Tomorrow 4 - Darkness, Be My Friend

by John Marsden

  Lee said, ‘I agree.’

  Homer said, ‘It wasn’t half-obvious that’s what you were going to say.’

  Fi said, ‘OK.’

  Kevin said, ‘Oh God, not more days hiding in Wirrawee.’

  But he was the only one to complain. And I did have some sympathy with him. The boredom, the solid hour upon hour of doing absolutely nothing, of waiting for the clock to tick away another day, of feel­ing that each day consisted of 120 hours, of playing stupid meaningless card games, of arguing over trivia, of having to do sentry duty where you’d stare out into the street with nothing to look at but know­ing that if you took your eyes away for a second it might mean the death of your friends, the sense that you had all this energy but you couldn’t find anything to do with it ... I hated, Kevin hated, we all hated these terrible days holed up in little corners like scared rats.

  But we still wanted to stay alive. When all was said and done, that was the ultimate motivation. And so we trudged on, with nothing much to look forward to but the right to stay alive a little longer. Lee came up beside me as we walked along and, although he didn’t say anything, I felt a little better that he was there.

  Walk, walk, walk, that was all we seemed to do. And towards dawn I had to get everyone to speed up even further, because I realised we were getting short of time. So we had to half-jog to reach Warrigle Street.

  The last stretch, through Wirrawee itself, was sur­prisingly easy. After all our problems it seemed a bit of a joke that this part went so smoothly. But we hur­ried along the streets, doing our usual things like leapfrogging and keeping to shadows. We heard a couple of vehicles and saw a couple of headlights in the distance, but nothing that really threatened us.

  Maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. They’d had an exciting night, but after that they’d want their sleep. The ones who were still up, searching for us, would be concentrating their energies on the other side of town and out around the racecourse. Our whole strategy was based on that belief. I suppose my real surprise came from the fact that something I’d thought through in my head actually worked in prac­tice. Life would be a big shock if that happened too often.

  So, we got there, without a lot of drama. The drama was in the fear and exhaustion along the way. It was in the anticipation, the expectation. It was in the fear that every step could bring danger. The air crackled with tension, the hot night sweated as much as we did. But the drama was all in my mind.

  The house was as still and silent as the cemetery. We tiptoed through each room. Homer and I carried the weapons – he the hand gun, me the rifle. There was nothing but the smell of the man who’d lived there, the smell and the little signs of his stay. He’d more or less camped in the place, it looked like: a couple of kitbags were scattered across the bedroom floor and there were socks everywhere. Two opened cans on the kitchen bench. A load of washing still in the machine. It was kind of sad, to see how little trace of his life was left already.

  I still felt, and the others agreed, that the only immediate danger would be from people coming to clean up the house and pack his stuff. And that would only happen during normal hours. We were safe from, say, ten o’clock at night to eight each morning.

  The later danger would be from new people moving into the house. But I knew that probably wouldn’t happen for a while. There were still plenty of empty places around, and I didn’t think people would want to move straight into the house of a dead man. I mean, it was a good house, sure, but not that good.

  Once Homer and I proved to ourselves that the place was empty there was a rush to the kitchen. We were all so hungry, and keen to get a bit of variety in our diet. And the kitchen was quite well stocked. Nothing like an officer for having the best of every­thing. Mr Kassar told us in Drama about an American convoy in Vietnam that was going north, being escorted by soldiers, and some of the soldiers died in a big ambush. And when they finally got the convoy to its destination they found they’d been escorting caviar and champagne for the officers. People had died for that.

  Well, this guy didn’t have any caviar and cham­pagne but he did have a nice assortment of chips and bikkies and fresh bread, and lots of food that I didn’t know and had never seen before. It was a weird time to be eating, with the sun just appearing, but that didn’t worry anyone. The only interruption was when Kevin paused between mouthfuls to say, ‘Good idea coming here, Ellie.’

  I made a face at him and kept eating.

