Not Tristan, though.
He wasn’t running pretty, his head was tilting to one side, but he was breathing easy, not ‘sucking in the big ones’, as Gus would say. I was thinking about what we should do when Tristan tilted his head a little more to one side and took off. All the great middle distance runners do this, run in spurts. But who did Tristan think he was? Filbert Bayi?
I looked over at Gabby.
‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘He’ll run out of steam.’
‘Anyway, he’s not eligible,’ added Charles.
But if he didn’t run out of steam, if he was eligible, if he won the race, or even finished in the first four, then one of us would miss out.
I waited for another half lap.
Tristan hadn’t run out of steam; in fact he now had at least a two-hundred-metre lead.
I had no choice, I took off after him.
As I did I could feel footsteps behind me.
A quick glance over my shoulder revealed that it was Seb.
‘Let’s get the prize moron,’ he said.
The plug of tissue paper had worked itself loose from his nostril and blood was flowing again, rivulets of it running down his face, down his neck.
We ran like Kenyans, taking it in turns to lead until, with one lap to go, we caught Tristan.
Now it was me who was sucking in the big ones.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked as I ran alongside Tristan.
‘Showing you wusses how it’s done,’ he said, and there was this strange, wired look in his eyes.
Still a hundred metres to go, too far to start sprinting for the finish. I had no choice, though, because I had to blow Tristan up so that the others could catch him. I went up a gear, took off.
Eighty metres later and it was me who blew up, me who hit the wall.
Tristan cruised past me.
Then Rashid, Charles, Gabby.
Seb came up alongside.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m gone,’ I gasped.
‘We’re almost there,’ he said.
I looked over at Seb, saw that his singlet was now crimson with blood.
‘Come on!’ he said.
I glanced behind – the pack was drawing closer and that turd Bevan Milne was at the front.
I found some fuel, found a gear, and forced my legs to move.
Seb and I crossed the finishing line together.
And I collapsed on the ground, chest heaving.
‘What in the hell happened out there?’ Coach Sheeds asked me when I eventually managed to drag myself back to my feet.
‘It’s only the stupid state titles,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I finished fifth, I didn’t qualify.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘So Tristan wasn’t eligible then?’
‘Of course not. Like I told you, he just wanted to have a run.’
Thanks for telling me, Coach Sheeds.
She continued. ‘But what a run, eh? Wouldn’t I love to get my hands on a talent like that?’
As Seb and I walked to the bus stop, he said, ‘Do you know that Mr Ryan dude?’
‘Sure, he’s one of my teachers. Why?’
‘He was talking to me after the race. Said I should try out for the cross-country team. That I’d have more chance of a scholarship with them.’
‘Bull you would,’ I said.
Seb didn’t say anything to that and we walked in silence for a while, but then I remembered something.
‘Hey, it’s your birthday today, isn’t it?’
He smiled. ‘We’re the same age now.’
As he said this a black car veered out of the traffic and pulled up alongside us. Cars – or vans – may not be my thing but I knew this one: it was a Subaru WRX, and it was sporting P-plates. The back door swung open.
The Debt, I thought. The last thing I wanted was for Seb to get mixed up in all that.
‘You keep going,’ I said. ‘I’ll handle this.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
I watched him get into the back seat of the car and close the door before the WRX took off with a burble of its exhaust.
HYPOTENUSE THE CAT
‘I reckon Pythagoras was this nasty old Greek dude who hated kids,’ I said to Imogen.
We were in my room, sprawled out on the carpet doing homework, like we did most school nights. My house is pretty much the only place Imogen is allowed to visit. Well, we were supposed to be doing our homework. Imogen had the newspaper open in front of her, a texta in her hand. She was going through the photos, one at a time, looking closely at each person before she put a neat cross over his or her face.
Imogen looked up from the newspaper and said, ‘Please don’t say “dude”,’ before she returned to the paper, crossing out another face, this one belonging to the winner of the Best Director category in this year’s Academy Awards.
I continued. ‘So he comes up with this theorem in order to torture us. Thousands of years since he died and he’s still torturing us.’
‘I like “hypotenuse”,’ said Imogen. ‘If Mum lets me get a cat this year I’m going to call it Hypotenuse.’
‘You’d end up calling it Hypie,’ I said. ‘Or Hypo.’
Imogen considered that for a while before she said, ‘You should be good at triangles.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because when you run, that’s what you look like. All triangles. Like a collision of triangles.’
A collision of triangles? I wasn’t sure whether I should be flattered or not.
Imogen pointed at one of the questions in my remedial Maths book.
‘What about this one?’ she said. ‘A is eight, b is six, how long is c?’
‘I don’t know, you’re the one with the cat called Hypotenuse. You work it out, Im.’
‘Me working it out isn’t going to get you up to speed in Maths.’
‘I don’t want to get up to speed in Maths, you know that. I just want to run really freaking fast for four laps, win Olympic gold medals and break Hicham El Guerrouj’s world records for the mile and the fifteen hundred.’
