The Stone Gate

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The Stone Gate Page 6

by Mark Mann


  KAYA

  Jack grabs my hand and pulls me into the light. I know what’s coming but it’s still a shock. There’s an ear-shattering roar and everything is a dazzling, brilliant white, like when we were caught in a snowstorm on our ski trip. Only whiter.

  And suddenly we’re standing in the forest again, next to the Stone Gate. I look around. Jack’s beside me. Billy and Pullawarra are gone. I notice an empty beer can lying on the ground. Welcome home!

  “What do you think?” Jack asks. “Are we back?”

  “Yeah, I think we must be ...” I stop and look around. Are we back? There’s a lot of rubbish. Empty cans, plastic wrappers. I’ve always thought of the High Plateau as “unspoilt”. After all, it is a national park. Now it’s like a dustbin. I guess it’s because we’ve just come back from the Dunjini world, where there’s no such thing as litter.

  The forest is in a bad way, too. Trees with all their branches hacked off. Thick tangles of lantana vines and other weeds. Graffiti scrawled on tree trunks.

  In fact there’s too much of it. Too much rubbish, too many weeds, too much graffiti. Even in our world, the High Plateau isn’t overrun with weeds like this. This is wrong.

  There’s a crash. And another. Something, or someone, is running through the forest, heading towards us. They must have heard us talking.

  Before either of us can react, two men burst out of the bushes. They shine their flashlights right into our faces. I throw my hands up to shield my eyes.

  “Don’t move,” one of the men barks. “Hands on your heads.”

  We do as we’re told. The glare of the torches is blinding. I screw up my eyes. I can just make out the shapes of the two men in the darkness behind the torchlight.

  “What d’ya reckon we got here Boss? Refos?” one of them says.

  “Nah, probably just some feral kids. Right you two, show us your papers.”

  The men lower their torches slightly, so they’re not shining directly in our eyes. Now I can see them a bit better. The men are wearing dark uniforms. One looks young. The other is older, chubbier. Who would be walking around the High Plateau in uniforms? Soldiers? Police? Security guards? Why?

  They’re both holding something. It takes me a second to realise they’re guns.

  Guns pointed at us.

  “Papers?” Jack asks blankly.

  “No papers, eh? McCain, search ‘em.”

  The younger man steps forward. He keeps his gun trained on us. He pats us down, running his hand around our bodies.

  “Nothing boss. No weapons. No ID. Must be refos.”

  The older man turns to Jack. “Where are you kids from? Where do you live?” His tone is stern but friendlier, less threatening than the younger man.

  “Baytown,” Jack stammers. “Six Koolibar Street.”

  The man raises an eyebrow. “Koolibar Street, eh? That’s interesting. Anyway, you don’t sound like refos. You speak proper English at least. No funny accents.” He speaks softly, like he’s thinking out loud. Then, to us again: “But if you are from Baytown, surely you know you’re not allowed outside the Fence without papers.”

  “Refos, ferals, gangbangers, who cares,” the younger one, McCain, sneers. “If they’re poking around up here without papers, they’re up to no good. Let’s just get rid of ‘em now. No one will miss ‘em.”

  “Put your gun away McCain. I told you before, we’re not killing kids in cold blood,” the older man says.

  “Well, let’s have some fun then. Give them two minutes’ start, say. Fifty bucks says I can hunt them down in five minutes. One shot each. If I miss we’ll take ‘em back to town. If I get ‘em ... well, it’s resisting arrest, ain’t it?”

  “You’re a psycho McCain.” the older man says. “When we get back I’m having you transferred. Anyway, we’ve got to take the other two back to town.”

  The other two? Did Billy and Pullawarra follow us through the portal? Could he mean Jayden and Debbie James?

  McCain shrugs. “You’re going soft Boss.”

  “Okay you two, let’s get you to the van,” the older man says, giving Jack a push. “And no funny stuff. You don’t want to give my friend McCain here any excuses, do you.”

  We’re lucky he’s the one in charge.

