Dark Wind Blowing

by Jackie French

  Mike’s heart began to race. What if she stopped him going over to Loser’s? What if she called the police to report him for being away from the quarantine area?

  What if it was a virus? What if he was wrong, and it wasn’t poison at all? What if he was infected too, or carried it on his clothes? Mike’s heart began to beat hard and painfully. All Mum had to do was come closer and she might be lying on a stretcher too …

  ‘Mum, stop!’

  She hesitated. ‘But, Mike …’

  ‘Mum, don’t come any closer! Please!’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  It was no use, thought Mike desperately. Mum still thought of him as a little kid, not to be trusted even to buy a cheese and salad sandwich at lunch time. She’d never listen to him.

  Mum stopped in the middle of the kitchen path, next to the lilac tree. ‘Mike, what’s happened?’ she whispered.

  ‘I sneaked out of the hall. There’s something I have to do. It’s urgent. I can’t explain. Just … just please, go back in the house and don’t tell anyone you saw me.’

  Mum shook her head dazedly. Her lipstick was long gone. She looked pale and frightened. She took a step closer. ‘Mike …’

  ‘No, Mum!’ cried Mike. ‘Don’t you understand? I might be infectious! You have to stay away!’

  ‘Mike, I don’t care! You’re my son! I just want to …’

  ‘Please, Mum! Just for once in my life could you trust me?’

  Mum stopped. She stared at him. She was crying, Mike realised, the tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Suddenly she nodded. ‘I trust you, Mike,’ she said. Her voice was very soft. ‘Of course I trust you. Ring me … let me know …’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ whispered Mike. ‘Now go inside. Please. I know what I’m doing. Just go inside.’

  Mum hesitated. She looked at him as though she was drinking in his whole appearance, to save it in case she never saw him again. Then she turned and went inside.

  Chapter 19

  FRIDAY, 5.05 P.M.

  Mike crept down the path along the side of the house.

  On the other side of the fence he could hear the Loosley’s chooks, chipping and chupping and pecking at the orange peel and potato peelings in their run. They’d be eyeing the perches, thought Mike, getting ready for the who-gets-the-highest-perch chook discussion before they went to bed. Far off he could hear the mutter of a TV set, but it was too faint to tell if it came from the Loosley’s or further up the street.

  It all seemed ordinary. If this was a movie, thought Mike, it wouldn’t be like this. There’d be that ‘da de da dead’ style of really suspenseful music in the background, not the sound of some advertisement for cereal. And the hero wouldn’t have crept along a fence among the dog droppings either.

  There’d have been … what? A car chase probably, with lots of swerves and bangs. Loser would have stolen a car and raced off out of town and Mike would have grabbed one of the SES vehicles … Mr Johnstone’s old Mercedes maybe … and zoomed off after him. There’d have been speed and screeching tyres and you’d feel like laughing with the excitement of it all …

  Not like this. Not like this at all. The hero in the movie wouldn’t have felt his mind jammed with fear for his friends in hospital, his friends left behind (had anyone else fallen sick while he was away, he wondered).

  Fear for himself, too.

  Jazz was right, he thought. It didn’t matter in movies how many people were killed, as long as the hero and heroine were safe at the end. The killing of bystanders just added to the excitement. But in real life no one was just a bystander. They were people that you knew.

  What was Mr Loosley doing, wondered Mike. Was he up with the SES as usual, pretending he knew more than anyone else and telling everyone it wasn’t Loser’s fault at all? Or was he frantically hunting round the edges of town for his son?

  Mike took a deep breath and clambered over the fence between his house and the Loosley’s shed. It was an old shed. Mike supposed it had been there when the Loosleys bought the place. If Mr Loosley had built it, one wall would have been only half-finished, or it would still be without a door.

  It was a wooden shed, the old yellow paint splintered and showing the dull wood underneath. The small space between the shed and the fence was carpeted with morning glory leaves. Mum always complained when the Loosley’s morning glory tendrils poked through the fence. Johnny Shadwell, who came in to do the garden once a fortnight, had to keep cutting it back.

  His feet made no sound on the thick mat of vine. Mike stepped carefully round the corner and peered through the dusty window.