  We sussed out the backyard. It was well protected, lots of big trees to stop the neighbours peering over the fence. And in one tree, a nice old jacaranda, there was quite a big tree house. We made it our choice for a daytime hiding place. If the only people who came here were cleaning up after their mate they wouldn’t bother checking that out.

  I was feeling a bit better about myself. I knew – or, at least, I thought – that we wouldn’t have made it this far without me. Just so long as there were no disasters while we were here. But now I really did them a favour. I volunteered to take the first sentry duty. Fi looked at me in disbelief, but no one waited around to see if I was serious. They grabbed pillows from a linen press in the hallway and headed out to the tree with their packs and sleeping bags. I settled myself in the entrance hall where I could see the street.

  I actually did the unforgivable while I was there. I think – no, I know – that I went to sleep for a short time. Probably half an hour or even forty minutes. I was disgusted with myself when I woke; when Chris did the same thing once I went sick at him. For the rest of the morning I made myself get up and walk around every time I felt tired.

  I wanted to give them as long as possible to sleep. I was really into martyrdom that day. Must have been Robyn’s influence.

  In the street the traffic flowed backwards and for­wards. Wirrawee was a lot more alive again these days. Not the life I would have chosen for it, but in a strange way I almost preferred this to when it was dead and blacked out in the early stages of the war.

  I didn’t feel that there was any particular search in Wirrawee for us. There was no urgency about the traffic going past. Why would there be? They’d be searching the bush, and it’d be a full-on hunt there. But in town they had to get on with their other busi­ness, their normal business. There was no way in the world they’d expect us to come back here. And if they did we now had both the hand gun and the rifle.

  By lunchtime I’d had enough. Even walking around didn’t help. I knew it’d take half an hour to wake Homer but I had to do it. I toddled out to the tree, almost zigzagging in my weariness, and climbed to the tree house, one slow step at a time. I was right – it did take about half an hour to wake Homer, and even then he didn’t want to move. But I just wouldn’t let him go back to sleep. I couldn’t. They say fatigue kills, and it sure was killing me. Once I’d evicted Homer from the tree house I slept till after sunset.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I woke around ten. There was some light from the house next door, not much, but enough to see that no one was left in the tree except Lee and me. He was asleep beside me, breathing softly and quietly. But even in sleep his face looked troubled. Too many lines, too dark. He moved restlessly as I watched him. He drew his arm in closer to his body and turned a little.

  I couldn’t help leaning over and kissing him on the mouth. I think he woke instantly, because as I straightened up again I saw his eyes open. I didn’t know my kisses were that powerful. He didn’t smile, but neither did I. I was remembering the last time I kissed him. We just looked at each other for a while without blinking. When I kissed him again he put his arm around me and pulled me closer. After we kissed I rested my head on his chest. Glancing down I could see that my kisses were even more powerful than I’d realised.

  I smiled and said, ‘I thought boys only woke up like that in the mornings.’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  He hadn’t heard me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t even know if what I’d said was right and I didn’t want to loo
k ignorant. I was just going on what I’d picked up from jokes at school.

  We kissed again, gradually getting more and more passionate. I felt so warm. Everything seemed to slow down and feel soft and close and private. There’s nothing like the feeling of someone’s hands on your skin. His hands were inside my shirt and I liked it a lot. I was rubbing the back of his neck. I was getting more and more excited. But I also realised, suddenly, a bit to my own surprise, that I didn’t want to go all the way with him. I knew we were both heading fast into a zone where it might be difficult to stop. So when he slipped his hand into my jeans I fished it out again. And reluctantly, hating it, I started drawing back, disentangling myself.

  ‘What?’ he asked, scowling at me. He reached out for me again.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I don’t know why. I just don’t want to. Not for a while.’

  ‘Now you tell me,’ he said, sulkily.

  I buttoned myself up, already feeling the warmth go. My clothes weren’t enough to keep it in.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘You looked so cute lying there. I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ he said.