As I said this the words seemed hollow. I’d just had my butt kicked by Tristan, and he wasn’t even a serious runner. Imogen closed the newspaper and put the cap on the pen.
‘Okay, I’ll do the problem, but you have to sign my petition.’
‘I already did,’ I said, thinking of the petition she had to let kids play on the grass in the Halcyon Grove Lifestyle Precinct.
‘No, this is a new one. I want Halcyon Grove to turn off their lights for Earth Hour. The last one was shameful.’
I wasn’t so sure about shameful. A bit embarrassing maybe.
‘Okay, I’ll sign it, but it won’t do any good,’ I said.
The body corporate hadn’t taken any notice of Imogen’s many petitions. In fact, they’d put even more ‘Do Not Step on the Grass’ signs in the lifestyle precinct after the last one. Imogen frowned and looked down at the problem in the Maths book.
‘So c squared equals eight squared plus six squared, which equals sixty-four plus thirty-six, which equals a hundred. So c equals the square root of a hundred, which is ten. C equals ten.’
‘Total voodoo,’ I said, writing the answer in my book. ‘How was school today?’
‘It was okay,’ said Imogen. ‘I came top of my class in pretty much everything.’
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘What about the school swimming carnival?’
‘Yeah, won everything again.’
‘Athletics?’
‘Didn’t lose a race.’
‘School formal?’
‘It’s going to go off.’
In case you don’t get it: Imogen is home-schooled by a variety of teachers and tutors who come to her home.
‘Do you reckon your mum will let you go to a proper school next year?’ I said.
My mom had been working on it, talking to Imogen’s mother, tel
ling her how important it was that Imogen mixed with other kids her age. Imogen sighed, a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere with no shortage of despair and despondency.
‘We could even give you a lift,’ I said.
Another of those sighs. Mrs Havilland never goes outside. Outside her house. Outside Halcyon Grove. Outside anywhere. Because the last time she did, her husband, Imogen’s father, my dad’s best friend, disappeared.
The Havillands had gone to Taverniti’s, this expensive restaurant on Main Beach, to celebrate Mr Havilland’s re-election as the local state MP. Just before dessert, Mr Havilland went outside to take a phone call, and he didn’t come back. They searched for him, of course, in Taverniti’s, all along the Coast, all over the country, all over the world, but there was no trace. It was like he just vaporised, dematerialised.
Imogen went through the newspaper every day, looking for her dad’s face, crossing out those that weren’t his.
‘The last question,’ she said, getting up from the floor. ‘The answer’s six. C equals six.’
I wrote that down as Imogen’s phone beeped. She checked the message and smiled.
‘Who’s that from?’ I asked.
‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, it’s none of my business?’ I said, and I wasn’t joking.
Imogen and I have known each other forever; our mothers were pregnant with us at the same time. We went to the same preschool. Went to the same kindergarten. Even went to the same primary school until Mrs Havilland took Imogen out. Her business was my business. And visa versa, of course.
Imogen ignored my question and was busy typing a reply to the message, thumbs flying.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Who is it?’
‘If you must know, it’s Tristan.’
‘What does that moron want?’
Looking offended, Imogen said, ‘Tristan’s okay.’
It was only two words, and two pretty innocent words at that, but their combined effect was devastating.
Tristan wasn’t okay and hadn’t been since his family had moved in next door to the Havillands. I remembered sitting with Imogen that day, watching Tristan strut around. She’d turned to me and said, ‘Not okay’ and that was it – it instantly became another part of our shared language, like rap is crap, sharks are cool, and under no circumstances should dads ever be allowed to wear Speedos.
Tristan wasn’t okay and could never be okay. He should be put in a museum somewhere, behind glass, with a sign that said Not okay. But now, all of a sudden, that had changed and it felt like a betrayal.
As Imogen sent the message I remembered Tristan’s crotch-grabbing words: ‘No wonder the chicks are lining up for a bit of Tristan action.’
Imogen pointed at the ClamTop. ‘What’s that?’
‘Computer,’ I said, opting for a I’m-unhappy-with-you-so-am-only-going-to-give-the-briefest-of-answers approach.
‘Where’d it come from?’
‘Birthday present.’
‘How do you open it?’
‘Dunno.’
At various times Miranda had popped into my room with her latest hot theory as to how to crack the ClamTop. None of which had been successful.
‘Not even Miranda can work it out,’ I said, getting sick of the-briefest-of-answers approach.
Straight after school my sister had brought over a couple of her fellow geeks, one of whom had used a stethoscope to examine the ClamTop in the same way a doctor examines a patient. I almost expected him to say, ‘Cough, please.’ But he didn’t manage to open it, either.
‘Oh, that’s how,’ said Imogen.
I looked around to see that the clam had unclammed – the laptop had opened!
‘What did you do?’ I asked, jumping to my feet.
‘I was nice to it,’ said Imogen.
The screen was like no other screen I’d ever seen. Darker, blacker, deeper.
‘How do you boot it up?’ asked Imogen.
‘Be even nicer to it?’ I suggested.
I touched the screen gently with my forefinger, causing a fluorescent blue light to glow. As I moved my finger across the screen, the blue light became a blue line.
