Andrea shrank back into the bushes and inched away from the fence. She couldn’t face anyone, or deal with the sort of kindness that Kitty would offer.
She waited, hidden in the shrubbery. A minute or two went by. There was no way Kitty could come through the hole or pass down the lane without Andrea seeing her, but she did not appear.
Andrea edged back to the hole and risked a quick look into the lane. It was empty. She drew back, puzzled. If Kitty had turned around and started walking back she would still be visible. Where could she have gone?
After a few more minutes she climbed out through the hole and turned towards home. There was something odd lying on the ground and she squatted down for a closer look.
It was a small plastic takeaway food container. In it was a generous slice of kugelhopf.
Andrea left the container where it lay and walked home, still wondering. Kitty must have dropped the container, turned back and run away, very fast. Why would she do that?
The shadows were lengthening by the time she got home. Her mother was watching television, a game show.
‘There you are, love!’ she called. ‘Come and help this idiot out. He’s got five letters of an eight-letter word and he still can’t see what it is.’
Andrea curled up in the threadbare armchair and her mother looked shrewdly at her morose face. ‘I was thinking of getting a pizza tonight,’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Sure,’ said Andrea. ‘Where’s Celeste?’
‘God knows. Off somewhere with the comrades.’
‘Who?’
‘That new boyfriend of hers is all political. Tells me the revolution is tomorrow – the workers are going to overthrow the bosses. I’d like to be there when they overthrow Dean.’ She smiled at Andrea and lit a cigarette.
KITTY had been pretty sure she would find Andrea in the garden. Martin had said it was best to come and go from the lane, so it would make sense to go that way too.
She half-ran, half-walked in the afternoon sunlight, clutching the container, rehearsing what she might say to Andrea. Her legs were still tired and sore from clambering around in the tunnels yesterday, and she was puffing a bit when she turned into the lane, peering at the fence as she hurried along, oblivious of everything else. There had been few people in the streets, and the lane was deserted.
A dog barked in one of the yards backing onto the lane. Kitty took no notice.
Soft footsteps came up rapidly behind her. Suddenly something was flung over her head, scratchy on her face, covering her eyes. A hand clamped over her nose and mouth, and at the same time she was picked up, her arms pinned to her sides. Half-choking, she squirmed and struggled, kicking out. She felt herself being carried at a run, and heard a man’s rasping breath.
A car started up and she was bundled in, face-down. Her mouth was free for a moment and she screamed, her voice hoarse.
‘Shut up!’ Something struck her on the side of the head, then the hand came over her mouth again. Another hand pressed her head down onto the car seat.
They were travelling fast, round one corner, then another and another, changing directions. Dizzy and sick, she tried to count the turns and memorise the route. Her heart was thudding and her hands were cold and clammy.
The journey didn’t take long, then she was carried a short distance and dumped roughly on what felt like a concrete floor. Big hands reached under the blanket that was covering her and tied something over her eyes.
‘That’s too tight,’ she whispered, groping at it. Her hand was slapped away, then someone pulled her into a sitting position, her back against something hard and knobbly.
There was a brief silence. The place was cold, and smelled faintly of kerosene. Kitty could sense people near her. All her instinct to escape seemed to have dissipated, and she was trembling.
‘Let me go,’ she said, unable to stop her voice from quavering.
‘You’ve been a very nosy little girl.’ The man’s voice was harsh and he spoke right in her ear, his breath on her cheek. She recoiled and jumped up.
‘Sit down!’ It was another voice. Someone gave her a shove and she stumbled and fell to her knees. ‘You don’t move until I say you can move.’
Behind the blindfold, Kitty clenched her eyes shut. I won’t cry, she told herself. They’re not going to see me cry.
‘Now,’ said the first voice, ‘you’re gonna tell us what that old bitch has been saying to you.’
‘Who?’
Something struck her head again.
‘Don’t play games with us!’ said the first voice. ‘What do you think this is?’
Kitty didn’t answer. She squeezed her eyes tight.
‘You’ve been talking to her. What’s she been telling you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t give me that bull!’
‘Why would I lie? She’s just a poor old lady.’ Kitty let the tears flow now. ‘I take her flowers. She hasn’t told me anything.’
Now the man put his hands on both sides of her face and squeezed. ‘Why are you kids hanging around that house, then?’
‘No reason! Just playing.’
He released her suddenly and shoved her off balance. She heard footsteps, then whispers as the two men conferred. They seemed to be arguing. A door slammed, and her hand crept up to her blindfold.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ growled a voice.
Her senses seemed to sharpen as time passed. She was aware of a man’s breathing, not far from where she sat, trembling. Some distance further away, she could faintly hear a voice. From the pauses, she guessed he was talking on a phone. The voice rose and grew shrill, then stopped abruptly.
More footsteps, then she was grabbed by one arm and dragged to her feet. The man walked quickly as she stumbled along beside him, her arm hurting from his grip. She was preparing herself to scream as soon as they got outside, hoping she would recognise the feel of the outside air; but before she knew it she was pushed into the car again, her interrogator beside her with his hand over her mouth, and they were driving.
