The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  At the Batman Avenue terminus, who should we see crossing the road but Matthew Bloody Foster, the kid I spent practically my whole life avoiding like Brussels sprouts. He had been on the same tram, with his mum, except down the other end. To my complete delight, his mum had made him wear his purple shorts. I could tell that she had a tight rein on him, no doubt because of what she had seen us doing to the local traffic. The look on Foster’s dial told me that he was dying to come over and pester us, but wanted to stay in his mum’s good books. Just then, I felt for him: I wanted him to come over and cop whatever ridicule I could dream up, for the shorts, and for other things. But they were well away.

  Naturally, I thought Raffi knew nothing about Foster, Son of Baked Bean Tester, beyond what I’d told him. So imagine my surprise when he suddenly waved the flipper and yelled out: ‘Hey, Foster!’

  ‘Hey, Radion! What are ya doing with Blayney?’

  ‘We’re friends!’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Foster,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell him about the Olympians.’

  ‘We used to live in his street. Don’t worry, I won’t. Hey, look. He’s got his purple shorts on.’

  ‘Hey, Radion!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going to see The Shaggy Dog!’

  Raffi and I looked at each other.

  ‘So—!’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ I cut in. ‘We’ll go in last.’

  ‘But we’ll have to sit up the back.’

  ‘Yeah, but then we can roll aniseed balls under the seats.’

  ‘Ye-e-ah.’

  By this time, the Purple Pest and his captor were well away, and we waited for a few minutes before moving off to the same theatre. However, after going to all that trouble we ran into the PP himself in the lollies queue — that would be God’s little joke.

  ‘Hey,’ said Foster as if he was not in the least bit surprised to see us, and as if we were still having the same conversation, ‘guess who I saw in Church Street? That kid who lights fires. Mum didn’t see him, but I did. I told her, but she said don’t worry, if he’s not trying to hide, the police will catch him. I —’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘It was up near Swan Street.’

  ‘Well done, young Foster. The Commandos would have been proud of you.’

  ‘Ssh, don’t tell Radion about the Commandos,’ said Foster, right in front of him. ‘That was our club.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s got his own club, haven’t you, Radion?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Raffi. ‘And it’s full.’

  ‘We don’t care, do we, Foster?’

  ‘Nah, me and Blayney don’t care. Anyway, I joined another club, ’cept it’s more like a gang.’ I hoped he wasn’t going to say the Destroyers. ‘It’s called the … um … the … the Rockets!’

  ‘What street’s it in?’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  There was a silence full of picture theatre foyer music — just then it was ‘Moonglow’ from Picnic. I hoped a bomb would go off. Anything.

  ‘Also —’ (Another one of Matthew Foster’s favourite words.)

  ‘What?’

  ‘That kid was crying.’

  So Flame Boy’s infamous superhero identity was coming unglued. I’d seen it all before, and a lot closer to home than I cared to admit to just anyone. The sooner I caught up with him, the better for the whole family. But I knew I had no intention of searching for him in the blast furnace that Melbourne had turned into until I at least had a picture and a dip under my belt. Still, I hated to hear it, especially from a boy who was wearing purple shorts to the pictures.

  43 The Torch

  The picture turned out to be one of the best pictures of all time, having everything: spies, a friendly dog, and a girl. I liked it so much I decided not to roll any of my aniseed balls under the seats, in case we got thrown out.

  The picture also had a museum, which made me turn to Raffi and say: ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘I’m thinking, Secret Agent Radion, that we should go and visit our old buddy the Olympic Torch.’

  ‘Oh. Now I’m thinking what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Good on you, Raffi my son. A visit to the Torch it is.’

  By the time the coolness of the Globe had worn off, we were back in Swanston Street, where there was no shade all the way up to the museum, which was like an oasis. So hot was it, in fact, that a hundred feet from the theatre I was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. But I thought of the Torch, all by itself, probably not having been visited all day, and just begging to be recognised for the great thing it was, the thing that they talked about in the Mass: the light that no one got.

