Yamashita's Gold

by Phillip Gwynne

  The anxiety evaporated.

  Instead, I had this how-good-is-this? feeling, this how-lucky-am-I? feeling. Take away all the noise, and the world was such a beautiful place.

  I floated for a while longer, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, before I started the outboard up again, and continued my journey.

  An hour later and I was tying the Zodiac off at the deserted wharf.

  As I made my way up to the motel I couldn’t help thinking how remarkably straightforward my escape had been.

  The Debt just wasn’t like this.

  Nobody chasing me.

  No getting shot at.

  Just a rather lovely ride in a Zodiac.

  Then I saw the WRX, parked opposite the entrance to the HarbourView Motel.

  Hoping they hadn’t seen me, I retraced my steps, and took the back way into the Motel; i.e. I scrambled over a fence.

  I checked the time – it was just past four – and knocked softly on Gus’s door. It opened straightaway.

  And as soon as he saw me, Gus wrapped his sinewy arms around me.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he said.

  Eventually he let go of me and I noticed that he was fully dressed. Not only that, I could see that his bags were packed.

  ‘You were leaving?’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘On the early ferry.’

  ‘You were going to leave me behind?’ I said, shocked.

  ‘I thought you were in good hands,’ said Gus.

  ‘But why?’ I said.

  ‘I have to get back home,’ he said, and I knew I wouldn’t get any more out of him than this. Gus could out-stubborn a mule any day.

  Besides, I needed to get back to the Gold Coast as quickly as possible, too. So there wasn’t really much to argue about.

  ‘We’ve got some company,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they’ve been keeping an eye on me,’ he said. ‘They see you come in?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Gus readjusted his prosthetic, scratched at his chin. Then he took a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a note which he left on the bed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  We lugged our bags outside, and towards the ute. But when I went to throw mine in the back he said, ‘Keep walking.’

  I kept walking.

  When we reached the HarbourView Motel vehicle, a Toyota traytop, Gus took a quick look around before he brought something out of his pocket. He used that something to open the door of the Toyota. He slid into the driver’s seat, and opened the passenger’s door.

  By the time I got inside, Gus had already yanked some wires out. Soon, he had the engine started.

  Wow, I thought. He’s outZolted the Zolt here.

  ‘Get right down,’ he said.

  I did as he asked, sinking as low as I could in the seat.

  Gus backed the ute out, and then swung out of the drive.

  After a few minutes he said, ‘You can get up now.’

  I looked behind – there was no unwelcome WRX.

  ‘Bob?’ I said.

  ‘He’ll be understanding,’ said Gus. ‘He’s that sort of bloke.’

  As we rolled onto the ferry, I suddenly realised something: I was still wearing Maxine’s dive watch/ tracking device!

  As the ferry moved off, the sun peeking over the horizon, I got out of the Toyota. I went into the toilet, and took the lid off the water cistern. Then I put the watch inside, and the lid back on again.

  When I returned to the Toyota Gus said, ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It’s not easy to explain,’ I said, thinking of that red dot on that computer at Camp Y, going back and forth, back and forth, between the island and the mainland.

  Thursday

  International Day Of Not Answering Your Phone

  All the way back to the Gold Coast, Gus driving uncharacteristically quickly, I could only think of one thing: I had to talk to them, I had to contact them, show them the coin, tell them that they were looking in the wrong place.

  But it had always been one-way traffic – The Debt talking to me, telling me what to do.

  Maybe Dad could help me.

  I rang his phone – no answer.

  And again, no answer.

  And again, no answer.

  What was this: International Day of Not Answering Your Phone?

  I couldn’t ring Mom because she was still in Beijing, so I rang Miranda instead.

  Maybe it wasn’t International Day of Not Answering Your Phone, because she answered.

  ‘How was the diving?’ she said.

  ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Do you know where Dad is?’

  ‘At work, I presume,’ she said. ‘At his office.’

  Again, I tried his phone.

  Back to International Day of Not Answering Your Phone.

  When we finally arrived at Halcyon Grove, Gus pulled up at the kerb near the front gates.

  ‘You’re not going inside?’ I said.

  ‘I have to go somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘But aren’t you looking after us?’

  ‘I have to go somewhere.’

  Almost before I was out of the door Gus the Mysterious had taken off again.

  Back home, I decided I would have to just wait until Dad a) answered his phone or b) came home.

  But waiting was probably the one skill I hadn’t really developed during the time of The Debt.

  So I made the decision to go to Dad’s office.

  I called a taxi, and as I got in I thought about the last time I’d been there.

  I had some sort of vague memory of a secretary and a big desk, but it was very, very vague and I wondered if it was a memory at all or something my imagination had conjured.

  Secretary, big desk: it was pretty generic stuff.

  There was an obvious question to be asked; why hadn’t I been to my dad’s office? Because he hadn’t invited me? Tick to that. Because I hadn’t wanted to go, because I thought he was just a boring businessman? Tick to that, too. But, still?

  ‘The Voss Building, please,’ I told the driver.

  He grunted and took off.

  I tried Dad’s number again as we drove, but again with no luck.

  We arrived and I paid the driver and entered the lobby.