‘We’re gonna let you go this time,’ a man’s voice said, close to her ear. ‘But when you see the old lady, you’re going to ask her something for us, and you’d better get an answer. You understand what I’m saying?’
Kitty could only make Mmmm, mmmm sounds.
‘She’s got some papers that don’t belong to her. You find out where she’s put them, and tell us next time.’
The thought of a next time made Kitty feel weak inside.
‘That’s right, girly,’ hissed the man. ‘You know what’s good for you – and your brother, too. He likes his soccer, doesn’t he?’
Kitty started to struggle. She needed to tell him that Martin had nothing to do with this. The man tightened his grip on her.
‘I knew a kid, good football player, only he had an accident, broke both his legs. Real sad. Never played again.’
Kitty strained against his hand.
‘You just give us what we want next time,’ said the man soothingly, ‘and everything’ll be okay.’
The car stopped.
‘And keep your mouth shut. You tell anyone about this, we’ll know about it.’
The man reached across Kitty, then she felt herself being pushed out through the open door. She heard the door shut and the engine accelerating. By the time she had ripped off the blindfold it was too late: the car had disappeared.
For a moment she had no idea where she was, then she recognised the street. It wasn’t too far from where she lived. But her legs were shaking and the walk home seemed to take forever. It was a shock to reach her own house and to find it looking completely normal, as though nothing had changed in the world.
The front door was wide open, light streaming out and music playing. Her parents were bringing bags and boxes of garden clippings through from the back yard and placing them on the footpath for the green waste pick-up.
‘About time, Kitty!’ called her mother. ‘It’ll be g
etting dark soon.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ she muttered, hurrying upstairs to the bathroom. She washed her face and peered at her reddened eyes. They didn’t look too bad.
Martin’s door was shut. She tapped lightly, then opened it. Martin was sitting at his desk, drawing.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said immediately.
‘But there’s something I have to—’
‘I mean it, Kitty. Go away.’
‘But I just wanted to see what you . . . what if—’
Martin half-rose in his chair. ‘Out, now!’
Kitty withdrew to her own room and sat on her bed, unable to make up her mind what to do. Her hands were still shaking.
She longed to tell her parents. Her father would make those men sorry they had ever come near her. But how would he find them? She hadn’t seen their faces, or the car, and she had no idea where they had taken her. What would her parents do?
She pictured them all going to the police station, and the police not even believing her. But the men would be watching, and they would know that she had told. She shuddered.
Her parents would believe her. This was like their worst fears coming true. And of course she would have to tell them the whole story, about the house, and the tunnels, and the treasure. After this she would never be allowed near the house again.
If she had her own phone, like so many of her classmates, she could call someone for advice. The men would never know if she talked to Andrea or David, or even Rosa. Why wouldn’t her parents let her and Martin have mobiles?
‘Kitty?’ her mother called. ‘Could you come and set the table, please?’
She went down to the softly lit dining room, her mother’s favourite tablecloth folded on the table. There was a glass jug filled with fresh flowers on the sideboard, and the smell of roast chicken wafted through. She could hear her parents laughing in the kitchen while her mother stirred the gravy and her father sliced the meat.
She couldn’t tell them.
At dinner, Kitty’s father said suddenly, ‘There’s a sort of protest meeting at the Town Hall tomorrow night, about that development Harold Buckingham’s planning.’
‘The one where they’re going to pull down that lovely old house?’ asked his wife.
‘Yeah. I think I’ll go along, make sure he doesn’t get off too lightly.’
‘I thought you said your rabble-rousing days were over, Paul?’
‘Well . . . ’ he winked at Kitty. ‘Gotta do something when greed rears its ugly head. Harold Buckingham thinks he owns this suburb, and someone has to tell him he doesn’t.’
Martin got up abruptly and took his plate into the kitchen.
‘Can I come, Dad?’ asked Kitty. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss that.’
‘Yeah, why not? I’ll show you what a real live villain looks like.’
‘Buckingham?’ said his wife.
‘The same. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’
They both laughed. In the kitchen, Martin ran water and rattled the plates noisily. Kitty shivered.
THE Town Hall was packed for the meeting. David’s father had come home unusually early so that he could attend, eating his dinner standing up in the kitchen, a raincoat still flung over one shoulder and his briefcase by his feet. There were more people arriving as David walked up with his parents and Moshe, and no seats left by the time they had squeezed into a middle row. David caught sight of Kitty with her father on the far side of the room. In sign language he tried to enquire where Martin was. Her elaborate answer probably meant that Martin was sulking in his room and not talking to her. Or perhaps it meant that she wanted to talk to him, David. It was hard to tell.
As soon as the traditional acknowledgement of Aboriginal ownership was over, a rowdy group in the front rows jumped up and started waving placards and shouting. Andrea and her sister Celeste were among them.
Annoyingly, most of the placards were turned towards the front, so only the meeting convener and the handful of Council officials on the platform could read them. Fascinated but slightly embarrassed, David tried to get a better look. Among the slogans he could read were ‘Leave our park alone’, ‘No more McMansions’ and ‘Ban Buckingham Palaces’.
