by Peter Twohig
The man they called the Torch was leaning against a wall, looking the other way, but there was no mistaking his duck-like boofhead. I shot down Carnival Lane, not knowing whether he had seen me. I knew that the lane ran along an exposed part of Dynon Creek, which ran under the ground from one end of Richmond to another, for most of the distance under buildings and roads. That was my escape route. If I went south I would come out at the river. Until that moment I had been thinking of Mr K as a greatly misunderstood and probably wrongly convicted scamp, which was the Richmond way. But now, instinctively, I ran like a kid from the words that filled my head. Murder, firebug, treason, mental, Pentridge: all frightening and bad.
As I ducked behind a back fence, I took a look back up the lane to check that I had made a clean getaway, and saw to my horror that he had come up to the corner and had seen my escape.
I told myself that, like Ned Kelly, he was no doubt one of your lovelier blokes, and probably wanted to pass the time of day, ask me the way to the church, and so on. But I didn’t believe myself. It was only when I told myself that he probably wanted to torture me for information about Flame Boy and the old briefcase that I sounded believable.
‘I’ve gotcha!’ he yelled, just loud enough for me to hear him, but not loud enough to get people to run out in their dressing gowns and start throwing empty beer bottles at him.
I hopped over the edge of the drain and slid down the steep side to the bottom, landing on a not-so-thick heap of soft rubbish sitting on a thick pile of hard rubbish. I looked longingly down to the river. It was logical, but the distance was long, and I didn’t think I could beat him to the end, where it emptied into the river; and even if I did, I reckoned I’d probably drown. Reluctantly, I turned north, slightly uphill.
I had an idea where I was going, having been down this drain before, and it wasn’t long before I came to the open area at the back of Gazza Turner’s house. The climbing rope that I had tied to the rail at street level the month before was still there. But right behind me was Mr K, and when I paused to look I could see there was no way that I would beat him to the top of the rope, as he was tall and strong looking, from stoking bonfires.
I ran like mad up the drain, into unfamiliar territory, and faded grey light, and as I went I heard him maintaining a steady pace behind me. Years of running round in the stormwater drains of Richmond told me that this was his territory, that it was possible that he had learnt about the drains when he was just a kid himself. I could see that your successful firebug would probably not carry an armful of kindling and a tin of kero on the tram, after all. But if all this was true, then he would know where he was going, which was a shade more than I knew.
It wasn’t long, running along the curved edge of the drain from one patch of light to another, before I realised that I was close to the railway line that ran from East Richmond Station under Eden Hill to all points east. On my right was a large drain, which emptied into the canal from the right. I climbed up into it and spread my feet so I could walk in the dark without falling into any shafts and breaking my neck. I knew that if I could find a ladder or some steps I would be able to climb up to Eden Park Station, or to the old wartime station just near it, Kansas. There was no sound behind me, so I knew I’d have a clear run to the abandoned wartime platforms.
But the silence was a worry. He should have chased me up the stormwater drain; he must have known about it. It followed that he was one jump ahead of me. When I finally reached the exit to the drain, there was no grill, and I just walked out. I was in the railway tunnel that led to Kansas Station, which was underground. It was not pitch dark because there were lights in the ceiling of the tunnel, though they were dim. Not far from me were two sets of rails, and I knew that if I walked back towards Richmond I’d come to the junction with the Hawthorn line. I stopped and listened. I heard a train whining into Eden Park Station, quite close by. It stopped. And whined out again.
I was completely exposed where I was, so I began walking east to where I knew Kansas Station was. I figured that Mr Kavanagh would be waiting for me down at the junction. I was going to have to go back the long way, down the big stormwater drain that led south down under Rooney Park. I’d once walked all the way from the river to Eden Hill that way and I knew it well. I’d be walking a long way, but I’d be alive.
I followed the tarnished rails until I came to the station, then walked up onto Platform B. It was eerie because the lights were on, dimly, yet the station was dead. Mum told me it had been used during the war as a getting on and off place for the Yanks, so that they would be kept separate from the Aussies, who hated them. I could see that: the Yanks were definitely cooler, richer, taller, and could dance better. They also had Hawaiian shirts and sounded like Montgomery Clift.
There was an office in the middle of each platform, and I went into the office on my platform to see if there was anything interesting in there. I had time to kill, as I was not going anywhere until enough time had passed for me to be satisfied that Kavanagh had given up and gone wherever torches go on Sunday mornings. The office was unlocked so I went in and found that it had been abandoned at the end of the war, and still had timetables, calendars, and strange lists and notices pinned to the walls. It had a desk with drawers, and cupboards and boxes, and they were all full of papers. It was like a ghost station. I took a few souvenirs, as superheroes do: a Victoria Railways pencil, an empty VR notebook, and a VR mug. I had wanted one of those all my life.
When I stepped out of the office door who should I see standing on the opposite platform but Mr K, looking at me as cool as an Eskimo Pie. I would have run, but he made no move at all, except to call to me.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He was staying with you.’
‘Only till our house burnt down.’
‘Where’s his mother?’
‘They took her away, to a place for blind people.’
‘I have to find him.’
