May

by Gabrielle Lord

  And now I had another problem! I could hear a car in the distance. Barney Helstrom was on his way home and that meant trouble—big time! I hurled myself around to the other side of the tree and leaned right over, trying to grab the branches of the oak tree, my original point of entry. The sound of the returning car had driven the dogs into another frenzy.

  I was leaning forward, trying again to reach the branches, when the yellow dog jumped up, thrusting its snout almost into my face. I lost my balance and twisted, falling heavily.

  I rolled over, getting back on my feet as fast as I could—I didn’t want to be on the ground with two savage dogs in my face. I took off in a sprint, making a dash for the windmill.

  I flew towards the windmill, taking a running jump at the lowest part of the scaffolding. But as I did so, both dogs did the same, their jaws wide open and ready to clamp down on me. Before I knew it, I was hanging from the windmill with a dog attached to each of my legs.

  I heard a ripping sound, as one leg of my jeans tore right off below the knee, sending the yellow dog head over heels backwards. The other dog seemed to tug twice as hard in the absence of his friend, and within seconds both of them were on me again.

  I was struggling to keep my grip. I could hear the car idling near the gates, followed by the gates being dragged open. The weight of the dogs was wrenching me down and although I tried to hang on with every ounce of strength left in my fingers, every second my energy was draining away.

  It wouldn’t be long before I was dragged back off the windmill and Helstrom would pick up whatever scraps the dogs left of me.

  My fingers were numbing, loosening, the strength ebbing away from them, when a miracle occurred. Both dogs let go!

  I dropped down to the grass and scrambled up over the boundary fence. A quick glance back as I got to my feet revealed what had happened. As soon as their owners had come through the gates and stepped out of the car, the dogs had lost all interest in me and bounded over to greet them.

  I put my head down and kept running.

  I was almost back at Great-uncle Bartholomew’s property when a shot rang out. I dived to the ground. Barney Helstrom had taken a shot at me! I leopard-crawled the rest of the way, my heart racing, my legs weak from running and terror.

  I squeezed through the triple-wire fence and was about to stand up and run when I saw something that made my blood run cold. Facing away from me, the dark blue Mercedes was parked along the side of Great-uncle Bartholomew’s house! I could see the occupants of the car deep in discussion. Sumo Wrestler had his arm in a sling—he was probably still healing from his gunshot wound from last month—and he seemed to be arguing with Kelvin, the teardrop tattoo guy, who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Hardly daring to look at them, and keeping as low as I could, I crept to the back kitchen door, cautiously opening and closing it again fast. Once inside, I locked it, and dragged the heavy kitchen table over against it. Although my first impulse was to check on my great-uncle, I wanted to make the house as safe as possible again—for both our sakes. When I felt I had the back door reasonably secured, I charged my way through the boxes, parts and piles of aviation magazines until I was at the front door. I checked the three locks were bolted, then gave the ancient hallstand we’d earlier shoved behind it, another push, manoeuvring it further into position by brute force.

  By this stage I was panting with exhaustion. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor for a moment, getting my breath. I looked at my scraped fingers, bloody and deeply indented with red furrows from where the scaffolding of the windmill had dug into my skin. I jumped back up and hurried upstairs, calling out to my great-uncle.

  He didn’t answer. I paused on the landing, aware of the great stillness in the house that just didn’t feel right.

  ‘Uncle Bart?’ I shouted again.

  I kicked open each of the upstairs rooms. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, knew it.

  When I saw him lying still on the floor near the telescope, I feared the worst. I raced over to him, dropping to my knees beside his outflung body.

  ‘Bartholomew! What’s happened? Are you OK?!’

  He was breathing. I carefully lifted his head and shoulders up, propping him on a couple of old leather flying jackets. He opened his eyes.

  ‘My heart … Did you … find the documents from the solicitor?’ he asked me, softly and slowly.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Read,’ he said between gasps for breath, ‘me the letter.’

