Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  Jacob unrolled another sheet of card. ‘This is a rough map of the Barkly place.’ He pointed to an X on the southern boundary. ‘This can be Melbourne. I reckon we start there and work our way up to the creek that flows right about here.’

  George yanked the map from him. ‘Man, this place is big!’ he said. ‘You should've told me. I would have brought along my dad's GPS.’

  Jacob shot him a blank look. ‘Have a little faith, mate. It's not as though we're going to get lost.’

  He pulled out a pack of cards and dealt them each a hand. They played pontoon and poker, chomping away on corn chips and chocolate bars, till it grew dark. Then they packed up their gear and set off.

  It would make it more ‘real’, Jacob told them.

  Kyle swatted away a dive-bombing mosquito with his hand. The night was warm and still. Beads of sweat were already beginning to form on the back of his neck and they hadn't even reached the Barkly property yet. Up ahead, Jacob veered off the main track and led them through a stand of dry eucalypts to a cyclone wire fence.

  ‘NO TRESPASSERS – THIS MEANS YOU!’

  In the pale moonlight, the roughly painted letters on the sign were chipped and peeling, but their meaning was clear enough. Kyle watched as Jacob nimbly cleared the fence, then dropped lightly to the other side. George followed, grunting as one leg became caught on the top. Now it was his turn.

  Up and over. That hadn't been too bad. Jacob's game plans always looked excellent on paper. But they often went wrong. Like the time they'd gone whitewater rafting, re-enacting an old action flick called Deliverance Jacob's dad had on video. They'd all taken on the roles of the various characters in the movie. It had seemed easy at the time. Until the rapids became waterfalls and their raft had capsized. They'd all been grounded for a month for that one. Then there was the time they'd gone caving, pretending to be Egyptologists in search of Tutankhamun's tomb. Jacob – playing Howard Carter – had got them well and truly lost.

  Realising he was dropping further and further behind, Kyle hurried after the others. Bracken and spiky shrubs tore at his clothes. He was disentangling himself from a trailing branch when he heard a shriek.

  ‘Wills!’ he cried, ignoring the ripping sound his shirt made as he raced ahead.

  Jacob was already there. ‘Can you keep it down, Wills?’ he snapped. ‘Old Man Barkly has a shotgun. And I'll bet he's not afraid to use it.’

  George was anxiously jumping from foot to foot. ‘I just stood on something. It slithered away into the brush. A boa constrictor, I reckon. It was the size of a tree trunk!’ He slapped at his leg. ‘It might have bitten me.’

  Jacob rolled his eyes. ‘There are no boa constrictors in Australia, idiot.’

  Kyle offered his friend a sympathetic gesture. He'd sensed something move off into the bushes on his way there. Something big. Not a boa constrictor, obviously, but … something. He told them about it.

  ‘See!’ George blurted. ‘I told you I –’

  Jacob held up a hand to shut him down. ‘Zip it, okay? Do you want Old Man Barkly on our backs before we even make the creek? We're supposed to be fearless explorers, remember.’

  He consulted his map. ‘Cooper's Creek must be just up ahead. Let's move on.’

  They walked on in silence, chopping at imaginary enemies with stout sticks they'd picked up along the way.

  ‘Burke,’ George finally said. All this slashing at bracken was making him hungry. ‘Time for a pit-stop, don't you reckon?’

  Jacob wheeled around, his face stony. ‘Do you think the real Burke and Wills stopped for a cup of tea and a biscuit every time they felt hungry? Can't you –’

  Something crashed through the canopy above them. Branches swayed. An owl hooted. Then a deafening screech reverberated through the bush.

  ‘Look! An orang-utan!’ Kyle spluttered, pointing at the back of a departing … thing.

  ‘Get a grip,’ Jacob warned him. ‘Last time I checked, orang-utans didn't hang out in the Aussie bush.’

  George took a step closer to Kyle. ‘I bet there's all sorts of things loose on Old Man Barkly's land. It's what he uses to keep trespassers out!’

