The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  The realisation spread like mumps. That’s when the pandemonium happened. But Mum held up a hand, and the crowd stopped slashing their wrists and watched as Mum ushered Flame Boy into her office. She didn’t try to wrestle him to the ground or anything, as Jungle Jim would have done (but she could have — did I mention that she fought the Japs?), but gently showed him her wooden cupboard, and made him sit down in her posh office chair. Then she took out her key and turned it in the lock.

  All you could hear were the match machines spitting out millions of little matchsticks onto the floor. Then that, too, stopped, as someone somewhere pressed the big red button that said STOP. Mum put her hand out for the matchbox and Flame Boy gave it to her. He was in one of his trances, like a crim after Mandrake the Magician gestures hypnotically at him and makes him think he is a chook.

  Then she slowly opened the door and let him see what was inside. He just stared. He was out of petrol. Mum quietly stepped outside, without a word, and a big bloke who was built like a Ford Prefect took her place, and wrapped Flame Boy in his arms tighter than a cabbage leaf in a dim-sim.

  46 A tale of two towns

  I saw Flame Boy as he was being led away by the giant. I didn’t want to be there in case he saw me. But he did. He walked within kicking distance of me, but made no attempt to send me back to the hospital, where they were thinking of making me an honorary patient, but simply gave me his lopsided smile, which spoke of forgiveness. I wanted to cry when I saw that: I wondered how many of these tragic moments had we shared, and how many would we share again. And I wondered if life had been cruel enough to us in those moments.

  They were your typical superhero wonderings. Because I was sure that your common or garden kid didn’t wonder about those things, but maybe just why his mum and dad hated each other and were on the grog all the time, and why his teachers were so rotten to him, and why he wished he was dead. Ordinary stuff, in other words. But just your day-to-day stuff, and not a thought at all about the actual moments. It’s the actual moments that your superhero notices. He is like a pair of binoculars, or a microscope: he has focus.

  I followed the small crowd as they took Flame Boy out the back and bundled him into a big purple Studebaker, and drove away with him.

  And though I had been in the centre of the drama, though I had been hot on the heels of Flame Boy when he had interrupted the happy ladies of Richmond in the business of making Redheads, though I was somehow implicated in the Attack Of The Flame Boy From Mars, I was virtually ignored, and told by Mum to wait while she got her things, because a fat man with a clipboard and shoes with cream panels in them had turned up and announced that the factory was closed for the day, for safety reasons.

  I went home with Mum and Aunty D on a tram. Mum and I were both exhausted, though for different reasons. My reason was that I had fought a losing battle to save Flame Boy from the torturers and jailers, from the doctors and their brain-electrocuting machines, and from separation from both his mum and his dad. I did not want these things to happen, though less for Flame Boy than for me. I did not want to fail yet another boy who was going to die, who never had a bloody chance. I didn’t want to let him down. Now, I didn’t think I could live anymore.

  I don’t know why Mum was exhausted, but I knew that I had something to do with it. I thought Mum might finally be thinking about giving in to Dr Dunnett about getting my brain barbecued. I wouldn’t have blamed her, even though all week she had been in a good mood with me (because God had put one over her with that baby thing). But something told me Granddad wouldn’t let that happen. Just to be on the safe side, I sat close to Mum so she’d think nice thoughts about me and, to my amazement, she put her arm around my shoulder, as if we were mates. I didn’t move a muscle in case she came out of her hypnotic trance and realised that I was not in fact Errol Flynn.

  Aunty D was, I could tell, taking it all in her stride, as if she went into battle against fire-breathing dragons every day, although she was actually on a kind of holiday, and probably woke up that morning and thought to herself: Now what’ll it be today: four hours at the hairdresser’s, or a quiet morning at the Hibiscus Tea Shop, followed by the matinee showing of Sleeping Beauty at the Gala?

