Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  Even though the things he’s saying are angry things, he’s still smiling.

  That is so dishonest.

  ‘I hope you’re both satisfied,’ says Menzies’ father.

  At least he looks angry. I know he’s a big disappointment to Menzies, but at least Menzies can see he’s not as dishonest as the Prime Minister.

  ‘That’s all,’ says the Prime Minister. ‘Unless you have anything you want to say.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I reply. ‘I want to know why you lock innocent children up.’

  As soon as the words come out I know I’ve let Jamal and Bibi down.

  This is the Prime Minister. He’s used to people saying please. He’s used to people saying if you could possibly be so generous as to consider our request your honour we’d be extremely incredibly grateful.

  Why couldn’t I have said that?

  I should be arrested sometimes.

  Oh well, at least he’s looking angry now, so what he’s about to say will probably be the truth.

  ‘Mandatory detention,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘is a crucial element in a sophisticated immigration strategy whose positive outcomes are not always apparent to the unsophisticated.’

  I try to work out what that means.

  I can’t.

  The Prime Minister takes our drinks from us and puts them on his desk, signals for us to stand and ushers us towards the door.

  Menzies’ father takes a step forward.

  ‘They are both very sorry for the embarrassment they’ve caused,’ he says, looking at me and Menzies. ‘Aren’t you?’

  I don’t say anything. Neither does Menzies.

  The Prime Minister opens the door.

  ‘No need to apologise,’ he says. ‘I’m not embarrassed. When opponents of my government’s policies increase their worldly experience and cognitive ability, they understand that border protection is an initiative wholly in the national interest.’

  He shuts the door behind us.

  Once again I try to work out what he meant.

  I haven’t got a clue.

  ‘Menzies,’ I whisper as we follow his father past the expressionless security guard and into the corridor. ‘What did that stuff about positive outcomes and unsophisticated mean?’

  ‘The Prime Minster was saying,’ replies Menzies, ‘that the government is big and knows what’s best, and we’re little and we don’t.’

  Now I understand.

  I think the Prime Minster’s wrong. And rude.

  He should meet Gavin, who could tell him how dopey it is to plead not guilty when you are.

  ‘And,’ I say to Menzies, ‘what did the Prime Minister mean when he said all that stuff about national interest?’

  ‘He meant that the government’s doing it for us,’ says Menzies.

  I stare at him.

  Menzies can see I still don’t understand. He’s frowning, like he’s trying to come up with a clearer way of putting it.

  ‘The Prime Minister reckons they’re locking those kids up for us,’ says Menzies. ‘The people of Australia.’

  ‘Us?’ I say. ‘You and me?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Menzies.

  I’m so stunned I don’t notice at first what Menzies’ father is doing. Steering us into an office. His office, judging by the photo of Menzies’ mum and Menzies on the desk.

  We all sit down on a couple of couches.

  Menzies’ father looks hard at Menzies.

  ‘What you did tonight was wrong,’ says Menzies’ father. ‘Very wrong.’

  He seems to be talking only to Menzies, who’s staring at the carpet.

  ‘When I was your age,’ continues Menzies’ father, ‘I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing something like that. Something that would cause my father shame and embarrassment. No matter how passionately I felt about an issue.’

  He stops, and now he’s staring at the carpet too.

  Menzies looks so miserable I want to put my arm round him.

  ‘That’s why,’ says Menzies’ father, ‘as well as feeling angry, I feel a tiny bit jealous.’

  There’s a silence.

  I try and work out if I heard that right.

  Menzies has obviously decided he did.

  He’s staring at his father in shock.

  His father reaches over and squeezes Menzies’ shoulder.

  This is fantastic. Perhaps Menzies’ father is going to help Jamal and Bibi after all. I can see Menzies is hoping the same thing.

  ‘I wanted you to know that,’ says Menzies’ father. ‘There are two other things I want you to know. One, I can’t change the government’s policy on refugees, not now, not ever.’

