Wraith

by Shane Smithers

  The bed creaked and shuddered under his weight, bending dangerously close to the point of collapse, and then flung him back up, his legs and arms flailing wildly in the air. Breathless, James came to rest with a great thud in a chair near the window. He scrambled to pick up a book and pretended to be reading, seconds before his father thrust his head through the doorway, ‘James, you in here?’

  James looked up from his book. ‘Hey Dad, I didn’t hear you come in,’ he said in as calm a voice as he could muster. ‘You’re home early.’

  James’s father was a tall, trim man with dark brown, almost black, eyes, the exact opposite to James’s, which were a warm golden chestnut like his mother’s. But James had his father’s olive skin, a characteristic of their Darug heritage. James was proud of being Aboriginal, as was his father.

  James’s father snorted, as if he’d just heard an amusing joke. ‘The meeting was cut short,’ he said. ‘How was your day?’

  James shrugged. ‘Hung out with Darren. You know . . .’

  His father nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’ve got takeaway,’ he said after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Chinese?’

  ‘Yep,’ he smiled.

  ‘Dad . . .’ began James, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Yes?’

  James hesitated. How long could he go without telling his father about being able to fly? Nearly a month had passed since he’d first discovered his ability, and so far he hadn’t told anyone but Darren. Clark Kent’s parents – well, adopted parents – knew about his abilities, and they were cool with it. But James wondered how his father would react? He’d probably laugh. Tell him to stop being ridiculous. Real adults aren’t generally very open-minded. Besides, thought James, I’m still hopeless at it, especially the landings. Dad wouldn’t be that impressed.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ His father nodded again. ‘Right, well, if you’re not too busy reading your book . . .’ he tilted his head. ‘What is it? Dawkins?’

  ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’.

  ‘Well, when you’re finished, come downstairs. We need to talk about New Zealand.’

  ‘New Zealand?’ James echoed, but his dad was gone. He went to put his book down, realised that he’d been holding it upside down. ‘Damn!’ he said, throwing his head back with a groan. He dropped the book and darted out the door. ‘What about New Zealand?’ he called after his dad from the top of the stairs.

  From the living room, he heard his dad say, ‘You can come with us, if you want.’

  James bounded down the stairs two at a time. ’No way! You’re going to New Zealand? Seriously, I can come?’ He’d never been overseas before.

  ‘Don’t get carried away, it’s only a business trip. You might prefer to visit Gran instead . . .’

  ‘No! New Zealand is way better.’ Not that he didn’t love his gran, she was cool, but New Zealand . . . !

  His father shrugged, as if it was no big deal. ‘Do you want Satay or Plum Sauce?’ he said, holding up two takeaway containers.

  ‘Plum. Can we go snow-boarding or, like, white-water rafting? Oh, or . . .’

  Over the next couple of hours, James’s dad must have said, ‘We’ll see,’ and ‘Maybe,’ a thousand times.

  THREE

  Lithgow Prison, New South Wales, Australia

  In the dead of night, two drenched, bedraggled figures emerged from the fog, their breathing laboured. A moment later, another appeared. He was handsome, with an athletic build. He eyed his two companions with amusement, waiting for them to catch their breath. ‘You gentlemen rested now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I can go much further, Erebus,’ gasped Wilson, stooped over, his hands on his knees. He was tall and slim, and clearly not very fit.

  Erebus flicked the collar up on his Armani trench coat to keep out the damp air. ‘Lower your voice. Believe me, you don’t want them to hear you.’

  Wilson looked around frantically, straining to see through the mist. ‘Them?’

  Erebus pointed through the trees toward a long, narrow building a few hundred metres away. Two men, holding rifles, stood at the farthest corner; one was flashing a torch at the surrounding vegetation.

  ‘We’re goin’ in circles,’ gulped Wilson, turning to Collins. Collins gave a low growl of displeasure.

  ‘Be quiet, Wilson,’ ordered Erebus. ‘I didn’t break you out to let you get captured within view of the fence. I know what I’m doing. Understood?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Hunching over, Erebus darted out of the trees, through thick fog and across an open grassy stretch, only stopping when he reached the edge of the prison wall. Wilson and Collins followed close behind.