  The tram strained slightly as it pulled across Swan Street, then banged and shook its way up Church Street Hill. Halfway up the hill it stopped behind another tram. I stood up and swung out of the door to get a better look. We were stopped behind two trams, and the reason was that a car on the side of the road, parked outside the cop shop, was on fire. It was the purple Studebaker.

  All the doors were open and there was a small crowd of coppers and plainclothesmen calmly standing around watching. The flames had completely engulfed it, and it had a bit of the look of Barney’s car, just after they yanked him out of it. There was no sign of Flame Boy, but no one was panicking, so I assumed he had pulled the escape act for which his old man, and now he himself, were famous.

  I wondered if I should share this bit of intelligence with Mum and Co. I looked at their faces. No, not really. Better they don’t hear it from me, I thought.

  The tram drivers finally got bored and got going, and I swung back in again, as our tram rattled past.

  Mum and Aunty Daffy both craned their necks and had a look, and Aunty D said: ‘Hello,’ while Mum said: ‘I could just scream.’ Fair in the circs, I thought.

  From further up the hill, I heard a fire engine, the Eastern Hill Mob, and wondered if one of Old Man Ferguson’s kids was driving the fire engine. The Fergusons were a bunch of bloody maniacs.

  At home, I discovered that I had become the Invisible Boy again. I went up to my room, wondering what invisible boys ate, hoping it was something visible, as I was a little peckish just then, but not game to raid the fridge in case Mum shook herself out of her quiet mental state and returned to normal. For a few seconds there, on that tram, I had been as near to happy as I had been in over a year, and I had come to within an inch of bursting into a chorus of ‘Clang, clang, clang went the trolley’. But Flame Boy’s escape had been an instant setback in the mood of the Blayney Battalion, and now I had no idea what was going to happen next.

  In my room, I realised that, in his desperate and lone way of being Flame Boy Versus The World, he had provided for me a torch to light the darkness. It was just like that bit in the Mass: And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness grasped it not. No one else got it, but I did. Like the Olympic Torch, which had been passed from person to person, and then to me, his light had been passed down from his ancestors, who had probably begun by setting fire to caves, to his father, who may have possessed a certain knack, but not the full talent, then to him. And now I felt that the light had been received by me, the Spirit of Progress, to use to light my own way, in my own way. I would not let him down.

  But what to do now? I went downstairs, and stood in the doorway to the living room, where Mum had flopped like a giant blonde golliwog. She paid me no attention but stared at the TV as if some terrific cooking class was on it; but it was switched off. It was true: she couldn’t see me. In the kitchen, I could hear Aunty D organising a couple of coldies. See, now that made sense.

  I left the house, expecting to be told not to go too far. Nothing.

  As I reached the gate, I spotted Raffi standing across the road, looking like he was prepared to run if necessary, a stance that boys are probably born in. He came over to me.

  ‘H’llo.’

  ‘H’llo. I was worried about you.’

  My chest suddenly flooded with hot air, which shot up to my head, burning my eyes.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘It’s been hours. And you were down in that drain. I thought —’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘And you said two hours.’

  I started to cry, at least, someone did, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Raffi. He put his hand on my shoulder and I stopped. For some reason it was okay that it was him.

  The door opened behind me, and I tu
rned around. It was Mum.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said and walked up to us.

  Raffi kept his hand on my shoulder, protectively, I thought — defiantly.

  ‘It’s all right … Raffi …’ She put a hand on each of our shoulders and smiled a little.

  ‘I’m all right now.’ She kissed me and went inside.

  ‘I thought she was going to hit you again.’

  ‘I thought she was going to hit you.’

  ‘There’s a car on fire down at the police station.’

  ‘I know, I saw. It used to be purple.’

  ‘Now it’s black.’

  We laughed.

  We put our arms around each other’s neck, the way little kids do, and walked up to Church Street. At the corner two fire engines dashed past and for a moment we were washed by a rush of cool air.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Raffi.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ This was one fire I didn’t want to attend, in case I was recognised as a known associate of the infamous Torch.