  Menzies sags in his seat.

  I do too.

  ‘Two,’ says Menzies’ father, and suddenly he’s looking at me with a stern expression.

  ‘In this life,’ he says, ‘be very careful who you choose as friends.’

  On the long drive back to school, Menzies doesn’t feel like talking.

  Neither does Dave. He looks at me a few times in the rear-vision mirror. Maybe he’s going to be suspended too.

  I wonder if I should offer to write him a reference.

  To Whom It May Concern. Dave is a very good bodyguard and a pleasure to be guarded by. The only reason he didn’t stop us getting into parliament house is he was visiting his mum.

  Something like that.

  I decide not to. Dave is driving very fast and I don’t want to risk making him swerve.

  After a while, Menzies gives me something. It’s a letter from Jamal.

  ‘It came yesterday,’ he says. ‘We were both trying to get our homework done so Mr Galbraith would give us a weekend pass and I forgot to show you.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I understand.’

  We both had a lot of homework, thanks to Mr Creely. And sometimes Menzies prefers to have his feelings about Jamal and Bibi in private.

  I read the letter.

  Dear Menzies,

  I have bad news. My father is free. Two days ago the government gave him a visa. They have decided he is a real refugee, but they say Bibi and me and Mum are not real refugees and we have to stay in this detention centre.

  Dad did not want to go, but they made him. He told us he is going to Adelaide to try and find a lawyer to help us. That is good, I guess, but he was very sad.

  We are sad too, and scared. Almost like when me and Bibi got separated from Mum and Dad on the boat journey and we thought a pirate was going to kill us because Bibi called him a camel wart.

  Bibi still gets tooth-ache most days. I am still trying to arrange the soccer match. It is going quite well. Three guards have said they will play, and twenty-seven refugees. Bibi and I may have to play on the guard team. Bibi says she would rather have all her teeth kicked out by a camel.

  Thank you for the wonderful soccer ball, Menzies. It arrived yesterday. The guards cut it open to look for bombs, so I will repair it for our match. Don’t worry, we can still train with a plastic bag ball. Sometimes I can do twenty foot-knee-heads before my hip hurts too much.

  I try to stay hopeful, but this prison is an agony place. The man who tried to escape last month stood at the fence for six hours today, shouting at the government office over and over.

  ‘When you hurt a child once,’ he shouted, ‘you feel bad. When you hurt a child twice, you feel not so bad. When you hurt a child three times, you feel nothing.’

  It’s the same in soccer. Some players are sad if they hurt another player’s ankle or heart. But some don’t care. They feel nothing.

  At home I saw people who hurt children and they weren’t sad. They put their arms in the air like a winning team.

  I think there are people like this in Australia too. I am sad because I thought Australia was a kind place.

  You are kind, Menzies.

  You give me wings.

  I wish they were real.

  Your friend,

  Jamal

  I finish reading the letter for
the third time as the car jolts to a stop. We’re at a petrol station.

  ‘Toilet?’ says Dave.

  Menzies shakes his head.

  So do I.

  Dave gets out of the car.

  ‘We can still help Jamal and Bibi,’ I say to Menzies.

  For a second Menzies’ eyes flicker with hope.

  ‘How?’ he says.

  Then his shoulders slump.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ he says. ‘You saw how my father is. He’s not brave enough to help Jamal and Bibi. The Prime Minister doesn’t even care about them. And the whole Australian parliament thinks it’s just a big joke.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, glancing over to make sure Dave is still in the Men’s and can’t hear what I’m about to say. ‘The Prime Minister doesn’t care. But thanks to him I’ve realised what we have to do.’

  ‘Write to the Pope?’ says Menzies gloomily.

  I shake my head again.

  ‘The Prime Minister reckons they’re doing all this for us,’ I say. ‘Well, if Jamal and Bibi are being kept prisoner for us, I reckon we’ve got a responsibility to do something about it ourselves.’

