Devil Danger

by Justin D'Ath

  Peewee shrugged. ‘I know that.’

  ‘So be a team player. If I say keep your voice down, keep your voice down.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  She turned to me. ‘How’s the baby doing?’

  ‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘I gave him a bottle and now he’s sleeping.’

  The nice kidnapper patted me on the back. ‘He’s a man of many talents, this one. He knows how to change nappies and everything.’

  ‘Quite the little mother, aren’t you?’ said the boss.

  I felt my face turn red. ‘I was wondering if there’s some way to warm up his next bottle? I’m worried how cold …’

  That’s as far as I got. Because suddenly nobody was paying any attention to me. All five kidnappers were listening to something else. The chainsaw had started up again.

  It only ran for a few seconds, then fell silent. But this time it had sounded close.

  ‘Steve, Angelo, Cain – come with me,’ the boss said. ‘Peewee, stay here and keep an eye on Mr Mum.’

  The four of them slipped out through a narrow gap between the sawmill’s big double doors. That left me and Tommy alone with Peewee – the least friendly of all five kidnappers. And he didn’t look happy about being left behind.

  He took his frustration out on me.

  ‘Quite the little mother, aren’t you?’ he said, mimicking the boss’s voice.

  I didn’t say anything. It didn’t seem worth it, seeing as I was looking down the barrel of his pistol.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, wussy boy?’ he taunted.

  I guess he had a reason to dislike me – I’d kicked snow in his face up on the mountain, sending him head-first into a clump of saplings. But nobody had ever called me a wuss before.

  ‘If you didn’t have a pistol,’ I said, ‘and I didn’t have a baby, we’d find out who’s the wuss.’

  Something seemed to spark at the back of Peewee’s eyes. A tiny grin drew his lips back, exposing small, narrow teeth. He reminded me of a rat.

  ‘Want to try me, do you?’ he asked.

  Peewee and I were evenly matched in body size, but he was an adult. Fourteen-year-olds don’t have the muscles of men. But I did have an orange belt in karate. This could be my chance to escape from the kidnappers. The other four were outside. It was just me and Peewee.

  ‘Only if you get rid of the pistol,’ I said.

  I didn’t think he would do it. But Peewee turned, walked across to the hulk of the giant saw and laid his pistol on its rusty engine casing. Then he came back, pumping his fists like a boxer.

  I hoped he wasn’t really a boxer.

  ‘No pistol,’ Peewee said, showing me his empty hands. ‘Your move, Mr Mum.’

  There was no way out of it. I had to fight him. Heart racing, I stepped up into the campervan and made a nest out of sleeping bags on the floor where the kidnappers had been sitting. My hands were shaking. Removing Tommy from the front of my ski suit, I settled him snugly among the sleeping bags. He made a soft gurgling sound, but didn’t wake up.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ I whispered, and touched one of his rosy pink cheeks with my fingertip.

  Then I went out to face Peewee.

  11

  ANGER MANAGEMENT

  Peewee raised his fists. They were large compared to the rest of him. And knobbly. He did look like a boxer.

  A shiver ran through me.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said.

  I sat down on the metal step below the campervan’s doorway and began unclipping my ski boots.

  ‘Getting cold feet?’ Peewee jeered.

  I let him have his joke. Cold feet were better than clumsy feet. It was hard enough just walking in ski boots. Fighting in them would be impossible. I removed my socks as well – all three pairs. Karate is a barefoot sport. Your feet are weapons.

  I had another weapon, too. Psychology. My karate instructor had taught me to fight with my brain as well as my body. Study your opponent and find his weaknesses, he’d advised. Then use his weaknesses against him.

  Peewee had anger management problems. I’d known him for only a couple of hours, but already I’d seen him lose his temper – or come close to losing it – on four occasions.

  It was time for number five.

  ‘Why do they call you Peewee?’ I asked. ‘Is it because you’ve got a really small brain?’

  Something in Peewee seemed to snap. His eyes bugged out, his jaw quivered, his face turned red. He muttered something under his breath – it sounded more like an animal snarl than a word – then charged.