  Erebus waited a moment to make sure the two guards hadn’t seen them and then skirted a high barbed-wire fence and entered a car park. At the far end sat a matte black 760Li BMW sedan, sleek and powerful, a V12 nestled under its bonnet. Tremors of admiration went through Erebus every time he saw it.

  As the trio approached, Erebus pressed the remote key and the boot-lid flipped open. He reached in and pulled out two pairs of black overalls. ‘Strip and put these on.’

  ‘Can’t we just get goin’?’ said Wilson, glancing around the car park nervously.

  ‘No, Wilson, we cannot,’ replied Erebus. ‘I don’t want my leather seats ruined, so put these on.’ He thrust a pair of overalls in Wilson’s face.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Wilson. He began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Black’s really not my colour,’ he muttered.

  Collins, who was large, grabbed the other pair of overalls, eyeing them sceptically.

  ‘They’ll fit,’ said Erebus, removing his own coat and placing it, folded, in the boot.

  He pressed the remote key and the doors opened with a release of air.

  ‘Ooh la la,’ said Wilson, admiring the car’s flashy interior as they all hopped in.

  Close by, alarms in the prison began to wail. ‘And that,’ said Erebus with a smirk, ‘would be our cue.’ The engine came to life and Collins, who was sitting next to Wilson in the back, immediately buckled up. A few moments later and they were slipping quietly out of the car park and onto the road.

  All of Erebus’s cars – and he owned a lot – had special features. The BMW had stealth mode – with the lights out, the car was virtually invisible in the moonless night. Erebus shifted through the gears and suddenly the gentle burble of the V12 became a throaty roar. Up ahead a multitude of red and blue flashing lights were already heading towards the prison. Erebus gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  In the back of the car, Wilson, looking terrified, fumbled for his seatbelt. ‘Man, this thing really . . .’

  Collins grunted.

  ‘Yeah, this thing’s really got grunt,’ agreed Wilson.

  As the BMW shot past the line of speeding police cars, like falling dominoes, each officer’s head turned to the car. Erebus knew the black blur would hardly register, but the sound of the V12 at full revs racing past and disappearing into the distance would indicate a high performance getaway car.

  One after the other, the police cars hit the brakes, but the last car was the first to do a U-turn. Erebus’s rearview mirror showed the line of brake-lights replaced by wavering headlights as each car completed the high-speed manoeuvre. He smiled to himself. ‘The boys in blue have been practising. Not a single collision, very impressive.’ Erebus loved a challenge.

  Wilson’s ponytail whipped across Collins’s face as they both craned their necks to see the spectacle.

  ‘Now for a little cat and mouse,’ said Erebus.

  ‘I’m not sure I like that idea,’ said Wilson. ‘The poor mouse always gets it in the end.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not the mouse. They are,’ came Erebus’s reply. ‘Well, mice,’ he corrected.

  The speeding BMW suddenly slowed as Erebus took his foot off the accelerator.

  ‘Is something wrong? Have we run out of
juice?’ said Wilson, leaning forward and talking fast in a high-pitched voice. ‘Why are you patting me on the shoulder, Collins? I’m okay. I’m calm. I just need to know what’s wrong with the car, that’s all. You go back to daydreaming out the window, while I find out what’s wrong with the car. Stop it. Stop touching me.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with the car,’ said Erebus. ‘It’s all part of the plan; I just need the police to close the gap a little.’ He flicked a switch and a pale display appeared on the windscreen showing everything, from the BMW’s performance to local terrain and environmental conditions – plus the crucial T-intersection Erebus needed to turn at.

  Wilson’s head appeared over the front passenger seat, squinting at the display. ‘Cool.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Erebus. ‘An acquisition from a jet fighter.’

  ‘Coo-ool!’ replied Wilson, with even more reverence. He turned to Collins. ‘Don’t you think that’s cool?’