  He leads us down the path. Jack follows, then me. McCain walks behind us, which makes me nervous. The path is familiar, back down the Stony Stairway towards Castle Heights. But as we get closer to town the forest is even more damaged. Trees have been hacked apart. Many are no more than stumps. There are tangled weeds everywhere, and cans and rubbish. And now there’s the stench of rotting garbage.

  This is all wrong.

  We reach the end of the forest path. There’s a gate, complete with barbed wire on top, and on either side of the gate there’s a wire fence, about two metres tall. The older cop unlocks the gate and we walk through into Hillview Street.

  But it’s different from the Hillview Street we know. For a start, all the houses at the top of the street look burnt-out, with broken windows and fire-blackened walls. Then a block ahead of us there’s a concrete wall, twice as high as a person, running down the left side of the road. On the other side of the wall I can see rooftops and the glow of bright lights. It’s the first electricity we’ve seen in a month, apart from the torches. To the right of the road, on the other hand, the houses are abandoned.

  There’s a grey van parked by the roadside. McCain opens the back door of the vehicle. Inside, a boy and girl are sitting on the bare metal floor. They look about our age, maybe a little older. Seventeen or eighteen, I’d guess. Both have long dreadlocked hair and ragged clothes and black boots that come almost to their knees.

  “Found a couple of your mates,” McCain says. He shoves us into the van.

  As soon as we’re inside the van we hear the heavy bolt of the back door thud shut. Inside, it’s too dark to see anything. We hear the two guards climb into the van and the engine start. The van moves off. With nothing to hold on to, the four of us in the back are thrown from side to side as the van lurches over bumps and potholes.

  After a while a small grill opens and the older man peers through.

  “Friends of yours Noah? They say they’re from Koolibar Street.”

  “Yeah,” the boy grunts. “We know ‘em.”

  The grill closes. It’s pitch black again.

  “Thanks,” I whisper. He doesn’t reply.

  I can tell we’re going downhill, because I feel myself sliding forward across the metal floor of the van. We must be heading down Hillview Street into Baytown.

  After a few minutes the van stops and we hear the heavy thud of the door being unbolted again.

  “Ride’s over,” McCain says. He grabs Noah by the collar of his jacket and throws him out of the van into the middle of the road, like he’s throwing out a bag of trash. The rest of us jump out of the van. McCain looks at Jack and me and makes a shooting gesture with his fingers. He smirks. “Next time,” he says. Then he slams the van door shut and drives off.

  The street is deserted. The moonlight makes it easy to see, even though the street lights aren’t working. It’s a typical Baytown street, lined with single-storey weatherboard houses set back behind low fences and small front gardens. But this is not our Baytown, of neat suburban homes and tidy lawns. Now the fences are broken, the gardens overgrown and the windows boarded up. Unless this has all happened since the flash.

  Inside the houses, orange lights flicker like candles, not the steady white glow of electric lights. There must be a power cut.

  Noah stands up and rubs his elbow. “Cop bastard,” he mutters. He turns to the girl. “Let’s go,” he says. He starts walking. The girl begins to follow. They ignore us, like we’re not even there.

  “Hey, wait,” I call out.

  The girl glances back. She looks as if she’s about to say something but then changes her mind and keeps walking. The two of them turn down a side street. And suddenly they’re gone and we’re alone.


  Or maybe we’re not. Jack taps my arm. He nods his head and I follow the direction of his gaze to where, further up the street, a half-dozen hooded figures lounge against a garden wall.

  “Don’t stare,” Jack says. “But they’re watching us. And they don’t look friendly.”

  Yeah, and they’re starting to walk towards us. Their jacket hoods are pulled low to hide their faces. They stroll casually but I notice they’re spreading out across the street so we can’t get past them.

  I also notice they’ve got what look like baseball bats.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jack hisses.

  We turn and run. Behind us, we hear a shout.

  “Get ‘em, boys!”

  Like a pack of wolves, the gang gives chase. They’re gaining on us. I grab Jack’s arm and pull him into an alley. This part of Baytown is a maze of narrow back lanes; we duck left into another lane, then left again, then right, then another right. Maybe we can lose them this way, if we keep twisting and turning. Another left, across a road, into another lane. I glance back.

  No one. Have we lost them? Still, it’s best to keep moving. We turn another corner.