  The shed was empty. There were only the shelves of bottles and cobwebs and rusty cans filled with secondhand nails, a spade and a mattock at one end and a greasy chainsaw at the other. Mike carefully turned the door handle and stepped inside.

  Chapter 20

  FRIDAY, 5.15 P.M.

  ‘Hello, Mike,’ said Loser.

  Mike felt his heart expand through his whole body. ‘Los … Lance!’ he corrected. ‘Where are you?’

  There was a giggle in the dimness. ‘Down here,’ said Loser.

  Mike squinted through the shadow. ‘Where? What are you doing down there?’

  Loser giggled again from under the dusty shelves and pushed his glasses back up his nose. It was a strange giggle, thought Mike. A little kid’s sound, like Loser wanted somehow to be back in the time when they were small and safe.

  ‘No one can find me here,’ said Loser seriously, as he huddled under the shelves.

  ‘Well, I just did,’ pointed out Mike.

  ‘You’re different,’ said Loser, still in that strange, childlike voice. ‘We used to play together, didn’t we Mike? Dad said I had to be best friends with you. He said if we were friends your mum would have to give him a job. Dad said he could look after your place and your mum would pay him because she didn’t have anyone else to help her. But I liked you anyway, Mike.’

  Mike didn’t know how to answer. Maybe there was no answer.

  ‘How many people have died?’ asked Loser, in his new small voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mike honestly. ‘Some are pretty sick.’

  ‘I thought you all would die,’ said Loser vaguely, as though he inhabited a different reality to the one where his school companions were dying. ‘Hasn’t anyone died at all?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike. His eyes searched the shelves, one by one. No small bottle there, or there … it had been on the second shelf, surely, towards the back …

  ‘Oh,’ said Loser. He seemed to think for a moment. ‘They have to die,’ he said seriously. ‘If they don’t die I won’t be on television, will I? Do you think they’ll die, Mike?’

  Mike didn’t answer. That was the shelf! It had to be …

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t die, Mike,’ said Loser matter-of-factly. ‘I wanted you to die this morning. But not now. Are you looking for the bottle, Mike?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mike. ‘Where is it, Lance?’

  Another giggle. ‘I’ve got it here,’ said Loser. ‘I’m not going to let it go.’

  ‘Is that what you used to poison them with, Lance?’ asked Mike quietly.

  ‘You guessed!’ said Loser proudly. ‘I thought you might guess. You used to be my friend. You’re not dumb like the rest of them. They might do well at school but they’re still dumb, that’s what Dad says. Dad says I have to show everyone how clever I really am. It was a clever idea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How did you do it?’ whispered Mike.

  ‘I bet you can’t guess that!’ said Loser. ‘I’m cleverer than all of you! I said I’d show you and I did! Are the TV cameras out there yet?’

  ‘Lance, please,’ cried Mike. ‘You’ve got to tell me what’s in that bottle! People are sick! Jazz … Jazz’s dying …’

  Loser’s eyes were wide and white in the darkness. ‘She deserves it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Lance … she did invite you to her party. Really, she did! Caitlin just di
dn’t give you the envelope. Jazz was really angry when she found out you hadn’t got it. She was going to come up and invite you especially at recess, but … but …’

  The small huddle that was Loser was silent under the shelves.

  ‘Please!’ pleaded Mike. ‘Please don’t let her die! Tell me what you did!’

  Loser said something too low to hear.

  ‘What did you say?’ cried Mike. ‘Please, Lance!’

  ‘I said I snuck in to the classroom at recess and dipped the tops of the pens on the desks in the poison,’ whispered Loser. ‘I took the top bit of the pens out and dipped them in.’

  Mike thought back. There’d been a pen in Mr Simpson’s hand as he collapsed. He must have chewed it absent-mindedly. Caitlin had been writing her will.

  Jazz had written out the instructions from over the phone. He remembered her small white teeth nibbling on the pen. Then she’d made a face and stopped.

  ‘She said there was a funny taste in her mouth …’ he muttered. So that was how he’d done it. But it still didn’t answer the most important question.

  ‘Lance!’ he said sharply. ‘What’s in that bottle?’