  ‘No, Uncle, you need help. I’m just going to grab my phone and call for help.’

  I was scared. For the first time this year, I’d found a relative who was not only completely on my side, but eager to help me. And now he was almost lifeless on the floor. All thought of my own danger had left me. I had to help him.

  ‘I’m just going to call an ambulance, OK.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said the old man. ‘Too late for that, Cal.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I said, tears rising, as my great-uncle struggled to lift his head. His face was a deathly shade of white.

  ‘What’s that … noise downstairs?’ he asked, his voice nothing but a raspy whisper. ‘Where’s my shotgun?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. Just stay there and rest,’ I said, thinking I’d run and get the gun myself.

  But it was too late for that—I could now hear the noise downstairs, too, as Oriana de la Force’s henchmen tried to bash their way into the house. ‘It’s those people who are after me,’ I said, looking into his worried eyes. ‘They’re here. They’re trying to get in!’

  ‘Open the envelope,’ said my uncle, from the floor. ‘Read it to me.’

  ‘But, you—’

  ‘Do as I tell you!’

  I ripped open the envelope, pulling out the letter from inside. It was from Tweedie, Make-peace and Associates, a legal firm with an address in the city. I skim-read it—trying to make sense of it. I read enough to discover that the Piers Ormond will was no longer in their possession. It had been transferred to the Ormond family solicitor as per the receipt. Included was a photocopy of the signed receipt, presumably done by whoever had picked up the Ormond will, but it was illegible.

  Downstairs, the bashing on the front door was getting louder and I could hear the sounds of timber splintering and glass smashing. A few more minutes and Kelvin and Sumo would be inside! The old man and I would be no match for the two of them.

  My great-uncle started coughing—a terrible, grating sound from deep in his throat. I dropped the letter and tried to make him more comfortable, propping him higher so that he could breathe more easily.

  A strange smell wafted up the hall. I sniffed the air. Smoke!

  Had they set fire to the house?!

  I ran to the landing. Thin streams of smoke climbed into the air. I couldn’t see fire anywhere, but the smoke was getting thicker as I watched. Were they trying to smoke me out of the house?

  A black column of smoke suddenly clouded up the staircase, and I realised I could hear the crackle of fire, coming from somewhere downstairs.

  ‘Great-uncle Bartholomew,’ I said, crouching by his side again. ‘We’ve gotta get you out of here! Now! The house is on fire!’

  But the old man had closed his eyes, his breathing now coming in shorter, more infrequent gasps. He looked frail and so much older, his clothes draping off his body onto the floor. The skin of his face seemed stretched, like pale parchment.

  He made a huge effort and opened his eyes again, struggling to speak. ‘Did you get the name,’ he whispered, ‘the name of the solicitor who has the Piers Ormond will?’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ I urged. ‘We’ve gotta get out of here. The place is on fire! We’ve gotta get you out and to the hospital!’

  I ran over to the top of the stairs and looked down.

  I was horrified at what I saw. The hallway was already ablaze, and the fire was moving towards the large living room. Our only chance lay in getting quickly down the stai
rcase before it, too, was eaten by flames.

  ‘They say your whole life passes before you while you are dying,’ whispered my great-uncle as I ran back to him, frantically trying to work out the best way to move him. ‘I don’t have much time left. I can already hear the chief pilot calling.’

  In the days that I’d spent with Great-uncle Bartholomew, we’d become very close. He believed my story; he wanted to help me. I refused to believe that I was about to lose him.

  ‘Don’t say that! You’ve got to let me help you get out of here,’ I cried. ‘Come on! I’ll help you down the stairs. You’ll be all right!’

  I had to put my ear right down to his mouth to hear what he was saying.

  ‘You’ve got to get out of here, Cal,’ he said. ‘But before you go, I … I want to tell you something. The kidnapping of those babies … that you read about. One of them … one of them … is you … you … you have to go now. Get out. Please. I don’t have time to tell you everything … I think I’ve remembered the young solicitor’s name … So hard. So hard to speak … A young fellow from Mount Helicon.’ He gulped, slowly. ‘But now … now you have to go. Leave me here.’

