Tomorrow 4 - Darkness, Be My Friend

by John Marsden

  That’s what I mean. Just silly stuff like that. We had enough years in front of us to be serious and grown-up and respectable. Why rush it?

  But on the other hand we always complained when teachers and other adults treated us as kids. In fact there was nothing that annoyed me more. So it was a frustrating situation. What we needed was a two-sided badge that said ‘Mature’ on one side and ‘Childish’ on the other. Then at any moment we could turn it to whatever side we felt like being and the adults could treat us accordingly.

  One thing did make me think, though. It wasn’t exactly all these people telling me about kids in other countries being in the army when they were ten. I mean, if you listened to that stuff you’d think that babies in nappies were parachuting out of aircraft with M16’s in their little paws. No, what I did wonder about was those photos of Aboriginal kids being ini­tiated as full adults, full members of the tribe. Because in every photo they looked to be about ten or eleven years old. And I’d always wondered about that. If they were fit to be full adults when they were ten, what was wrong with us that we weren’t ready till we were twenty or twenty-one? Or in some cases even older. I knew twenty-four-year-olds who were still treated like little kids. Randall McPhail, for instance. Sometimes I didn’t think he was ever going to grow up. He was twenty-eight and still living with his parents, still burning around the district in his hotted-up Holden ute with stickers on the back say­ing things like ‘No ute, no circle work’ or ‘I survived the Stratton B&S’.

  Every time I saw him I was like, ‘Grow up, Randall.’

  Well, that’s the way he was before the war. Maybe the war had made him grow up. But it shouldn’t need a war to do that.

  Everything you said now had to be dated as either before the war, or after the war started. It wasn’t BC or AD any more; it was BW and AW.

  The thing is, I wanted a Holden ute too, and I loved B&S’s, but I sort of assumed that by the time I was twenty-eight I’d have moved on to something else. I hoped I would have.

  That still didn’t solve my puzzle about the Aboriginal kids. Maybe it was because they had a shorter life expectancy in those days, so you had to grow up faster. Maybe now, with modern medicine and stuff, you could take longer with childhood; there wasn’t such a rush to move on to the next stage. After all, that’s what had happened with us. Our life expectancy had been reduced because of the war. And we’d sure grown up fast.

  Eventually the soldiers and Lee got tired of cricket. They wandered off and sprawled out under trees and bushes. Iain had four people on sentry duty this time, so that soaked up a lot of the troops. I actu­ally volunteered to do some but he thanked me politely and explained that he wanted me fresh for the walk through Wirrawee that night.

  ‘Typical Iain,’ I thought cynically, ‘always sugar-coating everything.’ If he wanted you to do the wash­ing up he’d tell you it was hand aerobics and you needed the exercise. If he didn’t want you to do it, he’d tell you he wanted your hands kept dirty so they didn’t shine at night. OK, slight exaggeration maybe, but I was still sure that somewhere sometime he’d done courses on how to get people to do what he wanted. It never felt quite sincere.

  I saw Lee on the other side of the hill. He was sit­ting under a thin black wattle, an oddly shaped tree that seemed to have gone into contortions and tied itself into a knot. I had a sudden urge to be with him so I walked up there. He was scratching in the ground with a stick. He didn’t look up when I got there so I just stood and watched for a while. I realised he was writing his name, then rubbing it out, then writing it again. Sometimes he’d write it plainly and sometimes ornately. Then he wrote my name. I laughed and he rubbed it out. Then he threw the stick away. I felt a bit guilty that I’d laughed, though I don’t know why. I sat down beside him. Neither of us said anything for a while, then he said, ‘Remember that exercise we did in English once, where we had to say what we’d save?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Oh maybe it was a different class. I think it was Mrs Savvas in Year 8. We had to say which things we’d save if our house was burning down.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I can’t remember them all. We had to name five things, I think. I know everyone said their photos, their photo albums. I probably said my violin. Belinda Norris said her Barbies, I remember that. We paid her out for months afterwards.’

  ‘Trust Belinda.’

