by John Marsden
James, now in a panic, darted off in a wide circle that brought him out well in front of them. He turned and stood on his toes, searching to identify them again. He saw that the girl had stopped a second time to adjust her load. Her parents, unnoticing, had continued on their way and a gap had been created between them and their daughter. James opened his mouth to shout a warning. But his voice was lost in a great thunder of sound that suddenly rolled up all around him. The ground was lifted from under his feet and he with it. Although he was raised only about a metre, it seemed to take for ever before he was dropped again. When he was dropped it was as though the ground had been assembled and aligned in a new way and would never be the same again.
The roar of noise was continuing undiminished when a wall fell just metres from the boy, and he saw people disappear under the cruel cutting stone. Others ran past him, mouths silently open, eyes staring. Everything seemed to be falling, and he was appalled at how long it took. He had shocking, intimate, sudden views of what people looked like inside when they were cut open. He saw people pinned down in an instant, so that they were writhing and flapping like fish in the bottom of a boat. He saw moments of nobility, as people ran back to help others who had fallen, or used their bodies to shield their children. And he saw moments of madness, as people rushed straight under collapsing walls and a man ran back into danger to pick up a small saucepan that his son had dropped.
As the noise at last began to slow and lessen, he saw the girl’s parents. They seemed to be unharmed, standing in a clear part of the square, looking frantically around them. Dust and smoke and unnatural breezes were making it difficult to see, but it was obvious that the girl, their daughter, was nowhere to be seen. They talked madly to each other, arms pointing to where they thought she might have been and might now be. Then they began tearing at the rubble with their bare hands. James ran over and helped them, despite his certain knowledge that it was useless. They paused to gaze blankly at him for a moment, then the man said something before they resumed ripping at the rocks and mortar.
Gradually, as the square settled into its new composition of sight and sound, the first frenzy was replaced by a steady, sweating digging. In various parts of the ruins others were digging too. After some time they exposed the body of a baby, terribly dead. James did not know whether to look at it or not but he helped lay it out under a little shelter of masonite. He recognised and trembled at the memories that this invoked in him. Then he returned to the pitiful scrape they had made in the rubble.
After half an hour or so the conditions in the square changed again. Soldiers began to arrive, some in trucks, some on foot. A few ambulances came in a hurry, and were instantly surrounded. The soldiers took charge. They had some shovels and picks and, as the morning became afternoon, more and more tools appeared. By about four o’clock the scene was one of methodical, if slow, activity. At that point the remaining civilians, James among them, were pushed away from the diggings, until they were massed in a corner of the square, under the supervision of two soldiers. Though many protested at this treatment their protests were ignored. James, whose presence was starting to attract curious glances again, went willingly enough with them. He knew he had to. But he kept his hand on Mr Woodforde’s machine, which was thrust deep in his pocket.
Little happened for a while. The soldiers kept working. From time to time there was a flurry of movement as bodies, some dead, some alive, were discovered and lifted carefully from the ruins. At these moments the civilians who were with James crowded as close as they were allowed, to see if they could identify their relatives. They shouted questions at the soldiers but they were ignored, and the bodies taken away in trucks and ambulances.
Later in the afternoon a bus arrived and the civilians, despite tears and protests and struggles, were loaded into it. The soldier in charge of this operation pulled James aside and talked at him in a rattle of words that James was not able to understand. But finally, seeing the boy’s lack of comprehension, he pushed him on board with the others. In a cloud of smoke from the exhaust and amid wails from its passengers, the vehicle began its journey.
The bus was crowded but the journey was mercifully short. After a little time they passed the old convent which James recognised as the building which would soon house the girl with the scarred face. About fifty kilometres further on, along a route which James strove carefully to memorise, they were disembarked at a place that defied definition. It was a collection of huts and tents, side by side with what appeared to be a large rubbish tip. It was surrounded by various types of wire, some lengths of which were placarded with red crosses. The whole place was guarded, but in a fairly casual way. In one corner was a group of old tanks, with mechanics working on them. In a central square about a hundred people were gathered, listening to a speech by a woman in uniform who stood precariously on a black plastic barrel. The bus passengers were ushered to a shambles of galvanised iron shelters and it was made apparent to them that this would be their accommodation.
Deciding that his position might soon become precarious, James waited long enough to watch the girl’s parents settle themselves into an iron lean-to. Then he slipped behind a wall and used his Return button.
He tried to get back into the house without being seen. It should have been easy, as it was nearly dark. But to his surprise there were people all around the building. As he turned a corner he found himself a metre away from his mother. She was facing in his direction and saw him instantly.