  The fire roared closer to the staircase. Hot embers whirled past us in a devilish dance.

  ‘I can’t leave you here!’ I protested.

  ‘I’m already on my way out,’ gasped my uncle. ‘I only have a few more breaths left in me. I can’t waste them … arguing with you. Take the Orca. Please. I think it will fly.’

  ‘The Orca?’ I asked, so afraid of what was coming.

  ‘Only one stick,’ he said, ‘the thrust lever.’

  The smoke thickened around us. It filled the upstairs landing and I could feel the heat of the fire rising.

  ‘Don’t use the rockets … they’re untested … could be too powerful. Fly to Dimityville Airfield. About seventy kilometres away. Almost due north.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Now go … before it’s too late.’

  I dug my hands underneath his shoulders and started to lift him.

  ‘Stop!’ he moaned, before coughing and wheezing, trying to suck air in. ‘Don’t forget the solicitor’s name,’ he ordered. ‘You must remember. This person has the Piers Ormond will.’

  He began whispering the name again and again, insisting that I repeat it for him. I parroted the name, but I was hardly concentrating. I was already coughing, my throat and lungs were filling with toxic smoke.

  I ran to the top of the staircase again to see the flames running along the floorboards below. The aircraft-wing table was ablaze and fire licked the curtains of the living room. Any moment now and the staircase would catch fire and the flames would leap into the second floor. The heat and smoke were already tremendous and growing hotter and darker with every passing moment. I ran back to my uncle.

  ‘Bartholomew!’ I cried, shovelling under his shoulders again, preparing to drag him. ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Stop!’ he cried once more, grabbing my hand and squeezing it with all of his strength. I looked down to see that he’d placed the Orca canopy keys in my palm.

  ‘Please,’ he continued, ‘it’s too late … for me. I have to go now,’ he whispered. ‘Goodbye, Cal … Tom would be … so proud of his boy … Good luck on your journey.’

  With that, he fell back.

  It took me a few seconds to realise that Great-uncle Bartholomew was dead. There was no heartbeat. No rise and fall of his chest. He was silent and still. It was like when Dad died and his face changed. I remember thinking as I looked at him that whoever had been living in my dad’s familiar body was no longer there. I saw the same thing in my great-uncle’s face. His features were exactly the same, but the real person—the eccentric aviator—had definitely flown away.

  I tightened my grip on the keys he had given me, and wiped hot tears from my face.

  ‘Good luck on your journey, too, Great-uncle Bartholomew,’ I whispered.

  I jumped to my feet, pulled on one of the old leather jackets, grabbed another one for cover, slung my backpack over my shoulder and ran to the top of the stairs.

  The Ormond Orca had never flown, and now I was going to be the test pilot. What if Bartholomew hadn’t got it right and it exploded the moment I pressed the starter?

  Either way, I had to get out of the house. If I didn’t leave now, there’d be no possibility of a flight!

  The heat coming up from the fire was really scaring me now. ‘Kilkenny’ had become a death trap. I stumbled downstairs through the choking smoke, ducking out of the way of fiery embers, hopping over the tendrils of flame that were running along the floorboards, weaving my way around obstacles that I could hardly see any more.

  The roar of the inferno was terrifying and the house seemed to shake with the intensity of the blaze. I dropped to my knees and crawled along on the floor, where I could breathe better, and felt my way to the kitchen, which had so far escaped the full force of the flames.

  I paused to work out what I was going to do next. I had no idea where Sumo or Kelvin might be. If they were waiting for me out the back, I had to get past them.

  The smoke was really getting to me now and I had to leave the house or I’d choke to death. I kicked the burning table out of my way and opened the back door. There was an explosion of flames behind me. I had created a draught of oxygen and the fire reared up, a bigger monster than before! I slammed the door behind me and made a beeline for the shed.

