Snatched! (Foley & Rose Book 6)

by Gary Gregor

  Organising a classroom of pre-teenage school children into a disciplined, studious group was, in itself, a daunting task for any teacher. Supervision and control of children in that carefree, devil-may-care demographic, when bundled together in either the classroom or the school-yard, can be challenging for even the most experienced educator. From her very first day at the head of a class after graduating from university, Tracy Cartwright adapted to the challenges quickly. She was very good at it. Her first official performance review, after six months service, gave her cause to be both proud of herself and thrilled that her superiors were impressed with the manner in which she conducted herself, both inside and outside the classroom. It helped that she loved her work. Teaching was her passion, and always had been for as long as she could remember.

  However, sometimes unforeseen challenges arise that could never have been anticipated: Like a child falling ill, or being injured as a result of over-enthusiastic school-yard play. Fortunately, such occasions were rare, but teachers were trained during their university studies on how to handle difficult scenarios should they present themselves. How to deal with a situation where one, or several, or indeed all of her students were kidnapped was not in the training manual. There was no precedent from which she could learn. This was one of those occasions where she had no choice other than to deal with it as best as she could.

  Tracy Cartwright was, however, nothing if not a resourceful individual. There were not many instances of misadventure in respect of her students that she didn’t think she could handle. This was not one of them.

  She was scared. It was difficult to hide her emotions from her class. Despite her fear, she had to stay in control. If she lost it in front of the whole class, they would see it. She could not allow that to happen. It was all about self-control. It was about showing strength and leadership. Somehow, she had to move beyond her fear; or at the very least, compartmentalise it in a place in the back of her mind where it would not manifest itself into a dithering, blubbering excuse for a leader. If the kids lost confidence in her ability to keep them safe, there was no one else who could. The whole thing would break down into a chaotic, uncontrollable mess.

  Young children, by their very nature, were never easy to motivate in the early morning, even in the best of conditions. Slowly, one-by-one, they were beginning to stir. Tracy watched each of the children as they surfaced from the shallow depths of sleep. Sleepy-eyed and confused, the reality of exactly where they were dawned slowly on most of them and quicker on the rest. One-by-one, they sat up and looked around them in the gloom, searching in the dim light for the rest of their classmates. Many eyes, still heavy with sleep, searched the darkness for their teacher.

  With no natural light penetrating from the outside, it was difficult for Tracy to see the concern on the faces from where she sat on her mattress, closer to the door. She knew it was there. She also knew that fear and confusion were often contagious in a group environment. It was not necessary to actually see those emotions in their eyes to confirm it was omnipresent throughout the group.

  Slowly, soft, innocent voices, each murmuring sleepily, drifted to her from across the room. The gist of their drowsy chatter was indiscernible to Tracy but she knew intuitively that questions were being asked, and answers, speculative at best, were offered.

  First one child, then another, then another; Faces turned and looked for her in the dark. It was difficult to tell in the darkness of the room, but there were no smiling faces. No innocent, child-like banter between students. Only whispered conversations gradually growing in volume as each child became more alert. The natural exuberance of youth was conspicuously absent.

  This was not a fun-filled week-end sleep-over.

  A few children remained asleep. Despite the slowly increasing intensity of the chatter around them, some lay motionless on their respective mattresses. Dark shapes, some curled in a fetal position, others sprawled, legs and arms akimbo, across their make-shift beds. Perhaps they were not still asleep, Tracy thought. Perhaps they were awake but didn’t want to be awake. Perhaps by keeping their eyes tightly close and laying still and silent, the true predicament they faced would simply disappear and their tiny, developing minds would not have to grapple with the awful reality of their situation.

  Occasionally, one, or two of the children would get up from their mattress and shuffle into the room next door. Predominately, they went in pairs. One would wait just outside the door while his, or her, companion went inside to use the toilet facility. It had to be a security thing Tracy figured; strength in numbers. This strange, enforced place of detention was dark and scary. No one seemed to want to go into the next room alone or, at the very least, without a friend waiting outside the door for them to return. She watched as twins, twelve-year-old Mitchell Lord and his sister Rachel walked hand-in-hand to the door of the fourth room. Mitchell ushered Rachel inside, pulled the door partially closed and waited outside while his sister used the toilet. Along with Toby Miller, the son of the Haasts Bluff pastor, Mitchell and Rachel were the eldest of all the students.

  Tracy spent the next thirty minutes or so getting them organised into some semblance of order. A degree of discipline was required. She was, after all, in charge of a group of young, adolescent children who, like young children the world over, have a tendency to treat discipline with a certain amount of innocent disrespect. At the same time, she would not exercise harsh, autocratic discipline upon them. This was not the time for demands and stern orders. The children were scared. They were looking for leadership and instruction delivered in such a way as to give them confidence and a degree of hope; albeit a small degree.