  I was determined I wasn’t going to get angry, so I ignored that. I didn’t blame him in a way. If only I could have understood what was going on in my own mind ... but I found that difficult at the best of times. And this wasn’t the best of times.

  I put my boots on and went down the ladder. I was still wondering why I’d backed off like that. It was nothing to do with Lee. I still liked him a lot. I’d got over the feelings I’d had ages ago, the negative feel­ings towards him. So it wasn’t that. I thought maybe it was something to do with the boy in New Zealand, whose name I realised with a shock I’d forgotten. It would come back to me, no doubt about that, but for the moment I couldn’t think of it at all. And I thought it was probably also to do with the dead man whose house we had sneaked into – not that it was his house anyway – but the fact that we were living in a dead man’s house.

  And, of course the fact that I’d killed him. I didn’t know his name either. Weird: two guys who figured prominently in my life, and they were both nameless to me.

  Instead of going into the house right away I stood in the backyard for a few minutes thinking about all this. I saw Fi’s shadow, briefly, through the kitchen window, but I was pleased there was no other evi­dence of people being in the place. We were getting pretty good at this stuff, hiding out, living rough and tough. It seemed a funny skill to be proud of, but it was a skill. I admired the fox his craftiness, the way he could get into the chookyard and out again, leav­ing nothing but blood behind. Blood and feathers and a few squawks from the chooks. We were getting more like foxes all the time.

  That made me think of Lee again, for some rea­son. Why didn’t I want to have him in me, to lie naked with him and do the things that excited us both so much?

  A slow awareness came over me, a kind of burn­ing, as I realised. Yes, it was because of the boy in New Zealand and the man who’d lived in this house. And because I’d screamed at the soldier in the street. And because I’d left the door open at Tozer’s. And because the fuel tank had been padlocked. And because I’d sneezed. It was something like: ‘I don’t deserve to enjoy the loving feelings of Lee embracing me and making love to me. I don’t deserve that.’

  I still felt cheapened by what had happened at that Wellington party, and disgusted and horrified by the blood that had spread through the four-wheel drive. Blood shed by my finger on a rifle trigger. Blood from a man who one moment had been living and the next was dead because of my hands. I felt embarrassed and ashamed that I’d screamed at the soldier. I knew that scream might have cost twelve New Zealanders their lives.

  Not for the first time I wished I was back in Andrea’s office, talking to someone who seemed to understand.

  I saw Fi’s shadow again through the kitchen win­dow and felt another of those rushes of affection and admiration for her that I’d been feeling since I was about five years old. I thought, ‘At least I can talk to Fi.’

  Maybe one day I’d be able to talk to Lee about all this stuff. I hoped he’d understand. I felt like until we had that conversation our relationship would strug­gle. It was hard having any kind of relationship in the middle of a war. We’d both have to work at it.

  I sighed and went inside. While I’d been getting Lee turned on, Fi had been turning on the electric stove. We knew we couldn’t risk cooking anything that might give out a smell to alert the neighbours, but she had boiled some eggs. Hot food is one of the greatest luxuries in life, I think, and I ate three eggs without pausing. Then I grabbed some junk from the cupboards – dried seaweed and Twisties and a bit of cheese – and took over from Kevin in the entrance hall.

  I spent three hours watching the stupid street. Nothing happened. There had been plenty of times doing sentry when I’d almost wished something would happen to break the boredom, but this wasn’t one of them. I knew we weren’t in any condition to cope with another crisis. But in the last hour of my shift Homer came out to talk to me, which was really nice. We seemed to talk so seldom these days. And for the first time I heard the story of what happened at the airfield.

  Homer actually laughed when he started telling me about it. ‘It was such a mess,’ he said. ‘I’m embar­rassed. Or I would be if you guys had done any bet­ter. But the way Fi described your trip to the fuel depot, I’d say there’s not much to pick between us. It wasn’t too professional, compared to Cobbler’s Bay, for example.’