The meeting convener spoke into her microphone: ‘The Council does acknowledge your right to express a view, but I have to warn you that anyone interrupting the legitimate speakers will risk being ejected from the meeting.’
There were some boring speakers then, droning on and on about planning laws, zoning and something called non-conforming use. Then the architect for the development got up slowly. He was a small man in a soft grey suit, clutching several rolled-up plans that he occasionally attempted to flatten out on the lectern. The gist of his explanation was that, much as he would like to oblige residents, he needed to use all the space that the site provided, and he needed to demolish Tarcoola to make room for more apartments. He ‘could not, could not’ build fewer apartments.
‘There is provision,’ he said, ‘for the developer to make a cash payment to the Council in compensation for . . . for loss of open space.’
Hands shot up all over the hall. Someone shouted, ‘That’s a travesty!’ The protesters took this opportunity to jump up and wave their banners.
‘Order!’ shouted the convenor. From the waving hands, she selected Kitty and Martin’s father, who stood up and looked around the hall.
‘For a start,’ he said. ‘That cash payment is for situations where there’s no open space to work with, as you well know. In this case . . . ’
The convenor interrupted him. ‘Could you please state your name and address, for the record?’
‘Sorry. Paul O’Brien, 39 Donald Street.’
‘And did you have a question, Mr O’Brien?’
‘Yeah, I do. When you say you can’t build fewer apartments, do you mean you’ve got a target to make a certain amount of money? A profit you’re aiming at?’
The architect spread his hands. ‘Well, that’s not really for me to . . . ’
Paul O’Brien bored on. ‘Can we hear from the developer? I see he’s here at the meeting. Harold, suppose you tell us where you stand?’
All eyes turned to the back of the hall, where a balding man in a suit stood not far from the exit. He gave a little laugh.
‘Hey, I’m just the client here. I’m not across any of the numbers. Rudy here and his people are the ones with the big picture. You might want to give him some questions on notice or something. He could put some more FAQs up on the website.’
People were shouting and jeering, but the architect began talking rapidly, saying something incomprehensible about infill housing and the jagged edge. David craned his neck to see the man who must be Harold Buckingham, now heading for the exit. He had been joined by two more men in suits. One was tall and lean with red hair, while the other was short and thick-set, his dark head shaven and tattoos showing on the back of his neck. As soon as most people had turned back to the architect, all three slipped out.
When David turned back towards the front he saw the protesters were milling around, but Andrea remained rooted to the spot, gazing towards the exit, her face white with shock.
David looked in Kitty’s direction. She was straining to catch his attention, pointing to the exit, nodding vigorously and attempting to express something in incomprehensible sign language. It seemed to involve pointy ears.
‘Order!’ said the convenor again. The meeting resumed. Then David realised his grandfather was speaking.
‘More than seventy years ago,’ he was saying, ‘a man came into our community. He came here to escape terrible oppression. He came here hoping to make a better life for himself. And in doing so, he hoped to enrich the life of this community.
‘My parents came from a different part of Europe, but they came here for the same reason as Josef Woolf: to escape from the Nazis. They didn’t move in the same social circles as Josef. In fact, my father Isaac was a stonemason,
and he worked on the restoration of that beautiful garden, which had been laid out in the eighteen-nineties. He used to talk with Josef in Yiddish, and Josef told my father he had made plans to ensure the house and garden would never fall into disrepair again. Ultimately, he intended to make a gift of the estate to our community for everyone to enjoy.’
There was applause and some people stamped their feet. The convenor leaned forward, an expression of long-suffering patience on her face.
‘Moshe, it pains me to interrupt one of your stories, but are you asking a question or moving a motion?’
David’s grandfather held up a hand.
‘One minute. I’m getting there. This is the point of the story: officially, Josef Woolf died intestate, but the residents’ action group is not convinced that he didn’t make a will. Even today, the ownership of this property is quite unclear. Mr Buckingham is said to have inherited the property but, although he would not like this widely known, the original title deeds are missing. That’s at least two vital documents that should have been among Josef Woolf’s effects when he died. Now, whether they were lost, destroyed or merely hidden—’
A growing hubbub forced the convenor to shout ‘Order!’ again.
‘ . . . we are of the belief that there should be a concentrated effort to find them. The title deed is necessary to clear up the question of ownership, and the will should tell us once and for all what Josef Woolf’s intentions were regarding this property. Therefore . . . therefore!’ He raised his voice above more excited chatter. David exchanged glances with Kitty.
‘Therefore I move that the Council further delay consideration of this application . . . ’
Now the architect was scattering his plans in agitation. The rest of the meeting was a blur of unimportant detail as far as David was concerned. His mind was racing and he just wanted to get outside and confer with Kitty and Andrea.
After the meeting, while people were shaking Moshe’s hand or clapping him on the back, Kitty and Andrea both reached David’s side at the same time.
‘Those men with Buckingham,’ said Andrea. ‘They’re the ones who tried to grab me!’
‘Tried to grab you?’ said Kitty. ‘When?’
The Tunnels of Tarcoola Page 12