  If Peewee had any boxing skills to begin with, they totally disappeared when he lost his temper. Instead of attacking with his fists, he rushed at me with fingers splayed, as if he wanted to claw my eyes out. Or wrap his big hands around my neck and throttle me. I didn’t wait to find out. Twisting around, I put up an elbow block and hit him in the kidney area with a spinning side kick. He grunted and doubled over, slumping against the campervan to stop himself falling.

  ‘Had enough?’ I asked.

  Peewee didn’t answer. His shoulders heaved and his breath came in big, whistling sobs.

  ‘You’d better sit down,’ I said, scared I’d hit him too hard.

  I needn’t have worried. Suddenly, Peewee pushed himself away from the campervan and hurled himself at me like a pro wrestler bouncing off the ropes.

  There wasn’t time to think, only to react. I met Peewee’s attack with a double front snap kick to his midsection, and followed up with a forearm strike to his chin. Peewee went down like a sack of cement.

  He was out for the count.

  I was pumped. I’d taken on a man in unarmed combat and beaten him fair and square!

  But I’d only won the battle, I hadn’t won the war (as my father would say). There were four more kidnappers outside, all of them armed. I ran to the giant saw and picked up Peewee’s pistol. That evened things up a bit. But it was still four against one – impossible odds. If it came to a shoot-out, I’d have no chance.

  I had to get away before the others came back.

  But I couldn’t leave Tommy behind.

  I ran back to the campervan and yanked the driver’s door open. Thank you, Steve! He’d left the key in the ignition. Putting the pistol carefully on the passenger seat, I climbed in and started the engine. I’d forgotten to open the big sawmill doors but that didn’t matter. They weren’t locked. I could smash my way out. I clunked the transmission into reverse and gave it some juice.

  Then I remembered something else I’d forgotten – Peewee. He was lying directly behind the campervan. I’d been about to drive over him!

  Applying the handbrake, I jumped out and charged around the back. Peewee was sitting up, massaging his neck and turning his head stiffly from side to side.

  ‘I’m going to reverse the truck,’ I said. ‘You’d better get out of the way.’

  Peewee stopped working on his neck and stretched both hands towards me. ‘Can you help me up? I can’t move my legs.’

  He was bluffing. I could see the cunning look in his weasly eyes. He just wanted me to go close enough so he could grab me.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ I said.

  I turned to close the campervan’s rear door. And nearly tripped on my boots and socks lying on the concrete below the step. I’d forgotten all about them in my panic to get away before the other kidnappers returned. Forgotten I was barefoot. My toes were freezing! But cold toes were the least of my problems. The boss and the others could be back at any moment. I flung my boots and socks in the back with Tommy and slammed the door.

  Too late. I heard a scuffling noise behind me and started to turn my head.

  The last thing I saw was a huge knobbly fist, coming at me like a sledgehammer.

  WHAM!

  12

  DR MUM

  I woke up lying flat on my back in a tiny room. The walls were made of brick, the sloping roof was rusty iron. There was a small grimy window high on one wall. A washbasin was bolted to anot
her wall and my head rested against something smooth and hard and cold. I blinked up at the curve of white china above me and realised where I was – in a toilet.

  Locked in a toilet, I soon discovered. The door rattled but wouldn’t open.

  I had a thumping headache and the entire right side of my face felt swollen and bruised. So much for beating Peewee in unarmed combat. I’d won round one, but he’d come back at the beginning of round two with a knockout punch. Well, maybe slightly before the beginning of round two, but the result couldn’t be contested.

  I’d been TKO’d.

  I felt dizzy and had to sit down on the toilet seat until the spinning sensation stopped. It was cold. My bare toes were halfway to becoming ice cubes and I could see my breath. I blew on my hands to warm them. According to my watch, it was 5.05 in the afternoon. I looked up at the window. The top of a tree and a small patch of grey sky were visible through the discoloured glass. I stood on the toilet seat to see what else was outside. Lots more trees, with ferns growing beneath them, and a shed. The shed looked a lot newer than the sawmill. Made of corrugated iron, it was about the size of a double garage. There was a roller door at one end and, above it, a sign partly obscured by an overhanging branch. I rubbed the glass to clear it, but most of the grime was on the outside. Straining my eyes, I could just make out two words: KING CLUB. Weird.

