The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  ‘Yes. I heard it on the news. But he won’t bother Keith or me. He never cared about either of us.’

  ‘No, what I mean is, Keith has something he wants — a briefcase. He thinks that if he can find his dad and give it to him —’

  ‘What briefcase?’

  ‘It’s old and dirty. I think Keith dug it up from under your house. Anyway, he has this idea —’

  ‘No matter what he thinks, Fergus will only be interested in that briefcase — I know him. He’s a complete bastard. He’ll only hurt Keith.’

  That was all she said. She went back to making brush number fifty thousand and one. I wasn’t wanted anymore. I got up and left. Sobering up doesn’t make you sweet.

  ‘I’ll bring him here.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like that.’

  Weedo raised his head as we reached the door.

  ‘I’ll be back, Weedo.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for ya.’

  The Sandersons were happy to see me, but they had that ‘Hello, I wonder what these two have been up to’ look. I thought it best under the circs to dispel their suspicions by giving them the Big Hello, you know, let them see that their worst fears were totally unfounded, and I had not had any exciting (which for a boy means dangerous and illegal) adventures that afternoon. Probably not the best decision, judging by the flinty looks on their dials, but anyone who expects a boy and a dog who are members of a secret society to return from a mission and blab has got another thing coming.

  When I got up to my room at the Sandersons’ house I pulled out the map of my adventures and marked the places where the latest fires had happened with little red flames. At the lumberyard I drew Flame Boy lighting the fire and laughing. I had never heard him laugh, but I imagined it would sound pretty fiendish. Then I got a new sheet of butcher’s paper and added a new bit of map for the area north of St Dominic’s Church. There I drew Mr K, setting fire to the shoe factory. I gave him an even bigger laugh. Finally, on the southern edge I drew a map of the blind place, which looked more like a rabbit burrow than a home for people, and inserted the names Mrs K and Weedo, and a tiny drawing of a brush, which I also added to the legend with the note Blind People’s Home.

  I wondered if the two evil superheroes had joined forces and begun a mission to destroy the whole of Melbourne, and then, perhaps, the rest of Australia. If so, I was hoping that they would go over to the Melbourne Cricket Ground next and burn that down, to pay Melbourne back for winning the premiership. We South Melbourne supporters take our footy seriously. It shows you how keen I was for that to happen that I almost asked God to arrange it. But then I remembered that he and I were no longer speaking.

  I knew only that Flame Boy had remained in the area and hadn’t moved to Adelaide, which, according to Granddad, who had been there, needed burning down badly. I had to keep looking. There were still a few places I hadn’t looked, and they were all on my map. I checked them, then made a decision.

  That night I was staying at the Sandersons’ place, as I usually did on weekends, when there was another mysterious visit, this time from another bloke who had an accent like Bobrov. This bloke did not come in a big black car. In fact, he came in a Silver Top taxi. I hurried down the stairs as soon as he arrived, and hid just out of sight; but Mrs Sanderson rounded me up and took me back up to the bedroom and told me to stay there. I never did find out what he wanted, but I could guess. His visit was short and sweet, and I reckoned I knew why. Also, just before he left, he shouted something at Mr S. I felt like a nong, not hearing a thing, especially as I was supposed to be a secret agent. But at least I knew one thing: Mr S was still in the dark about the briefcase.

  Next morning, when I went down for brekky, Mr S was his usual old self, as if nothing had happened, and in fact, in any other house in Richmond, a visitor who did his block would be normal, but not in this one. But as I was hopping into the marmalade, Mr S looked over his glasses at me, so I knew he was going to ask me something.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Like a dog,’ I said, because Tom and I could never understand why you had to say ‘like a log’.

  ‘Good. Now, have you heard from the boy, Keith Kavanagh?’

  ‘He’s still around somewhere,’ I said. I didn’t think I could trust Mr Sanderson not to dob Flame Boy in, so I wasn’t going to tell him about the Gettis Caper.