  ‘Yeah. But what I was thinking about was, it’s hap­pened to us, hasn’t it? Like, our houses have burnt down and we haven’t saved much.’

  I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure where this was heading.

  Lee said carefully: ‘Suppose when we finish show­ing them what they want to see in Wirrawee, I get away for an hour, and go back to my place and pick up a few things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Lee started scraping another name into the dirt, with his finger this time. I couldn’t see what the name was.

  ‘My grandfather,’ he said slowly. ‘When he was alive, there was this scroll ...’

  And suddenly Lee was crying. It took me a minute to realise, because he did it so quietly. He hadn’t changed his position: he was still sitting there but his body was shaking. It was like – this sounds terrible but it’s the only way I can describe it – it was like someone was running a low-voltage electric current through him. I couldn’t see his face, but I could pic­ture it. His teeth would be clenched and his eyes closed tight. I put my hand over his and held it; no, not just held it but kneaded it with my fingers, over and over again. But there was nothing I could really do. The tears flowed and flowed. And the strange thing was that he didn’t make a single sound. Silent crying. There’s something awful about that. I don’t know why it seems so terrible, maybe just the feeling that he was crying without letting himself cry. And it went on and on. I thought he’d never stop. I wasn’t exactly timing it, but it could have been half an hour.

  When he at last seemed to have stopped I moved up a little higher so I was beside him, and I put my arm around him. We stayed together like that for a long time. I was starting to realise that my relation­ship with Lee might not be completely over. I still had very strong feelings where he was concerned. I just wasn’t sure what those feelings were. In the past when I’d ended a relationship, that was it: I never had a thought of reviving it. It was definitely like that with Steve. But maybe being in so many isolated sit­uations with Lee meant that different rules applied now.

  The rules for everything else had changed. Why not for relationships?

  Chapter Seven

  Wirrawee had certainly changed, almost beyond belief. There’d been hints of it as we walked in there, but we’d kept away from the road as much as possible, so we had no real warning. From time to time I’d seen glimpses of cars and trucks, and most of them were travelling at good speeds, with headlights on full. It seemed that since the bombing raids had been reduced they felt a lot more confident.

  They felt pretty confident in Wirrawee itself. I soon found that out. It was 11.30 p.m. when we started our cautious approach to the town. Ursula and Lee and I were leading: we came over the little hill on Coachman’s Lane that was always such a bug­ger on the fun run – it came just near the end, when you had no energy left – and to our surprise there were lights everywhere. It was party time in Wirrawee. Even New Zealand hadn’t been like this, because they had electricity restrictions there, brownouts and even blackouts. Some of that was because they were getting short of electricity, some because they were scared of being bombed. They didn’t want to give bombers a nice bright easy target. Their best defence against being attacked was world opinion, which was mainly on our side. But I sup­pose the brownouts were fair enough. Playing it safe.

  The lights in Wirrawee weren’t anything out of the ordinary. It was just the shock after what we were used to – and compared to what we’d been expecting. It was the fact that it all looked so ordinary, in the middle of a war. I’d thought they’d be hiding in the dark, like w
e were used to doing.

  But the streetlights were all on, and here and there a house or shop was still lit up, as though the people were staying awake to watch ‘Rage’ or some­thing. Around the Showground the big spotlights were definitely on: so strong they seemed to burn the air.

  It was one of the weirdest feelings I’ve ever had, to know that my parents were probably there, so close to me, less than a k away. As close as we had been for nearly a year. Only once, when I’d been in the carpark itself, had I been any closer. Now I wished I could fly over and land beside them. Or call out, as loudly as I could, ‘Hello, I’m here! Hello, Mum! Hello, Dad!’

  As we stood there, looking out across the town, I took Lee’s hand in mine. I don’t think he even noticed. His hand was trembling slightly. It felt like the fluttering wings of a gentle butterfly. At this moment I didn’t even remember that these same hands had taken human life, had killed. I certainly wasn’t thinking of the fact that my hands too had taken life. For that moment I was close to Lee again, as close as I’d ever been.

