Also by Phillip Gwynne
The Debt
Instalment One: Catch the Zolt
Instalment Two: Turn off the Lights
First published in 2013
Copyright © Phillip Gwynne 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 859 6
Cover and text design by Natalie Winter
Cover photography: (boy) by Alan Richardson Photography,
model: Nicolai Laptev; (runner) © Dex Image/Corbis
Set in Charter ITC by BT 10.5/16.5pt by Peter Guo/LetterSpaced
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Pete, Fi and kids
CONTENTS
DISCIPULE, CARO MORTUA ES: MONDAY
YOU AIN’T NOTHING BUT A HOUND DE VILLIERS: MONDAY
VIRTUALLY IMOGEN: MONDAY
LIES: TUESDAY
NITMICK: WEDNESDAY
PHISH WEAK: WEDNESDAY
GOOGLE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND: WEDNESDAY
CERBERUS: SATURDAY
S IS FOR STYXX: SATURDAY
NITMICK IN JAIL: MONDAY
THE OCTAGON: TUESDAY
COZZI’S: WEDNESDAY
CRYPTIC: WEDNESDAY
THE TWO WARNIES: WEDNESDAY
LYCHEE: WEDNESDAY
FRONT PAGE VIEWS: THURSDAY
LITTLE SILICON VALLEY: FRIDAY
ANAGRAMS: FRIDAY
COZZI’S AGAIN: FRIDAY
FIRE IN THE FACTORY: FRIDAY
APHISHING TRIP: FRIDAY
TRACE ELEMENTS: SATURDAY
SPY SHOP: SATURDAY
LEND OF ME: SATURDAY
BIZARRE ELECTRIC: SATURDAY
BRAIN REARRANGED: SATURDAY
JUJITSU: SATURDAY
SPARTEE: SATURDAY
LOOPHOLE: SATURDAY
FARTS UNFARTED: SUNDAY
THE NATIONALS: SUNDAY
MONDAY
DISCIPULE, CARO MORTUA ES
As I walked through the school gates I could see Dr Chakrabarty coming out of the library, a stack of books under one arm, a folded-up newspaper in his other hand. Because I hadn’t seen him for a while I’d figured he’d retired, or he’d died, or he’d found some other sneaky way to get out of teaching Classics. Let’s face it, Ancient Greek and Latin weren’t exactly hot-ticket items at Coast Boys Grammar. Now if he’d taught How to Succeed at Business When Your Family Is Already Filthy Rich, or Advanced Surfing: Beyond Being Stoked, then I’m sure his services would have been in more demand. As it was, he seemed to spend most of his time shuffling between the library and his office, which was situated in the oldest part of the school, the stone building officially called the Cloisters but, since Harry Potter, more commonly known as Hogwarts (or Warthogs if you were the amusing type).
I took out my iPhone, scrolled down to that text message. Discipule, caro mortua es.
When I’d first received it, I’d tried to work out what it meant. But all Google Translate had come up with was ‘Disciple, flesh of a dead Are’. And BabelFish didn’t even have a Latin-to-English option. I’d just ignored it. And nothing bad had happened to me, so I’d kept ignoring it. But seeing Dr Chakrabarty shuffling out of the library like that made me think that I could show it to him, see what he made of it.
As I approached him I smelt a musty smell. Whether it emanated from him or the stack of books he was carrying under his arm, I wasn’t sure. I quickly scanned their titles, which were all to do with ancient Rome or ancient Greece, except for one book, newer than the others, called The Carbon Debate.
‘Hello, Dr Chakrabarty,’ I said.
‘No need to yell, son,’ he said, looking at me from under the shaggiest eyebrows the world has ever known. ‘I may be ancient, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, lowering my voice several decibels.
‘What did you say?’ he said.
‘I said “I’m sorry”,’ I said, raising my voice again.
This volume seemed to work because he said, ‘And what’s your name, young man?’
‘Dominic,’ I said. ‘Dominic Silvagni.’
‘So how can I help you, Dominic?’
But before I had a chance to say anything he said, ‘Arti undis uectandi deditus sum.’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘That’s Latin for “Live to surf”. It seems the most popular translation I am asked for these days. I believe one of our more forgetful students even had it tattooed on his buttocks. Or Natus ut rotis caligaribus vectus essem.’
‘Born to skate?’ I said.
‘Very good!’ he said. ‘You obviously have the makings of a Classics scholar.’
Of course I thought he was being sarcastic, first weapon of choice for most teachers since corporal punishment had been outlawed, but when I looked at his face I changed my mind – no, he was fair dinkum.
But I guess poor old Dr Chakrabarty must’ve been pretty desperate for students because I didn’t know anybody who took one of his subjects, not even Peter Eisinger, and Peter Eisinger takes all the weird and wacky subjects. In fact, that’s who Peter Eisinger is: the kid who takes all the weird and wacky subjects.
‘Actually I’m probably more of a runner than a scholar,’ I said.
‘A runner?’ he replied. ‘Our very own Pheidippides.’
‘Who?’ I said.