  Mitchell Lord, Toby Miller, and aboriginal boy, John Jabaldjari, were strong, confident personalities. The three boys were close friends and were well liked by their fellow students. Tracy decided that the relationship the three boys shared had to be somewhat of a bonus for her. She wasn’t sure how it was going to help with their predicament, but it had to be something she could use to their advantage. Rather than be the sole authority figure among the hapless group, it could prove to be favorable if she could nurture the boys’ respective qualities. It couldn’t hurt to have three well-respected lieutenants to help her with the children. Both Mitchell and Toby were mature beyond their years and John Jabaldjari was not far behind them. Their young, innovative thoughts and ideas may be of benefit if she were to offer them roles that would enhance their leadership qualities.

  Although she believed all of her students had, over time, arrived at a position of trust in her, Tracy understood that it was often the case that young children were more inclined to follow direction of their peers than they were of an adult authority figure. It was kind of like a follow-the-leader, sheep mentality, she thought. The longer they stayed in this place, the more impatient the children would become. Strong, trusted, guidance would be vital and she figured the three boys might be capable of showing just that.

  Tracy learned early in her training that when exposed to traumatic, fearful situations, particularly over an extended period of time, and particularly when their parents, those they look to for protection and guidance were absent, the effect on young, developing minds can be, and often is, devastating and permanent.

  Her students were young and impressionable and, for the most part, full of energy and enthusiasm. They were not familiar with situations such as they faced now. Already she had seen the signs of anxiety and mental stress in their faces. If the situation they were faced with continued there was no telling what long term effects the persistent exposure to fear might have on them.

  There was also the boredom to contend with. Young children become bored very quickly. Boredom leads to frustration and restlessness and restlessness often leads to reckless behavior. Tracy was not a psychologist but she didn’t have to be to know that the combination of fear and boredom was not conducive to a healthy mind-set. Maintaining control over her charges was imperative if she was ever going to lead them out of this awful p
lace.

  Controlling one, or perhaps two mischievous youngsters was not difficult; she had trained long and hard for such an eventuality. But, controlling a class of eleven scared and irrational children was not something she ever wanted to be confronted with. Fear can have an effect on people, particularly young people in different ways. And, mass fear, could be contagious. It could, and very likely would, grow in intensity until it crippled everyone in the room. Tracy could not let that happen. She would talk to Mitchell, Toby, and John, and ask them to help her with the children.

  Tracy waited until it seemed all the children were awake. She would smile, nod, and whisper an occasional “good morning” to a child who might glance sleepily in her direction as they made their way to the room next door.

  She was going to have to get up and organise breakfast for them all. The food supplies provided by their captors were not particularly inviting, and she was positive it had very little nutritious value, but it was all they had. Young children often have voracious appetites and Tracy knew that good nutrition, and plenty of it, was important for a child’s development. She also knew that typical ‘junk food’ was the meal of choice for kids this age. There were no hamburgers, potato crisps or ice-cream on the menu in this place. It was dry biscuits, small single-serve tins of fruit, and water, or it was nothing.

  There was, however, plenty of the cardboard-tasting treats and as long as she was frugal with the servings to each child, they could probably last for a week or more. She shuddered at the thought of spending another day in this place, let alone a week.

  Remembering the round shape fixed in the ceiling in the centre of the room, Tracy looked up. She focused on the shape and listened for the whirring she heard when she first awoke. It was definitely an exhaust fan; turned by the wind from outside blowing across the top of the hill. The sound seemed muted now. Less wind outside, she figured. But, if she could hear the sound of the fan turning, there had to be a shallow shaft up there! Maybe this was a way out! If the fan base-plate above her was close to the top of the hill, it could mean the shaft was shorter than she originally assumed. Maybe they could get out through the shaft! All she had to do was remove the base-plate, dismantle the turning fan, remove it from the shaft, and they could all climb out! Was it possible, she wondered?

  “Are you praying, Miss Tracy?” a soft voice startled her.

  “Wh…what?” Tracy asked.

  Twelve-year-old Toby Miller, son of the Haasts Bluff community pastor stood in front of Tracy, the well-worn base-ball cap he was rarely seen without, clutched in his hand.

  “Oh, Toby,” Tracy said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you.”

  “Are you praying, Miss?”

  “Oh, no, Toby. I wasn’t praying. What is it? Is everything all right?”

  “Some of the kids want Cocoa, Miss,” Toby answered in his familiar, soft voice.

  “Cocoa?”

  “Or Milo, Miss.”

  “Cocoa or Milo?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Tracy glanced across the room at the rest of her class, most of whom were looking her way. “I’m sorry, Toby,” she said. “There’s no Cocoa or Milo. And, there’s no milk. Only water.”

  “Okay, Miss,” Toby said. “I’ll tell them.” He turned to go.

  Tracy reached out and took the boy’s hand. “Wait, Toby,” she said. “Before you go…”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  Tracy pointed at the fan in the ceiling. “Do you know what that is?” she asked.

  Toby looked up and paused. “It’s a fan, Miss.”

  “An exhaust fan, right?” Tracy asked.

  “Yes. There is one in my house,” Toby said. “In the kitchen,” he added as an afterthought.

  “How big is it, Toby?”

  “The one in my house?” Toby asked.

  “No, that one,” Tracy pointed at the fan again.

  “’bout the same size as the one in my house, Miss,” Toby answered.

  “Have you ever seen inside one of those?”