I shrugged. The exchange had been informative and to the point, but had run out of petrol.
‘Why did you run?’
‘I thought you were going to kill me.’ Until I said the words, I didn’t realise that I believed them. I suppose I’d had my share of rotten luck. It was a natural reaction.
‘Why the hell would I want to do that?’
‘They said you would.’
He kicked the platform he was standing on and swore.
‘Is Keith frightened of me, d’ya think?’
‘Nah, he’s hoping you’ll find him. It’s just that —’
‘What?’
I didn’t want to mention the briefcase, which wasn’t really his anyway. And I didn’t want to mention Aunty Daffy either. There were a lot of things I didn’t understand about the adult world, but one thing I did understand was that aunties always wanted to help, no matter what kind of necks they had, or how much of their chests they showed, while blokes tended to be more trouble than they were worth, Granddad and Co being the exception. Something told me that Aunty Daffy might be the best bet for Flame Boy, if my Albury plan didn’t work out.
‘He’s on the run. He started some fires. He’s not too popular just now.’
‘But you’re his mate, aren’t you?’
I hadn’t let anyone believe that I was Flame Boy’s friend before. There was something about him that I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was a superhero, like me, there was that, but he was buggered in the head. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t put it any other way.
‘I suppose so. I’m trying to find him so that I can help him get out of Melbourne — I was thinking of Albury.’ Whoa, I hadn’t intended to give that bit of valuable intelligence away, but there you go. ‘They electrocuted his brain, the doctors. They hurt him. I wanted him to be safe from them. But I don’t know where he is.’
‘Rotten bastards. P’raps I could take him with me.’ He seemed to be saying it to himself, as he was looking at the platform.
‘Where would you take him?’
He looked up at me. ‘A lot further away than Albury.’
His voice echoed in the empty station. It sounded emptier every time he spoke.
‘If you find him, bring him here.’
‘Okay, I will.’
‘Can I trust you not to dob me in?’
‘Only if you promise not to light any fires.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t believe all that rubbish about me, do you?’
‘Keith said his mum told him all about how you were the best torch in Australia and how no one could hold a candle to you.’
‘Yes, well, Molly never did know much about the real world, just what she made up. I suppose she said that so Keith wouldn’t feel too bad about himself, that’s all.’
‘They say you lit a fire and a man died.’
‘That’s bullshit about the fire, son, but it’s all ancient history now. As for that feller, well, it was just rotten luck.’
‘But you burnt down the loony … um … the —’
‘Yes, well I think they took a bit of a liberty there, as it was only a little distraction. A slosh of paint, and it’ll be back to normal, if you can call that place normal.’
‘What about the fire in the shoe factory? I saw you across the road.’
He laughed again. His way of laughing was nothing like Flame Boy’s, who didn’t laugh at all, but just bunged on a lopsided grin when he thought something was hilarious. His laugh had a ring, like a rock landing on a tin roof.
‘Shoe factory, is that what they’re saying? Jesus bloody Christ, they would. I lit that fire in the hope that it would bring Keith to me, and it was really the first thing I ever properly torched in my life. I was lucky to get away unsinged. You see, it’s Keith who has the problem, not me. I waited all night, but I didn’t see him. I heard about the other fire the next day. He would pick that night to torch the bloody lumberyard. The factory, as you call it, was my old office, before they locked me up. Shoe factory! That place was no loss, believe me. Now, time I did my disappearing act. But I’ll give you a little tip, in case you get any ideas. I know the drains and tunnels down here like the back of my hand. And I know where you live, so if you keep your end of the bargain I’ll keep mine, otherwise, well, otherwise I’ll be forced to gruesomely murder you and your family. Understand?’
As I’d been threatened with death on a weekly basis practically since I was born, I thought I’d let it slide.
Well, not entirely. ‘Do you know who my grandfather is?’ I thought I’d try putting the fear of God into him.
‘Wouldn’t have the foggiest. Who?’
‘Archie Taggerty.’
He looked down, and stamped his foot a couple of times, as if he’d just spotted a member of the DLP scuttling home to its nest.
‘Well, well. That would explain your cocky attitude. So Keith burnt down the Terrier’s house. A bloke can’t take a trick today. Now I suppose he’ll be after a piece of me now, like everyone else.’
I was so excited I forgot to tell him that it was actually Mum’s house that he burnt down and that if he was lucky Granddad would catch up to him before she did.
‘Do you know your way up to Eden Park Station from here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Something told me you would. Tell Sanderson I said hello. Tell him if he leaves me alone I’ll give him what he wants. Tell your granddad …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Just remember: no coppers, or I’ll keep my promise to you. And I’ll get away.’
There was that lonely silence again. He stood and watched me as I walked to the end of the platform and hopped down onto the track for the walk around to Eden Park Station. When I looked back he was gone.
29 The trouble with girls
I was tempted to spill my guts about Mr Kavanagh to Mr Sanderson, but as I still couldn’t produce the briefcase, I couldn’t see what good it would do. I believed Mr Kavanagh when he said he wasn’t a firebug. And anyway, Granddad had said so too. There was something about him that was calm and in control, like Efrem Zimbalist Jr, but without the pipe. I almost liked him. He knew the drains and tunnels, like me. He was a kind of superhero in a way. I had been threatened before, by a few psychos too, and something told me that this bloke wasn’t one of them. I even wondered if Granddad had been mistaken about him being bad. I wasn’t going to take the matter up with him, though. Best I just let nature take its course, as it does with Laxettes.