  ‘You know, his father has been spotted once or twice. He’ll be back in custody soon. He may be under arrest at this very moment. Keith would be safer with someone who can look after him. I’m guessing that you’ve seen him, and I know you don’t like to get your friends into trouble, but I must ask you if you ever saw him with a briefcase.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but that was when he first moved in. But not since then. I asked him what it was and he told me it was his father’s.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. It was something his father took. If you see that briefcase again I want you to tell me. This isn’t a game: this is very serious indeed.’

  I nodded. I was thankful that I’d never really had the bloody thing, and that I would never see it again, so I wouldn’t have to lie to Mr S. Now that Granddad had it, no one was going to get that information from me, even if they put me on the rack and whipped me. Twice. Granddad had stuck by me when Tom died, and that was that. And he had never called me Tom by accident, like everyone in the family, including Mum and Dad. You can put up with that when your brother’s still alive, and one name’s as good as the other, but not when he’s gone, and you need to remember him properly. Mr S had never met Tom, but it was too late: he was never going to catch up with Granddad.

  But I felt that it was time to pay a visit to Granddad’s hideout and tell him what had happened at the Sandersons’: a spy report.

  I left the Sanderson’s place straight after brekky, and walked out the front gate and into Kipling Street. At the end of the street, down near Fawkner Street, I saw a black Holden Special parked. It was a fair way off, but it was one of the cars I’d seen the day they dug up Flame Boy’s old house. I got a fright when I saw that car, as any kid with my name, address and history of getting into trouble would, and started walking quickly towards Church Street. When I got there, I saw a Kew tram coming, and was just about to congratulate myself on my good luck when I noticed another black Holden Special parked across the road, in front of the match factory, where it was blending in like Whelan the Wrecker.

  I was disappointed in Mr Sanderson: I reckoned this was his idea. But this time I was ready and able, just not all that willing. I went back down to Carnival Lane and took the same escape route I’d used when Fergus Kavanagh was after me. It would be ages before the penny dropped with these blokes, and they were sitting in cars. I headed up Dynon Creek, just like before, and as I was jumping over old washing machines and dead cats I suddenly realised that if they had already arrested Mr K and given him the third degree, he might have told them about Dynon Creek and the big drain up at Eden Hill Station – in other words, about my intended escape route.

  I kept running, not knowing what else to do. And then I saw the rope that I had tied over the rail just near Gazza Turner’s place months before. I climbed it, paused at the top to take a look down Limerick Lane, and climbed over the rail. I hurried up the lane to Gazza’s place, and ran across his back yard, past his green and white Ford Customline, his outdoor sofa, and his outdoor kitchen table, to his back door. The back door was open and there was a flyscreen door with clouds of cigarette smoke wafting through it.

  I pressed my face up against it and called, quietly. After all, it was Sunday morning, and he might have had a hangover.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Gary, it’s me. I need help.’

  There were footsteps and complaints.

  Gazza opened the door and looked at me.

  ‘Blayney. What’s yer problem?’

  ‘There are some blokes after me. In cars.’

  ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re aft
er my granddad. I need to warn him, but they’ll follow me. I was wondering if I could hide here for a little while. Just till they’re gone.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  He went down to the lane and had a look around and came back.

  ‘Where does your granddad live?’

  ‘Kew.’

  ‘Fuck, he couldn’t live any further away, could he?’

  I played dumb.

  He sighed. ‘All right, then. Hop in.’

  He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and hopped in the car and let me in. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses off the dash and bunged them on. He reminded me of that Buddy Holly song: he was ‘Ready Teddy’.

  ‘What kind of cars are they in?’

  ‘Black FCs.’

  ‘Coppers. Get down on the floor.’

  I did as I was told, and we drove around to Church Street and turned right.

  ‘See ya later, alligator,’ said Gazza as he made the turn.

