strike next, and seeing the house in the middle of the night, with strangers living in it ... it was better not to go too close.

  By road the Whittakers’ place would be fifteen k’s from ours, but that didn’t mean much. We cut straight across the paddocks. Homer and I both knew the way, and once we got out there, away from other buildings, we relaxed, mentally at least. In this open country, at two in the morning, we knew there’d be no-one else within cooee. For kilometre after kilometre our only company was four-legged or two-winged – or two-legged in the case of the kangaroos. The light was better too, with no more trees in the way of the stars and moon. We walked so fast – we had to, thanks to the time we’d lost – that we could hardly get enough breath to talk. I don’t know about the others but I was red in the face and puffing.

  We kept the pace up pretty well. Of course we slowed down after a while, but we didn’t stop. Twice Homer tried to persuade Gavin to sign off: to hole up somewhere and wait for us. Both times he turned us down flat. Maybe he thought we wouldn’t come back for him. Homer didn’t press it. There wasn’t time for that either.

  The Whittakers’ place was a big sprawling house surrounded by a famous garden. We were sure it would be occupied: it was such a beautiful house that it would have been one of the first to be taken over.

  I thought the garden would give us plenty of cover. It had all these big bushes and garden beds and stuff. I wasn’t sure exactly how we’d break in. Back in Hell we’d talked about it quite casually, as if that would be the easiest part of the job, but now that we were closer it suddenly looked a bit more difficult.

  At 3.05 we came over a ridge and saw the Whittakers’ house, the galvanised iron roof shining in the moonlight. It sure was big. It was a single-storey place, but it covered about a hectare. Well, that’s what it looked like. At least there were trees going almost to the house, so that suited us.

  We dropped flat on the ridge and wriggled for­ward to have a look. Gavin was right beside me and for a few minutes all I could hear was his panting. Seemed like the effort to keep up cost him more than I’d realised. One thing I’d noticed about him though, he was very good at keeping quiet when necessary. It must have been hard for him, because he couldn’t hear whether he was making a noise or not, but somewhere along the line, maybe in Stratton, maybe before the war, he’d learned. Lucky he did. It would have been a matter of life and death for him and his mates, and now it was a matter of life and death for us.

  Homer’s big body came around behind me and he dropped down on my left.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  This was the same question I’d been asked a thou­sand times since the war started. ‘What do we do now?’

  Not for the first time, I didn’t have an answer. I said rather doubtfully, ‘It’s not going to be easy. But we have to work out where the kitchen is.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Nuh. Why should I?’

  ‘I thought you knew the place.’

  ‘Why’d you think that? I’ve never been here before in my life. I’ve just heard my parents talk about it.’

  He sighed, as if to say, ‘Well, you’re a great bloody help,’ and moved away again. I could hear the rum­ble of his voice as he complained about me to Fi.

  I wriggled over to them. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s check out the other side. That’s where the kitchen should be. I’ve just heard my parents talk about it.’

  We set off on a wide circle around the house. It was soon obvious enough which room was the kitchen. The Whittakers had extended their house quite a long way out the back, on the right-hand side, using the same colour bricks, so you couldn’t easily tell it was an extension. But in the moonlight you could see that the reflection on the new bricks was shinier. Plus there were bigger windows. Through the three middle windows I could see kitchen-type stuff, especially the gleam of a stainless steel sink.

  I stole a little closer, first on my stomach, then bent low and running. The house was silent, so I took my life in my hands and went all the way to the win­dowsill. After all, how much danger should we expect at 3.30 in the morning? I stood on a pot-plant and peered over the sill. It was the kitchen all right. I saw two large refrigerators, like solid white ghosts, and I drooled a little at the thought of what they might contain. A hand grabbed my shoulder and I jumped, with a shocked squeal. ‘Shhh,’ Homer said. ‘What can you see?’
>
  ‘It’s the kitchen. I can see the fridges. And a big fruit bowl.’

  Homer tried lifting the window, but either it was locked, or too stiff to move without a lot of noise. I went to the right and tried that one, with the same result. Time was going fast, and we had to get in this house. I took off my jumper, held it firmly against the window, and punched hard and cleanly with my fist, a bit like I’d done at Tozer’s. The glass broke easily this time but it fell inside the room with a tinkling sound that seemed to go on forever.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Homer gasped.

  We both moved away fast, until we got to where Fi and Gavin were watching, from behind a silver birch. There’d been no movement inside the house but we figured we’d better wait a few minutes before we went back to the window.

  For me there was something chilling about that wait. I kept imagining I heard footsteps behind me. Perhaps it was the memory of Homer’s hand grab­bing my shoulder. Or the memory of Gavin stalking us on the way from Tailor’s Stitch. I looked around so many times that I made the others nervous too, until Fi said, ‘Ellie, are you expecting visitors?’

  After ten minutes Homer and I went back in. By now it was so late that I accepted we had zero chance of getting to Hell before daybreak. I’d been clinging to the hope that we might still manage it. I knew now that we’d have to find somewhere safe during the day. That irritated and frustrated me. I was sick of hiding, sick of the boredom of those long hours spent in holes or dark rooms. The thought of doing it yet again distracted me. In fact I was concentrating more on that than on the job ahead.

  We got to the window and I waited while Homer pulled out the jagged bits of broken glass left in the frame. Everything seemed quiet, so I called Fi in, with a quick wave. To my annoyance Gavin came too. I didn’t realise until I heard a little muffled cough. I looked around and there he was, a few metres ahead of Fi, like an enthusiastic dog who hates to have you in front of him. I couldn’t believe it and I waved furi­ously at him to go back. What a waste of energy. Gavin pretended not to see me and Fi rolled her eyes and whispered, ‘He’s impossible.’