  We were refreshed as soon as we walked into the place, oldness being a kind of medicine, and we headed straight to the Torch. When we found it, it was sitting in the raised hand of its dummy runner (it was supposed to be Ron Clarke, but if I’d been Ron’s mum I would have lodged a protest, it looked so crummy). In the background were lots of big blown-up photos of Olympic athletes doing Olympic things, and odds and ends from the Games themselves. But the only thing that looked real was the Torch. And we could tell from the scorch marks around the top that this had been one of the fair dinkum torches that Mrs Radion had told us about, and maybe even the real Ron’s torch (as the sign said).

  The big room was dead quiet as we stood there on one side of the roped-off area. There was not even an echo. We looked around, a thing kids do naturally when something is about to happen — we’re born with it. When girls see boys look around like this they look around too — usually for someone to tell. This is why boys do not hang out with girls; except for pashing, which does not count, because with pashing most of the looking around is usually done by the girl half of the outfit, I’ve noticed.

  I ducked under the rope and walked up to the fake Ron Clarke.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ whispered Raffi.

  ‘Getting a closer look. Keep a lookout.’

  ‘Don’t —’

  I had touched it, to see how it felt. It felt like an Olympic torch. Only electric. I felt its power.

  ‘Don’t —’

  I lifted it out of Ron’s hand. It was lovely — torchy. Suddenly I wanted to sing. I began to whisper:

  ‘Torche-e-e

  Torche-e-e

  Torchy, Torchy the Battery Boy –’

  ‘Put it back!’

  ‘You have a hold.’

  I gave it to Raffi. While he tested it, I looked around.

  ‘Can you feel its power?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Raffi. And he hefted it like an expert.

  I hopped back under the rope.

  ‘Here, put it back,’ he whispered, and handed it to me. For a moment, both of us were holding it. Then all hell broke loose down the museum attendant end of the pitch.

  There was only one entrance to the big room, and just then it was blocked by a large guard-shaped door-stop. I looked to both sides, quickly, as you do when the chips are down, and the canyon has been sealed off by the sheriff and his posse. To our right was a locked door blocked by a steam-driven car; to the left, a series of World War I army nurses’ uniforms in glass cabinets. There was a gap in the cabinets, and in that gap was a door. I recognised it as my door.

  ‘Come on.’

  I ran for the door and opened it, and we stepped into the huge storeroom of exhibits the public never got to see. I closed the door behind us and turned the key in the lock. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other, then at the Torch, which I was still holding — it had a natural feel to it.

  ‘They’ll put us in jail,’ said Raffi.

  ‘No, they won’t. Follow me.’

  I headed to the other side of the room, dodging stuffed marsupials and engines that did nothing useful when you started them up, and opened the door to the stairs. Down we went, down, down, down, in pitch dark, with Raffi hanging on to the back of my T-shirt and cooing in te
rror as I spoke to him soothingly: ‘Keep one hand on the wall. I know the way. Soon it will be light.’ And so on, as much for myself as for Raffi, though the darkness itself didn’t frighten me. What frightened me was the descent. It was as if we were descending into a place of comeuppance. I prayed to my archnemesis not to let us be caught, not for ourselves — every kid knows that you plays your game and you takes your chances — but for our parents, and our granddads and nannas, so that they wouldn’t have to visit us in the Home for Bad Kids every month, like Rhysie Savage, who got done for borrowing a car, which Barney says is never a good idea while you’re still wearing your school uniform, though in itself is probably something that everybody does from time to time.

  However, prayers turned out to be completely unnecessary, as my memory had worked fine. When we reached what felt like the bottom we found a door and pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit tunnel heading up a hill to our left and down to our right. I shoved as much of the Torch as I could into my bag, and looked at Raffi, who looked as white as a condensed-milk sambo.

  ‘We go right. Whatever you do, stick to the wall. There are little trams down here, and they don’t make much noise. But they go fast. No people, just trams: you’ll see.’