  ‘Poison,’ whispered Loser.

  ‘What sort of poison?’

  ‘I don’t know. It killed the dog though. It killed the foxes too. I thought you’d all die quickly like the foxes. You’d all be in class holding your pens and one by one you’d all be dead. Then the TV cameras would come and …’

  ‘Lance,’ said Mike very carefully. ‘Hand me the bottle.’

  ‘No,’ said Loser.

  ‘I have to read the label!’

  ‘No,’ said Loser. ‘You won’t give it back to me.’

  ‘Why do you want it back?’

  Loser giggled again. But they weren’t giggles, Mike realised. They were sobs. ‘Dad …’ he sobbed. ‘Everyone … I can’t go back there, can I? I can’t go back to school now. They’re going to put me in prison and send me to the electric chair.’

  ‘They won’t do that, Lance,’ said Mike helplessly. ‘We don’t have the electric chair in Australia. We don’t even kill people here. You’re thinking of the movies. This isn’t a movie, Lance.’

  ‘I thought, I thought I’d be on TV. I’d be on the news all over the world,’ said Loser. The edge of his glasses gleamed in a stray beam of light. ‘I thought people would be afraid of me then. I didn’t have a choice! You see that, don’t you Mike? I had to do it! No one would believe me if I hadn’t done it. I had to show them that I was … I was … Have they put me on the news yet, Mike?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike. He had no idea if anything had been on the news. But he knew with every millimetre of his being that he had to drag Loser back to reality. ‘Everyone is upset, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought, I thought there’d be lots of cameras and things. They’d all be talking about me and why I’d done it and I could tell them how everyone was mean, how they deserved to die. I thought, I thought Dad would be proud of me if I’m on the news,’ said Loser.

  Proud that his son is a killer, thought Mike. Even Mr Loosley wasn’t as bad as that. But he didn’t say anything. ‘Please let me see the bottle,’ he said instead.

  ‘No,’ said Loser. ‘I need it now.’ All at once Mike realised that the lid was off the bottle.

  ‘No!’ he cried.

  Loser clung more tightly to the bottle. ‘They don’t think I’m a hero, do they?’ he whispered. ‘They just think I’m dumb.’

  ‘Give it to me!’ ordered Mike.

  Loser lifted the bottle towards his lips. Mike flung himself down, over to Loser, but there was no need. Loser dropped the bottle without drinking. He began to cry.

  The bottle rolled over and over on the dirt floor, a small pool of white spilling on the ground. Loser covered his face with his hands as Mike grabbed the bottle.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,’ gasped Loser between his sobs. ‘I didn’t mean to do it!’

  The words were meaningless. Mike jerked himself back across the damp floor of the shed. He gazed at the label frantically. ‘Strychnine,’ he whispered.

  Loser was suddenly still. He wrapped his arms around himself again. ‘What are they going to do to me?’ he whispered. ‘What will happen now, Mike?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Mike fumbled urgently with the phone in his pocket. His fingers almost shook too much to press the numbers. One ring, two rings, three … please, please let her answer, he prayed. Please … not the answering service … please …

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dr Fallerton, it’s Mike, it’s strychnine, I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It wasn’t the stuff in the test tube at all. Loser put strychnine on the ends of the pens. Does that help?’

  Dr Fallerton’s voice choked. ‘Yes. Oh, yes, it helps,’ she said. ‘Mike, I have to go. I have to tell them …’

  ‘She’s still alive, isn’t she?’ demanded Mike desperately.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I know what to do now. I’ll call back, Mike. I’ll call you back.’

  The phone went dead.

  Lance stared at him, his face white in the dimness of the shed. ‘Mike? Mike, will you help me run away? Please, Mike, I can’t stay here! I can’t!’

  Mike dialled again. It was hard to see the numbers. 000. His eyes were blurred, but he wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears.

  ‘Police,’ he whispered when they answered. ‘Put me onto the police.’

  ‘Please, Mike!’

  Mike ignored him. He tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke into the phone. ‘Hello? Is that the police? My name is Michael Hammersley. I’m at 15 Waratah Road, Elbow Creek.’

