Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  I like your hair. What's the difference between strawberry blonde and regular blonde? Which are you? I like the braids. And the way your jeans fit. You are one attractive girl.

  But why the long face? And why aren't you at school? I've got an excuse. What's yours? And what is it you are writing in that tatty old notebook?

  Hey, you've got a call. Can't place the ring tone but I love your little pink flip-phone. And the way you finish the sentence you're writing before plucking it out of your bag. That's the idea, girl. Make ’em wait.

  You'll be at the park in five minutes. That's all you've got to say? Who are you meeting? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Regular friend? Parent? No clues, but whoever it is hasn't put a smile on that lovely face of yours.

  Back to your scribbling. Wow, you've really got something on your mind, haven't you? And it can't be about me. You haven't even noticed me staring at you. Maybe it's a poem. Maybe you'll sell the poem and make enough money to buy some new clothes and get into a decent school. I'd be happy to show you around mine. As long as you observe the dress code. And wash first.

  Hey, don't go. I didn't mean anything by that. Stay, please. I was just getting to know – too late. You're out of the folding doors and gone.

  At least I can watch you cross the road. You've got a lovely walk. I even like the way you stand at the lights, with your notebook safely tucked away in your little blue bag. Who are you going to meet? And why are you so anxious? You're curling and stretching your fingers nervously. There's no polish on your nails. And you've been biting them.

  Stop pushing the button so much. Just wait for those lights. Wait. Wait. There you go. Good girl. Safe and sound and out of my life. Have a nice one. And I do love your – I've never seen a body behave that way before. First it bends sideways over the bonnet making the head slam deep into the metal, then off it flies in the opposite direction like a tossed rag doll as it sails five, ten, fifteen metres through space and right by my window. I see the peaceful look on your face. I'll never forget it.

  You land on the road with a sickening thud. The tram jerks to a halt, jolting everybody in their seats. We rush out and form a circle around you.

  It's a weird mix of chaos and calm. Half of us are frozen stiff with shock, the other half are running about, barking into their phones for help. And in the middle of it is your sleeping body, serene and breathless.

  Are you dead? I think you are breathing. And you are not bleeding. There's not a mark on you. How is that possible? And where's your bag gone?

  It went flying off on its own and has landed on the far side of the traffic lights in the gutter. Your stuff is everywhere; phone, tissues, pens, your precious notebook. I'd better collect them and hand them to the police as soon as they arrive.

  Your notebook's fine but your phone shattered on impact. I'll pick up what I can – battery, key pad, cracked screen – and put them in my bag with everything else.

  I'm looking back at you now through the ring of people and – oh God – I can see from here that you've started to bleed. It's not a trickle, either. It's coming out in a thick, red sheet. Why am I thinking of lava? I feel ill.

  Where are the cops? The ambulance? Hang in there, girl. It feels like hours, but it's only been thirty seconds. Hey, where's the car that hit you? It sped off before anyone could take a picture or make a plate.

  I must get back to you – but who are those two men over there looking at me? I can see them through the traffic on the far side of the road. It's no mistake. They're not looking at you, they're looking at me. From the park. Weren't you meeting somebody in the park in five minutes? And wasn't that five minutes ago?

  Hey, one of them just pointed at me. Now they're fighting the traffic to cross the road. They're yelling. Hey! You! Stay where you are! Cops? No, they'd have shown a badge or something. They're running straight at me now. This feels too wrong. And I'm gone.

  I never knew I could run this fast. A cab, thank God. The two men shrink in the rear window as we speed off. Cut the small talk, driver. Just take me to town, to the nearest police station.

  Those guys must have been waiting for you. They must have been the ones on the phone. And they must have seen you get hit. Then they – what? Saw me picking up your stuff? And chased me for it? What's to chase? If they were your friends I'd have given it to them. But if they were your friends they'd have cared more about your broken body than about the contents of your bag.

  The pages of your notebook are a scramble of names, numbers and addresses. There are equations and nervous doodles. Things are circled and underlined and there are arrows all over the place linking one thing with another.