  In the rear-view mirror, Erebus saw Collins shrug and return to gazing out the window. It seemed that Collins was hard to impress. Erebus thumbed over a sensor on the steering-wheel control panel and a live satellite feed of them and the police appeared in the top right-hand corner. ‘In order to make a clean getaway, I’ve had to create a diversion big enough to keep the constabulary busy for at least an hour. While they’re chasing illusions, we’ll be casually driving away.’

  As expected, the police cars were getting closer. Erebus waited till just the right moment and then reached toward the dash and pressed a hidden button. A huge array of sparks exploded on the highway just ahead of them, lighting up the inside of the car for a second. ‘A little sleight of hand,’ he said, smiling. He thumbed the sensor and pressed the button again. A long trail of sparks shot from the guardrail to the right and then, a hundred metres down the highway, there was another flash, as sparks flew from the inside rail. ‘With any luck,’ said Erebus, ‘the police will think we turned right, skidded across and clipped the guardrail.’ He flicked another switch and the sound of the police radio came through loud and clear.

  ‘Fugitives heading west on the Great Western Highway. Suspected damage to vehicle after collision with guard-rails. Copy?’

  Erebus relaxed a little. He’d been tensing his shoulders without realising it. ‘Looks as though they’ve taken the bait. Now for the big finale.’

  As they turned east onto the highway, Erebus reset the detonator switch and pressed the button. Immediately there was a large explosion in the distance behind them. The satellite feed showed the police following the chain of evidence west along the highway, to a badly damaged black car, on its roof in the middle of the road. Following protocol, they stopped some distance away, but no sooner had they exited their cruisers than the flash of gunfire sent them diving for cover.

  ‘Who’s shooting at them?’ asked Wilson.

  ‘It’s fake,’ said Erebus. ‘Watch what happens next.’

  Within moments, small flashes of gunfire shifted to the trees and then toward the gully. On the radio they heard someone yell, ‘Escapees armed and dangerous, heading north into the bush. We need choppers and dogs.’

  Erebus flashed a smile; his little ruse had worked. He turned the BMW down a side street and did a U-turn, stopped a few metres back from the corner, changed his glasses, and then pressed a button on the steering wheel labelled Black-tie. This was one of Erebus’s favourite car accessories. Outside, the head- and tail-lights came on, a pair of ‘European style’ number-plates appeared and, with a gentle buzzing sound, the matte black paintwork was transformed into a reflective metallic silver, which matched the now dazzling 19-inch alloy wheels. Stealth mode had done its job and the car was back to looking flashy, but not out of the ordinary.

  ‘That fake gunfire should keep them pinned down for hours,’ said Erebus. ‘And when they get to the car, they’ll find a set of prison uniforms, some fake IDs, a half-eaten pizza and enough supplies to last a month. It’ll take them a week to figure out it was a decoy.’

  ‘Mmmm, pizza,’ sighed Wilson.

  Erebus thought he heard Collins’s stomach grumble . . .

  They drove through the town of Lithgow, keeping to the 60-kilometre speed limit, and headed up the Bells Line of Road, across the causeway, finally returning to the Great Western Highway at Mount Victoria. It wasn’t until they’d passed through several more suburbs that Erebus felt relaxed enough to turn the stereo on.

  In the rear-view mirror, Erebus saw Collins nudge Wilson with his elbow and gesture in his direction.

  ‘We’re we goin’, Boss?’ asked Wilson.

  ‘Sydney.’

  ‘What are we doing there?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘All this rush to get us out, must be pretty important,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Important enough.’

  ‘Are we gonna rob a bank?’

  Erebus’s eyebrows pulled together. ‘No, we are not robbing any banks.’

  ‘An art museum?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘A . . .’

  ‘We have to appropriate some documents. Okay?’ said Erebus.

  Wilson leaned forward eagerly. ‘What type of documents?’

  ‘Top secret documents,’ replied Erebus, feeling his temperature rising. ‘No more questions.’

  Wilson’s beady eyes squinted in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you a spy?’

  ‘No. What are you on about?’ said Erebus. ‘We’ve worked together before. You know I’m not a spy.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Wilson, though he didn’t sound convinced. After a moment’s pause he said, ‘But, you dress like a spy and you’ve got all these gadgets.’

