Bring Back Cerberus

by Phillip Gwynne

  The queue to Latte Day Saints was even longer, snaking even further down the street. I followed my mother’s example and pushed my way inside and into a wall of khaki.

  I looked up, at yet another security guard.

  ‘We have the queue,’ said this particular one.

  ‘Is the owner here?’ I asked.

  The security guard didn’t answer.

  ‘Can you tell him that Dom, the son of Celia Silvagni, would like to have a quick word with him?’

  The security guard considered my request before he said, ‘No, I can’t. Now if you could please join the end of the queue.’

  Look, I’m not one of those street kids like Brandon who hates security guards, who sees them as their natural enemy, who spends all day plotting their downfall.

  But this one was being pretty unreasonable.

  So when I saw Simon appear from the back of the café, that teeth-whitening-ad smile on his face, I used my athlete’s reflexes to dodge past the unreasonable wall of unreasonable khaki.

  ‘Hi,’ I said as I approached Simon. ‘Do you remember me?’

  The blank look on his face suggested that he didn’t, so I gave him some help. ‘I’m Dom, Celia Silvagni’s son.’

  By this time all that khaki had reached us.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘He sneaked past.’

  ‘It’s okay, Sam. I’ll deal with it,’ Simon said.

  The security guard moved off.

  ‘How is your wonderful mother?’ said Simon, the smile increasing in intensity.

  ‘I was here with her about a week ago,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘And didn’t she look just wonderful?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘And there was this girl Anna at the next table. She was here with her parents. Do you remember her?’

  ‘We get a lot of people through here,’ he said, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘She was fifteen and she was really beautiful but sort of skinny, too,’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, a lot of people.’

  ‘And her parents, they …’ I started, trying to remember exactly what her parents looked like.

  When her father stood up to pay the bill, he was quite tall, I remembered that. And he’d had close-cropped hair.

  And then I saw it, in Anna’s father’s hand.

  ‘He paid with a credit card!’ I said.

  ‘Yes, quite a few of our customers choose the convenience of card,’ said Simon.

  ‘But you’d have a record,’ I said. ‘You’d have a record of his name!’

  The smile was still there, but the intensity was waning rapidly.

  ‘That is not information I’m permitted to share,’ he said, making a come here signal to the security guard.

  ‘Do you know I could tweet right now saying I saw a cockroach in your coffee grinder and I guarantee you by the morning it would be on thousands of other tweets and furthermore just about everybody who read it would believe it?’

  There was no smile now, just two lips pressed together to form a very thin, very straight line.

  ‘What day was it again?’ he said, waving the security guard away.

  ‘Last Saturday.’

  ‘And the time?’

  ‘Around eleven,’ I said.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  He disappeared out the back, returning a few minutes later.

  ‘Russo,’ he said.

  ‘R-u-s-s-o?’ I said, spelling it out.

  ‘That’s right, Russo.’

  I thanked him and left.

  There must be a lot of girls called Anna Russo in the world, I thought. But what did I know about my Anna Russo?

  I knew that she was fifteen, or sixteen, depending on the actual date of her birthday.

  I knew that she lived on the Gold Coast.

  And I knew she wanted a Cerberus. I knew that she liked technology.

  I took out my phone.

  Got online.

  Went to Facebook.

  Went to Search for People, and entered Anna Russo.

  Hit return.

  There were over 500 results, Facebook’s way of saying it had given up even counting.

  I entered Australia into the country field and hit Refine search.

  Now there were forty-two results.

  I started scrolling through these, studying each photo intently.

  And I soon realised that I had a problem: not everyone used their real photo in their profile.

  So my Anna Russo might be a fluffy cat, or a bunch of daffodils, or even a well-known supermodel.

  I kept going, though; what choice did I have?

  The twenty-second Anna Russo looked like she was about two years old.

  There was something about her, though.

  I went to her Facebook page.

  Anna only shares some of her Profile information with everyone, it said.

  Wow. Pretty selective for a two year old.

  But I could see her friends.

  All three hundred and twelve of them!

  What two year old has three hundred and twelve friends?

  I started looking through them. Mostly they were teenagers. Mostly they were girls.

  When I came to Ava Kiviat I stopped.

  There was a Brett Kiviat at my school, this braniac kid who was part of the library pond life. And Kiviat wasn’t a very common name.

  Brett Kiviat was a friend of Cooper Nielson.

  Who lived in the same street as Rashid.

  I rang Rashid.

  He answered straightaway.

  ‘They going to let you run?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ I said.

  ‘Then, as protest, I’m not going to run, too.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Rashid. You run. You have to!’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t have Cooper Nielson’s number, would you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What do you want to talk to him for?’

  ‘Just text it to me, okay? I’ll explain later.’

  I hung up, and the message arrived a couple of seconds later.

  I rang Cooper Nielson’s number.

  He didn’t answer.

  So I left a message: ‘Hi, I know you’re going think this is weird but it’s Dom Silvagni here. You know, from school. Rashid’s friend. Anyway, I really need to talk to you, so if you could call me back as soon as possible, that’d be really great.’

