The Detachable Boy

by Scot Gardner

  ‘That was cutting it fine,’ I puffed.

  ‘Bah, I knew we would make it,’ Ravi said.

  The plan was for me to discreetly get into the case while we were aboard the train but there were two other people in our carriage. There was a teenager – she had her back to us and her hair was as spiky as an echidna’s backside. There was also a businessman reading a newspaper.

  Ravi opened the case and laid it between us on the floor. ‘Quickly. In you go.’

  ‘I can’t. They’ll see.’

  ‘No, not if you hurry. Chop chop!’

  I packed myself in world record time. Not that the Guinness World Records has a category for self-disassembly, but if they did, my picture would be there.

  Ravi looked around then smiled before clicking the case shut. The last thing I saw was his wide white smile above me.

  ‘Not even a glance in our direction, best buddy,’ he said from outside. ‘John? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Ob course,’ I garbled through the dummy. ‘Oud and cwear.’

  The trip to Mascot passed uneventfully inside the case but outside, Ravi was in a panic.

  ‘I didn’t get a ticket!’ he whispered at the vent. I bet he spent the last three minutes of the journey praying to sundry Indian gods that a ticket inspector wouldn’t suddenly materialise and require proof of purchase. His prayers were answered and the train arrived one minute early.

  I expected to be lumped off the train but the case didn’t move. ‘Come on, this is our stop!’ I growled.

  I could hear him groaning and the case shook but the little slice of the outside world I could see through the spinning fan didn’t change.

  ‘I can’t lift you!’ he hissed into the vent.

  He was yanking and bumping but we were hardly moving. Then another voice said, ‘Here, let me.’ The voice was deep and manly and I guessed it was the businessman.

  The train had stopped moving and the doors hissed open.

  ‘Heavy little beast,’ the voice said. ‘What have you got in there, a body?’

  Ravi laughed and thanked the man. ‘A body!’ he tittered. ‘No, it’s my ceramic camel collection. Ha!’

  I felt the case bump onto the hard surface of the railway platform.

  ‘Will you be right now?’ the voice asked. ‘How are you going to get where you need to go?’

  ‘Oh, I’m waiting for a friend. Someone to give me a hand. A helping hand. Or foot. He’ll be along soon. Thank you!’

  The doors hissed as they closed and the train departed.

  Ravi was distraught. His face appeared at the vent. ‘I can’t lift you, John Johnson! My finely developed musculature is no match for your sheer body mass.’

  ‘Let me out.’

  ‘No, I can’t. There are people coming. Be quiet.’

  I heard wheels rolling on the platform.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ravi shouted. ‘How much is a fine skating device, such as the one you are riding?’

  ‘What?’ another voice answered. ‘You talking to me?’

  ‘Um . . . yes,’ Ravi said. ‘I was wondering how much your conveyance might cost. You see, I’m new in town and am looking to purchase a magnificent vehicle like yours.’

  ‘You want to buy my skateboard?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it! I want to buy your skateboard. How much?’

  ‘How much you got?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘I’ve done a lot of customising to this board over the years,’ the voice said, suddenly cocky. ‘New deck, new trucks, new bearings, new wheels. That makes it very expensive.’

  ‘I understand. How much?’

  ‘Hundred bucks.’

  He couldn’t be serious. I started frothing at the mouth. No second-hand skateboard was worth a hundred bucks unless it was owned by Tony Hawk himself.

  ‘Right, I’ll take it,’ Ravi said.

  My hands and legs started kicking in protest. There was a deafening thud and I realised Ravi had hit the case.

  ‘You’re going to buy my board?’ the voice asked. ‘For a hundred bucks?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ravi said.

  I spat the dummy and started shouting. ‘Don’t be stupid, Ravi! No! Not a hundred dollars.’

  Ravi slapped the case again. My brain rattled painfully.

  ‘Okay,’ the voice said. ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘Splendid! Marvellous. You are indeed very kind.’

  Ravi opened the case and snatched a hundred-dollar note from the roll.

  ‘Are you mad?’ I snapped. My left hand dived at the note but Ravi jammed my fingers back in and slammed the lid.