  A scream rang out. This time, it definitely sounded human.

  George's fingers dug into Jacob's arm. ‘Someone's being murdered. We have to get help!’

  ‘I'm with you,’ Kyle told him, his nerves on edge. Animal noises were one thing. But if there were people involved …

  Jacob collared his friends before they could make a dash for it. ‘Cool it, guys. We're too far in. You'll get lost.’ Even to his own ears his voice didn't exactly exude confidence. Nonetheless, he was Burke. And he was in charge.

  ‘Come on, we need to set up camp for the night.’ Jacob slashed at the thick bush with his stick. ‘I can't believe Old Man Barkly's let this place get so choked with scrub. It's a fire hazard!’

  ‘Someone screamed,’ George insisted.

  ‘It wasn't a someone,’ Jacob snorted. ‘No way was that sound human. Probably just a lyrebird. They can mimic all sorts of things. Chainsaws. Motorbikes.’

  ‘And that … thing … crashing through the trees?’ badgered Kyle.

  Jacob looked up at the tree canopy. There wasn't much to see in the dark. ‘I dunno,’ he admitted. ‘But whatever it was, it's gone now.’

  ‘Gone to ground, maybe,’ George said, tightening the grip on his stick.

  ‘Whatever.’ Jacob was getting sick of their gutless attitude. It was ruining his game.

  Up ahead, something plopped noisily into water. Followed by a huge splash.

  ‘Alligators,’ George whispered.

  ‘Look,’ Jacob snapped. ‘Will you just shut up? First it was boa constrictors, then orang-utans. Now it's freaking alligators! You need serious lessons in native fauna, Wills!’

  ‘No one's been on this place for years,’ George said defensively. ‘Old Man Barkly's seen to that, with his fences and his shotgun. How do we know what else he's got here?’

  ‘If we were halfway up the Amazon, I'd agree,’ Jacob reasoned. ‘But we're not. This is Australia. The only place you'll find stuff like that is in zoos!’

  George held up a warning finger. ‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

  ‘What now?’ screeched Jacob. ‘Rhinos? Elephants?’ He fumbled for words. ‘Velociraptors?!’

  Then they all heard it. Something moving through the dense trees. Some kind of stalking beast, perhaps? Whatever it was, it wasn't making deliberate noise. Just noise as anything would that was moving through dense vegetation.

  ‘I'm out of here,’ George stammered. He whirled about. Which way had they come? If they went back they'd run straight into whatever was coming towards them.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Finally, George decided on a course of action. Ducking his head, he slashed his way through the spiky branches to his right.

  ‘Wills! Wait!’ called Jacob. When there was no answer, he and Kyle took off after him.

  The sound of trickling water soon pulled them up. Ahead, they could just make out the rounded shape of a billabong.

  George was standing near the edge, a finger to his lips. ‘This is probably where that giant splash came from,’ he warned. ‘You know, the alligators.’

  Jacob pushed past him and knelt down on the dry bank. Cupping his hands, he scooped up water for a long drink. ‘You know your problem, Wills?’ he began, water streaming down the front of his T-shirt. ‘You don't know how to separate fiction from reality. Like I already told you, there are no freaking alligators in Australia.’

  ‘Jacob …’ George's voice was a whisper.

  Jacob went on drinking.

  ‘Jacob!’ The plea was more insistent now.

  ‘How many times do I have to remind you?’ Jacob snapped. ‘It's Burke. My name is –’

  And then – CHOMP! – he was gone, snapped up by the alligator lying in wait for him in the rushes.

  ‘Gaaaah!’ cried George, turning to Kyle in horror. Without another word
they bolted into the bush. They ran … and ran … and ran. Finally, they collapsed, exhausted, against the trunk of a towering gum.

  Kyle struggled to catch his breath. ‘Sh-shouldn't we … go … back to help him?’

  ‘Did you see the size of that thing?’ reasoned George. ‘Not to mention its friends swarming over for their own bit of supper. Nah, mate, we're much better off here.’