  I wasn’t yet at a point where I could laugh about the fuel depot. So I ignored Homer’s comments.

  ‘So tell me, tell me.’

  ‘Well, I think they’ve got some kind of super-duper security system there. Fair dinkum, I can’t see how they could have busted us without some special gad­get to do it. We were so bloody careful. We walked about fifty k’s around the airfield with the packs, you know, to give it a wide berth so we wouldn’t set off any alarms. Then after we dumped the packs we walked all the way back, being just as careful. We got up into the bush, still no problems. We had plenty of time – for a while we thought we were running late so we belted along pretty fast and ended up getting there early. So we chose the best spot, agreed the wind was good and coming from the right direction, and sat there with Lee’s little can of fuel, telling ourselves that we were soon going to be heroes. Then the next thing we hear is this uproar from town – vehicles and guns, the whole bit, and we thought “Bloody Ellie and Fi, causing trouble again. Can’t leave them alone for five minutes.” But we also thought, “Maybe we’d better bring our bonfire forward, cause a distraction for anyone having a go at you guys.” It took us about one and a half seconds to make that decision. Lee jumped up and started pouring the petrol and I got the matches, which I’d cleverly remembered to bring. And just as I’m ready to strike the match Kevin says “Get a load of the soldiers.” And I look down at the airfield and there’s three jeeps, all loaded with guys, screaming out of the main gate. I thought they’d turn right and go into town, to join the shooting party there, and that’s what I was hoping, of course, because I’d rather they chased you than me, any day. But the next thing they turned left and came straight up the road towards us. Kevin yelled, “They’re coming after us!” and I thought, “He’s right.” I struck the match, chucked it on the ground and we all took off. There was a good little whoosh behind us and I thought, “Beauty, it’s caught, should go well with this breeze”, but I didn’t look back. There wasn’t time. I could hear the jeeps coming flat-chat up the hill, and there were a couple of shots just as we went over the ridge. It was all action, I promise you.’

  ‘How long had you been up there before the jeeps came out of the gate?’ I asked.

  ‘About five minutes. That’s the weird thing. It’s like they knew we were there. We thought you guys must have dobbed us in.’

  I sure must have been tired, because I looked so horrified that Homer had to quickly add: ‘Just kidd
ing.’

  ‘Oh, right, OK. So how do you think they knew?’

  ‘Well, like I said, I think they’ve got some gadget. Maybe radar or something. I didn’t know. But that could explain what happened to the Kiwis. Because when I was talking to Iain, he never thought there’d be any problems like that. He thought it’d be a bit of a snack actually.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that impression.’ Privately I was feel­ing enormous relief. Maybe I hadn’t sabotaged the Kiwis after all. ‘So what did you do then?’

  ‘Circled around, yet again. I got to know that patch of bush pretty well, I tell you. We came back over the ridge about three-quarters of a k along. Mainly we wanted to enjoy the sight of the fire roar­ing down onto the airfield and the planes bursting into flames before they could get off the ground.’

  ‘But ...?’

  ‘Exactly. But. The bloody fire was completely out. We could see a few red bits smouldering, but no flame at all. And the worst thing was I don’t think the sol­diers even had to put it out. I think it just didn’t catch in the first place. Wouldn’t it wreck you? At home, you’re desperate never to start a bushfire and every time you turn around you’ve set off another one.’

  This was only a slight exaggeration because to my certain knowledge Homer, as a little boy, had started at least three fires. But I held my tongue and he went on.

  ‘So here we were doing our best to start one, even using petrol, and we get absolutely nowhere. It’s like the song says: “Isn’t it ironic?”’

  I grinned. Didn’t matter what mood I was in, Homer could always make me laugh. It occurred to me that maybe that was why he’d come into the entrance hall, because he sensed that I was depressed and needed cheering up. It wouldn’t be the first time. I hated to accuse Homer of being a warm sensitive guy, but deep down inside he did have a trace of it at times.