‘James!’ she cried. ‘Where have you been? I can’t believe it! We’ve been looking everywhere! We’ve got the Police here and Security and everything! Oh, where have you been?’ James stood staring silently at her. He noted with some surprise that there were tears in her eyes. She leaned against the wall and her shoulders convulsed as she half covered her face with her hands. James’ father came across the garden, through the trees. When he saw James he started to hurry. James darted past, to the verandah, and entered the house. As he did so he heard his father reach his mother and his mother say, ‘Oh God, what are we going to do? I think he’s getting worse.’ His father answered in a low tone. James could not hear the actual words. He ran upstairs to his bedroom.
*
HE SAT AT the window of his bedroom as the darkness brushed past. The night air whistled and whispered its many possibilities. James put out a hand and twisted a leaf around his fingers. He peered across at the old Lab 17, hoping against hope that a light would be showing in it, like old times. But the building was so dark that he had trouble making it out. He sighed and looked away, up at the sky. A few stars showed through the branches and leaves of the tree, but most were obscured. The flashing light of a satellite appeared on its steady journey across the heavens. James followed it with unwavering concentration until it was out of sight. Then, when it was gone, he sighed again, pushed himself up out of his seat by his hands and went to bed. He lay awake, his mind in turmoil. The thoughts crowded around, jumping the queue, piggybacking on each other, leading him in and out of mazes and through mirrors. After a while, still unable to sleep, he turned the bed lamp on and picked up the book he was reading. It was called Cases in Court. An old book, by a man he had never heard of. He read again a section he had first come across a few weeks earlier:
At about two am on the morning of the 6th November, 1939, a motor-car burst into flames some 200 yards from the village of Hardingstone, near Northampton. It was first noticed by two young men returning home from a dance, who saw a bright light further down the road. At the same time a man came out of a ditch by the side of the road and walked past them without speaking. Just after he passed them, he looked back and said, ‘It looks as if somebody has had a bonfire’. He then walked on down the road, seeming to hesitate as to which way to go, then turned towards London and disappeared. That man was Rouse. He was subsequently identified by the two young men and his identity must be taken as sufficiently established without the necessity for any admission of his own. The two men ran toward
s the flames and then saw that it was a motor-car blazing furiously by the side of the road. They ran on to the village and came back with the village constable. They were unable to approach the blazing car until the flames died down. They then discovered something inside which turned out to be the body of a dead man. They could make no further investigation until the fire was extinguished, by which time the car was completely demolished. It is not perhaps surprising that the trial of Rouse for the murder of the man found inside the car was described as a mystery, because from that day to this no one has ever known who the dead man was, or how or for what purpose he was killed.
The action of the police on discovering the body was not particularly helpful to themselves. No photographs were taken of the body or of the car before it was moved, and the car itself was left unwatched by the police for a considerable period.
James laid down the book, turned out the light again and went back to the window. A baby possum that the boy had been feeding occasionally ran along a branch near the window. He was growing big and fat. But a clanging noise from a nearby building frightened him and he hurried further up the tree, with a clatter of leaves and twigs. James noticed that, unlike past days, the possum did not scuttle to his mother when alarmed. James was pleased in a way by the increased independence and maturity of the little creature but disappointed too, as the baby possums were always more tractable and trusting. Seeing the mother on a branch just below him James called out quietly but firmly to her, ‘Yes, Ma P, you’re going to have to let him go. He’s too big for you now. He won’t be coming by so often.’
Suddenly he realised with a shock that he was hearing his own voice inside his own house. He withdrew his head quickly and hoped that no-one had been listening.
THERE WERE ONLY two things that he could imagine might be wrong. One was that the parents might have moved, or been moved, from the camp, and he would not be able to find them. The second was that he might not be able to convince them to come with him. He could think of other problems too, but none that should be beyond his competence.
The first problem turned out not to be one at all, though he got the impression that he was just in time. He found the parents sitting at one end of the biggest compound, with their pitiful bags of possessions at their feet. They had the appearance of people about to resume a journey. Rather to his surprise they recognised him and showed pleasure at the sight of him. They evidently remembered him as a digging partner in the excavations back in Freedom Square. They may not have realised that they were digging for the same girl – though James, knowing what he did, had dug with little zeal – but perhaps they sensed that their purpose had been the same.
They were puzzled but willing when James beckoned them away. And they brought their possessions with them when he indicated that they should. They followed him to one of the rough wire fences that formed a boundary of the camp. James had timed his arrival for dusk but the security around the area was now so lax that they could probably have slipped away in daylight. James gestured to the man and the woman that they should follow him across the crude barrier. But this was not so easily managed. The old people showed reluctance, concern. They looked at him questioningly, hands outstretched, palms upwards. James had thought of only one solution to this predictable dilemma and he was not sure that it was going to be good enough to work. He took a stick and began drawing in the dust. First he drew an irregular figure in the approximate shape of the camp. Then he drew a winding road, pointing away to the north as he did so. Finally he drew a building with a large cross on it. He looked up. The two parents were watching him carefully. He reached across to the face of the mother and gently drew on it with his thumb the exact shape of their daughter’s scar. At last he had broken through their reserve. They talked to each other excitedly. He could not tell what their decision was likely to be, though he scanned their faces anxiously and tried to pick up the nuances in their conversation. They talked for several minutes. Though James could not know it, they were agreeing that this strange Caucasian boy seemed to be offering them their only chance to find their daughter. No matter what the dangers of going with him, they could not afford not to go. And why should he wish them any harm anyway? Surely one so young would not go to all this trouble out of malice?