  ‘But –’

  The bush around them was suddenly bathed in brilliant white light.

  ‘Come out with your hands up!’ an amplified voice barked at them. ‘We know you're in there.’

  ‘That sounds like the police!’ said George, remembering all the cop shows he'd watched over the years.

  ‘It can't be,’ said Kyle, gazing upwards. ‘What would they be doing here?’

  A powerful searchlight stabbed the night sky. Somewhere overheard the rotors of a helicopter chopped the air.

  ‘You're surrounded!’ called the voice. ‘Don't try to run.’

  ‘My dad's going to crucify me if we get caught in here,’ George told Kyle. ‘How many times have we been told to stay out of the Barkly place?’

  ‘Now I can see why,’ muttered Kyle, shuddering as he remembered the look on Jacob's face as the alligator snapped him up. ‘What are we going to do?’

  George squared his shoulders. With Jacob – Burke – out of the way, he was now officially in charge of the expedition. Hey, probably even the club!

  ‘We're going to make a run for it, King,’ he told Kyle. ‘If either of us gets caught, don't dob the other one in, okay?’

  And then he was gone.

  Kyle hesitated. It didn't seem like a good idea to just run headlong into the scrub. Not with all those … wild animals prowling around. Geez, anything could be out there! A bloodcurdling scream from his right sealed the thought. Had something got George?

  An explosion rent the air. Barkly's shotgun! thought Kyle. He bolted.

  Saplings bent back as he crashed through them. From around and above came the continuous roar of gunfire and the steady thrum of the hovering helicopter, its searchlight probing the forest like an accusing finger.

  Alone, Kyle didn't stand a chance. He was bundled up and taken for questioning to a checkpoint that had been set up just outside the property.

  Kyle stared morosely at the gaping hole in the perimeter fence. Even in the dark it looked as though a tank had driven through there. In fact, it had been several police cruisers.

  A sergeant shone a torch in his face. He shook his head. ‘I don't know what it is with kids today,’ he said. ‘When I was your age, I'd play down the clay pits, go hunting frogs. I'd forage down the local tip and think all my Christmases had come at once if I found a wheel for my go-cart, or a cache of tinned fruit from the local supermarket.’

  Kyle stared at his uniform. Its sleeve bore the insignia of the Armed Response Unit. This was big time. He looked up as another officer led over a whimpering figure, and shoved him down onto the bench beside him.

  ‘G-george?’ stammered Kyle. ‘What's going on? I thought you'd been –’

  ‘Found him stumbling around the bush in a dazed state,’ the newcomer told the sergeant. ‘Blathering on with some nonsense about Burke and Wills. Reckons he was Wills!’

  ‘Burke,’ babbled George. ‘It got Burke …’

  The sergeant threw him a blanket. ‘Here, you better wrap this around you.’

  He tapped the side of his head and winked at his partner. ‘Obviously in shock,’ he mouthed.

  Kyle caught the exchange. ‘It's true!’ he said. ‘The alligator did get Burke! Jacob, I mean. One minute he was kneeling on the bank, and the next –’ He broke off, his head in his hands.

  The sergeant shot his partner a look. ‘Better get on to Carlson. Find out just exactly what's going down out there.’

  The officer flipped open his mobile then withdrew a short distance, just out of earshot.

  Kyle grabbed the sergeant's arm. ‘Please, sir! Can you just tell us what's going on?’

  The sergeant hesitated. ‘I should probably wait till your parents are here,’ he began.

  ‘Please, sir. That's our friend out there!’

  Relenting, the sergeant sat down beside Kyle. ‘Suppose it would be a bit of a shock, getting caught in the middle of our op like that,’ he said. ‘What were you doing here anyway? Staging your own version of Survivor?’

  ‘Something like that,’ mumbled Kyle.

  The sergeant drew in a deep breath. ‘The owner of this place has an importation racket going. Big game. Exotica. You name it. He's getting it from all over the place – Africa, South America. Then selling it off to people with … let's just call them “private collections”. Are you with me?’

