Turn off the Lights

by Phillip Gwynne

  It was an hour’s drive to the venue, over the hinterland, towards where the sun was now setting. This bad boy may have had some grunt, but Dad wasn’t utilising much of it. He drove very slowly, cautiously negotiating the many bends.

  ‘I can take over if you like, darling,’ suggested Mom, but Dad was having none of it.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said.

  On the radio they were talking about the blackout. Because of the timing – from eight thirty-three to nine thirty-three – initial suspicion had fallen on the Earth Hour organisation. An investigative journalist by the name of Phil Cher was confident that any enquiry would clear them of all responsibility, however. Instead, he was pointing the finger at the Diablo Bay Power Station. Initially they’d denied any responsibility, but now they were conducting ‘an exhaustive internal investigation’ as to whether there had been an ‘unforseen technical glitch’. Somebody else from an organisation called The Campaign Against Nuclear Energy said that this showed how vulnerable the station was and it should be now ‘shut down permanently’.

  ‘I bet you some black hat hacked into their network,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Somebody from Earth Hour?’ I said.

  ‘No, not them, they’re too goody-goody,’ said Miranda, looking straight at me. ‘I reckon it was a lone wolf.’

  Now they were talking about the fire in Halcyon Grove, wondering if the two were connected, whether the pool had been lit as a sort of diversionary tactic.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ Imogen said to me.

  ‘Smiling? Me?’

  ‘Smiling. You.’

  ‘I was thinking of something else,’ I said, the mother of all lies.

  ‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!’ said Gus. ‘Can you turn that thing off? Dom needs some quiet before the race.’

  Dad switched off the radio and I got my quiet before the race.

  It was dark when we arrived, but the stadium was all lit up. I was surprised at all the cars in the car park, all the people walking about. Track running wasn’t exactly the most popular spectator sport in this country. Not like in Finland or Sweden, where they’ll get a crowd of a hundred thousand just to see twelve athletes run four laps.

  ‘There’s a gozleme stall!’ said Toby, whose love of a Laziko’s kebab was only matched by his love of a Turkish savoury pastry.

  ‘This is so cool!’ said Imogen.

  Anybody would think we’d just arrived at Disneyland, not some running track.

  Despite Dad’s tortuous driving, we were early, so I had twenty minutes before I was due to meet the rest of the team. Gus and I found a quiet place and discussed tactics. He wanted me to race conservatively, stay in the pack but keep in touch with the leaders, and kick with two hundred metres to go.

  ‘Sure it’d be a nice race to win,’ he said, ‘but it’s more important that you qualify for the national titles, that you finish in the first six.’

  Nothing radical there: sit-and-kick was my usual tactic. In fact, it was the usual tactic of most middle-distance runners.

  Front-running was for fools, Gus always said, for people like Rashid who seemed to have a psychological need to get in the lead. Front-runners used too much energy. Front-runners never won.

  Gus never talked about the 1974 Commonwealth Games, however, where the great Tanzanian runner Filbert Bayi led from the front to win gold and break the world 1500-metre record. And I was sick of sitting in packs, among all the wayward spikes, all the pointy elbows, in that moving cocoon of BO.

  Gus could go on about front-running fools as much as he liked, because I’d already made up my mind. I’d turned off the city’s lights; today I was going to do a Filbert Bayi; today I was going to put daylight between me and the pack from start to finish.

  ‘Sure,’ I said to Gus. ‘Stay in the pack, keep in touch with the leaders, kick with two hundred to go.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said.

  Coach Sheeds and Gus didn’t agree on many things, but they agreed about this: I was a sit-and-kick sort of runner.

  ‘Stay in the pack, keep in touch with the leaders,’ Coach Sheeds told me in the change rooms. ‘And –’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said impatiently. ‘Kick with two hundred metres to go.’