  You mention the underside of a bridge a few suburbs away. You have circled this emphatically. Why? And there's all this adding up you've been doing, sums that all come to one figure: $25,000. This is an important number. You've drawn a box around it. But there's no clue what any of this means. I can't even find your name.

  Say, what's this at the back? It's the only thing with complete sentences and – God, it's a letter. A rough draft, I can tell. You've been working on it intensely. Your handwriting is scrappy for a girl, but it's neat enough for me to make out.

  This is to your mum and dad. Your tone is plaintive. You've been away nearly two years and you want to come home. You are sorry you ran off so suddenly, but you weren't happy. You don't say why. All you say is that promises made to you by the former family friend who seduced you were a lie. Promises of a new life in the big city and a career with a big company came to zero. I know that corporation's name. Everybody does. Seems you got drawn into a trap and now you want to break away. You want to go home. But you need to settle some matters first.

  Your letter now gives form to the frenzied scribbles on the other pages. You are stuck with a debt you didn't know you had. This is what the $25,000 is about. Your seducer was going to cover it, but breaking away from them now makes it your problem. No clues what the debt is for – but I understand your thinking. You want to go home with a free mind. To start over clean. To get your life back.

  On the calendar pages I find today's date with an entry about your meeting in the park. You mention another company. It's the main rival to the one mentioned in the letter, the one you were promised a career in, the one your seducer works for. You were meeting three people from this enemy company to do an exchange involving them giving you $25,000. But for what? What?

  I'm doing an awful thing now. I'm replacing my sim card with yours. My screen lights up. This feels weird. I'm becoming you. My phone is the most personal thing I own. It means everything to me. I'd die if I lost it or found out anybody else was going through it. And now I'm you. The sense of violation is powerful as I scroll through your menus. I'm invading your privacy – I know – but I can't help myself. I just really want to help you. I don't know why.

  The last voice message you got was thirty minutes ago. It confirms your meeting at the park. A man's voice says you will get your $25,000 in exchange for the location of the stick.

  Immediately the meaning of the bridge clicks into place. That's where the precious stick is. Stick? He must mean a USB stick. You'll tell them where it is once they give you the money. But what can be on it that's worth $25,000? That's nearly a whole year in school fees alone.

  The phone trills. I jump. You've got a text.

  WHERE R U? WE R W8NG @ PARK.

  Who is? Not the two men who were chasing me, obviously. These people clearly don't know you've been knocked down by a car. They must be at the far end of the park. Still.

  I've got to reply something. If I tell them the truth they'll leave – with your money. We can't have that.

  I'll try and stall them.

  SORRY. AM DLYED. CAN U PLEES W8 1HR? WLL B THRE.

  I hope I'm texting like you. They don't waste time hitting reply.

  Ok. 1HR.

  This feels so weird. They think I'm you. I don't know what's going through me exactly, but it feels like a rush of some kind. I tell
the cabbie to forget town and take me straight to the bridge. Fast. He's happy because his fare just doubled.

  It's a major four-lane traffic bridge over a dried creek, one hundred metres from the train station. Getting under the span means jumping this handrail. Ouch. I land hard, but I'm fine and stumble into the shadows beneath. It's amazing how the traffic noise amplifies through concrete and steel.

  The slope under the bridge span is all loose cobblestones and rubble. How on earth am I supposed to find a tiny – what's that? A blue shopping bag is pinned under one of the stones. The wind sure didn't do that. It's been put there deliberately.

  This stone weighs a ton. Note to self: do more weight training. But there's nothing under the bag and certainly nothing – hang on. Something's been buried here. The ground gives way easily as I reach into the dirt and feel an object. It's another blue shopping bag, this one wrapped tight around something small, like a cigarette lighter.

  What am I thinking? It's the USB stick. Quick. Pull my laptop from my bag and plug the stick in to see what's on it.

  Holy cow. I recognise this stuff. I know these lines of code. It's a virus. A serious one. Something like this could bring down a whole network. Maybe it couldn't kill a company, but it could sure slow one down long enough for a rival to gain an advantage.