  Menzies stares at me, his eyes almost bigger than his glasses.

  ‘You mean… ?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’ll organise a jail break.’

  ‘I’ve found it,’ I say.

  I heave the big school library atlas over to where Menzies is sitting at a school library computer.

  ‘You’ve found the detention centre?’ says Menzies.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘They don’t print detention centres in school atlases. But look, this is the highway junction near it.’

  I point to the atlas and then to the computer screen. The same highway junction is on the map of the detention centre on the Department of Immigration website.

  ‘Which means,’ I say, pointing to the middle of the atlas page, ‘the detention centre is here.’

  ‘It’s right out in the desert,’ says Menzies, dismayed. ‘How are we going to get there?’

  That’s exactly what I’m thinking.

  ‘I can’t even go to the toilet without Dave knowing,’ says Menzies.

  ‘One problem at a time,’ I say. ‘At least we know where the detention centre is.’

  Always locate your target first, that’s what Uncle Grub used to say in his burgling days. Though he used to stick to targets near bus stops.

  ‘Look at the fence,’ says Menzies, clicking on the website and bringing up a photo of the detention centre. ‘It’s about five metres high, with razor-wire on top.’

  ‘We’ll have to tunnel our way in,’ I say.

  We both stare at the screen in silence.

  I wonder if I should mention to Menzies that I’m hopeless at tunnels. At the beach, when I try to do an underground carpark, my sandcastle always collapses even when Dad tries to prop it up with a Bulgarian boogie board.

  I glance at Menzies. From his worried expression, I’d say he’s accidently buried a few crabs himself.

  Then I have an idea.

  ‘Jamal and Bibi’s dad,’ I say. ‘He could help us.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Menzies, eyes lighting up. ‘He’s probably had experience tunnelling in the desert in Afghanistan. You know, for water or to get out of his house after a sandstorm.’

  For a few seconds we’re both very excited.

  Then I remember something.

  ‘We only know he’s somewhere in Adelaide,’ I say. ‘How can we find him?’

  ‘Easy,’ says Menzies. ‘I’ll write to Jamal and get his phone number.’

  I think about this.

  ‘It’ll take too long,’ I say. ‘And what if the detention centre guards read Jamal’s reply before they post it? They might be suspicious about why we want to contact his dad.’

  ‘OK,’ says Menzies. ‘I know a kid whose mum works for the Department of Immigration. We used to go to the parliament house Christmas parties together. They’ve got a computer at their place connected to the department’s database. The department’ll definitely have a contact number for someone who’s only out on a temporary visa.’

  Menzies seems pretty confident, so I let myself feel confident too.

  ‘Good one,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve got his number in my room,’ says Menzies. ‘I’ll go and ring him now, before the bell goes.’

  He hurries out of the library, almost knocking over a year three girl coming in with an armful of newspapers.

  Jamal’s right, I think to myself. You should never give up even if things are looking hopeless, and not just in soccer. Two minutes ago rescuing Jamal and Bibi seemed hopeless. Now I reckon we can do it.

  The newspaper monitor girl is staring at me. Must be because it’s Sunday and the librarian’s not here and the kid doesn’t know where to leave the papers.

  I go over to give her a hand.

  She’s still staring at me.

  ‘You’re in the paper,’ she says, and runs out of the library.

  I watch her go, wondering what she means.

  I pick up a newspaper. And almost faint.

  On the front page is a huge picture of me in parliament house.

  The headline is even bigger.

  CRIME GIRL BREAKS INTO POLITICS.

  ‘Look at this,’ gasps Chantelle, rustling the newspaper so hard her bedsprings start to squeak. ‘Bridget Podger, alias Bridget White, is the daughter of convicted criminal Leonard Reginald Podger, alias Len White, and the sister of Gavin Kenneth Podger, alias Gavin White, currently serving a jail sentence for theft.’

  I’ve got my head under my pillow but I can still hear her.

  I wish she’d stop reading.

  I wish Antoinette would too.