And then Dr Chakrabarty was off like a runner himself, a verbal one.
‘In 490 BC an Athenian herald by the name of Pheidippides was sent to Sparta to request help when the Persians landed in Marathon in Greece,’ he said.
‘There was actually a place called Marathon?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Dr Chakrabarty. ‘According to Herodotus, Pheidippides ran the two hundred and forty kilometres in two days. He then ran the forty kilometres from the battlefield at Marathon to Athens to announce a Greek victory with the single word “Nenikékamen”. We have won!’
It was pretty cool hearing Dr Chakrabarty talk about old Pheidippides like that, and I sort of wished I’d approached him and his eyebrows before.
‘So what happened to him then?’ I asked, ready to be wowed by further extraordinary running feats.
‘He dropped dead,’ said Dr Chakrabarty.
Dropped dead?
‘From exhaustion.’
Even more reason to stick to middle distance running, I thought.
Dr Chakrabarty was then off again, talking about how old Pheidippides had supposedly met the god Pan on Mount Parthenium, how it was actually Pan who helped the Greeks win the battle of Marathon by causing the opposing soldiers to flee in a frenzy of fear.
‘And that is where we get the word “panic”,’ said Dr Chakrabarty. ‘From the god Pan.’
Maybe Pete
r Eisinger had it right, I thought. Weird and wacky was the way to go.
Still, the text message, the one I’d ignored, was now blinking brightly in my head. So when Dr Chakrabarty stopped to draw breath I interrupted. ‘Could you translate something for me?’
‘Latin?’
‘I think so,’ I said, holding up my iPhone with the text message on it.
‘Eyesight’s not what it used to be,’ he said, holding out the newspaper. ‘Take this so I can have a closer look.’
I swapped my iPhone for his newspaper.
As Dr Chakrabarty considered what was on the screen my eyes were drawn to the newspaper, to the half-finished cryptic crossword.
I scanned the clues: Outlaw leader managing money and Initially amiable person eats primate.
Really, how could anybody make sense of that?
Eventually Dr Chakrabarty said, ‘This is the iPhone 5, right?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Very nice. I wonder if I can upgrade on my plan?’
‘Who you with?’
‘Virgin.’
‘I think they’ve got, like, this humungous waiting list.’
‘Then what are your thoughts on these new Styxx phones? They seem to be quite popular now.’
‘Mostly with nerds,’ I said.
He then made a long and complicated joke – well, I think it was a joke – about virgins and waiting lists, which I didn’t get at all.
When he’d finished I said, ‘The message?’
‘Ah yes, the message.’
Again he turned his attention to my phone. As he read, his shaggy eyebrows moved up and down, in and out, up and down. Watching them was sort of mesmerising, like watching two sheep doing ballet, and when he spoke again the urgency in his voice startled me. ‘Who sent you this?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It’s quite a lovely effort,’ he said.
‘But what does it mean?’ I said as the siren went and students immediately started making for their respective classrooms.
‘You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you?’
There was no way I was going to tell him about The Debt, about the ancient family obligation I had inherited. I wasn’t going to tell him about the letters my own father had branded onto the inside of my thigh. How I couldn’t go anywhere near a barbecue now, how the smell of searing meat made me feel instantly nauseous. I wasn’t going to tell him how they taken ‘a pound of flesh’ from my grandfather, how they’d amputated his leg. And how they’d do the same to me if I didn’t pay the next four instalments. I wasn’t going to tell him how I’d captured the Zolt, how I’d turned off all the lights on the Gold Coast during Earth Hour. How the cops were now on my trail. I wasn’t going to tell Dr Chakrabarty and his shaggy sheep eyebrows any of that stuff.
He repeated his question, his eyes searching my face. ‘You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you?’
‘No, sir,’ I said.
The sheep did some more ballet and then he returned to the text.
‘It’s a threat,’ he said. ‘And not a very pleasant one.’
‘A threat?’ I repeated.
‘The best translation I can give is “Schoolboy, you are dead meat”.’
‘Jesus!’
I felt a chill, a shiver that started at my toes and travelled all the way up my spine and then all the way back down again.
Schoolboy, you are dead meat.
I’d received the text just after I’d repaid the second instalment, after I’d turned off the lights, after I’d done everything The Debt had asked of me. How could I then be dead meat?
No matter how you looked at it, it wasn’t fair!
MONDAY
YOU AIN’T NOTHING BUT A HOUND DE VILLIERS
After school we had training.
‘Before we start,’ said Coach Sheeds to the assembled runners, ‘let’s give Rashid, Bevan and Dom a big hand for qualifying for the national titles.’
Rashid, Bevan and Dom got a hand, but it wasn’t exactly ‘big’.
And I couldn’t blame my fellow athletes for holding back a bit in the hand department, because the way we’d qualified had been pretty lame.
When the race was first run there’d been the lights-out fiasco.
And then, in the rerun, the top four positions had again been taken by the imported Kenyans.
Though, weirdly enough, in a time that was about five seconds less than my PB.
