by John Marsden
Here and there various spectators exchanged glances. James knew they could not understand his words but he was hopeful that they might understand the tenor of his message. He waited for a minute to see if anything would happen, but there was still no movement. So he walked to where the baby sat, and patted its head. A woman standing nearby emitted a low slow hiss. The baby, for no apparent reason, started crying. James, watching the crowd intently, still gripping the machine, went to a small cooking fire beside an array of food. He selected a sweet potato, picked it up and bit into it. Someone in the crowd called out. There was a murmur, and a shifting of feet. Suddenly a boy ran forward. He looked younger than James, but because of the small build of these people it was hard to tell. He stood a metre from James, gazing with a startled look into his face. He seemed startled at his own impetuosity. The two boys locked eyes and stared in fascination and fear at each other. James noticed that the boy was holding a knife and, realising that he might not react fast enough if the boy went to stab him, he nearly pressed the Return key there and then. But he resisted the temptation. He wanted to break the intense eye-contact but was scared to, thinking that it might be interpreted as a sign of weakness. Instead he groped with his right hand for another sweet potato and, finding one, brought it up between the two of them. Without taking his eyes off the other boy he took a bite out of the vegetable and then handed it to the Mayan. Slowly, after a long, long pause, the boy bit a large piece out of it with his clean white teeth, then chewed and swallowed.
There was a roar from the onlookers. The tension had been broken by this simple act. People started to move toward them. James, fearful of being mobbed, held up his hand, and the movement stopped. He grinned at the boy. The Indian looked at him without smiling, but James was reassured by the lively intelligence of his dark eyes, just as he was struck, incongruously, by the largeness of the boy’s nose. The boy pointed towards the southern end of the concourse and said something in his own language. He took a few steps in that direction, indicating that James should follow. James saw no harm in doing so. The two boys began walking through the Indians, weaving in and out of the colourful market display. Most people stood their ground as they passed; a few stepped back a little, a few reached out a hand and touched James curiously. He was embarrassed, but also exultant.
They left the market, skirting around a number of two-storey stone and plaster buildings, and started out along a vast arena with huge pyramids at the end of it. James gaped at the scale of it all. Behind him he became aware that the crowd had fallen into line, and more people were joining all the time. He checked again that the machine, now finely laced with drops of his sweat, was still in his hand. He even quickly flicked it on to check the battery indicator, and was relieved to see that the needle went to seven.
The pyramids, fronted by giant staircases and topped by ornate structures that looked like tombs or altars, were looming closer. The boys passed complex carved slabs of stone. The crowd behind them seemed to be hesitating, falling back. But the Mayan boy led on confidently. He went within fifty metres of several of the biggest pyramids without looking at them. At last a possible destination was revealed to James by the focus of the boy’s eyes and the undeviating course of his walk. They seemed to be aiming at a smaller building at the edge of the plaza: again made of stone, and, windowless, resembling a couple of huge coffins of different sizes, piled on top of each other. As they came closer James realised that the building was beside a hole some ten metres in diameter. A few people stood at regular intervals around the hole, but no-one else seemed to be nearby. They were all men, dressed more elaborately than the people in the market. Their costumes were fuller around the waist and they wore spectacular headdresses, which, in their rich plumage of feathers and leaves, blended easily with the background of the dense green jungle that pressed so close to the end of the plaza.
The men, who had dark skin and large noses like James’ guide, looked steadily and impassively at James for a minute, then, without moving from their places, began questioning the Indian boy. His answers were brief but given without hesitation. The men turned their attention to James again and indicated that he should stand on a certain spot, close to the edge of the hole. Feeling increasingly fearful he nevertheless obeyed. As he stepped to the new position one of the men moved in behind him and stood very close, up against his back. James could now see that the crowd had stopped some distance away and was hushed. All were watching. He was startled to see how many people there were.