  Outside, as Rashid, Charles, Gabby and I did our warm-up exercises on the side of the track, the four Kenyans from Brisbane Boys appeared. There was a sort of collective gasp from the other runners. I had to admit, with their lithe, lean physiques, their skin black and glossy under the lights, their loose, confident way of walking, they did look a bit intimidating.

  But when Rashid whispered, ‘We’re doomed,’ to me, I wanted to say to him: They’re only Kenyans. Made from the same stuff that you and I are made from: muscle, sinew, blood.

  We breathe the same air.

  Eat the same food (well, I do, anyway).

  And tell me, Rashid, has one of those Kenyans you are so in awe of ever blown up a swimming pool?

  No, I didn’t think so.

  Bring it on, Kenyans.

  ‘Get ready,’ said the starter, and I took my position on the line, crouching slightly.

  The gun went off and so did we.

  Cheers from the crowd as I jostled past Rashid.

  ‘Dom, what’s happening?’ he said, but I didn’t have time to answer.

  I took the lead, almost sprinting the first lap.

  ‘Go Dom!’ I could hear Imogen yell as I passed.

  I glanced behind. The Kenyans were twenty or so metres back, a wave of them, a wall of them. I glanced at the clock: 59.16 seconds. I was on track for a sub four-minute race, an Australian record for a fifteen year old. And why not – I’d turned off the city’s lights.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Coach Sheeds gesturing frantically with her hands – slow down, slow down, slow down!

  I heard Gus’s voice. ‘Dom, handbrake on!’

  But I didn’t slow down. I didn’t put the handbrake on.

  It was 1974. It was the Commonwealth Games. And I was Filbert Bayi.

  It was starting to hurt now, but I maintained the pace.

  As I completed the second lap and moved into the third I again looked behind.

  The Kenyans were even further back.

  Again I checked the clock. One minute fifty-eight seconds.

  I was still on record pace.

  ‘Go Dom!’ yelled Dad.

  ‘Go Dom! yelled Mom.

  ‘Go Dom!’ yelled Miranda.

  ‘Go Dom!’ yelled Toby.

  Toby?

  I’d almost finished the third lap when it happened, when I hit a wall so big that, like the Great Wall of China, it would surely have been visible from outer space.

  The track was now treacle and I could hardly lift my legs out of it.

  The Kenyans swarmed past me.

  Gus’s words came back to me: front-runners are fools.

  ‘Come on, Dom!’ urged Rashid as he ran alongside me. ‘There’s only three hundred to go.’

  Three hundred? It may as well have been three thousand, three million.

  I glanced behind: the pack was closing in.

  Looked ahead: the Kenyans were kicking, racing down the home straight.

  This time, nobody was going to save me.

  ‘Go!’ I said to Rashid.

  He surged, leaving me behind. Then Charles passed me.

  At least they’d go to the nationals, I thought, as I watched the Kenyans make for the finishing line.

  And then every light in the stadium went out.

  WEDNESDAY

  SKIN ON SKIN

  Mom was driving, and she hammered the hairpin bends, working the gears like a Formula One driver.

  ‘They’ll have to run the race again,’ Gus explained to Dad.

  ‘Maybe this time Dom might actually keep running,’ said Toby, looking over at me.

  ‘I did keep running, you tub of lard,’ I said, reaching across to thump him on the arm.

  ‘Dom!�
�� said Mom.

  Although it was dark inside the bus, I knew that Gus was giving me a look that said he was with Toby on this: maybe I hadn’t actually stopped running, but I’d run a really really dumb race.

  And I couldn’t argue with him. The dumbest race I’d run in my running life.

  ‘I wonder if it was the same hacker who turned the lights off during Earth Hour?’ said Miranda.

  I had a ready answer to her question – no, it wasn’t, Miranda – but I couldn’t very well give it to her.

  But I did wonder something: I’d turned the lights off for The Debt. Had they returned the favour and turned the lights off for me?

  ‘What is this idiot behind us doing?’ said Mom.

  I looked back.

  We were being tailgated by a white van, streamlined, sort of futuristic-looking.