  For a while all I had to look at were Gazza’s Day-Glo pink socks. If I went home with those socks on, Mum’d kill me. After a while we turned right again and he said I could get up. This was the furthest I’d ever travelled in this car, because Tom and I had sat in the front seat when Gazza first got it and he was giving all the kids in the neighbourhood a free ride. Granddad always said Gazza wouldn’t amount to much, but Granddad didn’t have a Ford Customline. When we got to the Archbishop’s place, I told Gazza how to get around the back.

  ‘Thanks, Gary.’

  ‘How’ya getting back?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I’ll give you five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I ran inside and found Granddad and Uncle Seamus having a cuppa, pretty much as they were last time I was there. It was like stepping back in time in a space serial.

  ‘I thought I told you not to come over here again.’

  ‘I had to, Granddad. Mr Sanderson had another visit from a Russian bloke last night, a new one. And the bloke did his block and everything. He was after the briefcase too. But Mr Sanderson said he didn’t know where it was. And this morning he read me the Riot Act, but I didn’t tell him anything. And when I left to come and tell you about it a couple of carloads of coppers tried to follow me.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Uncle Seamus.

  ‘But I took Dynon Creek to Gary Turner’s place and he brought me in his car and made me hide on the floor.’

  ‘Who’s Gary Turner when he’s home?’ asked Uncle Seamus.

  ‘Local bodgie. More money than sense,’ said Granddad.

  ‘He’s waitin’ out in the lane. He’s gunna take me back again. Don’t worry, he’ll keep quiet. He owed me a favour.’

  ‘And now you owe him one, boy, and I told you never to let that happen.’

  ‘This was different, Granddad — I had to. Mr Sanderson says they might have caught Mr Kavanagh already.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about him. They’ll only catch him if he wants to be caught. That’s how they got him in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Why would he want to get caught?’

  Granddad wasn’t falling for that one. I had to be content to leave empty-handed.

  Outside, Gazza was still waiting, and having a quiet smoke (Marlboro).

  ‘So, all done?’ he said.

  ‘Yep. Thanks.’

  ‘You know why I helped you out?’

  ‘Not really. Because I didn’t see you that day down at Prince Patrick Street, when you found that toolbox?’

  ‘No, though I appreciate you not seeing me down there. No, it’s because blokes like us have to stick together.’

  ‘What d’ya mean “blokes like us”?’

  ‘Blokes who wear pink socks, for one thing.’

  ‘I don’t wear pink socks.’

  ‘No, but ya wanna, don’t ya, eh?’

  He had me there.

  40 The Italian connection

  When I left Gazza’s place I went home via the lanes, to avoid the Black Holdens, and made my way to Dress Circle Lane to pick up Raffi, as I thought he might like to join me on my mission. My plan was to ask Mum if Aunty Daphne could take me and Flame Boy over to the blind people’s home to visit, the next time she went over. I couldn’t see any problems, as she had become friends with Mrs Kavanagh for a little while after Mrs K’s house had burnt down, and I didn’t think she’d blame her for our house burning down. Different thing altogether. And I couldn’t get Flame Boy to agree to anything else, so I thought it was worth a try. I didn’t think I’d confuse her by letting on that I’d already visited Mrs Kavanagh under my own steam. Kids are supposed to be like bread-and-butter puddings: incapable of self-propulsion. I didn’t take Zac, as he was asleep, in preparation for his next big mission down some drain or other. Nor did I ride my bike, as Raffi was with me, and he had never been allowed to have a bike. We took the tram, and this time I pretended it was Raffi who’d had polio, and it worked fine. Raffi said I was pretty convincing as the kid who had nothing wrong with him, and I told him I’d been pretending I had nothing wrong with me for ages.

  When we got to St Dom’s Church I showed Raffi how to get off by swinging out over the traffic and then dropping down in front of the cars, forcing them to stop before the tram did. The clippie was probably amazed that a kid who’d had polio could do that, and I don’t blame her. All in all it was shaping up to be a successful mission.

  But when I walked in with Raffi, something strange happened to the air in the living room: it went all sickly and made my legs feel sore.