  Five minutes later my phone rang.

  It was Cooper Neilson.

  Yes, he did think it was weird.

  But yes, he had Brett Kiviat’s number.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I said.

  ‘You know it’s in the White Pages?’ he said.

  ‘The White Pages?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s this book that’s got people’s phone numbers in it. It’s also online.’

  ‘Oh, those White Pages.’

  I hung up and waited for Brett Kiviat’s number to arrive.

  When it did, I rang it.

  And got a message: This phone is turned off or out of range.

  Then I remembered what Cooper Nielson had said.

  Went to the Gold Coast White Pages Online. Typed Kiviat into the search field and hit enter.

  I got two hits, two landline numbers. I rang the first one.

  A man answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, my name is Dom Silvagni and I’m after Brett Kiviat. I’m not sure if I have the right number.’

  ‘You have,’ said the man. ‘I’m his father, but Brett’s at a chess tournament this weekend.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, my brain in overdrive now. ‘Actually, is Ava there? She might be able to help me.’

  ‘Ava’s at a birthday party.’

  ‘Anna Russo’s party, right?’ I said, trying to contain my excitement.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, and I almost fainted. Haystack. Needle. You get the picture.

  ‘So it’s at her place?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the father. ‘They’re having it at that
flash new place in the city.’

  ‘Flash new place in the city’ didn’t help me that much.

  ‘The new McDonald’s?’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s that one that looks like they should be growing tomatoes inside it.’

  ‘The glass cube, you mean? The Styxx Emporium?’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, and by the time I’d hung up I was already out on the road hailing a taxi.

  I couldn’t help smiling as I rushed into the glass cube imagining rows of trellised tomato plants, plump red tomatoes hanging underneath.

  I skipped down the glass staircase and realised the place was even more crowded than usual.

  Every staff member, every Styxx Knowledge Consultant, was surrounded by people.

  When they moved, the customers moved too, like an orbiting planet with its many moons.

  This is no time for politeness, I told myself as I approached the nearest constellation.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, surprised at how loud and assertive my voice sounded. ‘Can you tell me where the birthday party is today?’

  I got several glares and one muttered comment – ‘Nice manners, not!’ – but I did get an answer from the Styxx Knowledge Consultant: ‘Downstairs, it’s on your invite.’

  ‘Oh, I left my invite at home,’ I said.

  ‘Then you can’t get in,’ she said, turning her attention back to her moons.

  First I tried the lift.

  When I got in, I pressed the Lower Floor button, but it didn’t illuminate.

  I remembered the last time I was here, when I was taken downstairs for an interview, how the woman had swiped her security card.

  It was the stairs, then.

  There was not one, but two Styxx Knowledge Consultants standing at the top of the stairs. And one of them was holding some sort of portable scanning device in one hand and a clutch of invitations in the other.

  Pretending that they were not there, I went to take the first step, but of course one of them said, ‘Excuse me, this is restricted access.’

  ‘I’m late for the party,’ I said. ‘Anna Russo’s party.’

  ‘Invite?’ he said.

  ‘I left it at home.’

  ‘It clearly states on the invite that you will need it in order to attend the party.’

  ‘I know that, but this friend of mine, Tristan, he was in a coma so I had to visit him in hospital. And you know, I just forgot it. And Anna and me, we’re, like, the oldest friends you could imagine.’

  The two Knowledge Consultants exchanged looks.

  ‘Do you have an invite or not?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Not,’ I said.

  I could’ve made a dash for it, but I could see that at the bottom of the stairs there was another security door.

  Making a dash for it wasn’t going to get me very far.

  It was so frustrating: I knew she was down there, maybe even under my feet, and I could feel the Cerberus in my pocket.

  Cerberus.

  Of course!

  Ignoring the queue, I charged up to the nearest counter.

  ‘Cerberus,’ I said. ‘I’d like to buy a Cerberus.’

  The consultant had already taken a step back from the counter. A manager soon arrived – fortunately not the same manager as before – and asked me to accompany him.

  It was the same deal as before: into the lift, the manager swiping his card, and us travelling down to the Lower Floor.

  As we got out, I ran for it.

  Down the corridor, doors on either side.

  Manager’s Office. Assistant Manager’s Office.

  Function Room.

  I tried the doorhandle.

  It was unlocked.

  Pushed the door open.

  The sPartee was in full swing, the room full of sPartee facilitators, of parents, of kids.

  I recognised three people: Anna, her father and her mother.

  But nobody recognised me.

  ‘This is a private party,’ an older man said.

  Somebody said something to him in a foreign language, a language that sounded like Italian, or maybe even Calabrian.

  ‘He went in there!’ came a voice from up the hall.

  Now they were all looking at me, everybody in the room.

  ‘I just brought a present for Anna,’ I said, my hand reaching into my pocket.

  Anna’s father stepped in front of Anna, as if to say, You’re not going anywhere near my daughter.

  But Anna stepped around her father, walked towards me, hand out.

  We met in the middle of the room and I gave her the present.

  She looked at it and then at me. ‘It’s the real deal?’

