PJ slalomed through the traffic.
Behind us, the sound of sirens.
Airport turnoff 2 km ahead said the sign.
The sirens were getting louder.
‘We’ve got no chance,’ I said.
PJ laughed.
‘You’re a bit of a wuss, aren’t you?’
A wuss?
I could show her the brands on the inside of my thigh – how wussy were they? Tell her how I caught the Zolt. Turned off the lights. Got a Cerberus. How wussy was that?
She knew nothing about me, my supposed wussiness or otherwise.
I gave her a ‘Whatever.’
Probably not the wittiest of replies, but right then I didn’t have much else in the arsenal.
One kilometre to the turnoff.
The sirens didn’t seem to be getting much louder.
I checked my watch.
Eight minutes.
The hearse was rattling so much that a piece fell off the dashboard.
‘The Preacher won’t be happy,’ I said.
‘The Preacher is never happy,’ said PJ.
I’d been so engrossed with our trip that I hadn’t had any time to think about PJ’s relationship to the Preacher.
‘So how do you know him?’ I said.
‘Us outcasts, we watch each other’s backs,’ said PJ.
‘You know much about his history?’ I said.
‘Nah, he doesn’t talk about that much,’ she said. ‘Mostly it’s just stuff from the Bible.’
The sirens had suddenly got louder and my hopes, ballooning just a second ago, deflated again.
PJ wrenched the wheel and we were on the exit.
‘Maybe they won’t notice that we went this way,’ I said.
‘I’d say they’d have a fair idea,’ said PJ, pointing skywards, where a helicopter was buzzing. ‘The old eye in the sky.’
‘Jesus!’
‘You say that a lot, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Not usually.’
We turned onto the airport road.
‘Here’s the deal,’ said PJ. ‘I pull up and you get the hell inside.’
‘What about the cops?’ I said.
‘Cops?’ she said dismissively. ‘I’ve been dealing with cops since I was ten. Just leave them suckers to me.’
We did exactly as she said, pulling up in the drop-off area.
I opened the door.
‘Thanks so much,’ I said.
I went to get out, but PJ said, ‘Hey, rich boy?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘My mum, she used to have this little model on her dressing table, you know, that tower that’s leaning right over.’
‘The Leaning Tower of Pisa?’
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ she said. ‘Can you bring me back one?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
It was the first time she’d mentioned her parents and I wondered what had happened to them.
But not for long, because it was time to get out of there.
‘Better get on your bike,’ said PJ.
I slid out of the hearse and managed to tack onto the back of a family group headed into the terminal building.
I glanced behind as the hearse took off with a beep of its horn, so loud it would wake the dead.
‘Thanks, PJ,’ I mouthed.
Two minutes to go.
With each footstep, vile-smelling liquid oozed out of my shoes.
I don’t think my new-found family was that happy with their latest member, because they quickened their pace.
But I quickened mine, ensuring that I was surrounded by family members as we passed the two security guards standing at the entrance.
Gus was exactly where he said he’d be, standing off to the side of the queue to the check-in counter.
My bags hanging off him.
His face, when he saw me, was a like a two-minute soap opera.
First there was relief: I’d made it; and then concern: I’d made it but what state was I in?; and then revulsion: what was that smell?
‘I need to get changed first,’ I said.
Gus held out his hand so that I could see the face of his watch.
‘Time isn’t exactly our friend,’ he said.
I saw what he meant: the minute hand was already past half-past seven and there’d be no coaxing it back.
The check-in queue was enormous, snaking this way and that way. I went to join the end, but Gus had other ideas.
‘Bugger that,’ he said, dragging me by the arm, past the queue and straight to one of the attendants, a pale man with an expensive haircut.
‘My grandson needs to get to Italy,’ he said. ‘He’s representing his country.’
The attendant leant over the counter, gave me the once-over.
He obviously wasn’t happy with what he saw – and I can’t say I blamed him – because he said, ‘Unfortunately the flight’s closed, sir.’
But Gus wasn’t moving.
‘He’s representing his country,’ he said. ‘Do you know what that means?’
The man stood there, arms folded, a look on his face that said: I’ve got the power here.
‘Fifty years ago I was in the same situation,’ said Gus. ‘I was picked to run for my country, for Australia.’
The man still wasn’t impressed.
‘Come on,’ I said to Gus.
But Gus wasn’t going anywhere.
He leant down and next thing I knew the prosthetic leg was in his hand and he was placing it on the counter.
‘But I didn’t make it,’ said Gus. ‘A shark took my leg.’
The man looked at the prosthetic, then at Gus, then at me, the expression on his face unchanged.
‘It’s no use,’ I said to Gus.
But as I said this the man turned to the computer screen.
‘You’ll only be able to take cabin baggage,’ he said.
‘That’s fine,’ I said, figuring I could punk it for a while longer.
‘Passport,’ he said.
I handed him my passport and he entered my details into the computer.
‘The plane is boarding soon,’ he said. ‘You better get yourself through Customs.’
‘Thanks,’ Gus said to the attendant.
