Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  I can see Dad is feeling moved as well. I can also see what he’s thinking.

  I’ve got a son in jail too. I can’t even help my own son.

  Dad looks at Mum.

  I know what she’s thinking as well.

  Our family. We have to look after our family first.

  But I’m wrong because Mum does an amazing thing. She nods at Dad.

  Dad looks at us all for a moment, frowning. He turns and looks back at Mr Galbraith, who’s standing in the doorway of his building glaring at us.

  ‘OK,’ says Dad quietly. ‘Let’s see if we can get those kids out of that place.’

  When Dad does a job, he moves fast.

  We only left the school a few hours ago and already we’ve picked up stuff from the warehouse, visited Gavin in jail, bought food and drink for the trip, dropped Mum off at home, and now me and Menzies are sitting in Dad’s car outside Uncle Grub’s place.

  I was hoping Mum would be coming on the job with us, but I know why she can’t. When you do a job you have to make sure you haven’t got any illegal stuff at home in case you get arrested and the police search under your beds.

  Right now Mum’s clearing out all the Iraqi pressure cookers and US army toothbrushes and taking them to the warehouse.

  Menzies leans over from the back seat.

  ‘What’s taking your dad so long?’ he says. ‘Jamal could be on his way to Afghanistan while we’re sitting here.’

  I sigh. This is about the tenth time Menzies has said this since Dad took Jamal’s father into Uncle Grub’s place only about fifteen minutes ago.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ I say. ‘They’re planning the job. If you try and do a job without a plan, you’re history. Uncle Ray told me once how he had to patch up three blokes who tried to do a jail break without a proper plan. They tunnelled into a pet shop by mistake.’

  Menzies doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Surely it doesn’t take this long to do a plan,’ he says.

  ‘A job like this it does,’ I say. ‘There’s the tunnel to think about, spades, pickaxes, ropes, planks of wood, torches, possibly explosives, plus disguises, a getaway route, heaps of stuff. They’re probably ringing Uncle Ray for first aid advice in case any of us gets hurt.’

  I wish I hadn’t said that. Menzies is looking alarmed and suddenly I’m feeling a bit nervous too.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to Menzies, and to myself. ‘Dad’s a professional.’

  Menzies still looks worried.

  ‘How are we going to fit all the tunnelling stuff into one car?’ he says.

  ‘We’re not,’ I say. ‘Uncle Grub’ll bring his van. One of the rules for doing a job is never put all your eggs in the one vehicle.’

  Menzies looks impressed at this piece of criminal wisdom. I decide not to tell him I got it from The Bill on TV.

  Even though Menzies is a worrier, I’m glad he’s coming on the job. Mum and Dad were doubtful about taking him out of school, but Jamal’s father insisted and as it turned out nobody noticed. Everybody was too busy hiding in the library cellar after the anti-terrorist bell went off.

  ‘At last,’ says Menzies.

  Dad and Jamal’s father are heading out of Uncle Grub’s place and coming towards the car. Dad’s got a fistful of Uncle Grub’s maps.

  ‘OK,’ says Dad as they get in. ‘We’re set. The detention centre’s a fair old distance away so we’ll be driving through the night. Anyone got a problem with that?’

  We all shake our heads.

  Jamal’s father’s eyes are shining and I can see that driving through the night in an ancient Mercedes with squeaky shock absorbers to rescue his kids is the thing he wants to do most in the whole world.

  He reaches out and puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder.

  ‘Before we start,’ he says, ‘I want to say, my heart is full with your kindness.’

  Dad puts his hand on Jamal’s father’s arm.

  ‘You’re very welcome, Mohammed,’ he says. ‘But don’t be too grateful till we see how we go.’

  We’ve been on the road for hours.

  Dad’s having to do all the driving. Jamal’s father offered to help, but Dad said no. Jamal’s father is a taxi driver and in Afghanistan he’s probably driven about two hundred thousand k’s further than Dad in his life, but he doesn’t have an Australian driving licence. Dad reckons it’d be too risky. If we got pulled over with Jamal’s father driving, the whole job would be down the dunny.