  ‘The real deal,’ I said, though I actually wasn’t sure if it was or not.

  On the way here, in the taxi, I’d tried to turn it on but hadn’t been able to.

  Thumb flying, Anna pressed a combination of buttons and the screen flickered to life.

  And that’s pretty much when all hell – all sHell – broke loose.

  Because Anna took off, headed for the back door.

  She was surprisingly fast and everybody, including me, took a while to react.

  If she’s out of here, so am I, I thought, following her.

  ‘Grab that kid!’ somebody yelled.

  Security guards rushed over and tried to do just that.

  But I was able to fend them off and follow Anna through the back door, slamming it shut behind me.

  Down another corridor I followed her, until we reached a door that said Fire Escape Only Use in Case of Emergency.

  ‘What now?’ I said, but Anna had already answered my question: she cracked the door open and a siren blasted. And then another one. And another one.

  We ran up the stairs. One flight. Two flights. And there were no more stairs. Just a door.

  I tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  ‘But what’s on the other side?’ I said, thinking of cops, security guards.

  ‘Got no choice,’ said Anna, her breath ragged.

  There was volley of footsteps behind us, getting louder, getting closer.

  She was right: we didn’t have much choice.

  I pushed down the handle, flung open the door, and it was an alley.

  It was dirty, it was dingy, it was about as far removed from a dazzling glass cube as you could get, but to me it truly was an architectural masterpiece, one of the most beautifully designed places I’d ever seen.

  It was our way out.

  ‘This way!’ I said, indicating left.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Anna as she moved to the right.

  Who in the hell was she?

  But I wasn’t going to find out, not now anyway.

  More footsteps from behind, voices too: there was no time to lose.

  ‘You, too,’ I said, and I ran left and down the alley and onto a busy street.

  As I kept running, I felt an increasing sense of exhilaration.

  I felt like a Superman who was not fazed by kryptonite.

  A Hulk without the anger-management issues.

  A Batman who didn’t need the Boy Wonder.

  I felt like I was capable of anything.

  Capture the Zolt? Tick.

  Turn off the city’s lights? Tick.

  Get a Cerberus?

  I’d done exactly what they’d asked me to do: I’d repaid the third instalment.

  Another great big beautiful tick for me.

  SATURDAY

  LOOPHOLE

  ‘Isn’t it this just so exciting?’ said Mom at the dinner table, her head swivelling from Gus, to Dad, to Miranda, to me. ‘Imagine when he wins!’

  She had just got off the phone to Toby.

  All the contestants were staying in a big house in some sort of pre-final lockup before the final itself was taped tomorrow.

  ‘Yes, it’s exciting,’ we all agreed.

  Almost as soon as I’d arrived home, the wave of exhilaration I’d surfed all the way from the Styxx Emporium had died.r />
  In surfer talk, it had gone from gnarly to onshore slop.

  And now all I felt was this aching sadness in my gut.

  Yes, I’d repaid the third instalment.

  But tomorrow there was a race and I wasn’t in it.

  A race that I’d trained all year, all my life for, and I wasn’t in it.

  If I’d been injured, or if I hadn’t been good enough, then I would’ve taken it on the chin.

  But I wasn’t injured.

  And I was good enough: I’d qualified fair and square.

  Or was this the real debt? Maybe all the repayments: the Zolt, the lights, the Cerberus, they were nothing. Maybe what they really wanted from me was the thing I loved most in the world, maybe what they wanted was my running.

  Okay, maybe it was my fault because I didn’t think through the get-suspended-from-school thing.

  But before The Debt, I’d never had the need, or the urge, to wag school. Never.

  ‘You better get your brand ready,’ I’d said to Dad, almost skiting, as soon as I got home.

  ‘Just don’t get too full of yourself,’ had been his reply.

  After that I’d gone across to Gus’s house and told him the news, the first time I’d spoken to my grandfather since I’d yelled at him in the morning.

  He hadn’t said anything, just wrapped his bony arms around me and squeezed. Because of all those weights he lifted, a Gus squeeze was something to reckoned with.

  ‘Steady,’ I said, squirming. ‘You’re going to break my ribs.’

  Mum served out the pasta but, despite what I’d been through, I just wasn’t hungry.

  ‘Did you hear that they had to evacuate the Styxx Emporium today? Some sort of fire alarm went off,’ said Miranda.

  Okay, she didn’t exactly look at me when she said this, but I wondered how much my sister knew. She was smart, Miranda. More than smart. She must’ve known that something was going on, especially after all those Styxx-related questions I’d asked her.

  ‘They had to close the street off,’ said Dad. ‘The traffic was absolute chaos.’

  The intercom buzzed.

  ‘Who could that be at this time?’ Mom said.

  Dad picked up the handpiece.

  ‘Yes, Samsoni,’ he said. ‘Yes. Of course. Can you just hold on?’

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘A Mr Ryan’s at the gate. He says he’s from the boys’ school.’

  ‘He’s the Civics teacher,’ Mom said, looking at her watch. ‘What’s he doing here at this time of the night on the weekend?’