  I have no idea if you were selling this to the people it was intended to hurt or help, but I know it's a bargain at $25,000. Things like these can be worth millions for the damage they can do.

  Say, what was that? A dog? A cat? A rat scuttling across the rocks? It's the guys from the park. They've followed me. And now they're coming straight for me. Again.

  I can't feel my feet touch the ground. I can't even feel myself breathe. Has my heart stopped or is it beating so fast I can't tell? It doesn't even feel like I'm running for my life, but that I'm surfing over the jagged stones and back up to the road on a cushion of air. Air and pure fear.

  A lucky break in the traffic saves me. I'm across the road and panting towards the station while they're stuck on the far side. One of them is yelping into a phone. A train's pulling in. With another burst I think I can make it.

  A quick glance over my shoulder. They're scrambling across the highway – but there's no way they're going to close the distance in time. I've made the train and the last carriage clears the platform just as they make the ticket gate. So long, suckers.

  A phone call. I see from the number it's not from the people in the park, which makes sense because it hasn't been an hour yet. It's from somebody else. I should let it go through, but I can't help myself. It's not blood in my veins now, but adrenalin.

  It's a woman's voice, surprisingly soft for the hard words she is using. She knows I'm not you and doesn't care. Her friends at the bridge must have called that in.

  She says the information on the stick belongs to her. I tell her it belongs to the highest bidder. All I want is money. She has plenty, she says – twice what you were after.

  But how does she know about your meeting in the park? About the data on the stick? That you were going to sell it? How? I ask. Your notebook, she says. The one I have in my bag. She's read it too, and knew what you were up to.

  The only thing she didn't know was that you had hidden the stick. She thought you had it with you. That's why her associates were going to intercept you before your scheduled meeting in the park. That's why they got so agitated when I got to the contents of your bag before they did. The idea to secrete the stick must have been a late change in your planning. Good thinking, girl.

  And that's why she's got all this cash. She intended to buy you out. But then you got knocked down and their plan went haywire.

  But how does this woman know about your notebook in the first place? Now it clicks. A bad feeling is stirring inside me. This is the family friend you trusted, who seduced you away from home, who promised you a career in her corporation. She's been inside your life a long time.

  She's telling me now to get off at the next station and meet her in the car park where we'll do the exchange. She'll be in a blue sedan. She'll know what I look like. Her associates at the bridge called that in, too.

  I'm going to be late for your friends waiting at the park. I'd best text them with a quick update. No point them hanging around with no purpose.

  There she is, her blue car gleaming in the sunlight. Other cars are clustered around the station entrance, but she's at the far end on her own.

  She looks a lot prettier than she sounded on the phone. Why is she asking me to get in? Why so social all of a sudden? And why is her engine running?

  Look, I just want the money, honey. She pulls a wad out of a small cloth bag and flips through it. It's real all right – $50,000 cash.

  It's a fair trade. What do I care about two companies tearing each other's throats out over ownership of a computer virus? Knock yourselves out, guys. Just hand me that money.

  But she wants the stick first. Of course, here it – what's that big dent on the car bonnet? And is that a smear of blood?

  Hey, let go of my arm! Okay. She grabs my arm, I'll grab her bag. A quick, violent jerk and I'm off with her money and her precious memory stick. All I've got to do now is make it to that footbridge over the train tracks before she gets to me and makes me the second person today she's hit with a car.

  I'm thinking as I run for my life. Why did she knock you down? She stood a good chance of getting the stick, especially by offering twice the money you were expecting. Then again, you could have spat in her face for spite. And why risk being turned down? Much better to knock you down and leave nothing to chance. If only I hadn't stepped in.

  All I can hear now is the rising pitch of her engine as she accelerates towards me. Looking around might cost me the fraction of a second I need to make the stairs. The world is full of sound but all I hear is the car getting closer and closer and louder and louder and what was that?