  Menzies offered too. He drives a ute on his uncle’s farm. Dad said the same to him.

  Menzies and Jamal’s father are asleep in the back, Menzies’ head on Jamal’s father’s shoulder.

  I’ve been staring out into the darkness for ages, thinking. And keeping an eye out for kangaroos on the road like Dad asked me to.

  There’s heaps of stuff I want to ask him about the job.

  How are we going to get to the detention centre fence without being seen?

  Are we going to use explosives in the tunnel and if so how are we going to do it without the guards hearing us?

  How far behind us is Uncle Grub in his van? Uncle Grub’s a really fast driver and I’m surprised he hasn’t overtaken us yet.

  I haven’t asked Dad any of these things. If he wanted me to know he would have told me. I saw the same thing on The Bill. Junior members of a gang never get told the whole plan in case they get arrested and interrogated.

  There is one thing I have to ask, though.

  I glance across at Dad.

  In the light from the dash I can see his face is set and his thoughts are miles away. Probably in the same place as mine.

  ‘Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah?’ he says.

  ‘There’s something bothering me,’ I say.

  ‘What’s that?’ he says.

  ‘Instead of trying to get Jamal and Bibi out,’ I say, ‘shouldn’t we be trying to get Gavin out?’

  Dad thinks about this, but not for long.

  ‘No,’ he says softly. ‘With Gavin it was a fair cop and he deserves to be inside. These kids don’t.’

  Dad glances across at me and I can see he’s as sad about Gavin as I am.

  But I’m glad that was his answer.

  This desert road is so straight.

  Dad hasn’t turned the wheel for ages. Not a curve, not a twist. Just two straight headlight beams stabbing into the darkness.

  I wish my thoughts would stay as straight as the road.

  Get to the detention centre, do the job, free Jamal and Bibi and their mother.

  Straightforward.

  But my thoughts keep curving and twisting all over the place.

  Did I kiss Mum goodbye?

  Should we be bringing bullet-proof vests?

  And no matter where they twist and curve, my thoughts keep coming back to the stuff Gavin told me when we saw him yesterday.

  As usual Mum and Dad gave me some time alone with him in the prison visiting room. I wasn’t going to tell him about the job, but once it was just me and him I couldn’t stop myself.

  Because he’s a top-notch big brother, he was very kind.

  ‘Go for it, Bridge,’ he said. ‘If anyone can do it, you and Dad can. Just try and keep your nose clean.’

  But then he told me about a couple of blokes in his section who escaped once. They were recaptured after only three days, and they reckoned those were the worst three days of their lives.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said to Gavin. ‘Hiding in an empty offal tank in a pet food factory.’

  ‘That’s not my point,’ said Gavin. ‘My point is that most people can’t stand the stress and fear. For most people, being on the run is even worse than being inside.’

  At the time I told Gavin I reckoned it was still worth getting Jamal and Bibi and their mother out, so we could get Bibi to a dentist and stop them all being sent back to the warlords.

  But now I’m thinking about it, I don’t want them to have to spend the rest of their lives on the r
un suffering from stress and fear.

  So I hope Dad’s plan covers what’s going to happen after we’ve done the job.

  I wake up.

  My neck is stiff and my eyes hurt in the bright desert sunlight and I’ve got the seatbelt strap stuck to my face.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ I say.

  Dad doesn’t reply.

  That’s because he’s not in the car.

  ‘Dad?’ I say, alarmed.

  The engine is still running, but we’re parked in a big dusty carpark. For a second I hope it’s the carpark of somewhere that sells pies and milkshakes because I’m really hungry and thirsty. Plus that would explain where Dad is.

  But it’s not.

  Outside the car window I can see a high chook-wire fence and behind it drab dusty buildings with no signs advertising pies or anything.

  The fence has got razor wire on top.

  Suddenly I’m wide awake.

  I realise where we are.