  Toby looked up at the exhaust fan and shook his head. “No, Miss. It was in the roof when we came to live in Haasts Bluff. I’ve never seen inside it.”

  “Do you think the shaft is very big?” Tracy continued.

  “What’s the shaft?” Toby asked.

  “The hole, Toby. You know, the hole behind that bottom piece and the turning fan blade. It goes all the way up to the outside.”

  Toby looked up again and paused, thinking about the question. “It doesn’t look very big,” he said, finally.

  “Do you think someone could fit inside there?”

  “They might get stuck, Miss,” Toby answered.

  Tracy looked at Toby and smiled. “Yes, Toby. I suppose you might be right. We wouldn’t want anyone to get stuck inside there, would we?”

  “No, Miss.”

  “Besides,” Tracy added. “We would need a screw-driver to get that bottom plate off, don’t you think?”

  Toby paused for a moment, then he lowered his eyes and looked down at the floor.

  “What is it, Toby?’ Tracy asked

  Toby hesitated a moment longer, then he turned his head and looked back at his classmates.

  “Toby?” Tracy probed.

  The boy turned his head back to Tracy. He leaned forward and spoke in a soft, hesitant voice. “Jabba’s got one,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Jabba’s got a screw-driver.”

  Tracy looked across the room and, after a brief search of the faces, her eyes fell on John Jabaldjari, Toby’s friend, originally from the remote Warrabri settlement and now living in Hassts Bluff.

  “John has a screw-driver?” she asked Toby.

  “Kind of a screw-driver, Miss,” Toby confirmed.

  “Kind of?”

  Toby glanced behind him again at Jabaldjari and then back at his teacher. “Mostly it’s a knife,” he said.

  “John has a knife?” Tracy exclaimed quietly.

  Toby nodded. “It’s one of them Swiss Army Knife things.”

  “Oh, okay, Toby. Thank you. You can join the others now.”

  Tracy watched Toby as he shuffled hesitatingly back across the room. He skirted shyly around the group and sat on his mattress, deliberately averting his eyes from his friend John Jabaldjari.

  “John!” Tracy called loudly. “John, can I speak to you for a moment, please?”

  The young aboriginal hesitated, glanced suspiciously at Toby, and then padded barefoot across to where Tracy waited. He stopped a few paces from her and focused on an imaginary spot on the floor at his feet.

  “Come closer, John,” Tracy said.

  The boy took one pace closer.

  Tracy pointed at the floor just a metre from where she sat. “Here, John. Stand closer.”

  Jabaldjari took another tentative step forward. “Yes, Miss?” he asked, his eyes still focused on the floor.

  “Do you have a knife?” John Tracy asked.

  “Might be,” Jabaldjari whispered, his aboriginal accent obvious.

  “What do you mean, ‘might be’? Do you have a knife?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Where is it, John?”

  Jabaldjari paused and dropped his eyes once again to the floor at his feet.

  “Where is the knife, John?” Tracy asked again.

  The boy placed his hand in his pocket and took out a red, Swiss Army Knife. Tracy had never seen one up close before but she recognised the iconic multi-tool immediately. She held out her hand. “Give it to me, John.”

  Jabaldjari hesitated, glanced at the knife, and reluctantly placed it in Tracy’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Tracy said. “Why did you bring a knife to school, John?”

  “Don’t know, Miss.”

  “You know we don’t allow this sort of thing at school, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Then, why do you have it?”

  Jabaldjari shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the floor. “It wa
s a present, Miss. From my uncle. For my birthday.”

  “Your birthday was two weeks ago, John. You remember how the class sang Happy Birthday for you?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “And you still carry it around with you?”

  “Sorry, Miss.”

  “Okay, John. Here is what we are going to do. I will keep the knife until we get back home and then I will return it to you and you must never bring it to school again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Tracy turned the knife over in her hands and looked closely at it. It had many different blades. “What can you do with this?” she asked.

  “It’s got twelve blades, Miss,” Jabaldjari answered, his voice sounding a little more enthusiastic now.

  “Twelve?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Has it got a screw-driver?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Tracy handed the knife back to Jabaldjari. “Show me.”

  The boy took the knife, and in one deft, obviously experienced movement, opened a small screw-driver from somewhere in the body of the knife. He held it out to his teacher.

  Tracy took it from him and examined it closely. “It’s very small,” she said, finally.

  “Works good, Miss,” Jabaldjari said.

  “Okay, thank you, John. I will hold onto this until we all get back to Haasts Bluff. You can join the rest of the class now.”

  Jabaldjari looked longingly at the knife if Tracy’s hand, wondering if it might be the last time he saw his treasured gift.

  “It’s okay, John,” Tracy said. “I will return it to you.”

  “Okay, Miss.” The boy turned and shuffled slowly back to where his classmates sat watching the exchange between himself and their teacher.

  Tracy glanced once more at the vent in the ceiling and then at the tiny screw-driver component of the knife. Would it work, she wondered? The tool looked so small. Was it possible they could escape from this place through the small vent in the ceiling? She tucked the knife into the pocket of her dress, undertaking to re-consider the escape idea later.