  ‘Here you are.’

  I felt the board roll and thunk into the side of the case.

  ‘Been a pleasure doing business with you,’ the voice said, smugly.

  Ravi sighed. ‘Yes, and a pleasure doing business with you, my friend.’

  Huffing and puffing and squeaking like a squirrel, Ravi finally loaded me onto the board.

  ‘Now, my dear John, you have a plane to catch.’

  The thundering of skateboard wheels on the pavement reverberated in my skull. The case clicked open, Ravi grabbed more money, and the case clicked shut. I could hear Ravi chatting and laughing with the man at the freight desk, tape yowling off the roll and the ting of a cash register as money changed hands.

  Ravi’s mouth appeared at the vent. ‘Good luck, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘Be safe. Well, as safe as you can be stuck in a box at thirty-five thousand feet.’

  ‘Ravi, wait!’ I whispered. ‘Ravi? Ravi!’

  There was no reply. I was on my own.

  CHAPTER 8

  ONE HOUR and twelve minutes after takeoff, I felt my torso jiggling and I wished I’d remembered to take it to the toilet before I was loaded onto the plane. Before I’d climbed into the box. Before I’d got on the train. Before I’d arrived at Ravi’s place. Before I’d changed out of my pyjamas. The fact was, that day hadn’t had room for toilet stops. I wriggled my jaw until the Oral Remote Control Centre popped into my mouth. I shoved my tongue up and the locks clicked but when my hands shoved at the lid, nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge. I tongued the control again and my knees bent to assist my hands. The lid opened a crack and I heard the unmistakable sound of tape stretching. The guys at the freight desk had lovingly taped the lid shut.

  ‘Crud,’ I cursed and then realised that in a matter of minutes I would be covered in it. I spat the dummy again.

  ‘Righty? Lefty? You guys listening? I need you to focus. Underneath the block of foam near my knees, Ravi stashed some supplies. I need you to wriggle in there and find his granddad’s old penknife. Get it?’

  My hands clapped with excitement and began picking their way through the foam. In time, I heard the metallic chick of the knife blade opening. My torso squirmed.

  ‘Hang in there. Just hang on. Legs? Get bending. Lift that lid. When it opens I want Righty to run the knife along the crack and cut the tape on the outside. The tape that’s keeping the lid closed. Get it?’

  My legs bent and strained against the lid obediently. Righty slashed into the foam and accidentally pricked Lefty before finally finding the tape. The lid opened with a pop and Righty, gripping Ravi’s granddad’s penknife, fell out.

  I assembled myself with my left hand, cramped against boxes inside a prison cell of cargo net. Righty and the penknife had fallen through the webbing. The hand had curled like a slater bug into its defensive fist posture, and rolled across the floor of the cargo bay out of reach. As the messages arrived from my guts, I realised I had no time for messing about with plans. Not without a great big mess, anyway. This was an emergency.

  I scrambled – with one hand missing, like a battle-scarred commando – up the wall of webbing and through a small gap near the ceiling of the aircraft. I dropped to the floor of the cargo hold and started to panic. There was nowhere discreet to make a mess. I picked up my hand and the knife and heard voices over the roar of the engines. Official pilot voices coming from
the front of the plane. I sidled along the cargo towards the cockpit. I could see the back of the pilot’s head when I finally found the door I’d been praying for.

  Toilet. Mission accomplished.

  Later, when I got hungry and cursed myself for not packing anything to eat, I discovered I was surrounded by food: tins of Skippy’s kangaroo stew, boxes and boxes of gourmet chocolate, and an entire crate of biscuits for starters. With Ravi’s granddad’s old knife I managed to hunt down a six-course meal and stuff myself until I could barely walk. I read random articles from newspaper pages that had been used as packing. Apparently there was a woman in Adelaide who collected dead people’s dentures. She made the idea of collecting mummified ferrets or ceramic camels or even wild animal droppings seem pretty normal. When the daylight became too weak to read by, I clambered back into the cargo net, disassembled, packed myself in my cosy suitcase and promptly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHEN I WOKE, the world had stopped vibrating. The silence was unsettling and I could smell my own feet. I realised there were good reasons feet had evolved at the opposite end of the body to noses.