  As we came out of another hairpin, the van moved out as if to pass.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Mom said.

  I could see what she meant: there was no clear road ahead; it was a suicidal place to pass.

  The van was alongside us, a shadowed face appearing at the passenger window.

  Mom stepped on the brakes, giving the van the space to move in front of us.

  As she did, light washed over the van, and the face, for a split second, was visible.

  Seb!

  No, it couldn’t be.

  A truck was coming the other way, lights flashing, horn blaring.

  Just when it seemed a crash was inevitable, the van spurted ahead of us and the truck passed.

  ‘What an idiot!’ said Mom as its tail-lights disappeared around another bend.

  But Dad, strangely, said nothing.

  We came down off the range and onto the flatland of the coast, the vegetal smell of the hinterland becoming the clean salt smell of the ocean.

  In the dark, Imogen’s hand found my hand. Her shoulder leant against my shoulder. Her face turned towards my face.

  The Debt, my father speaking in tongues, the race I’d just run, all the stuff of the last few weeks faded into the background and all that was left was this feeling, her skin on my skin, my breath mingling with her breath.

  And Imogen, who had been quiet for the whole trip, whispered, ‘Hey, Dom, I didn’t want to bother you before the race, but can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Did you set fire to the Jazys’ pool?’

  I had plenty of reasons to lie, but one really good reason not to: Imogen was the best friend I’d ever had.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I whispered.

  ‘Why?

  ‘Because I didn’t want you in there with Tristan.’

  It probably took only ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity, an eternity during which I realised how important Imogen was to me, how devastated I would be if my setting fire to the Jazys’ pool somehow ended our friendship.

  And then Imogen’s skin was no longer on my skin, her breath no longer mingled with my breath.

  ‘Imogen?’ I whispered, but she had already turned away from me.

  THURSDAY

  ’FESS UP

  Mr Travers was one of those teachers with a voice that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the classroom. As all athletes – and many non-athletes – know, the body needs oxygen, and plenty of it, in order to function properly. Without sufficient oxygen, the body shuts down. So you’re not exactly asleep, but you’re not exactly awake either. You’re in in-between land, zombie land, wishing that something would happen, anything, to interrupt Mr Travers’s incessant oxygen-depleting drone.

  But when it did happen, when there was a knock on the door, when this kid in a neck brace handed Mr Travers an official-looking piece of paper, I wondered if I’d done too much wishing. And when Mr Travers studied the paper and said, ‘Dominic Silvagni is to report to the office immediately,’ I knew I’d done too much wishing.

  Now everybody was awake, alert, and the whispering started.

  ‘What could Silvagni have done?’

  ‘But Silvagni never gets in trouble.’

  As I walked past Tristan’s empty desk, I imagined him giving me a playful punch on the arm. Playful for him, painful for me.

  I imagined him saying, ‘You’re so busted.’

  And immediately I thought of those mad flames dancing across the surface of his swimming pool and wondered if they’d finally worked out who did it, whether this imagined Tristan was right and I was ‘so busted’.

  Weirdly enough, though, I was also pleased that I’d managed to get out of the classroom, managed to escape the drone. But when I got to the principal’s office and he told me, in that precise, overenunciated voice of his, that some detectives – de-tec-tives – were here to have a chat about the recent excursion – ex-cur-sion – to the Diablo Bay Nuclear Power Station, the excitement evaporated pretty quickly.

  ‘Unfortunately I have a meeting and can’t be there,’ he said. ‘But Mr Ryan will be present.’

  When I found myself sitting at a table, my Civics teacher on one side of me, while two detectives, one male, one female, sat on the other side and battered me with question after question, I knew I was far, far better off in in-between land.

  ‘But you have your culprits, don’t you?’ said Mr Ryan. ‘It was in the paper – three members of some radical eco-group.’

  ‘Yes, they are definitely in the frame,’ said the female detective.