The attendant picked up Gus’s prosthetic in both hands and held it out.
‘I believe this is yours, sir,’ he said.
I quickly sorted out what luggage I had.
‘Can you take this?’ I said, handing him ClamTop. ‘Stick it in my room.’
Then it was a quick hug, a stamp in my passport, and I was through Customs.
As I sprinted past all the shops and all the other gates, my shoes still leaked and when I looked behind I could see smears of liquid tracking my progress across the tiled floor.
I approached Gate 24 and I could see the group of athletes and officials, all of them wearing the green and gold of Australia.
Amongst them I caught a glimpse of the distinctive chinos and blue shirt of Mr Ryan.
Our school had decided that since there were five Coast Grammar students representing Australia, they would – at the school’s expense, of course – send two chaperones, Mr Ryan and Mrs Taylor.
Coach Sheeds was also going as part of the national coaching team.
She hurried over when she saw me.
‘Where in the hell were you?’ she said. ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it.’
‘Neither did I,’ I said.
‘And what in the blazes are you wearing?’ she said, taking a step back so that she could fully take in my clothes.
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
‘Well, you’re on the flight and I guess that’s the main thing,’ said Coach Sheeds.
I nodded: yes, that’s the main thing.
But then it finally sunk in, what she was saying: I was on the flight, I was going to Rome, I was competing in the World Youth Games!
An
d then I saw him.
Standing next to an ancient-looking suitcase, wearing an ancient-looking suit, an ancient-looking teacher.
Dr Chakrabarty!
What is he doing here? I wondered, but not for long.
Because when he saw me he ambled over.
‘Pheidippedes!’ he said. ‘Like Alaric the Goth we descend on Roma, eh?’
Okay, there were two questions that needed answers here.
I went with the least important one first.
‘Alaric the Goth?’ I said, imagining a skinny person clad in clothes not dissimilar to those I was wearing.
‘Yes, Alaric, King of the Visigoths. Sacked Rome in 410 BC, which many see as the start of the decline of the Roman Empire.’
Okay, first question answered in typical Chakrabartian style. Now for the second one: ‘Are you going to Rome, Dr Chakrabarty?’
‘Indeed I am,’ he said.
‘I thought Mrs Taylor was coming.’
‘Mrs Taylor had an accident,’ he said, and there was something ominous in his voice. ‘So the school asked if I would take her place.’
I couldn’t imagine why the school would ask him to take her place. Somebody who had no interest in athletics. Somebody who was so old that he was probably there when that Goth dude sacked Rome.
‘Loose as a goose on the juice,’ came a voice from behind me.
Seb!
In the excitement I’d forgotten all about Seb. Because he wasn’t affiliated with any school, he’d had to make his own way to the airport. He was wearing the official tracksuit, though.
An announcement came over the loudspeaker: it was time to board.
But as I showed my boarding pass to the attendant with the stuck-on smile, I was still expecting somebody to stop me, to say, ‘Young man, you’re not allowed on this plane!’
Because it seemed like I’d got one past the universe, there was no way I should be going to Rome.
As I trudged down the aisle towards my seat, I knew the universe wouldn’t forget; there would be payback, serious payback.
FRIDAY
FASTEN SEATBELTS
My seat, 34c, was a window seat.
Good, I thought as I squeezed past the corporate-looking man in 34a, I can look at all the fluffy clouds passing by.
But as soon as I sat down my guts gurgled.
And gurgled some more.
The gurgling started to move from my guts in both directions, upwards towards my mouth, downwards towards my bowels.
No, forget the fluffy clouds, a window seat wasn’t good at all.
Obviously I’d picked up some horrible gastrointestinal organism during my time in the drains, and it was now blitzkrieging through my bowels.
I needed an aisle seat, to be as close as possible to the toilet.
Actually, I probably needed to be on the toilet. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Well, at least the seat next to me is vacant, I thought.
I concentrated on watching the remaining passengers walking down the aisle, willing them not to take seat 34b.
My telekinesis worked, the aisle was empty, all the passengers were seated, and seat 34b was still empty.
I even lifted up the armrest to give my intestinal tract some more room to squirm.
And that’s when I saw her: Mrs Jenkins, an amazing number of laminated passes dangling around her neck.
I’m not sure what her official title was – head of the Queensland delegation, something like that – but she was pretty much the boss of everybody and everything.
I reckon it’s true of any junior sporting team that at least one of the officials is, well, not very sporty. Mrs Jenkins was one of those.
No, it can’t be, I told myself as she rolled down the aisle.
There have to be other empty seats.
There weren’t.
Mrs Jenkin’s seat was 34b.
She looked over at me and said, ‘If I’d had my way, you wouldn’t be on this team, young man.’
What a lovely way to start a relationship, I thought.
The flight attendant hustled over to help Mrs Jenkins put her bag in the overhead locker, but she practically pushed him out of the way.
‘I can manage it very well by myself,’ she said.
See what I mean: boss of everybody and everything.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if some time during the flight she introduced herself to the pilot and give him a few flying tips.