  The fan inside my case had stopped.

  I tongued the switch to set the ventilation spinning but nothing happened. I licked at the roof of my mouth to pop the locks but there was no response.

  Some time during the night the plane had landed.

  Some time during the night the batteries in the Oral Remote Control Centre had run flat.

  I was trapped.

  Over the top of my panic, I heard voices, strangely accented women’s voices.

  ‘Oh my god, will you look at this mess? Empty cans of kangaroo stew and chocolate wrappers all over the place.’

  ‘You boys really had a party, didn’t you?’

  ‘We’re going to have to quarantine every opened article in accord with Section Three-oh-seven-six.’

  ‘But it wasn’t us,’ a man’s voice protested. Maybe the pilot. ‘Archie and I always pack our own food. I tell you it wasn’t us.’

  ‘What are you telling me, airman? Are you saying you got rats in your wings?’

  ‘Heh heh. Mighty intelligent rats that know how to open tins of stewed wildlife. That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Sister,’ one of the women mumbled, ‘that ain’t a sign of intelligence. That’s a rat with big psychological problems. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I hope you boys got relatives in town, ’cos this is going to take weeks to sort out. Weeks.’

  ‘We don’t have weeks. We’re on a schedule. Twelve-hour turnaround. We have to get out of this godforsaken country.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, boy.’

  ‘Did I say weeks?’ another women said bitterly. ‘I meant months.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Listen, airman, if you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk to our boss at Aphis. We’re just following orders.’

  I heard a frustrated moan and hurried footsteps on tarmac.

  ‘Okay, ladies, sticker every box that has been tampered with and get them all into Bay Twelve. Let’s contain this madness.’

  My head was spinning. A combination of being detached from my body for hours and the inhalation of toxic sock fumes had taken their toll. Even in my dazed state, I knew I was in trouble and I knew I couldn’t get out. The voices came and went. I heard women and men, Mickey Mouse and a whole chocolate factory worth of Oompa-Loompas. That sock gas was making me crazy. Finally I felt my case move.

  ‘Here’s another one, Candy. It’s a heavy sucker, too.’

  For the briefest of moments, I could smell the refreshing fragrance of aviation fuel as my case was transported to Bay Twelve.

  Bright lights as my case flew open.

  I froze, staring straight ahead. A pretty African-American woman stared back at me. A squeal split the air. The woman disappeared and I heard the unmistakable thunk of a body hitting the floor.

  I stared at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling like a rabbit in a spotlight.

  ‘Oh my god! Candy? Candy, honey, are you okay?’

  Slap slap.

  ‘Wake up, darling. Clifford? Clifford! Candy’s had a fall. Clifford, get in here!’

  There was a faint moan. Running footsteps with the rhythmic accompaniment of jangling keys.

  ‘She’s coming around. Candy, honey, are you okay?’

  ‘Dead body. There’s a dead body in the silver case.’

  ‘What? Candy, you’re delirious. What’s she talking about, Clifford? There ain’t no dead body in . . .’

  A lanky man with the bushiest moustache I had ever seen peered into the case.

  ‘Oh . . . my . . . sweet . . . Jesus,’ he said. The blood drained from his face and he covered his mouth.

  ‘What? What is . . .’

  Then there was another African-American woman squealing at me. In the absence of a better plan, I stayed dead still. The woman eventually stopped squealing and her eyes began to smile. She disappeared from view and Bay Twelve reverberated with laughter.

  ‘What? What is it? This is no laughing matter!’

  ‘It’s wax, you fools! It’s a wax model!’

  Then there were three heads peering into the case. Three puzzled faces that all began to smile.

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Clifford the moustache man sang.

  ‘It’s so lifelike,’ Candy whispered.

  ‘Did you see that? It moved! Oh my god, it’s alive!’ the other woman wailed, and backed from view.

  ‘Now who’s delirious?’ Candy chided. ‘Look at the skin, it’s all shiny and such. Most certainly made of wax.’