Looking down, he saw that he was standing on the edge of some kind of natural well. A smell of mould and mildew filled it. He could see green water about twenty metres below. Although it was dim and in shadow he thought there were large objects, dark and bulky, breaking the surface of the water. A few metres away, to his left, a sudden clatter and shriek startled him horribly and he jerked and looked around, heart jumping. It was a bird, glaringly golden and black, but quite small. It flew rapidly out of some vines and across the pool in front of him, beating its wings noisily.
Before he had even looked away another startling and horrible cry came to him. This time it was unmistakeably human. It came from the well at his feet. Rigid with astonishment he looked down. He thought he saw a face in the water, perhaps looking up at him. Though he had never heard the shriek of a drowning man he had not a moment’s doubt as to the meaning of this cry. He became taller, and whiter, stretching and gazing down with open mouth at the green mysteries in the shadowy hole. He looked across at the face of his young guide, searching for a clue, a lead. The boy looked back at him guileless, interested, alert. James started to twist around to say something, though he was unsure of what the words would be, but the man behind him placed a heavy hand on each of his shoulders and kept him weighed down on the spot. The man spoke; clear, loud words in a deep and dark voice. It sounded like a proclamation. James, obscurely, felt obliged to play his part. He stood still, half-listening to the wise voice. Then, suddenly, the man pushed him hard in the back, and he fell.
Falling, jerking, falling, his stomach still up at the brink: he saw a circle of blue, and dark shapes, then dim soft green. He was dropping into smell. The whole thing was too astonishing to understand. The only emotion was fear. No thinking, just feeling, and the only feeling fear. He hit the water but it was not all water: he half-landed on something soft and bulgy, with hard lines in it. He understood that it was human, a body. Suddenly he was grabbed with manic force: an arm clamped across his chest and a fierce, desperate, dark face, with a big nose, was staring into his. James’ mouth, his whole face, was open wide with horror. His face was in the shape of a scream but no sound came. The man was pressing him down, pushing and forcing him down. James was drowning in a silent struggle. He could not seize on a single thought that might save him. There was no room for that, just for gaping unformed fear. His face was under the water twice, three times. The man had ceased to be a human, if indeed he had ever been one. Now he was a force, an idea, evil. James floundered.
As he had known in the ocean, so again he knew in a part of his mind that there was something that could save him. It was not a considered, rational thought but he knew there was something, and it was in his hand, and it was the key to his survival. A part of him that was not dying struggled with this knowledge. A persistent voice told him to press. Press? Press what? It doesn’t matter, just press. He pressed. Nothing happened. With no air left, nothing left, he went under again. The lights in his head focused themselves, concentrated, then began to resolve themselves into one bright coin of light. Then the light, while not fading in brightness, began to withdraw in distance, to travel away from him, at a faster and faster pace. It was a bright strong distant spot, becoming a pinpoint. ‘Wrong finger,’ James thought, if it was a thought. He gave a faint, flickering tremble of his thumb.
He was lying on hard earth. It was dark until he realised his eyes were closed. He did not open them for quite some time. He was frightened of what he might see. When he did o
pen them he saw an apple tree in the back yard of the house in which he lived. He lay there a long time, eyes closed, breathing deeply, in a kind of sleep. Afterwards he got up and went into the house. The woman who was there said to him, ‘James! Where have you been? We wanted to go to Grandma’s but we couldn’t find you. So Daddy’s gone on his own.’ He went upstairs like an old man. As he came to his sister’s room he moved across and passed by on the other side of the corridor, looking down at the floor.
JAMES SAT ON a swing in the playground, rocking rhythmically to and fro. It was rare for him to get a swing to himself but at the moment the craze was yoyos and most of the kids were absorbed in them. Some days the rocking motion of the swings made him sick; other days it was restful. Today it felt good.
A little way off were Ellie’s old friends, most of them anyway. He watched them covertly. They seemed to be having fun. He wondered how they could and was angry that they were.