I wasn’t going to give Mr Kavanagh’s best to Mr Sanderson for the time being. Instead I was going to go all out to find Flame Boy, whose own father had now confirmed for me that he was indeed a nutcase.
Meanwhile, I had to take care of something urgently: I had missed Mass. Worse, I had missed a Mass at which I was supposed to serve on the altar. That meant Father Hagen was now going to hunt me down and kill me like a blue heeler with rabies. He took a dim view of altar boys reneging. My only hope of living until tomorrow was to front up to him and attend the ten-thirty Mass, hopefully as an altar boy. I hurried down the hill to Balmain Street, and turned right. Not one single bloody tram had come along. Not one. On any other Sunday, the trams’d be lined up like a string of green and yellow caterpillars.
I was right on the corner of Tannery Lane when I saw Flame Boy. A flash of colour and he was gone, into the old tannery. I followed until I got to the hole in the fence he’d gone into and I had to stop. The tannery was a mass of rust, grease and evil-smelling liquid that has been lying there for years; and I was wearing my Mass clothes. I’d have to come back. But at least I knew where he was, and the tannery was one place I had explored many times. After lunch Raffi was taking me to a Cobras meeting, and that couldn’t wait, as I was being inducted. But after that, it was back to the tannery dressed in some clothes I never did like much anyway.
When I arrived at the sacristy I bowled in and found Father O’Connor just on his way out.
‘Hello, young Blayney. You’re the first to arrive. If only they were all as keen as you.’
I didn’t get time to answer. There was a raised voice from the inner room.
‘Is that you, Blayney? Get in here!’
I excused myself and went inside. Father Hagen was just beginning to get dressed, and was as mad as a bull-ant.
‘And where were you this morning?’
Be cool, Blayney, be cool. No, be fantabulous.
‘Icouldn’tcomebecauseablokebailedmeupandchased meallthewaytoEdenHillStationandthreatenedtokillmeandmy motheranditwasthe … um … Torch.’
There was a silence during which I could smell California Poppy hair oil and Rinso. I gave it a five on my smell chart, but only because I was confused.
‘A likely story.’
That was a relief.
‘Can I make up for it by serving at this Mass, Father?’
‘You can, though you’ll be the dummy. I don’t want you doing anything important at the Holy Mass until you’ve been to Confession.’
Being the dummy was the role assigned to new boys; but at least I would remain alive. At sermon time, all the altar boys sat on the pew behind the pulpit, and kept ourselves amused while Father droned on about something incredibly boring that Jesus did at a wedding. I had been to a few weddings, and it was easy to get bored when you weren’t eating something, so I knew how Jesus would have felt. The apostles were probably groaning, and wishing they’d gone to the footy instead, and probably one or two of them got pissed and insulted a fat lady. It was always the way.
So there we were, sitting there, and paying no attention at all. I’d never served with this particular group before, Group Four, they were called, so they ignored me, since I was a ring-in. So I did what I always did during the sermon: looked for Josephine Thompson, the most beautiful girl in Australia. Last year, I went all year without seeing her at Mass, though once I did see James’s mother, Wonder Woman, and discovered that she had been staring back at me. That was the first day we spoke, and she was as ch
eesed off as a Footscray full-back when she grabbed me after Mass — something about breaking into her house the night before. I still think she overreacted: nothing was broken or stolen; I was simply doing some exploring. I didn’t want to say it, but the real problem had been that I had seen her get roughed up by one of their friends, and if her husband hadn’t broken his nose in the same fight, she would have been next. To this day, James does not know about that, probably because I first met him at the Sandersons’ place, as it turned out that the Palmers and the Sandersons were old friends. Is that a tangled mess or what?
Anyway, there I was, checking the faces, most of which I’d seen heaps of times. When I eventually saw Josephine Thompson she was sitting in a group of Girl Guides who were attending Mass as some sort of special occasion, maybe celebrating the day Jesus’s mother joined the 6th Bethlehem Girl Guides Troop, or something. It happens.
So I wasted no time staring at her, in case she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be visiting her aged grandmother, and left. She was beautiful in her blue uniform: neat, clean, wearing a cute beret, like the French Resistance, and looking like she was missing me, which was, in my imagination, probable. I wondered if she knew that I’d named the island in the river after her. I wondered if she would kiss me if she knew. Yes, she would. I sighed the most dignified sigh a boy could while dressed in a red cassock and a white surplice with frilly lace sleeves.
Then, there was a moment just like the one in Ben-Hur when Jesus was born and the star shone down on the stable and the music went all churchy like Easter Sunday, and the animals were all jumping around because they knew that something amazing had happened. And that was the moment when Josephine looked up from fiddling with some girl’s thing, and saw me. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from hers. I would rather have been dead — I felt like I was dead, and on my way up to Heaven with the angels, and with Tom.