  Without warning something smashes into my legs. The next thing I know I’m lying on the ground. The gravel rips the skin of my palms as I throw my hands out to break my fall. It takes a second for the pain to register. Someone is standing over me. I look up. A boy is looking down at me. He looks about eighteen or nineteen. He’s got a shaved scalp and a spider web tattooed across his face.

  “No refo scum gonna give us the slip,” he sneers. “Not on our turf.”

  Two of the other thugs have grabbed Jack. Their hoods have come off and I can see they’ve got the same shaved hair and spider web tattoos. One of them has Jack in an armlock, pinning his arms behind his back. Jack struggles but the other one hits him in the stomach. Jack gasps in pain.

  They must have gone a different way to the others, taken a short cut. And ... their turf? I bet McCain dumped us in their territory deliberately, knowing what would happen. That’s probably why Noah and the girl were so keen to get away. My leg throbs. The youth raises his baseball bat. Instinctively I fling my arms up to protect my head and brace my body for the impact.

  It doesn’t come.

  Instead, the youth is staggering back.

  “Aaagh, my eyes,” he screams, clutching his face.

  I look round. It’s the girl with the dreadlocks from the van. She’s got a small canister in her outstretched hand.

  The boy, Noah, is running behind her. I see him swing something—a bat or a stick. Without breaking stride, he smashes the weapon into the skull of the youth holding Jack, who drops like a stone. The third youth turns and flees.

  “Get up,” the girl says. She grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here before the rest of ‘em catch up.”

  We don’t need telling twice. We turn and run after Noah and the girl. Jack is still winded from the blow to his stomach. He groans as he runs.

  “Down here.” Noah points to a narrow lane. I look back. The rest of the spider-tattoo gang are there now, but they’ve stopped. A couple of them are bending over the boy Noah hit.

  “Did you kill him?” I ask.

  “Dunno ... don’t think so ... just keep running.”

  We run and turn and run and turn, until Noah waves to us to stop. We gasp for breath, hands on knees. My heart is pumping from the adrenaline of the chase. I feel a stabbing pain in my leg every time I put my foot down.

  “Will they follow us?”

  Noah shrugs. “Doubt it. They’ve got no reason to.”

  “Then why did they attack us?

  “Boredom, I guess. Bashing refos, that’s what we do for fun round here. Our way of welcoming new arrivals to Baytown.”

  Well, thanks for saving us,” I say.

  “Thank Sara. She’s the one who came back for you. I just came back to get her out of trouble. What do I care about a couple of refos?”

  “Thanks Sara,” I say. “But we’re not ... what are refos, anyway?”

  “Refos? Refugees. Like you two,” Noah says. “And how do I know you’re refos? Because you have to ask what a refo is, that’s how. Any Coastie would know what a refo is.”

  “But if they are refos, how come they don’t have an accent?” Sara asks. “They sound like locals. And how do they know about Koolibar Street?”

  “Because we live there,” Jack says.

  “You can’t live in Koolibar Street,” Noah says. “There’s no such place.”

  “Okay,” Sara says. “If you live in Koolibar Street, prove it. Take us there. Show us the way.”

  I look around to get my bearings. The street is familiar. It’s Balaclava Road. Near our school. My friend Emma lives here. In fact we’re passing right by her house now, except it’s all smashed up and covered in graffiti. Across the road, a man with tattooed arms sits on his porch on a broken sofa, watching us.

  Jack looks at me and raises his eyebrows, like he’s wondering what I make of it all. I shrug back. I don’t know. We set off. The houses are damaged and run down, but at least the streets are still in the same places.

  At the corner of each block, Noah calls a halt and looks around. But the coast seems clear and we soon reach Koolibar Street.

  As we turn into the lane, we see it. Our house.

  Except ...

  Except it isn’t. Isn’t ours, I mean. For a start, the building is largely hidden by a high wooden fence, topped with barbed wire. There’s a wooden gate with a chunky padlock. The fence is covered with graffiti, but good graffiti, if you know what I mean. Artistic.

  “Who lives here? It’s like a fort,” I say.

  “Funny you should ask,” Sara says. “We do.”