  At the main tunnel, under Swanston Street, the world was mine once again. I did not creep along, I swaggered (Raffi continued to creep). I gave the Torch to Raffi to hold, to give his confidence a boost, and led the way, like Sherpa Tenzing. When a double tram shot past us from behind, the breeze was so strong I thought my time was up, and Raffi let out the Scream of Death, which was only natural in the circs. Down towards the river we went, until I saw the little tunnel branching off to the left, near St Paul’s. Raffi burst out into the lane behind the cathedral like a kid who’d been held under water, while I stepped out behind him as if I did it every day. But I badly needed a quiet sit down somewhere.

  In all the excitement, we forgot all about the City Baths, and headed straight across Flinders Street and hopped on the first tram down Batman Avenue. For Raffi, that was the way home, and I think that right then, he had no plan at all, and was running that way out of force of habit, the way all frightened rats, cats and kids do. But I was heading that way for a reason — the Spirit of Progress is a creature of reason — and had a destination in mind, the only place I could think of to take the Torch, where it would never be seen again by human eyes, unless those eyes were Olympian.

  At Yorkshire Street we hopped off, not doing our swinging out over the road trick, because we were carrying the Torch, and because it was too bloody hot, but mainly because we were still in shock over what we’d done. We hadn’t spoken all the way down on the tram, though I wanted to badly. And I could see that Raffi did too. But what can you say that will top: Hey, we just committed the Crime of the Century?

  We hurried down Yorkshire Street to the end, through the old cemetery, until we came to the even older cemetery behind it. It was all overgrown with long yellow grass at this time of the year, and looked very unhappy in all the heat. Raffi was immediately more nervous, if that was possible.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Bethstone. It’s an old magic cemetery.’

  ‘I didn’t even know it was here.’

  ‘No one does, only zombies and ghosts.’

  I could tell from the look on Raffi’s dial that he hadn’t considered the possibility of these things being just a few streets away from home.

  ‘They eat brains, human brains — and dogs’ brains,’ I added unnecessarily, as Raffi must have been the only kid in the Southern Hemisphere who didn’t have a dog.

  ‘Why dogs’ brains?’

  ‘Have you ever smelt a dog?’

  ‘Ye-e-ah.’

  ‘There you go.’

  We had reached the old drain, hidden in the long grass, which was my private entrance to my underground hideout, and which I hadn’t even shown to Flame Boy. I lowered myself into the drain on my front, until I could feel the concrete steps on the right-hand side, then started my descent. All the time, I was talking to Raffi, explaining, so he wouldn’t lose it and go troppo, which would have been completely understandable.

  ‘This is where my secret underground hideout is … You have to climb down these skinny little steps … I have a torch stashed down there so we can see … we can hide Ron’s Torch here …’ and so on, as much for myself as for young Raffi.

  At the bottom we stood in the rectangular slot of light provided by the drain, and smiled at each other for the first time.

  ‘Are you having fun?’ It was my voice speaking, but I was perfectly aware that the question was pure Tom. It was the sort of thing he might have said to me in the middle of one of our dangerous adventures, like the time we climbed onto the roof of Mrs Carruthers’ house and then walked along the top of a high wall so we could get into Old Man Sweeney’s junk yard.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to go down there.’

  ‘Wait here while I go and get the torch. I’ll just be a minute.’

  Two minutes later we were in the hideout, on the big ledge down the drain, which looked even bigger than usual in torchlight. Raffi was impressed and dropped from nine to about five on the Panic Scale.

  ‘Wow! How did you find this place?’

  ‘This is where that bloke took the Harrigan kid; this was his hideout. Now it’s mine — and yours too. Just come down here any time — better get a torch, first. Now, for the Torch —’

  ‘But how did you know about the tunnel … the one under the museum … and all the other tunnels?’