  ‘Why not?’ Raffi could hardly believe his ears.

  ‘Because that car was set alight by Tiger. It’s an escape trick he learnt from his father. He does it with more pizzazz, but.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Raffi raised an arm and pointed. Across the road, darting into St Dominic’s Church, was Keith Aloysius Gonzaga Kavanagh, alias Flame Boy, the Torch, and Tiger. Like Quasimodo, he was seeking sanctuary.

  ‘Come on!’

  We weaved our way across the street and shot into the foyer of the darkish church. I automatically dipped my fingers into the holy water and blessed myself, while Raffi stared.

  ‘It’s what we do. You don’t have to. Come on.’

  Inside, it was quiet and cool, and there were a dozen or so people shuffling around in the gloom, carefully, so they wouldn’t step on God’s toes. Too bloody late, people. I took Raffi to a dark corner towards the back of the huge cavern, and grabbed a spot for us at the end of a pew. All the other sinners were either walking or kneeling. Flame Boy had gone to ground.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  After a while a kid’s elbows appeared on the back of our pew, beside us, then a kid’s fizzog. The smell told me it was my nemesis.

  Raffi looked at me, but I didn’t turn around. Any second I expected the whole Victorian Police Force to turn up and arrest us both for leaving the scene of a conflagration for the purpose of praying. But nothing happened to disturb the peace. After a while, Flame Boy sniffled. He was crying.

  ‘What are you crying for? Did you get burnt?’

  ‘Nah. I’m just not happy.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I’m the Invisible Boy, and you’re up Shit Creek without a paddle.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Tiger.’

  ‘Um, Copperhead just came up to tell me about the mighty fire you lit, didn’t you, Copperhead?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a little ripper. I never liked Studebakers much, anyway.’ Raffi was pretty good once he got going.

  ‘Take me to Albury.’

  ‘I told you, he’s gone to Russia.’

  ‘Take me to Albury.’

  Flame Boy had developed a nervous habit of repeating himself; with me it was hiccups.

  ‘What would you do when you got there?’

  ‘Look for him.’

  A thought occurred to me.

  ‘Do you realise that Russia is not in Albury?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in another country. It’s overseas. You can’t get to it by train.’ I reckoned that covered everything.

  The Kavanagh wheels turned a few clinks, then stopped.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Finally, I couldn’t stand the smell any longer.

  ‘Come on.’

  Raffi had been following this conversation — or rather, not following it — closely. He now jumped up with us and followed along like a border collie.

  I took Flame Boy down to the East Richmond Station and fronted up to the ticket window.

  ‘When does the next train go to Albury?’

  ‘Leaves Spencer Street at nine o’clock tonight.’

  ‘How much is it a ticket?’

  ‘One way or return?’

  ‘One way.’

  ‘First Class or Second Class?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘Any luggage?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘That’ll be four and six.’

  ‘I just have to go home and get the money. We’ll be back.’

  We went up to Granddad’s house and I told Flame Boy to wait on Nanna’s special seat on the verandah while I went inside for some money. He wasn’t going anywhere. Raffi sat down beside him, unsure of his new position in the Blayney territory.

  Mum was standing inside the screen door. She said nothing, but turned and walked, or rather marched, into the living room.

  ‘He’s got the boy outside,’ she announced to Aunty D.

  ‘We found him in the church.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for praying, isn’t it?’

  I looked at the two women for a long time. I could feel heat filling me. I waited for a moment until I was completely filled. The Spirit felt safe in the presence of Aunty D.

  ‘I’ve got Keith with me. I’m going to take him down to the station and put him on a train to Albury. It leaves Spencer Street at nine o’clock. I’m going to buy a ticket for him.’

  ‘What is this thing with Albury?’ said Aunty D.

  ‘It’s where I’m sending him.’ I felt the fire in my face. ‘Dad said it was the most boring place in Australia, so I reckoned they wouldn’t notice the odd fire.’