  ‘Mike, you’re my friend! You can’t tell on me!’

  I’m not your friend, thought Mike. I never had the guts to be your friend. But I’m doing the right thing now.

  ‘I’m with Lance Loosley.’ His voice sounded like a stranger’s, even to him. ‘The kid you’re looking for. Yeah, the kid with the test tube at the school. But it was poison, not a virus.’

  Looser scrabbled over the floor towards him. Mike backed away slowly, cradling the phone. ‘Mike, say I didn’t mean to do it! Please, Mike!’

  ‘We’re around the back in the shed. Please come soon. Please.’ He wondered vaguely what else he needed to say, but his mind had gone dead. It was suddenly as though too much had been crammed in it, all through this terrible day.

  The mobile phone fell from his fingers. Dimly he could hear a tinny phone voice chattering on the other end, but he ignored it. He leant against the door of the shed, breathing hard, as though he had run a long way.

  ‘Mike?’ whispered Loser. He was still inside the shed, away from the light in the doorway. He was shivering, as though the cloak of pretence had fallen away, leaving him in cold reality.

  ‘Yes, Lance,’ said Mike.

  ‘Will you stay with me till they come?’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Mike. He pushed himself off the door and stepped back into the dimness. He wondered if he should put an arm around Lance’s shoulders. But it seemed soppy to do that. So he sat beside him on the cold dirt floor as they listened for the faint sound of the siren in the distance.

  Chapter 21

  SUNDAY, 11.20 A.M.

  ‘It would have made a lousy movie,’ whispered Jazz sleepily. Dr Fallerton had warned Mike about the sleepiness. Jazz had been given sedatives to counteract the strychnine. A tube of some clear fluid ran into a needle in her hand. Mike tried not to stare at it. It gave him the creeps.

  Silly, he thought, to be nervous of a little needle after all that had happened.

  The tiny hospital room’s curtains were closed (too much light still hurt Jazz’s eyes) but a beam of sunlight shone through the gap between them, lighting up the vases of bright flowers, the giant teddy bear, half the fluffy purple tiger, six squares of the technicolour quilt crocheted by the Gunyabah Senior Citizens, and the massive jar of jelly beans. At least fifty cards, half of them saying ‘get well’ an
d the other half ‘happy birthday’, three new books, two magazines and a plastic box of Mrs Daniel’s mushy home-made marshmallow peanut fudge sat in dimness on top of the bedside cupboard.

  ‘Why would it make a lousy movie?’ asked Mike softly, just for something to say. Dr Fallerton had warned that he must be very quiet too. Jazz was getting better fast, but any loud noise or movement could still trigger a painful spasm.

  ‘No one died,’ whispered Jazz. ‘You’ve got to have lots of bodies in a movie.’

  ‘You’re just down on thrillers,’ said Mike mildly, though privately he wondered if he’d ever watch one without remembering the past few days. There was nothing thrilling about pain or death when you were close to them. Mike suspected he’d never really feel the same about movies again.

  No, there were no bodies. Mr Simpson and Caitlin were recovering too. Spear carriers, thought Mike. Innocent people who got caught up in the story and almost died.

  But were they really innocent, he wondered? Caitlin had failed to deliver the invitation. Even Mr Simpson must have known Lance was being picked on, but did nothing.

  Who is really innocent, thought Mike. Not me, or Budgie, or Lance’s parents or even Mum … if we see something is wrong and don’t do anything, then maybe we’re guilty, too.

  Maybe there’s no such thing as innocent bystanders, thought Mike, watching Jazz’s face on the pillow. The evil emperor’s soldiers should help the hero escape, not just stand there doing their jobs. But what should I have done? Not been Lance’s friend — you can’t force friendship.

  But I should have been … kind to him. I should have been honest with him, told him what he was doing was dumb instead of laughing behind his back, should have helped him out of the pretend world that his father led him into.

  Mike had gone in the police car with Lance, all the way to Gunyabah. But Lance had said nothing after the police arrived. He’d just nodded when they asked him his name. He hadn’t looked at Mike as the siren screamed all around them, just huddled in the corner of the seat looking out at the paddocks as though he never expected to see them again.