And so at last they turned and looked at James gravely, nodded their heads and gestured to him to lead them. It was now quite dark. It was not clear what would happen to anyone who tried to leave the camp – perhaps nothing – but the three of them exercised great care when getting across the fence. Within ten minutes however they were on a dirt track, hurrying away from the enclosed area. And soon they were on the road that James recognised, the road they had been taken down on their journey from Freedom Square, the road north. Within another ten minutes, James, knowing that they could not walk the entire way and knowing that his time was limited, began trying to thumb a lift. After a short time they were picked up by an empty army truck.
IN HER DREARY hospital bed the girl shifted restlessly for a moment, before lying back on the pillow and slipping again into the pallid, vapid state that was causing her doctor more concern each day. Her eyes settled on a dead spider that hung in its own web in a corner of the ceiling. The spider, lifeless, moved and lifted at the merest breath of a breeze. The girl felt that if she blinked the spider would dance. She tried it. To her astonishment the spider bounced and spun. Then she realised that its activity was precipitated not by the flick of her eyelids but by the door to her small room, which had opened quietly. She turned her head slowly, listlessly, and saw a sight she had believed she would never see again. One parent would have made her happy. Two was overwhelming. The shock and joy of the reunion was so violent that afterwards none of the three could remember anything of it. They came gradually to the realisation that they were together, gathered in and around a bed in a makeshift hospital. By the time they thought to look for James again, he was gone.
AFTER JAMES’ LAST use of Mr Woodforde’s machine he could not quite remember whether he had actually used it or whether he had merely used his memory and his mind. It was his last night with Ellie. She had asthma all day, and his parents had left her at home with him, telling him to ‘look after her, be careful with her’. His parents had gone to a birthday party for one of the researchers at a restaurant. It wasn’t even someone they liked, but it was a party. James was annoyed at them for going, sulky when they actually left. He ignored Ellie for the first half-hour or so, refusing to take his eyes from the TV when she spoke, trying to shut out the noise of her ragged, hungry breathing.
‘What do you want to eat?’ he at last asked ungraciously, getting up and taking a couple of steps towards the kitchen.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Don’t be stupid, you’ve got to eat something.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos you’ll starve if you don’t.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
‘Well, this is your only chance. I’m going to make myself some tea now, and I’m not making anything later just for you.’
‘OK, don’t.’ Then she added, as he went to the door, ‘What are you having?’
‘I don’t know, I’ll see what’s there. Probably microwave something. Are there any of those hamburgers left?’
‘Don’t think so, unless Mum got some more. I had the last one yesterday.’
She drew back, into and under her doona, as James went out to the kitchen. ‘Stupid asthma,’ he thought, ‘I hate it. Half the time she puts it on, anyway.’
At about eight o’clock they had a foul argument over television shows. Ellie wanted to watch ‘Do We Dare?’ James wanted to watch ‘Highway 32’.
Ellie was in tears. James was being cold and sarcastic.
‘Go and watch it upstairs if you want to see it that badly,’ he said at last.
‘No, you go, why should I go?’
‘ “Do We Dare” is so dumb. Guess it’s lucky “Sesame Street” isn’t on or you’d want to watch that.�
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James prevailed, largely because he had the remote control. Ellie stayed huddled in her doona, sucking her thumb, only half watching the television. Wet tear traces, like snail tracks, marked each cheek. Occasionally she gave a little sob. Her breathing was worse.
‘Do you want the pump?’ he said at last.
‘Yes please.’
‘Can you wait until the next ad?’
‘OK.’
A few minutes later James switched channels to ‘Do We Dare?’. ‘ “Highway 32” is pathetic now, since Johnno left,’ he said. He was rewarded by a tiny flash of a smile from Ellie through the mask.
She went to bed at about nine, saying she felt better, although she did not look it.
‘Do you want me to carry you up?’ he asked, not sure that he could anyway.
‘Nuh,’ she said, ‘I’m too fat and heavy for you.’
‘You’re not fat,’ he said.
Later, when he went to bed himself he noticed that her light was still on. He hesitated by her door, wondering if he should disturb her or not. She was such a light sleeper. He went on to his own room. He awoke only once during the night, when his parents came home. They sounded drunk, laughing and crashing around. He wrinkled his face in disgust, rolled over and went to sleep.