  Away to the west was the other big change in Wirrawee. We’d heard a little about it, but it was still weird to see it there. It was the airfield. Wirrawee had always had an airfield, of course, but just a paddock with a runway and hangar, and a small brick building called the Wirrawee Aviation Club. There were never more than six or eight small planes there. Comparing it to this new military airbase was like comparing a milk bar to the Centrepoint Shopping Complex.

  And this place sure was complex. The thin dirt strip, good enough for the little Cessnas, had been replaced by a long concrete runway, gleaming in the dim lights that now surrounded the whole area. A tall cyclone fence stretched away into the distance. The Wirrawee Aviation Clubhouse was just a little thing stuck on the side of a big new grey building, three storeys high. It must have been thrown up in a hurry, and probably wasn’t even finished, because there was still scaffolding on one side of it. I thought I could see a couple of bulldozers in the shadows near the scaf­folding.

  Iain had already moved a hundred metres down the hill and was waiting for us to catch up. Kind of reluctantly, remembering we were meant to be lead­ing, I went down there, passed him, and took up my position. Lee and Ursula were both in front of me, on the other side of the road. In front of me on my side was a man called Tim, a very solid-looking brown guy from Nauru.

  We set off. The Kiwis had a method of moving through the town, not much different to the way we’d done it. I was quite pleased about that, thinking maybe we hadn’t been so amateurish after all. It was a leapfrog technique, where the first people sneaked down the street, one on each side of the road, then stopped in a good hiding spot. The second pair fol­lowed them, passed them, and went on in the same way until they too stopped in a good place, and waited for the first pair. Behind us the others were doing the same thing. Lee was on the opposite side of the street, so that if either of us wanted to warn the Kiwis about something dangerous we could do it easily: I’d tell Tim as I went past him, and Lee would tell Ursula.

  We were going along Warrigle Road, not far from the Mathers’, and I knew I’d have to struggle not to be affected by that. We’d spent a lot of happy times at Robyn’s place: my parents and I had gone there for barbeques every few months, and one drought year, when our swimming dam dried up, I’d practically lived in their pool. But I had to be tough, tough in my mind, and sternly tell myself not to think about Robyn. ‘It’s just for an hour or two,’ I pleaded with her silently. ‘Don’t be too angry with me.’

  I focused my eyes on the first dark patch we were heading for, a spot under a bush about a hundred metres along, between two pools of light from street lamps. The street was silent, nothing moving. I remembered the first time I had left somewhere safe and entered a hostile area: in the carpark at the Showground, way back. I felt then that coming out of those shadows had changed me forever.

  I walked like a cat down the street towards the dark spot. I felt that this walk changed me too. It wasn’t quite as crass as me saying to the enemy, ‘I’m back’, but it was something like that. Perhaps I was saying to myself, ‘I’m back’, or ‘I’m functioning again, I’m showing some guts and determination again’. Whatever. I do know that my senses were very alert. I was scanning the street like I had radar behind my eyes; my ears felt super-sensitive. I could feel each lit­tle soft touch of the cool night on my face.

  And because I was so hyped up, as I got halfway along the stretch of footpath something made me pause. It was a faint flutter against my skin. Just the slightest movement of air. I hesitated, then stopped. Opposite me Ursula did the same. That was the agreement, that if one person stopped, then the other would too, immediately. I felt a bit silly, thinking it was probably nothing, a false alarm, and to stop like this so early in our walk would have them thinking I was scared.

  But I still just stood there, listening, quivering with tension, trying to pick up a signal, trying to decide if I was imagining things.

  And I heard a distinct crunch of a footstep on gravel, close by, to my left.

  There wasn’t meant to be a footstep there.

  Something shrank inside my stomach, something curled up to a little black ball in there, something shrivelled and died. It affected me so much I couldn’t move. The strength I’d been feeling moments earlier, the rebirth of courage, if that’s what it was, perished like a prune. About a metre in front of me was a let­terbox in the shape of a rabbit; next to that was what looked like a set of steps, maybe three or four. From where I stood my view was blocked by a small thick ugly conifer, not much bigger than me but enough to hide whoever was there. It seemed like it’d be one of those bare frontyards with nothing much but grass, and concrete paths. I couldn’t be sure of that: it was just an impression I got.