  Erebus glanced at Collins, hoping for some support. Collins’s shaved head was reflecting each streetlight that they passed. He seemed to be nodding in agreement with Wilson.

  Erebus heaved a sigh. He’d forgotten how abnormal these two cons were. But he needed their special talents, so he decided to humour them. ‘Gadgets aside, I’m intrigued – how do spies dress these days?’ he asked.

  ‘Fancy clothes, trench coat, hat, sunglasses,’ rattled off Wilson. ‘You know, the usual stuff.’

  ‘I see,’ said Erebus, keeping his focus on the road. ‘I assure you, I’m not a spy.’

  Wilson gave a snort. ‘You totally are. No one else wears sunglasses at night. I bet you’ve got that whole night vision thingy goin’ on.’

  Erebus stared at Wilson in the rear-view mirror for a few moments. ‘Maybe I’m a celebrity,’ he said, flashing his perfect white teeth. A few moments later, he caught Wilson mouth the word ‘spy’ to Collins and heard Collins give an agreeing grunt. This was going to be one long job.

  FOUR

  Kurrajong, New South Wales, Australia

  James’s head hit the polished floorboards with a resounding crack, making him realise that thinking about New Zealand instead of flying was a mistake. His eyes rotated inwards toward the bridge of his nose and he bit down hard on the side of his tongue. His neck bent as the weight of his body surrendered to gravity, leaving him sprawled across the floor. He waited a few minutes for the twin-kling lights dancing before his eyes to fade and then, with a groan, rolled slowly over onto his side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and, for a brief moment, he thought he was going to vomit. Reaching up with his left arm, he grabbed a fistfull of bedsheet and pulled, dragging himself to a sitting position.

  He was going to master flying . . . somehow. Darren had told him to practise every chance he got, but after his eighty-three crash-landings the day before, James wasn’t sure how much more his body could take. He had bruises covering bruises and lumps growing out of lumps. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. Despite all this, he didn’t want to stop. Flying was by far the most brilliant fun he’d ever had. And he was making progress – he hadn’t winded himself this time. Maybe I just need to take it a bit slower for the next couple of days, get my strength back. He leaned back against his bed and sigh
ed, waited for the room to stop spinning and then slid the strap from under his chin and carefully removed his Stackhat; luckily, he’d had an old Stackhat in the bottom of his wardrobe, because he hadn’t found his other one from yesterday. With a grunt, he mustered all his remaining strength and rose to his feet, briefly teetering next to his bed. His soft, double-sprung mattress looked tempting, but, if he had concussion, lying down would be a bad idea. Better to move around, get the blood circulating.

  ‘James! James Locke, are you awake yet?’ yelled his mother from downstairs. ‘Your breakfast is getting cold.’

  James stumbled across the room, poked his head halfway out of his bedroom door and shouted, ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. His head and tongue felt as if they’d gone supernova. Staggering over to his mirror, James ran his fingers through his messy brown hair and then used yesterday’s shirt to wipe away the blood from the corner of his mouth. He tossed his Stackhat back in the wardrobe and kicked his bloodied shirt under the bed, just in case his mother came snooping.

  Downstairs, his mother was emptying the dishwasher. James went straight to the table, where his already mushy breakfast cereal sat waiting. He lifted a spoonful to his mouth and then hesitated. ‘Can I go snow-skiing when we get to New Zealand?’ he asked.

  His mother didn’t answer.

  With a sigh, James spooned the cereal into his mouth, tried to chew and then swallow. His tongue didn’t seem to be cooperating. It felt twice its normal size. Half-choking, he coughed loudly, spraying chunks of cereal in every direction.

  His mother glanced over. ‘Oh good, you’re down.’

  James fixed his mother with an incredulous glare. He hated her ‘selective blindness’. Or was invisibility another talent he had, in addition to flying?

  ‘So, what have you got planned for today?’ she said, stacking the last dish away in the cupboard.

  ‘Not much.’ James pushed his bowl away. A dull ache was beginning behind his eyes.

  ‘Great. You can start packing for the trip.’