  ‘Oh, no,’ squeals Antoinette, rustling her newspaper just as hard. ‘Listen to this. Bridget Podger recently enrolled at one of Australia’s top private schools. Security staff say she gained entry to parliament house by posing as the friend of another student, the son of a government minister. That’s terrible.’

  I bury my head deeper under my pillow and wish I hadn’t brought the library newspapers up here. I should have flushed them down the dunny where they belong.

  Where my life belongs, now that the one thing I’ve dreaded all these years has finally happened.

  Menzies doesn’t realise how lucky he is, having a dad who can keep him out of the papers.

  ‘Bridget, Bridget.’

  It’s Veuve’s frantic voice coming from the doorway. I sit up, just in case there’s even worse news. When the whole country knows you’re a crim, there’s no limit to how bad things can get.

  ‘Bridget,’ says Veuve, coming over to help me up. ‘You’re on TV. Come and see.’

  I give her a long hard look and she gets the message that I don’t want to come and see.

  Behind her the corridor is packed with kids clamouring for a glimpse of me. I poke my tongue out at them. They squeal with excitement. Chantelle closes the door in their faces.

  ‘Donkey-brains,’ she mutters.

  Antoinette sits next to me on my bed and puts her arm round me. Chantelle joins her and takes my hand. Veuve comes over and squeezes my shoulder.

  ‘You poor thing,’ says Antoinette.

  I stare at them, stunned. I’m a crim. From a crim family. Why are they being so nice?

  ‘Those newspapers are a disgrace,’ says Chantelle. ‘Printing personal details about a person’s life. They did that to my nana when she went on holiday to Surfers with an archbishop.’

  ‘If you want to sue them,’ says Veuve, ‘we’ll give evidence about what a good person you are and how you’ve never robbed us or kidnapped us.’

  ‘Here in the stables,’ says Antoinette, ‘we stick together.’

  I blink away tears.

  For the first time I understand what it must be like for Jamal when he gets a letter from Menzies. Knowing that even when the whole world thinks you’re bad, someone believes in you.

  ‘I
t’s not your fault what your father does,’ says Chantelle. ‘My father’s law firm helps property developers knock old peoples’ houses down. If anyone accused me of doing that, I’d spit at them.’

  ‘My mother pollutes rivers,’ says Antoinette. ‘Not personally, her factories.’

  ‘I think it sucks,’ says Veuve. ‘On TV they called you a mini-menace to society following in your father’s footsteps.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘My mother’s a TV journalist.’

  ‘We think you’re really brave,’ says Antoinette. ‘Sticking up for those kids in detention. I saw some on TV once and they were sooo cute.’

  ‘Sooo cute,’ say Chantelle and Veuve.

  I take a deep breath to thank them all for their support, but before I can, the door bangs open and Menzies crashes into the room, eyes big and excited behind his crooked glasses.

  ‘Bridget,’ he says. ‘I got through to Jamal’s dad. He’s going to help us.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  The girls are all staring at Menzies.

  I can see he’s thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t have blabbed in front of them.

  Then he notices the newspapers scattered over the beds. He sees the headlines about me. He picks a paper up and reads it.

  He looks amazed, but I can see he hasn’t realised the awful truth yet.

  How can I think about rescuing Jamal and Bibi when my own family is facing total disaster?

  The time is approximately 2.35 a.m. and I’m proceeding in a northerly direction across the school cricket oval.

  I stare up at the sky. Millions of stars glitter like pearl earrings scattered on Mum’s black floor tiles in the kitchen.

  I think of the refugees in their desert prison. Perhaps they’re looking up at the stars like me. Wondering, like me, if their misery will ever end.

  I’m sorry, Jamal and Bibi.

  I wanted to help you, I really did.

  But now I have to go to Mum and Dad so they can yell at me for getting the family in the media and then I can help them pack up the house so we can move to another country.

  We’ll have to change our name again so nobody can track us down, not even our friends.