  Silvagni Enterprises, it said on the directory, 18th floor.

  I got into the lift, pressed that button, but it wouldn’t light up.

  Did everything have to be so damn difficult? So Herculean?

  A woman got into the lift and swiped her security pass.

  As she did, I pressed the button again. It still didn’t light up.

  The woman pressed 17.

  What the hell, I’d get off at the seventeenth and find a way up to the eighteenth floor. The lift flew swiftly upwards, my stomach only catching up when we reached our destination.

  The woman stepped out and I followed her. She threw me a suspicious look, but I took off in the opposite direction so she didn’t have a chance to say, or do, anything.

  There were lots of offices here, but eventually I found what I was looking for: the fire escape.

  This fire escape is alarmed, said the sign.

  Poor thing, I thought.

  How to deactivate the alarm?

  There was no how, or if there was, it was too complicated for somebody with limited alarm-deactivation skills such as myself.

  So I did it the dumb way – I yanked open the door and let the alarm ring its little heart out.

  And then another alarm.

  And another alarm.

  A Metallica of alarmed alarms.

  I ran up the stairs until I came to the eighteenth floor.

  The same deal there; I had to crack open the door, which caused even more alarms to join the Metallica.

  At least I was here now, and Dad, or his secretary, could deal with the fallout.

  What Dad?

  What secretary?

  The floor was silent, the lights were off; there were no people.

  I ran from r
oom to room.

  Some of them were furnished – a dusty desk with a single matchbox on it, an empty filing cabinet – but most were not, and it was obvious that nobody had used this place for years. Even the cobwebs had cobwebs.

  Dad the businessman. Dad the tycoon. Dad the fraud. Once again.

  They were coming after me now, too, footsteps echoing all over the place.

  I guessed I had two choices.

  Explain what had happened, in which case I’d probably have to talk to the cops, and they’d have to check my story out with Dad, if they could actually find him on this International Day of Not Answering Your Phone. That would take at least one, maybe even two hours.

  Two hours I couldn’t afford, not if Salacia was telling the truth and E Lee Marx was going to leave Australian waters ‘as soon as possible’.

  So really my other choice was my only choice: I had to get the hell out of here.

  Doors opening. Voices. Footsteps.

  But how to make my escape?

  Think, Dom!

  The answer came to me as a single word, a neon sign flashing brightly in my head: chaos.

  Sirens, footsteps, voices now – I’d created a bit, but now I needed to create even more.

  I remembered on one of the desks there’d been a packet of matches. I ran back, grabbed it.

  Took the wastepaper basket, threw some random paper into it.

  Found a smoke detector – even if the office was derelict I figured that the regulations would ensure that they had to keep the smoke detectors up-to-date.

  Using a match, I set fire to the paper, and put it under the smoke detector.

  The detector did its job: another blaring sound joined the Metallica.

  Not enough!

  I needed more chaos, more Metallica.

  The radio? Perfect.

  It worked – even more perfect. I turned the volume to full.

  A door opened, and I threw myself under a desk.

  Feet running past me. Chaos begetting chaos.

  Go, Dom!

  I got to my feet and made a run for the open door. Into the corridor, along the corridor, to the lifts. I pressed the button – thank heavens, it stayed illuminated.

  Ding!

  The lift stopped, the doors jawed open. And I stepped inside, joining two IT types.

  ‘Any idea what’s happening?’ one of them asked me.

  ‘Chaos,’ I said.

  The two IT types exchanged looks.

  ‘Lot and lots of chaos,’ I added, in case they didn’t know what I was getting at.

  The lift reached the ground floor, the doors opened, and I got the hell out of there. As I hurried along the street, a fire engine, lights flashing, pulled up, and then another one.

  Who else? I thought, because I wasn’t going to give up now. In fact, that little adventure had made me even more determined. Who else was involved with The Debt?

  Seb?

  But how could I contact him? I didn’t even have a number for him.

  That was it, I’d run out of leads.

  Or wait, had I?

  That day at the Preacher’s Forest, when I’d helped rescue Brandon, I’d been woken up by the Preacher himself. His paint-stripper breath right in my face.

  So must thou bear witness also at Rome! he had said.

  But how had he known that?

  There could only be one explanation: he was hooked into The Debt somehow.

  It was a crazy thought, that the mad old man, he of the biblical ranting, was somehow involved in an organisation as secretive as The Debt.

  But I didn’t have any other leads.

  It only took me twenty minutes to get there: a bus, and some rapid walking.

  Past the lake where a dad and his son were operating remote-control boats, and towards the Preacher’s campsite.

  The sky was black, and getting blacker.

  And, out towards the sea, thunder rumbled.

  Apart from that, there were no other noises.

  Into the clearing, and the Preacher wasn’t there. His campfire was dead. I stirred it with my foot – not even any embers.

  So where was he?

  I remembered PJ saying that when the weather got bad he slept in the drain.

  I set off in that direction.

  The rain that had been threatening threatened no more; it started bucketing down. Instantly, I was soaked. Maybe not to the bone – that always seemed like a bit of an exaggeration to me – but definitely to the skin.