  Aunty D laughed so loud I jumped.

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything. You were going to send him to my place?’

  ‘I thought you lived in Wodonga.’

  ‘Albury … Wodonga. Same diff — it’s where I live. Jean, it’s bloody providence! Why don’t we bring him in and give him a shower? I’ll do a quick pack. Then we’ll go down to the blind place and get Molly and catch that train and be out of your hair. But he’ll need the shower.’

  Mum closed her eyes and bowed her head for a moment, then looked up and nodded, deadpan. I could read her mind. She would have preferred to kill him, but this would make the whole problem go away.

  And so it was done. I sat Raffi down in the living room, where he looked around as if he was expecting the roof to cave in at any minute. Flame Boy I herded to the bathroom.

  Aunty D took off her red dress and supervised the shower and hair washing in her petticoat, as if she did it every day, while Flame Boy objected and squirmed in embarrassment, but got nowhere. It’s a pity to see a superhero being turned back into a boy. I couldn’t watch.

  While Flame Boy was climbing into some of my old clothes, I went in and had a word in his shell-like.

  ‘When you get there, don’t start any fires. Or they’ll stick you in the loony bin. And don’t set fire to the train: they take a dim view of that. Here’s some money. Granddad says a bloke should always have some dosh on him, for luck.’

  Flame Boy looked at me calmly; I could see that he had no emotions left in him at all. He had used up his whole twelve years’ store in one go. I think that if I had given him a box of matches just then, and a copy of the Australasian Post, he would have handed them back with a gentle shake of the head and a ‘tsk, tsk’, as if to say: ‘Really, Spirit, I’m surprised at you, and not a little disappointed.’ Or perhaps not.

  Mum called a taxi and while Aunty D was getting organised I grabbed the phone and told Raffi’s mum where he was.

  ‘Jeannie, thanks for taking care of me. Just like old times. Say goodbye to Seamus for me. Here’s my address and phone number. I expect you to flaunt it disgracefully next time you see him.’

  ‘We don’t see him very often, thank G
od.’

  ‘Oh, you will.’

  The Silver Top came, we all went out to meet it, and Flame Boy hopped in, looking dangerously bright-eyed and restored, and eating a banana. I thought of the Gettis Zoo. Aunty D tried to kiss me to death, but failed — a lot of good aunties have been down that road. She tried to talk to me, but couldn’t. All she could do was hug me and kiss me, till I was bent out of shape. And I’m here to tell you that the pretend aunties can be a lot worse than the real ones. When she got into the taxi, she wound down the window, and I passed her the brown paper bag Granddad had given me — it was no good to me.

  ‘Remember that bloke I was talking to at the blind people’s home? His name’s Weedo. This is a present for him.’

  They left.

  I sat on the step with Raffi for a while and watched the traffic go past up at Church Street. Raffi pulled out his number puzzle and made the tiles slide around with little clicks. Melbourne was getting sad and grey. There was thunder. The trams banged more quietly, then made no noise at all. Somewhere, I could smell hot chips. They smelled greasy, a bit off, made in yesterday’s oil. I nudged Raffi, and we followed the smell around the corner. I bought a bob’s worth and three potato cakes, and a dim-sim for Mum, because she had a soft spot for them.

  At home, while Mum was organising the plates, I looked at Nanna’s old clock: I reckoned they’d be close to Prahran by now.

  Soon, they’d be giving Weedo his present.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to the following for their help during the writing of this novel.

  My fabulous agent, Lyn Tranter, and to all at Australian Literary Management for their reading and feedback.

  Catherine Milne, publisher, Amanda O’Connell and Jude McGee, senior editors, Kate O’Donnell, editor, Darren Holt, illustrator and designer, Fiona Daniels, the incredible proofreader, Jane Finemore, publicity manager, and everyone at HarperCollins for their wonderful enthusiasm and affection for the narrator, and for their remarkable hospitality.