  Another car has T-boned her. The collision makes such a deep thud my chest registers the pressure drop. I don't recognise the people in the second car but I know they are from the park. I invited them here hoping they might up their bid.

  Instead they've saved me. I should give them the stick in thanks, especially given that I've got twice the money for it from their enemy. But I'm not turning around.

  I glance down at the car park as I belt across the footbridge. They're okay, but the woman is going to need medical attention before she faces charges for knocking you down. And luckily the impact has only damaged the passenger side of her car – not the front bit where all the evidence is.

  I'm hearing police sirens as I make the far side of the footbridge. They'll soon have your assailant in custody. I could hang around and help the police with their enquiries, but I think I'll just run run run.

  Getting past the nurse at the front desk takes some talking but I'm your close friend who just wants to see you for a second, even though you're fast asleep, recovering from your injuries. She buys it, bless her.

  It's funny. You look as serene lying here as you did lying on the road. I can see you are dreaming. I hope it is a good dream.

  I'm going to leave this envelope on your side table. Inside is your sim card and precious notebook. There is also the key to a train station locker. On an unsigned note are instructions telling you what's waiting for you. Enough money to settle your debts, go home and start a new life. I wish you the best. I only wish I could have signed it.

  I've destroyed the stick. Also, I've deducted from the $50,000 the cost of a decent music player with a rechargeable battery that actually works. Hope you don't mind but Mum didn't keep the receipt.

  Can you believe that?

  A car door slammed, followed by the roar of an engine. Jacob waited till the dusty 4WD was out of sight before he waved its passenger over to the patch of dirt George and he had already staked out. A crow circled lazily overhead.

  ‘Greetings, Kyle. You're late,’ Jacob reprimanded him.

  Kyle dropped his sleepi
ng bag and backpack, then eased himself down, forming a tight circle with his friends. ‘Yeah, mate, sorry about that. Dad had a flat tyre.’

  Jacob threw him a cold can from the esky then settled himself comfortably. ‘The Thrill-Seekers Club is now in session,’ he announced. He drew three squares of cardboard from his shirt pocket and threw them face down into the circle.

  ‘Choose one.’

  George and Kyle stared tensely at the cards, waiting to see who would make the first move. Finally, George's hand snaked out. He picked up a card and read the name on the reverse side. His shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Wills,’ he said, taking a swig from his can.

  Jacob nudged Kyle. ‘You next.’

  Kyle's hand hovered above the remaining cards. If George's card was Wills, the other two must be Burke and King. He remembered studying them in history last year. ‘Here goes,’ he said, reaching for the card on the left. He was hoping against hope for Burke. As leader of the expedition, he was worth more points. He'd get more of the supplies, too.

  He flipped over the card. ‘King,’ he groaned, throwing it back down.

  Jacob reached for the remaining card. He displayed the name to the others. ‘Burke,’ he said smugly. He popped the top off another can and guzzled noisily. ‘Burke, Wills and King. From now on, that's the names we use, okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ said George, reaching for a can himself. He flinched as Jacob slapped his hand away.

  ‘I'm Burke, remember? The leader of the expedition? You get stuff when I say you do.’

  ‘Sure thing, Jacob,’ said George.

  ‘Burke,’ said Jacob. ‘You're supposed to call me Burke.’

  ‘Sorry. Burke. Now can we just get on with this?’

  Jacob unrolled a cylinder with a flourish. Kyle studied the map he'd drawn. It was a careful recreation of the route the Victorian Exploring Expedition had taken in the 1860s. Bushland. Creeks. The unknown. Perfect.

  The 200-hectare property Jacob had chosen for their game bordered Trengrove Reserve – the place they were camping in for the weekend. Or so their parents believed. It belonged to Old Man Barkly – a Vietnam vet and local recluse. He kept it pretty secure, with high fences and – if you believed all the stories – booby-traps throughout. No one had been on the property for years. Kyle had to hand it to Jacob. It was an inspired choice. But then again, Jacob always had the best ideas. That was why he was chairman of the Thrill-Seekers Club.