‘That’s cool,’ said Imogen.
I agreed – it was cool, but that’s all it was, because when I removed my finger the blue line disappeared.
How do you actually communicate with this thing?
Suddenly, across the screen, the words Dom, catch the Zolt! appeared in the same deep blue.
I looked over at Imogen; she didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing at the screen.
‘Yeah, blank screen. Big deal.’
‘Can’t you see the writing?’
‘What writing?’
‘Stand next to me,’ I said, thinking that perhaps it was the angle she was looking from. She did as I asked.
‘Dom, there’s nothing there.’
She really couldn’t see it.
Dom, catch the Zolt!
But the Zolt had already been caught. How was I supposed to communicate that? There was no keyboard, in its place was what looked like another screen. I ran my finger across it. Nothing happened. With no input device, how was I supposed to communicate with it? I remembered what Miranda had said when we first unwrapped it: maybe it was voice-activated.
I looked straight at the screen and said, enunciating slowly, ‘How can I catch the Zolt if he’s already been caught?’
‘Are you talking to the computer?’ Imogen asked.
But it worked. Sort of.
You must catch the Zolt by the end of the month! was now written across the screen.
Again, I Iooked at the screen and said, ‘But he’s already been caught.’
‘Dom, you’re starting to seriously freak me out,’ said Imogen.
Catch the Zolt by the end of the month! appeared on the screen.
‘Okay, and what do I do with him when I’ve caught him?’ I asked.
Catch the Zolt by the end of the month!
For a computer, it was being annoyingly vague.
‘Why should I?’
Two flashing words only.
THE DEBT.
The ClamTop snapped shut.
FAMILY PHOTOS
The next day, when the heinous Baha Men went off, I did nothing. Just lay in bed, becoming part of the morning stillness. My body felt stiff and sore, drained of all energy after yesterday’s race, and the scabby brand on the inside of my thigh ached. Yesterday, losing had seemed the most disastrous of all disasters, but today it seemed unimportant, almost trivial.
I thought of Imogen. ‘Tristan’s okay,’ she’d said, and I still couldn’t quite believe that those words had come out of her mouth.
Rap is crap. Sharks are cool. Under no circumstances should dads ever be allowed to wear Speedos. And Tristan was so not okay!
And I thought about The Debt, about my first instalment, my first assignment. I recalled what Gus had told me, that the repayment might seem more like a test of my mettle, to see what sort of man I was. But how in the hell could I catch somebody who had already been caught?
As more and more morning light found its way into my room, the inside of my head became darker and darker. I needed to talk to somebody, so I got dressed and walked over to Gus’s place. I let myself in.
‘Gus! You there, Gus?’
There was no answer.
That’s strange. Where can he be?
Usually at this time I was running, so maybe he always went out, but he’d never mentioned it. I checked the garage: his ute was gone. I checked his office: his leg was gone.
The new edition of Running World was on his desk, so I sat down to read it.
As I did, I noticed that there was a pile of printouts from the internet. They all seemed to be concerned with biochips, tiny silicon chips that were implanted in the human body.
Gus really is turning into a nerd.
But even so, why would he be intere
sted in something like this? Even before I’d finished asking myself the question, I knew the answer: as a training tool, of course. Imagine being able to track a runner’s every move, to instantly calculate the distance they’d covered?
As I thumbed through the printouts my mind wandered, taking me back into the past, to when Gus first arrived at Halcyon Grove.
I was eight when Dad said that we were going to have an important family meeting. Now we weren’t one of those families, like the Silversteins, that were always having family meetings. Somebody didn’t replace the toilet paper? Call a family meeting. Light left on? Family meeting. No, a family meeting was a big deal for us. So even now, seven years later, I could remember it clearly.
It was about eight at night, but, because it was summer, it was still light. The five of us were sitting around the kitchen table. Close to me was a fruit bowl, with two mangoes in it. I’m not sure why, but I always remember those two mangoes.
Dad looked uncharacteristically nervous.
‘Kids,’ he said, ‘your mother and I have something to tell you that is going to come as a bit of a shock.’
Mom, arms folded, lips compressed, was looking out the window.
‘I know I’ve told you on a number of occasions that your grandfather and grandmother, my parents, passed away before any of you were born.’
Dad took time to establish eye contact with each of us kids before he said, ‘Well, I lied to you. Your grandfather is alive.’
I remember, right then, focusing on those two mangoes.
My grandfather was alive?
‘Can you get me some water, sweetheart?’ Dad asked Mom.
Mom hesitated before she poured the water, some of it sloshing over the side of the glass. Dad took a sip and continued.
‘I haven’t told you children that much about my childhood, but you’ve probably realised that it wasn’t … well, it wasn’t …’
Dad took another sip of water and I could see the tears forming in his eyes. ‘Put it this way, it wasn’t what you kids have.’ He waved his hand, indicating the enormous house we lived in, the expensive cars in the drive, the glittering pool.
‘But if our grandfather’s alive, where is he?’ asked Miranda.
Catch the Zolt Page 5