  We’re parked outside the refugee detention centre. I squint anxiously across the carpark. We’re in full view of the guards. There’s a military-type checkpoint only about fifty metres from the car.

  What is Dad thinking of?

  In a panic I turn to the back seat.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I say.

  Menzies is still waking up, rubbing his eyes and looking confused.

  Jamal’s father isn’t there either.

  I get out of the car. A blast of hot air hits me like a Latvian hairdryer on perm. I squint around, looking for Dad. The flat desert horizon shimmers in the heat. The detention centre fence hums mournfully in the hot wind. We’re the only car in the carpark. I can’t see Dad anywhere.

  I have a wild hopeful thought.

  Perhaps Dad has parked here as a decoy while he and Jamal’s father and Uncle Grub tunnel in round the back.

  Then, over the rumble of the car engine, I hear Dad whistling. Not the soft urgent whistle people use when they’re doing a job. Jailbreak by AC/DC.

  The car boot is up and I see a flash of blue cloth behind it. I go round to the back of the car.

  Dad is standing on one foot taking his jeans off. He’s wearing a yellow shirt and the jacket of his blue suit, and the suit pants are flapping on a hanger dangling from the boot catch.

  Jamal’s father is holding Dad’s arm so Dad doesn’t fall over.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say to Dad.

  ‘G’day love,’ he says. ‘Getting my good gear on. Can’t talk to the management of a detention centre looking like a scruff.’

  I stare at him, stunned.

  ‘Talk to the management?’ I say.

  ‘Tell ’em what they’re doing to those kids is against the law,’ says Dad. ‘Uncle Grub rang a lawyer he knows. Locking kids up like this is breaking about three different parts of the Child Protection Act.’

  ‘This is a good law,’ says Jamal’s father. ‘We will use it to free my family.’

  I gawk at Dad as he zips up his suit pants.

  ‘You’re just going to walk in through the front gate?’ I say. ‘In broad daylight?’

  Dad looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘What did you think I was going to do? Dig a tunnel in the dead of night?’

  I feel faint.

  ‘So,’ I croak, ‘Uncle Grub isn’t coming?’

  Dad shakes his head while he slips his good shoes on. ‘I thought it’d be best if he didn’t. George is top-notch when it comes to, you know, doing a job. But he’s a bit rough round the edges for a meeting with management.’

  My head is buzzing and not just from the sun.

  ‘I think it’ll be best if just me and Mr Houssini go in,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll leave the car running so you and Menzies have got air-conditioning.’

  I get back in the car.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  One glance at Menzies’ face and I can tell he heard what me and Dad were just saying.

  I stare over at the detention centre, trying to see if I can spot anyone behind the fence. Through the dust and glare I can just make out a few people moving between the buildings. I can’t tell if they’re refugees or guards.

  I look away.

  Dad slams the boot.

  ‘Wish us luck,’ he yells, waving at me and Menzies through the window.

  I wave back, but I can hardly move my arm.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll pull it off,’ says Menzies as we watch them walk over to the checkpoint. ‘Perhaps this way’ll work.’

  I don’t reply.

  No point.

  In about five seconds Dad and Jamal’s father will be turned away from the checkpoint, possibly after being bashed up.

  I can hardly watch. But I do because if the guards try to hurt my dad I’ll go over there and use Uncle Ray’s finger jabs.

  ‘Look,’ says Menzies. ‘It’s working.’

  At first I don’t know what he means.

  Then I do.

  This is amazing.

  The guards are letting them through. They’re escorting Dad and Jamal’s father to the main gate. Another guard at the main gate is making a phone call. The main gate is opening. Dad and Jamal’s father are going in.

  ‘Yes,’ says Menzies.

  ‘Yes,’ I yell.

  It’s working.

  It didn’t work.

  I can tell it didn’t from the slump in Dad’s shoulders and the way Jamal’s father is shouting angrily. And the fact that both of them are being escorted back to the checkpoint by four guards who are pushing them.