The man in 34a had to get out of his seat to let her in. And then Mrs Jenkins squeezed into her seat. As she did, I belched. But belch is probably too polite a word for what my bug-infested guts produced. For a start there was the sound: a sort of volcanic rumble. And then there was the smell: sulphuric, also like something that would emanate from a volcano.
Mrs Jenkins gave me a look, but said nothing.
As the plane taxied down the runaway I clenched my buttocks tight.
‘Our flight time today until our stopover is fifteen hours,’ said the captain over the intercom.
Fifteen hours – no, that wasn’t possible! I couldn’t be on this plane, with this intestinal tract, for fifteen whole hours.
I had to stop myself from yelling, ‘Let me off!’
As the attendants went through their routine I belched again. This one was even more volcanic than the previous one. The stench even more sulphuric.
Another glare from Mrs Jenkins.
As the plane took off, I could feel the gas gathering in my bowels. I clenched my buttocks tighter. My guts were writhing. And I was sweating.
What if I unclenched just a little bit, let some of the gas escape, released the pressure?
But what if that wasn’t the only thing that escaped?
That couldn’t happen.
The plane started to level out.
I looked at the illuminated fasten-seatbelts sign, willing it to switch off so I could get up and go to the toilet.
It was like my whole body had tied itself into one great writhing knot.
And the sweat was rolling off me.
Mrs Jenkins and her jiggling flesh seemed to be encroaching on my space, forcing me to press against the side of the plane.
The seatbelt light was still illuminated. I was sure the pilot was some sort of sadist.
I could see him giving his co-pilot a friendly nudge in the ribs. ‘Hey, check out the monitor – the kid in 34c is doing it tough! Let’s make him suffer, shall we?’
The sweat was coming off me in torrents now. And I’m not talking about downloading protocols.
I couldn’t stand it any longer – I had to get to the toilet.
Ignoring the still-illuminated light, I stood up.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mrs Jenkins. ‘What has got into you, young man?’
What has got into me?
A bug, that’s what’s got into me, a bug that has turned my guts to slushie.
I practically crawled over her.
‘I have to go,’ I said to the man in the aisle seat.
He gave me an alarmed look.
By which time the flight attendant had arrived.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘The captain hasn’t turned off the fasten-seatbelts light yet.’
Well the captain is a sadist.
‘If I don’t get to the toilet right now,’ I said, regressing to a two-year-old, ‘I’m going to do a number two in my pants!’
The attendant didn’t hesitate. She took me by the hand and pulled me into the aisle.
‘This way, sweetie,’ she said, hurrying me towards the back.
Every pair of eyes, and I mean every pair of eyes, was on me as I made my way to the rear of the plane. Mr Chakrabarty’s. Seb’s. Mr Ryan’s. And a whole lot of people I didn’t know.
But I was there, and I opened the door, and I undid Brandon’s punk belt and I lowered Brandon’s punk jeans and I sat down and I let it all come out.
A symphony of wind and
poo. They were all there: the flute, the oboe, the horn, and the bassoon. All amplified by the small boxy toilet.
But now I knew the real meaning of the word ‘relief’.
Finally my twisting guts stopped twisting.
I cleaned myself up.
Opened the door and went back outside.
And as I made my way up the aisle I could tell from the looks on the people’s faces – some shocked, some amused – that my private moment hadn’t been private at all. And now I knew the real meaning of another word: ‘embarrassment’.
The flight attendant took me gently by the elbow.
‘Young man?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘You having some tummy issues?’
I nodded.
‘We might have something to help you with that,’ she said, handing me a strip of pills. ‘Imodium. Take two.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I said.
Head down, I found my way back to my seat.
The man in 34a gave me a wry smile. Mrs Jenkins gave me another of those looks.
‘Well, that was quite the performance, wasn’t it?’
Quite the performance?
Mrs Jenkins was the boss of everybody, and everybody knew that if you got on the wrong side of her, you were gone. There were even stories of athletes whose careers she’d sabotaged.
I bit my tongue.
And ate two Imodium.
And I closed my eyes.
And slept.
FRIDAY
NOTHING TO DECLARE
Niente da dichiarare.
Nothing to declare.
Well, that’s me, I thought as I walked in that direction. All I’ve got is this orange shoulder bag. But a uniformed Customs officer stood in my way and pointed towards the counter.
‘I’ve got nothing to declare,’ I said.
‘Over there, please,’ he said.
I did as he asked.
By this time Mr Ryan had appeared by my side. Despite the fifteen-hour flight, stopover and last leg of the trip, his chinos and blue shirt seemed as clean and crisp as ever.
‘How’s the tummy?’ he said. ‘Everything settled down in that department?’
‘It’s fine now,’ I said.
‘What’s the problem here?’ he said, waving his hand at the counter.
‘Not sure,’ I said.
He turned to the Customs official and said something in what sounded vaguely like Italian. Obviously he’d been practising.
‘It’s just a routine check, sir,’ replied the Customs officer in perfect English. ‘Could you place your bag here, please,’ he said to me.
Fetch the Treasure Hunter Page 7