  Suddenly I heard a chainsaw. The noise seemed to come from the King Club. It revved about three times and stopped, replaced by the crazy laughter of a kookaburra. Next I heard a seagull, then a black cockatoo.

  A large brown bird came stalking around the corner of the shed. It was the size of a rooster, with a long brown-and-white tail. It stopped near the roller door, spread its tail like a fan, and started shaking it. The chainsaw revved again. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that what I was seeing and what I was hearing went together. The bird was making the chainsaw noise!

  It was a lyrebird. They’re the world’s best mimics. They can imitate almost any sound they hear. This lyrebird must have heard a chainsaw once. And a barking dog, because that’s what it did next. Then it warbled like a magpie.

  Suddenly the lyrebird lowered its tail. Head tilted, it seemed to peer in my direction. Then it shot back around the side of the shed and disappeared into the ferns.

  Two figures came running into view from almost below me. It was Steve and the ‘nice’ kidnapper – Angelo. They both carried pistols. Steve opened the roller door and looked into the shed. Angelo ran around the back. They were searching for someone with a chainsaw.

  Search all you like, I thought, you’re not going to find anyone. It made me smile. That was a mistake. Smiling hurt. The right half of my face felt like a giant bruise.

  Several minutes later, the two kidnappers came walking back towards the sawmill. They’d put their pistols away and both men were smiling.

  ‘It sounded so real!’ Angelo said.

  Steve laughed. ‘Wait till the boss finds out we’ve spent half the day hiding from a smart-mouthed bird!’

  Angelo passed within three metres of my window. I thought about tapping on the glass and asking for food – suddenly I was starving – but decided not to attract attention to myself. A plan was forming in my mind. As long as the kidnappers thought I was unconscious, they would leave me alone. Once it got dark, I might be able to break the window and escape.

  There was a scraping noise on the other side of the door. Before I could drop to the floor and pretend to be unconscious, the door creaked open and Peewee stood there.

  So much for my plan.

  ‘The boss wants you,’ he said.

  Then he followed me with his pistol. I noticed he was limping. He’d think twice before calling me a wuss again.

  Peewee didn’t have to show me where to go. We were inside the big shadowy sawmill and I could see a light down the other end. I could also hear a radio playing and Tommy crying.

  The kidnappers had set up two folding tables next to the campervan. They sat around them on camp chairs while Steve cooked sausages on a portable gas cooker. Soft country music came from a radio on one of the tables, and a hissing lantern dangled from an overhead beam. It looked like a peaceful camping scene, except it was indoors.

  But thanks to Tommy, it certainly wasn’t peaceful.

  ‘Waah waah waah!’

  ‘Look who’s back in the land of the living,’ the boss said, speaking loudly to make herself heard above Tommy’s racket. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Sore,’ I said.

  The boss aimed a finger at me, like an imaginary gun. ‘Play the hero again, and do you know what’ll happen?’

  I nodded. Next time I played the hero, she and her gang would get what they deserved.

  ‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ the boss said. She waved a hand in the direction of the campervan. ‘Now make yourself useful, Mr Mum, and shut that baby up.’

  I found Tommy on the bed. Someone had made a bassinette for him out of a carton lined with blankets. A mostly full bottle lay next to him, leaking milk into the bedding. But Tommy wasn’t interested in milk – and especially not cold milk. The poor little guy was so upset his face was nearly purple. One sniff told me what the problem was. The kidnappers were useless! Lifting the baby prince out of the tangled blankets, I carried him out of the van.

  ‘Hey!’ Peewee cried, when I plonked Tommy on the table between the bread and a plate of sausages. ‘We’re trying to eat, here.’

  ‘I’ve got to change his nappy,’ I said, unsnapping a row of buttons.