  Up ahead, through the trees, I could see the end of the stormwater drain poking out.

  I increased my pace, my feet slipping and sliding in what was now mud.

  If it had been bucketing down before, I’m not sure what you would call it now – you almost needed scuba gear to get through this.

  So when I got into the drain, I felt instant relief.

  And it took me a while – well, it seemed a while but it was probably only a few seconds – to take in the scene.

  And even when I had, my brain refused to acknowledge it.

  PJ and Brandon were there, something I’d half-expected; it was one of the places they slept in, after all.

  And the Preacher was there, which was what I’d hoped.

  Though I’d hoped for a Preacher who was vertical, and conscious.

  Not a Preacher like this, who was stretched out on the concrete, covered with a tattered doona, his eyes closed.

  But what I didn’t expect, what my brain wouldn’t acknowledge, was Gus’s presence.

  What was my paternal grandfather doing here?

  Why was he next to the Preacher, wiping his forehead with a white cloth which, every now and then, he dipped into a bowl of water?

  ‘Gus!’ I said.

  Gus looked at me, and there was surprise in his face, but not that much.

  ‘Dominic,’ he said, picking up the bowl. ‘Can you get me some more water?’

  ‘Where?’ I said.

  Brandon snickered in that winning way he had, and it took me a second to realise why.

  Outside, water was pretty much all there was. I headed back down the tunnel a bit, and held the bowl out at arm’s length and it filled up in no time at all.

  After I’d passed it to Gus he said, ‘How did you find out I was here?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said.

  He said nothing, but all over his face was a big old huh?

  Welcome to my world, Gus, the world of huh?

  He continued wiping the Preacher’s face.

  ‘Is he sick?’ I asked PJ.

  She nodded.

  ‘On the way out, I reckon,’ said Brandon.

  ‘We found him by the fire,’ said PJ. ‘I wanted to call an ambulance, but he insisted no. Asked me to ring this number instead.’

  Gus’s number.

  The Preacher stirred; pushing himself up on his elbows, he opened his eyes.

  He may have been sick, maybe even dying, but his eyes still had that same burning intensity.

  Although he took us in one at a time, his eyes seemed to linger on me.

  ‘The Debt,’ I said to him. ‘I need to talk to them.’

  Now it was Brandon and PJ who had the huh? look.

  ‘Not now!’ snapped Gus. ‘Now is not the time!’

  ‘What about what’s-his-name?’ I snapped back. ‘The dude with the liver that eagle kept eating?’

  ‘Epic!’ said an appreciative Brandon.

  Gus ignored me, returning to his patient, wiping his face.

  I’d come to a dead end.

  I sat down.

  Took a few deep breaths.

  And I realised how crazy I’d been. Crazy bordering on the insane. Maybe not even bordering. Having crossed the border, receiving the obligatory stamp in his passport, Dominic entered into the country commonly known as Insanity.

  This wasn’t The Debt, this wasn’t an instalment. I wasn’t in danger of losing my leg, not over this. Yet I’d been skittering madly from one place to another.
<
br />   So what if the useless Bones crew were looking in more or less the right place.

  So what if the extremely organised E Lee Marx crew had been looking in totally the wrong place. And were probably on their way home right now.

  That wasn’t my responsibility, wasn’t my fault.

  The Preacher moaned, and I wondered how close to death he was, because I figured that was what was happening here: he was dying.

  ‘You need some more water?’ I asked Gus.

  He nodded, handing me the bowl.

  I held the bowl out in the rain again, and as I did so I saw some birds waddling past.

  They were too big to be ducks.

  Geese? I wondered.

  Geese. Goose. Loose as a goose on the juice.

  Again I realised how reckless I’d been, running from one place to another in order to contact The Debt.

  It had been under my nose all the time.

  I took out my phone and rang a number, hoping International Day of Not Answering Your Phone was officially over.

  ‘How about this rain?’ said Miranda.

  ‘Do you have Seb’s number?’

  There was a pause, and immediately I knew this wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped.

  ‘What makes you think I’ve got it?’ she said.

  ‘Well, usually when people exchange saliva, they exchange phone numbers.’

  In spite of herself, Miranda laughed. ‘Not sure we got that far before mumsy-wumsy stuck her big nose in. Still, it’s a pretty funny thing to say.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Have you got somebody writing your gags these days, because I’ve noticed you’ve suddenly got a whole lot more amusing.’

  A whole lot funnier or a whole lot more desperate – who knows?

  ‘So do you know where he lives?’ I said.

  Another one of those pauses, and I knew I was in trouble again.

  ‘He’s a pretty mysterious sort of guy, isn’t he?’ said Miranda. ‘I mean, I’ve never been to his house, never met his family, and when he used to ring me his number never showed up.’

  She seemed to mull on this for a while before she added, ‘He’s hot, though.’

  ‘So when are you going to see him again?’ I said.

  Now that I had this rep as a bit of a funny guy the pressure was on, so I added, ‘You know, for a bit more of the old saliva exchange.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Mom put her foot down, remember?’ And then she added, ‘But he will be cleaning our pool at eight tomorrow morning.’