It had been raining hard most of the morning and the rain looked as though it was likely to start again soon. Large brown puddles lay morosely around the playground. James studied the one at his feet, then began kicking loosely at it, enough to disturb it violently but not to scatter it. Then he stopped suddenly, noticing a struggle in the water. He looked more closely and realised that he had washed a small insect into the puddle. It was fluttering its water-heavy wings frantically, trying to escape. James watched it for a moment, then used the edge of a dead leaf to lift the insect clear. He put it on dry ground, but the black and gold creature, waterlogged, moved only feebly. James felt that there was nothing more he could do for it. He left it there to dry out and wandered away from the swing, back towards the school buildings. He walked along, thinking of the religious people in India whom he had heard about – the ones who took care, whenever they moved, to harm nothing. Even ants were safe from their light footfalls. James wondered whether the invention of the microscope, and the discovery of all the teeming microscopic life in the world had changed their attitudes. Did they know that every time they moved they destroyed masses of minute creatures? Just to live was to cause pain.
Coming from the classroom block was Dr Matheson, a teacher whom James liked. James was approaching the buildings at a tangent: he had circled from the swing around the back of the boys’ toilets. Nevertheless, their paths were going to cross. He became nervous as the encounter grew closer. But he stopped when they met, and stood looking at the ground.
‘Hello James,’ Dr Matheson said in her husky voice. ‘I’ve got something here I thought you might be interested in.’
James looked up and saw a small flat object in her hand. She held it out to him and he took it. It was a maze, three-dimensional, fully enclosed, containing a metal ball which had to be guided through many objects and traps to reach a central spot. It appealed to James, who liked challenges of a mechanical kind. He smiled. Dr Matheson was delighted.
‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Keep it for a few days, or until you’re sick of it. Later I’ll give it to my niece. She enjoys that kind of thing too.’
James walked on, clutching it to his chest. He bypassed the classroom and went to the janitor’s cupboard. Knowing that the class after lunch was Divinity and he would not be missed he stayed there until his next lesson, at 2.15.
‘WHEN THE WAR is over,’ the girl thought, ‘I will lie under a tree chewing on a piece of grass. I will kick a pebble along a street. I will plant a flower garden and water it and keep it free of weeds. I will smell ripe peaches.’
She closed her eyes again, hoping that the next time she opened them she would not see only darkness, only cold and hard rock. Her leg hurt a lot but the hurt had settled into a dull ache, instead of the spectacular flaring pain that had savaged her for many hours. She preferred the dull ache.
She had been hungry for a while but the hunger passed. She did not know how long she had been there but thought it had probably been all day. The worst thing, perhaps, was the silence, which was terrible.
She passed into a kind of sleep again. If anything had happened she would have been aware of it. But nothing happened. She slept because there was nothing else to do.
*
DOUG MOTTRAM WAS a tall, balding man, a solicitor who lived in the city, drove a Saab, and loved to windsurf and play squash. He was married to Cathy and was the father of a son, Andrew.
Cathy Mottram was a tall, clear-skinned woman, a dentist who lived in the city, drove a Volvo, and loved to ride horses and play squash. She was married to Doug and was the mother of a son, Andrew.
One day Cathy had to drive across town to a nursing home to treat an elderly patient with toothache who was too frail to travel to her. On the way, by arrangement, she picked up Andrew as he came out of school. Andrew sat in the car and did his homework while his mother went into the nursing home. Afterwards Cathy drove back through the city, stopping at a medical supply company to purchase some goods. She parked at a meter about half a block away, telling Andrew again to wait in the car.
Cathy was away about ten to twelve minutes. When she returned Andrew had gone.
‘Was anything missing from the car?’
‘His lunchbox. A street directory.’
‘Where did he keep his lunchbox?’
‘Well, it was normally in his schoolbag, which was still in the car. But his lunchbox wasn’t in it any more, so we assume that’s when it went missing.’
‘Did he seem upset about anything?’
‘No, quite the contrary.’
‘Was he the kind of boy who might run away?’
‘No, he’s a happy, confident child.’
‘Has he ever run away?’