  ‘Not near the food!’ growled the boss.

  ‘I need to see what I’m doing,’ I said, peeling off the first layer of Tommy’s clothing. ‘This is the only bright place.’

  It took the kidnappers about five seconds to clear the table. They put everything on the second table, then dragged it several metres from where I was changing Tommy. He’d stopped crying, but he still looked red and angry.

  ‘Someone get me a clean nappy,’ I said.

  Angelo got up and fetched one from the campervan. He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Diarrhoea?’ he asked, sounding concerned.

  It wasn’t diarrhoea, it was just a poopy nappy. But the kidnappers seemed to know nothing about babies. I had an idea.

  ‘It’s worse,’ I said. ‘See how red he is? I think he’s got a fever.’

  Tommy was red because he’d been crying so hard. But Angelo fell for it.

  ‘Hey, boss,’ he called. ‘The baby’s crook.’

  The boss came over. She looked down at Tommy with a slightly revolted expression on her face. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘He’s burning up,’ I said, touching his bright red forehead. ‘We need to get him to a hospital.’

  The boss shook her head. ‘He stays here,’ she said flatly.

  ‘He might die.’

  The boss looked me in the eye. ‘How would you like a promotion, Mr Mum?’

  I shrugged. What was she talking about?

  ‘From now on you’re Dr Mum,’ the boss said. ‘And here’s the deal: the baby dies, you die.’

  13

  HERO

  Being Dr Mum had its good points. I was no longer locked in the toilet. Now I was locked in the back of the stationary campervan with Tommy. I wasn’t worried about him dying, but our captors were. Kidnapping a prince was a really serious crime, but if he died they’d be murderers. That gave me a lot of bargaining power. All I had to do was bang on the door and someone would come to see what I wanted. A freshly warmed bottle for Tommy. Four sausages wrapped in bread (and dripping tomato sauce) for me. A cup of tea. Panadol for my headache. A torch so I could see what I was doing once it got dark. Spare blankets to keep Tommy and me warm. A bucket of warm water, some soap and a towel. They even took away Tommy’s used nappies when I asked them to. And Angelo found my socks.

  Apart from Tommy waking me every few hours for a feed and a nappy change, I had quite a restful night. But I didn’t sleep deeply
. Even when my tired body had shut down, part of me remained alert, listening to every noise that filtered through the campervan’s thin walls. There was a lot of snoring. The kidnappers had unrolled their sleeping bags on the sawmill floor just outside the van. And the radio stayed on all night. Every half-hour there was a news report, and nearly all the news was about the kidnapping of Crown Prince Thomas.

  A massive search was underway. It was the biggest police operation in Australian history, but so far they had no clues.

  In later reports there was an interview with Princess Monica, who begged the kidnappers to give her baby back. She even mentioned me, and called me a hero.

  The Police Commissioner said I was a hero, too.

  It felt strange hearing my name on the radio. The police were also searching for me. They thought I might be dead. I wished I could let everyone know that I was alive, especially Mum and Dad.

  At the end of one report, the newsreader said the police were still waiting to hear from the kidnappers. He said Princess Monica and Prince Nicklaus were prepared to pay a million dollars for the safe return of Crown Prince Thomas.

  The boss scoffed when she heard this. ‘Only one million?’ she said to the radio. ‘Isn’t your future king worth more to you than that?’

  I was feeding Tommy at the time. Locked in the back of the campervan with the kidnapped crown prince in my arms. And suddenly, for no reason I could think of, I started shaking all over. It was so bad I had to clench my teeth to stop them rattling. Tommy felt me trembling. He pulled away from the bottle and looked up at me.

  There was a worried expression in his big blue eyes.

  ‘It’s okay, little guy,’ I whispered, raising him to my shoulder to burp him. ‘We’ll get out of this somehow.’

  A car engine woke me shortly before dawn. It wasn’t the campervan; it was outside the sawmill. At first I thought it was the police come to rescue us. But the vehicle wasn’t coming, it was going. I heard it rattle across the bridge and drive off into the night.