  Me and Menzies stare at each other helplessly.

  It was looking so good.

  Dad and Jamal’s father were inside one of the detention centre buildings for almost ten minutes. As each minute passed, Menzies and I got more and more excited. We’d just decided that Jamal and Bibi should enrol in my old school with me, when suddenly Dad and Jamal’s father reappeared, shouting and being pushed.

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned Menzies.

  The guards are still pushing them now.

  Jamal’s father tries to run back through the gate. The guards stop him.

  I get out of the car.

  I want to fling myself at the fence and tear it down and let all the kids run free into the desert.

  I don’t care about the guards or the razor wire or how upset the Prime Minister will be.

  Suddenly I see a car speeding towards us across the carpark. It stops next to ours. From the logo on the side I can tell it’s a TV news car.

  A man and a woman get out.

  The man has a camera and the woman has a microphone, both pointing at me.

  ‘Hey, parliament house girl,’ says the woman. ‘What are you doing here?’

  For a second I think about telling them to rack off and stop pestering me and my family. Then I realise perhaps I can say something that will help Jamal and Bibi.

  There’s so much to say I hardly know where to start.

  ‘There are kids locked up in there,’ I say to the camera. ‘Kids who haven’t done anything wrong. They haven’t burgled anyone or shoplifted anything or even thought about robbing a bank.’

  This probably isn’t the best way for me to be saying this.

  I remember the letter from Jamal I was reading in the car on the way back from Canberra. I brought it on this trip in case I got scared and needed inspiration.

  ‘This is a letter from one of those kids,’ I say.

  I pull it out of my pocket and start reading it to the camera.

  ‘I have bad news. My father is free…’

  I read the whole letter.

  When I get to the end, the bit about how Jamal is sad because he thought Australia was a kind place, I see the cameraman glance at the reporter. She signals to him to keep filming.

  I look right into the camera.

  ‘I met the Prime Minister last week,’ I say. ‘He said these kids are being locked up for us, the people of Australia. We’re only four people, but
we’re here because we don’t want any kids to suffer for us. My dad reckons that’s how all Australians used to feel. I wish they still did.’

  I stop.

  The guards have seen the camera and they’re running towards us, yelling.

  Anyway, there’s no point saying more.

  I look around at the fence and the guards and the checkpoint and the razor wire.

  Words won’t help Jamal and Bibi now.

  Only me and Menzies can do that.

  I strain my ears to hear what sort of breathing sounds are coming from the other bedroom.

  Lucky these motels have got thin walls. I can hear a low rumble coming from Dad and a soft wheeze coming from Jamal’s father.

  ‘They’re asleep,’ I whisper to Menzies.

  We both get out of our beds as quietly as we can and put our shoes on. It was hot in bed wearing all my clothes, but I did it to save time.

  ‘Towels,’ I whisper to Menzies.

  ‘Getting them,’ he whispers.

  While he creeps into the bathroom, I feel around on the floor for our water bottles. It’s not easy, getting the equipment for a job together in total darkness, but we can’t risk switching the lights on.

  ‘Got the towels,’ whispers Menzies in my ear.

  I’ve got the water bottles. And the chocolate and lollies and horse photos that Antoinette, Chantelle and Veuve gave us for Jamal and Bibi.

  We tiptoe to the door, open it carefully so the chain doesn’t rattle, slip out and close it behind us as quietly as we can.

  There’s a bit of moonlight so we can see our way past the parked cars of the other guests.

  Suddenly Menzies grabs me.

  ‘We haven’t got anything to dig with,’ he says.

  ‘Relax,’ I say. ‘This is a motel. They’ve got to have gardening equipment around here somewhere.’

  We start hunting.

  Nothing. Not even a crowbar for giving their septic tank a prod.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ says Menzies. ‘How can we tunnel into a detention centre without gardening equipment?’

  Just as he says this, I see two spades strapped to the back of a four wheel drive outside one of the motel units. I go over and carefully unstrap them.