‘Oh, just the usual tantrums when he was younger. He went round the block a couple of times.’
‘Did you have any arguments during the car trip?’
‘No. He was keen to get his homework done before we got home, so he could watch television. That seemed to be his major concern.’
‘When’s the last argument you had with him?’
‘Oh. . . I suppose. . . on Monday. I wouldn’t let him go to his friend’s place, because he’d been there half the weekend anyway. I said it was Jem’s turn to come here. It wasn’t a major argument – he could see the sense of it. He’s a sensible kid.’
‘Was he in any trouble at school?’
‘No, he’s quite a leader there, it seems. The teachers like him.’
‘Would he have left the car with a stranger voluntarily?’
‘Heavens, no.’
‘Did you see anyone you knew during the afternoon’s driving?’
‘No, not really. I mean just the usual parents and kids outside the school. And there were a few staff and patients at the rest home whom I’ve gotten to know over the months I’ve been going there.’
‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘Oh not like that, no.’
‘Anybody who might wish you harm?’
‘No, no.’
‘Is he a healthy boy?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘No bumps on the head lately? No concussions or similar?’
‘Not that we’ve heard, or know about.’
Doug and Cathy Mottram continued searching for their son when after ten days it became clear that the police had no leads and no idea of what might have happened. They did streetwalks, and doorknocks, and distributed photographs and posters. Gradually their search widened, across the state, across the country. They became increasingly desperate. They agreed that Doug would take leave from his practice, indefinitely, but Cathy would keep working. It was the only way they could get the money to finance the enormous expenses they were incurring. They hired a private detective. Doug travelled ceaselessly, investigating reported sightings that came in at regular intervals. Andrew had been seen in a MacDonald’s in Williamstown. He’d been spotted hitchhiking on the Lawrance Highway. He was with a man in Semmler. He’d been killed in a road accident in Laing. He was in a youth refuge on the East Side. As far as Doug c
ould ascertain, none of the reports were true. Under the strain of Andrew’s disappearance the marriage began to break up. Both Doug and Cathy began drinking too much. They seemed unable to talk to each other about their fears, their grief. They steadily drifted apart. Eventually Doug moved into a small apartment about five kilometres from what had been the family home. About six months after the separation he attempted suicide, by taking an overdose of sleeping tablets. He was found by his brother, and taken to hospital in good time.
About a year after that Doug was in a small town called St Antony, on the north coast. He was staying with new friends. Jane was an airline hostess. Doug met her on one of his many flights in search of Andrew. On a near-empty plane they had talked. She had taken a sympathetic interest in the father’s quest for his son. He had met her again a number of times, and then met her husband, Raffael, a photographer. Now he was staying with them for ä weekend, at their beach house.
On the Saturday evening the three of them were fishing off the beach and made a series of big strikes. Doug, in particular, caught the biggest fish of his life: a beautiful full-bodied bream. Raffael went up to the house to get a camera, then photographed Doug as he proudly held the fish aloft in the dusk.
A week later the photos from Raffael came in Doug’s mail. He opened them and looked through them with pleasure: the warm rising of good times remembered. The third and fourth photos were of the fish. There was not much difference between them which was not surprising, as they were taken only a few moments apart. But there was one important difference. The second of the two photos contained an extra person in the background. Peering out from under Doug’s outstretched arm, about a metre behind him, was the unmistakeable face of his son, Andrew.
*
JAMES AND ELLIE had to do the shopping while their mother was in hospital. They enjoyed it, feeling important. They spent all the time in the supermarket alternately arguing and giggling. Ellie wanted Coco Pops but James became sanctimonious and insisted on Weet-Bix. Ellie sulked for a while but cheered up when James agreed that they could each have a bar of chocolate. They got serious as they went through the check-out but then clowned around in the Mall for a while before going out to get a taxi home. Their favourite taxi driver, a big Fijian named Eric, was nowhere to be seen, so they took the first cab on the rank, with a driver who hardly spoke to them.