  The sound of smashing glass and a bloodcurdling yell startled me. I turned back and saw Kelvin rolling on the ground, bleeding, and surrounded by broken glass. The front windows of the house had blown out in the extreme heat, cutting Kelvin down with flying shards of glass. I could hear curses from Sumo although I couldn’t see where he was.

  Kelvin staggered to his feet, blood gushing down his forehead. Through the red haze he spotted me. ‘There he is! Don’t let him get away!’ he shouted.

  Sumo came running after me as I was wrenching open the shed door. In the nick of time I slammed it behind me, locking it. I clutched the canopy keys in my hand, scrambled up onto the wing, opened the Ormond Orca, threw my backpack across onto the co-pilot’s seat, and jumped into position.

  I’d never flown anything like this machine, but it was my only chance. If I hesitated, I had no chance at all—Kelvin and Sumo would make it round to the other side of the shed and pounce, savagely ripping me out of the Orca and dragging me back to their boss.

  I scanned the controls, taking in the details. Some I knew—the fuel gauge, the airspeed indicator, the artificial horizon … but all my experience as a pilot had been in a Cessna 172 and I’d always had Dad sitting beside me.

  Beside the thrust lever that my great-uncle mentioned was a row of switches. One was for the battery, which I flicked on. Next to it was the power and the fuel, which I also flicked on. A switch marked RATO—Rocket Assisted Take-Off—reminded me of my uncle’s warning against using it. I wouldn’t touch that button.

  I started the ignition and the turbine started whining. I could hear Sumo and Kelvin outside, bashing on the rear door of the shed. They hadn’t realised that the front doors were open!

  The jet was slow in warming up and as we lumbered out through the open doors ahead and started bouncing over the uneven paddock ground, I turned back to see Sumo and Kelvin running towards the Mercedes.

  The little jet trundled down the rough airstrip. ‘Get a move on!’ I urged. I pulled on the thrust lever but it was still taking me way too long to get up enough speed for take-off.

  The Mercedes was already coming for me, tearing dust up behind it, and quickly gaining ground. ‘Hurry up, Orca,’ I begged as we slowly picked up speed.

  The wind whistled past my face; I’d completely forgotten to close the canopy! I couldn’t waste time just now closing it—the Mercedes had gained on the aircraft and was almost alongside me!

  Either of them could easily rip me out of the seat if they got up on the wing and clawed their way to me, and I could see that’s exactly what they had
in mind. They were enraged that I’d got away, and now their car raced along beside me on my right—Sumo was almost standing out of the passenger seat, his sausage-like arms shaking in my direction.

  Something on my left flew into my peripheral vision. I took a second to glance over. It was Maggers, flying over me like a guardian angel. He suddenly dipped one wing, and then soared away.

  I quickly turned back to the Mercedes, just in time to see Sumo swing out and catch hold of the right-hand wing.

  He heaved himself up onto it, his weight causing the jet to tip and slow down.

  I wasn’t going fast enough for take-off. Somehow, I had to shake him off! Sumo reached closer, his evil grin almost on top of me!

  There was only one thing to do, despite my great-uncle’s warning!

  Just as Sumo’s huge hand reached for me, I leaned away and wrenched the canopy closed. He crawled around and started bashing on the front of the glass, looking like a giant bug on a windscreen. But I knew he wasn’t going to be there for much longer.

  I took a deep breath, jerked up the thrust lever and hit the RATO button.

  The Orca suddenly lurched forward at tremendous speed and within seconds we’d launched off the ground! Sumo’s face looked horrified as his body was ripped off the aircraft, and sent spinning to the ground.

  I was shooting upwards, pinned to my seat!

  I retracted the landing gear, taking note that the suggested speed for lowering them again when landing was around 150 kilometres per hour.

  The Ormond Orca surged up and away, just like the adrenaline inside me, rockets blazing. The power and lift were unbelievable! I started praying it wouldn’t explode, but the frame held firm.