  ‘In the frame?’ said Mr Ryan. ‘From what I read they’re in jail!’

  The male detective gave a sort of half-shrug like it hadn’t been his idea to incarcerate them.

  As for his colleague, she didn’t seem the least bit concerned whether they had the culprits or not.

  ‘So let me get this straight – this whole excursion was your idea?’ she asked.

  She’d been very friendly, very smiley, but I was pretty sure that friendly and smiley were not the reasons somebody got awarded a detective’s badge.

  My guts, which had been churning, churned some more. And my palms, which had been sweating, sweated some more. I really didn’t want to say a thing, because it seemed that anything that came out of my mouth would be incriminating, but when I looked over at Mr Ryan he gave me an encouraging nod.

  So I let some words come out of my mouth, two of them: ‘That’s right.’

  The detectives exchanged looks and I thought that was it – only two words, but enough to get me locked up forever.

  More churning.

  More sweating.

  But why was Mr Ryan smiling confidently at me, and then at the detectives? Like he was almost enjoying this? Let’s face it, he was my Civics teacher, not some hot-shot lawyer from some legal show. I half-expected him to say, ‘My client refuses to answer any more questions,’ just like they did on TV, but instead he said, ‘Dominic came to me with his idea for the excursion and I saw it as an excellent learning opportunity for my students.’

  The male detective, who had also been friendly and smiley, though not quite as much as his colleague, consulted a piece of paper before he said, ‘And this whole shebang was paid for by Dominic’s father?’

  ‘That’s absolutely correct,’ said Mr Ryan.

  ‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?’ said the detective.

  ‘No, not at all. We’re a private school, and as such rely heavily on the largesse of our parent body.’

  The detectives exchanged looks, and I wondered if they weren’t sure what ‘largesse’ meant either.

  ‘Will that be all now?’ said Mr Ryan. ‘Both Dominic and I have classes to get to.’

  Mr Ryan might have only been a Civics teacher, but he was doing an excellent job of impersonating a hot-shot lawyer from some legal show.

  The female detective took something from the folder, and placed it on the table.

  It was a grainy A4-size photo. A still obviously lifted from CCTV footage. Somebody in a Big Pete’s Pizza uniform. Wearing a helmet.

  ‘Do either of you know who this is?’ she a
sked.

  I looked across at her, at her eyes flicking between me and the photo. And I was sure she knew that they were the same person.

  And now my whole body was churning, and my whole body was sweating.

  The game was up.

  Might as well ’fess up.

  And, suddenly, I felt this immense sense of impending relief, because at last I could tell somebody the whole crazy story.

  The story that started on the day I turned fifteen.

  The female detective repeated her question. ‘Do either of you know who this is?’

  The words, ‘It’s me’ were on the tip of my tongue, ready to make their way into the world.

  Goodbye freedom. Goodbye leg. If the cops didn’t get me, then The Debt surely would.

  ‘Look, this is ridiculous,’ said Mr Ryan. ‘We’ve allowed you to talk to our student, but this is becoming something else. This is harassment.’

  The detectives exchanged looks, and then they gathered their papers.

  ‘Dom, we’ll see you later,’ said the male detective.

  The female detective looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘We will see you later.’

  They thanked us for our time and exited the room.

  I recalled what she’d said – We will see you again – and it sent a shiver right through my body.

  The good guys weren’t even on my side, now.

  But then I realised that Mr Ryan was still there with me.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You were just like a lawyer, Mr Ryan.’

  ‘Dom,’ said Mr Ryan, ‘I am a lawyer.’

  As we walked back he explained it to me. He’d been a barrister, down in Sydney, but the job hadn’t given him the satisfaction he’d thought it would. So he’d retrained as a teacher and come back to teach at the same school that he’d attended. Where he still held one of the cross-country running records.

  ‘That’s great,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. Why would anybody become a teacher, especially a lawyer? Still, I was incredibly glad he’d been in there with me.

  When we reached the classroom I excused myself and went to the toilets.