  ‘Look, Agent Radion, or should I say Special Agent Radion’ — that did the trick — ‘tunnels are my business: tunnels and drains … and underground railway stuff. Now, for our new Torch.’

  I placed the Olympic Torch in its new permanent home – the hub of a rusty machine wheel that was down in the hideout – and straightened it. Then I stuffed the top of the Torch with paper, and poured in a little bit of the kero I was going to use for the hurricane lamp, then lit it, and gave it to Raffi to hold. It burnt with a soft light that made the hideout look friendly for the first time since I’d found it.

  ‘We can’t take it back,’ said Raffi.

  ‘They’ve got a hundred of the buggers. This one’s ours. Finders keepers.’

  Raffi nodded, seriously.

  ‘Finders keepers.’

  ‘Best you don’t tell your mum; she’d break us up.’

  We watched in silence while the flame filled us with its holy light, then died. Then I took Raffi back to the narrow steps that led up to Bethstone.

  ‘You know how everyone’s looking for Keith Kavanagh? Well, I think I know where he might be, but it’s a long way from here up this drain. I’ve been there before, so I’m going to take the torch and go for a look. I can’t take you with me in case the battery runs out — I can find my way out in the dark, but it would be too dangerous for the two of us together. Okay?’

  Raffi wobbled the coconut: he was all for the peaceful life, and in fact was looking at me as if I’d lost my marbles.

  ‘Look, his aunty is visiting at our place, and — oh hell, it’s a long story. If he’s not there, I’ll meet you at your place in half an hour, and we can go for a swim. If he is there, I’ll have to take him back to his aunty. If you don’t see me in an hour, I’m at home and probably in trouble for something — dunno what.’

  ‘What if you get stuck in the drain? What’ll I do?’

  I could see that young Raffi was new to panic.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. As a matter of fact’ — I did the voice — ‘down here, folks call me … the Ferret!

  ‘Yes, the Ferret! A strange being from Richmond Hill who runs around under the ground, and can see in the dark. The Ferret! Who steals Olympic torches; finds kids who go nuts and set fire to things; and rescues beautiful Italian girls — I’m talking about Mona, not Tina.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘— ’n stuff.’

  Raffi scrambled
up into the blast furnace, and was gone.

  I turned up the big stormwater drain, which was bone dry. The only place Flame Boy could be was Kansas Station, under Eden Hill, so that was going to be my first port of call. If that didn’t work, my back-up plan was: I didn’t have a back-up plan, which is the worst thing that can happen to a spy, bar his gun jamming just as he is about to give the bad guy a dose of lead poisoning. (Usually, on those occasions, the dame — that would be Mona — decides to change sides, and clobbers the bad guy with her handbag, which is chock-full of heavy makeup jars and bottles.)

  I figured that I had plenty of juice left in the old batteries, providing I used the method of drain exploring that I was expecting to be named after me one day, that is, of switching the light off and on every now and then. This was the way I had walked up to Kansas last year. Seeing the Olympic Torch burning back in the hideout had inspired me, so that I knew that nothing could possibly go wrong.

  44 Father and son

  When I heard the sound of a train not far away and seemingly under the ground with me I knew I was under the hill that was Eden Park. The drain suddenly opened out into a huge underground space full of old rails, sleepers and machinery. And there, in the abandoned work area, sitting by a fire, were Flame Boy and his old man. They were cooking something, and it smelt delicious.

  ‘Come and have some,’ called Mr Kavanagh.

  I walked into the large brick-lined space, and looked at them, wondering if I now had a mysterious Olympic light about me.

  They looked like a couple of derros camping under the railway bridge in bad weather. They had made the place into a kind of home. They were cooking eggs and bacon and fried bread. I gave it a nine.

  Flame Boy was in some kind of angelic state, the same state I’d seen him in whenever there was fire around. His eyes were reflecting the dancing flames, and he was gazing at me as if he had already died and gone to Heaven and had become one of those visions that appears to shepherds and guides them to wherever shepherds get guided to. He also had a halo.