  The reason for the air going all funny was the look on Mum’s fizzog. She was looking at Raffi as if he had just sneezed green snot all over her new shoes. Or as if he was a zombie. Then the expression passed, and she was wearing her talking-to-visitors face again. But Raffi had noticed, and said nothing, not even hello.

  In the meantime, Aunty Daffy, who was also there, was standing like someone had just stuck a cracker down her pants, and it should have gone off three seconds ago, but hadn’t. She was swinging her head from me to Raffi and back like Mr Squiggle, who she looked a lot like anyway. I was glad she didn’t say anything. In the end it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Come here,’ said Mum, and walked out into the passage, and left Raffi standing in the living room with Aunty Daffy. In the passage Mum leant towards me and spoke so close to me it was raining in my face.

  ‘What is he doing here?’

  ‘He came over to see where I live. He’s the kid we told you about, the one —’

  ‘I know who he is, and I don’t want to see him in this house again. Now, send him home.’

  ‘But —’

  Mum smacked my face, not as hard as Brother Ignatius, but hard enough to knock me off my feet. She had never done that before. I got up and headed for the living room, but Raffi came out and hurried towards the front door, looking back at Mum and me nervously. I followed Raffi out into the street, and told him to wait for me round the corner in Church Street. I went back in and walked into the hall, where I had left my bag. Mum was in the living room with Aunty Daffy. They were frozen like statues. Mum’s eyes were on me, but she registered no expression. Perhaps tiredness. Aunty Daffy proved me wrong by not laughing. I looked in her eyes for the judgement I had come to expect from most of the adults who knew me, but there was none.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ yelled Mum, in the voice you normally save up for yelling ‘Fire!’.

  Then, just like that, I left.

  The first thing I did was take the tram down to South Richmond and go home with Raffi. I needed a bit of time to think, and for some reason I didn’t need to be by myself to think when Raffi was around. I suppose that was because we each sensed when the other wanted to be quiet. Most of the time I was thinking about what Mum had said just before I left, and whether she’d now be expecting me to leave home, like Dad. Anyway, we travelled all the way down Church Street like that, then went into Raffi’s place the usua
l way.

  His mum was sitting in the lounge with her feet up, having a beer. I hadn’t seen many ladies doing that, as most of them preferred to drink stronger stuff, owing to the general quality of the local men, I think. Like a lot of women, Mrs Radion lived with just her kids, or kid, in this case. Some husbands were dead, some had shot through, some were just not there. I didn’t know Raffi’s story; but I didn’t have to. It was a hot night, so we walked in and plonked ourselves down on the sofa.

  ‘There’s lemonade in the fridge.’

  We both went to look, and decided to go for the cola flavour. Back in the lounge we sat and did nothing, and said nothing. It was like a funeral, without the crying and bulldust.

  ‘Put the TV on, if you like. Just don’t make it too loud.’

  We didn’t move.

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘We went to my place.’

  ‘And did your mother meet Raffi?’ said Mrs R in a worn-out voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Raffi.

  ‘And?’ She had the faintest smile on her face, a smile and a tired frown.

  Raffi suddenly started crying and got up, but didn’t go anywhere. He was just like a big rag doll. His mum put her beer down, got up and gave him a cuddle. I was going to cry too: I gave myself ten seconds. I grabbed my bag and disappeared into the lanes.

  The last person you want to see when you’re down in the dumps is always the first one you actually run into. I had just left Dress Circle Lane, and was crying like a camel with a cold, not giving a continental who heard me, secretly hoping that everyone in that rotten town could hear me, and would feel half as sorry for me as I did for myself and for Raffi, who at least had a mum who wanted to cuddle him, when I bumped into Sidewinder, that is, Mario Camponi. Terrific. Goodbye Cobra membership, hello club outcast.

  I had been looking down when I rounded the next corner, and a large hand reached out and barred my way. Normally, I would have died of fright, but I was so out of energy, I didn’t have the strength to have a heart attack, so my heart just kept on beating out of force of habit.