  “So how do you know about it?” Noah asks. “Because, you see, this isn’t Koolibar Street. Not any more. It’s Ambler Road now, since they changed the name. Renamed it after some local councillor, I think. But that was years ago. Only someone who grew up in Baytown would remember it used to be Koolibar Street.”

  “You know your way around Baytown too, which means you aren’t refos,” Sara says. “But you don’t live here either. Not now, at least. Or we’d know you. So what does that leave?” Sara considers her own question for a moment. “My guess is you used to live here but moved away. And now you’re back. Which means you’re probably on the run. Come back to where you know. Am I right?”

  “Well, not really ...” Jack begins, but I interrupt him.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Kind of. And we could really do with somewhere to hide out for a while. We’ll make ourselves useful.”

  I see Sara glance at Noah, who rolls his eyes.

  “I guess you can stay,” she says. “Only for a couple of days, mind. Just while you sort yourselves out. But you’d better mean what you said, about making yourselves useful. There are no free meals around here.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” I gush. “We won’t be any trouble. We’re happy to work in return.”

  I’m just relieved to have somewhere to stay. I get the feeling we don’t want to be out on the streets with nowhere to go in this version of Baytown.

  Noah unlocks the gate and ushers us through. Inside, the front garden is covered with pumpkin vines. On one side, vegetables grow in old car tyres filled with earth. I recognise beans and sweet potatoes and tomatoes. Our mum grows them in our own garden. Right here. Except not here.

  The house itself is like a half-wrecked version of our own house, the same two-storey building but with boarded-up windows and flaking paint.

  We’re home, but we’re not home.

  ***

  Noah unlocks the front door. For some reason the ground floor looks abandoned. Noah leads us upstairs into what is, in our version of this house, our parents’ bedroom. Noah removes two planks of wood from one of the boarded-up windows. In the faint early-dawn light we can see the room is now a sort of living area. There are a couple of battered sofas, an
old table and makeshift shelves made from planks of wood on bricks. On the shelves are a few basic items—books, saucepans, plates, cups, candles, and so on. Everything is old and worn. There’s no carpet, only floorboards. Paint flakes off the walls.

  I turn to Sara. “Thanks for letting us stay. I’m Kaya, by the way. And this is my brother Jack.”

  “Sara. And Noah.” Sara replies, completing the introductions. She takes off her faded brown jacket and heavy black boots and shakes out her long dreadlocked hair. Barefoot, with worn-out clothes and no makeup, she’s beautiful. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she says.

  We sit on one of the old sofas. I feel odd sitting in a chair again, after our time with the Dunjini. It’s strange to be back inside a building, too. But most of all I feel a crushing sense of despair. We’re not home. Billy didn’t tell us anything about other worlds, apart from his and ours. Something has gone wrong. And if there are many realities, not just two, how do we know the portal will ever take us back to our own world?

  Sara hands us each a glass of water and sits down opposite us.

  “That’s a pretty stone,” she says, looking at my necklace and the maala crystal. (Like I said, everyone notices it.) “Can I see it?” she asks. I take it off and hand it to her and she examines it admiringly. I suddenly realise how tired I am. It’s been a big night. I feel a bit dizzy, too, almost like I’m floating.

  Noah’s clearly not interested in this girly jewellery stuff. “Anyway, what’s your story?” he asks. “Who’s after you? Why have you come back here?”

  I glance at Jack. Neither of us knows what to say. The only thing we know is Noah and Sara aren’t going to believe the truth.

  “I ... we ... well ...” I begin. I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Fortunately, Sara interrupts me.

  “If you don’t want to tell us yet, that’s cool. Afraid we’ll turn you in, are you?”

  “Maybe we will if the price is right,” Noah mutters. He’s building a small fire in an old metal oil drum in the middle of the room.

  “Ignore him. He’s just winding you up. We’re not grasses. You can stay here for now, no questions asked. Tell us your story when you’re ready. But we’ll have to get you some ID papers. We’ll go to see Leo in the morning.” She hands the necklace back. I slip in over my neck and tuck the maala crystal under my T-shirt. My dizzy spell seems to have passed.

 

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