It was almost like we hadn’t even competed; we’d figured that they’d deserved to win because they’d been leading when the lights had gone out.
But then an official from Townsville by the name of Marge Jenkins had done some serious digging and found out that the Kenyans weren’t on the right type of visa.
After they were disqualified the next four runners, including Rashid, Bevan Milne and yours truly, became eligible to compete in the nationals.
See what I mean, hardly big-hand material.
‘Okay, let’s have ten four hundreds at three-quarter pace,’ said Coach Sheeds.
There were a few groans, but there were always a few groans.
Coach Sheeds could say, ‘Let’s lie in a hammock for the next ten minutes’, and somebody would be sure to say, ‘Aw, do we have to?’
As I got stuck into the first four hundred I realised how good it felt to be running again, to be part of the world I knew, and loved, best. Concentrating on the here and the now, not letting the past or the future intrude, getting everything – legs, arms, breath, brain – working in unison.
‘Looking good, Dom,’ Coach Sheeds yelled out to me.
Feeling good, too, Coach, I thought, a sudden wave of elation lifting me up: lame qualification or not, I was so ready to run the race of my life in Sydney.
After the final rep Coach Sheeds called us in.
As we gathered by the long-jump pit again she handed out an itinerary to each of us.
‘Study this,’ she said.
I read it quickly: we were to meet Saturday lunchtime, travel to Sydney on a bus and stay the night at a hotel. The next day we’d attend the meet and then return that evening.
Mom and Dad were making a big deal about this meet: they were flying down and staying at a hotel on the harbour. And I guess if I made enough fuss – or Dad, major benefactor of my school, made enough fuss – I could’ve gone with them.
But I was actually looking forward to the bus trip.
Yes, Bevan Milne’s farts would get louder, smellier, and wetter as the trip went on. And Rashid would tell the same unfunny joke about a thousand times. And Coach Sheeds would insist on the world’s daggiest singalong. But it would be fun, I knew it would.
My attention wandered then. It was a typical Gold Coast sky: high, blue and cloudless, but in one corner was a glint of white as a light plane wobbled its way southwards.
Although it hadn’t been so long ago that I’d been in such a plane myself, a plane piloted by Otto Zolton-Bander, the so-called Facebook Bandit, that memory had already acquired a sort of cinematic quality, as if it hadn’t actually happened to me.
I knew this was an illusion, however, because it had happened to me, and it would happen again. Not the plane thing, necessarily, but another instalment. And it could be anytime soon.
The ClamTop could swing open tonight and there it would be. Or that pathetic treadmill could start talking to me again with its Californian voice.
‘Has anybody got any questions?’ said Coach Sheeds.
There were no questions, so Coach Sheeds said, ‘Get in here and listen up.’
Hakuna Matata time.
‘Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, knowing it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up, knowing it must run faster than the slowest gazelle or it will starve,’ she said.
We crowded in closer, our voices joining Coach Sheeds’s.
‘So it doesn’t matter whether you’re a lion or a gazelle because when the sun comes
up, you better be bloody well running.’
Hakuna Matata!
‘And don’t forget training tomorrow, either!’ said Coach Sheeds.
My Civics teacher, Mr Ryan, was waiting outside the change rooms, dressed, as usual, in spotless chinos and a spotless blue linen shirt. There was some debate amongst us students as to whether it was the same chinos and blue shirt, washed, dried and ironed at the end of each school day, or whether Mr Ryan’s wardrobe contained multiple copies of the same outfit.
‘You guys ready for the big day?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘It’s going to be tough,’ I added.
‘The nationals are always tough,’ said Mr Ryan. ‘Often tougher than running internationally.’
He knew what he was talking about, too: in the eighties, when he was a student at this school, he’d been a champion cross-country runner, and he still held the record for the 8 kilometres.
We talked about the titles for a while before he said, ‘About that other business, Dom.’
That other business, I assumed, was the fact that the police had been pestering me ever since all the lights in the Gold Coast went out during Earth Hour.
The other business Mr Ryan became involved in because he was once a lawyer.
‘Yes,’ I said, my heart going one way, my guts the other. They, like me, were thinking the worst: that finally the authorities had proof it was me.
‘It seems that the police aren’t so interested in Diablo any more.’
‘That’s great,’ I said, heart and guts returning to their customary positions.
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘But your name has somehow come up in with regards to another, unrelated, matter.’
Mr Ryan was starting to sound less and less like the chino-clad teacher he was and more and more like the lawyer he used to be.
But not just that, he was sounding like a lawyer who had some serious connections.
‘You’ve heard of Otto Zolton-Bander?’
My first instinct was to say no, to deny absolutely all knowledge of Otto Zolton-Bander, but that would be silly because everybody had heard of the Zolt.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘But isn’t he, like, dead now?’
‘Well, that’s what they’re saying. But it’s all very confusing. Anyway, they seem to think that you’re somehow connected to him. There’s even some suggestion that you were in the plane with him when he landed in Ibbotson Reserve.’
Bring Back Cerberus Page 1