  She closed the lid. ‘Look here at the consignee’s address. Madame Tussaud’s waxworks. Waxworks. Didn’t I tell you that?’

  I fought back a smile. Ravi had thought of everything.

  ‘Yes, you told me that,’ the other woman said. ‘Right after you fainted !’

  ‘Who’s it supposed to be?’ Clifford asked, and opened the lid again. ‘They make these sculptures of famous folk.’

  ‘Oh yeah! I see it! It’s Orlando Bloom!’ Candy squealed. ‘You know, that actor boy. I want to take him home with me and hug him and squeeze him and . . .’

  ‘Oh my sweet Jesus,’ Clifford said, again. ‘That’s not Orlando Bloom, it’s President George W. Bush. As a child. With a wig on. And no make-up. You know how it is with celebrities when they don’t wear no make-up, it’s like they’s another person and all.’

  The other woman squinted and lowered her face to mine. I could feel her breath on my chin as she stared into my eyes.

  ‘Aagh!’ she shrieked, and everybody – including my pinky foot – jumped.

  ‘I know! I know who it is,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, it’s brilliant!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why, it’s Michael Jackson.’

  ‘Oh my god, it is too!’ Candy yelled.

  Clifford shook his head and closed the case. ‘That ain’t no Michael Jackson, it’s George W. Bush. Whoever it’s supposed to be, it ain’t no threat to national security. Where’s the tape? Candy? What did you do with that roll of tape?’

  ‘We ran out,’ Candy said.

  ‘Well, it’s time for a break. Maybe you could bring some down from the storeroom after.’

  ‘That I can do. Let’s get a coffee.’

  I heard the three of them talking as they left Bay Twelve for a land more suited to morning tea.

  The lid of the case had been closed but not locked and I put myself back together in seconds.

  I stuffed my jacket pockets with the cash and supplies from the case and looked around. I had to get out of there. I needed something heavy. Something that weighed almost as much as I did. On the wall beside the door hung a red fire extinguisher. I sized it up and smiled as I realised it would fit perfectly in the case. It would be the perfect body substitute. I’d put it in the case and find another way out of the building, another way to get to Penny Silvania Avenue. I lifted the extinguisher off
the hook and then saw the sticker on the wall.

  WARNING

  This fire control device is alarmed.

  Removing it from its cradle will initiate

  a fire evacuation procedure.

  CHAPTER 10

  BRRRRRRRIIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG the fire alarm sounded, as promised. My head and one of my hands detached in fright, sending the extinguisher and parts of my body rolling across the floor.

  I cursed.

  I pulled myself together and abandoned the extinguisher plan. I slipped through the door to find myself caught in a tide of bodies that bumped and shoved me towards the exit. For a fleeting moment, I could imagine what it would be like being flushed down a toilet. Thankfully, the flush only lasted a minute and the torrent of bodies emptied onto the floodplain of a carpark where there was air and sunlight. American air and American sunlight. I smiled and drank in my surroundings – the palms that lined the exit road, the haze of smog, and in the distance the sound of sirens and a city skyline.

  I’d made it. I’d actually made it. I wished Ravi and his mega smile were there with me to celebrate my triumph, to dance, to punch the air, to shout and sing . . .

  ‘Are you okay?’ came a voice.

  I stopped dancing to see the man with the huge moustache – Clifford – squinting at me with puzzled eyes.

  ‘Ya didn’t get burned or nothing, did ya?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m . . . I’m fine, actually,’ I said, and wished for the life of me that I sounded more like a local.

  ‘Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Clifford said.

  I shrugged and began backing away. ‘Don’t think so.’

  Clifford stepped after me. ‘Don’t you work down in Records?’

  ‘No, not me. Must have me confused with somebody else.’

  My little foot felt loose and I knew that if I had to run, I’d be caught.

  ‘Kinda young to be working down in Records. How old is ya, anyhoo?’

  ‘I’m . . . I . . .’

  At that moment, a hulking, fluorescent-yellow fire truck appeared at the entrance gate, with lights flashing but no siren. Clifford froze in his tracks. I kept backing away.