  A second later a man came down the steps. He was walking quickly and confidently, but lightly. He didn’t look right or left, which was lucky for me. He went along the footpath about twenty-five metres to a parked Volvo station wagon. He must have been fairly close to Lee and Tim at that point, but I wasn’t sure how close because I couldn’t see them at all. The man was wearing Army trousers, with a plain white T-shirt and a black jacket. His feet were bare. He used a key to open the boot of the car and he took out a small brown briefcase. I was watching every­thing, seeing everything vividly, but all this time I still hadn’t been able to move. The man locked the boot again and began to turn to come back. Now I knew I should have moved when I had the chance. My skin began to prickle all over, every inch of it. It was the weirdest feeling. Even my scalp, under my hair, was prickling. I knew my face was burning red even though, of course, I couldn’t see it myself.

  And I still couldn’t move.

  The man was walking straight towards me. I’d for­gotten about Lee, forgotten about the Kiwis. The world had shrunk to him and me, the man and me. He was walking lightly still, on his way to do some work perhaps, even at this time of night.

  I did move one part of me then. My eyes. I moved my eyes. Because somewhere to my right I sensed a flicker of activity. Just a flicker. But my eyes went to it. It was Ursula silently stealthily crossing the road. She was moving with long strides. It was like watch­ing a dragonfly darting from one lilypad to another.

  A sharp gleam flashed from her hand. It was a knife, catching the reflection of the streetlight.

  Who knows what might have happened? When you stand still, utterly still and silent, people can walk right past you and not notice you. Even animals can. I used to trick our old dog, Millie, like that.

  ‘Utterly still and utterly silent,’ I was telling myself. ‘That’s your only chance. Not a move. Still and silent.’

  I screamed.

  Now, thinking about it, writing about it, I can understand it a little. And ‘to understand is to for­give’. Isn’t it? That’s what they say. So it must be right.

  I understand that I screamed because of all the stuff we’d been through, and because I’d seen too many people killed al
ready, and because I’d once seen Lee use a knife to kill a man, and because I’d killed people in cold blood myself. And because of Robyn. I understand all that. And there’s nothing else I need to know about it, is there?

  Is there?

  When I think back like this, like I’m doing now, I seem to remember my scream as a kind of guttural noise, a hacking kind of cry. Maybe it was more a sob than a scream. I guess that was the only thing I did right. It was a low, hoarse sound, not a high-decibel glass-shattering scream that brought people to their doors and set dogs barking and cats yowling. So it was our good luck that only the one enemy soldier heard it.

  After I screamed, I turned and ran. I’m not proud of any of this; that must be obvious; but it’s what I did. I ran straight into Iain who’d been coming up fast behind me. He handed me on to someone else, I don’t know who it was, while he went swiftly for­ward. I collapsed onto this other guy, clinging to him, half-sobbing, trying to fall down and at the same time trying to keep to my feet. I tried not to listen to the sounds behind me, but I couldn’t not hear the gurgling sobbing noises as they killed him. I don’t know what they did with the body either, I think there was some discussion about whether to make it look like an accident or whether to get rid of it where it couldn’t be found. It was a real problem for them because they needed to stay under cover for another twenty-four hours or more. I could hear Lee’s voice as they held their whispered conversation and I hated him for staying so calm and in control when I was not.

  Anyway, I don’t know what they finally decided, or what they did. I don’t want to know.

  After some time a soldier called Bui-Tersa came and got me from the guy who’d been looking after me. She was East Timorese and probably the youngest of all the New Zealand commandos. She was a quiet dark-haired girl with quick alert eyes and a wicked sense of humour. She’d told me her name meant Thursday’s Woman; it’s a Timorese custom to name children after the day of their birth. I was grateful she’d be looking after me. I knew, of course, that they would never let me go on with them after what had happened. I knew there was no question that I’d have to go back. So I didn’t put up any resis­tance, just let her lead me quickly and quietly through the streets and out of Wirrawee into the countryside.