  Kyle nodded.

  ‘We've had this place staked out for weeks. Easy, really. Barkly's got the locals so spooked no one ever comes here. Until you lot show up, that is, playing explorers.

  ‘Tonight was the night for our big raid. We heard on the grapevine there was going to be a new shipment coming in. We'd get all the main players in one fell swoop. We were going to go in, arrest the villains, then sort out the animals. Except someone must have tipped Barkly off. He's opened up all the cages and let the animals out into the bush in the hope of distracting us. Meanwhile, while we're all running around like blue-arsed flies, he makes good his escape.’

  Kyle was gobsmacked. Never in their wildest dreams could the Thrill-Seekers have come up with a scenario like this.

  ‘Well, that was his plan, anyway,’ sniggered the sergeant. ‘He didn't count on you lot showing up, did he! When we saw you careering through the bush, we moved in early. Got to Barkly just as he was preparing to make like a tree and leave.’

  Kyle gasped. ‘You mean … we saved the operation?’

  ‘Sure did. We'd be handing out medals if you hadn't been so irresponsible in the first place. Trespassing on private property.’ He broke off to take a call on his mobile then turned back to Kyle. ‘And wasting police time,’ he added, grinning.

  ‘Whuh?’

  ‘That was Carlson,’ the sergeant said, giving the shivering George a little tap. George blinked, then drew the blanket more tightly around him.

  ‘Wills? He's found your mate Burke. Looks like the gator had taken him for a little trip down the river, and tucked him under a log for safekeeping.’ He winked at Kyle. ‘They do that, you know, when their prey's too big to swallow whole.’

  ‘Is he … okay?’

  ‘He'll live,’ said the sergeant. ‘Missing a few bits here and there. Let's just say this – I don't think he'll be doing too much big-game hunting for a while. Or anything with thrills attached, really.’

  And that, thought Kyle, was just fine by him.

  Oscar French entered the street with a knotted stomach. This was the nasty bit. Getting to Uncle Raymond's meant a trip past the Napier house. Enemy territory, where a partly stripped car lay in the barren front yard. Taking a deep breath, Oscar scurried to the opposite side of the street.

  Despite himself, he pictured Gerard Napier's sweaty, snarling face. Soon, Uncle Raymond's musty but amazing cellar with its dark wooden workbench and display case of precious artefacts, would drive that ugly image from his mind. Who else had a real archaeologist for an uncle? Raymond French, grey, stodgy and potbellied, was no Indiana Jones. But he went on real adventures called digs and, in spirit at least, Oscar went with him.

  Brushing the fringe from his eyes, Oscar scanned the Napier house, now directly opposite. Neither movement, nor sound. He hurried on. Uncle Ray's stories of deserts and jungles, freak dust storms and painted natives always stirred his blood. Even more so the artefacts themselves. Treasures he could see, touch, smell.

  Clay jars, sculpted to resemble sacred animals, filled with the preserved organs of Egyptian kings and nobles. A mask from a Celtic barrow tomb, which his uncle said may have belonged to the warlord Artos, a tribal cavalry chief whom Bardic storytellers had exaggerated into ‘Ki
ng Arthur’. Photographs of Oscar holding these finds had brought celebrity at school for almost a week. Then Gerard Napier had ambushed him between the buses, returning him to earth with two quick jabs to the face. Nobody felt special with a blood nose and watering eyes.

  He reached Uncle Ray's front gate and glanced over his shoulder. Last visit, Napier had trailed him at a distance right down the street, grinning stupidly. Though the thug hadn't attacked, he had seen Oscar enter his uncle's home. A once-private sanctuary was private no more.

  Oscar knocked on his uncle's door. Muffled thuds came from below the house. The cellar stairs creaked before the door opened. Professor Raymond French's weather-beaten face appeared.

  ‘Customs released it this morning, Oscar.’ He grinned, eyes shining. ‘It's here!’

  Oscar followed him down to the long cellar. In the centre of the stone-walled workshop stood a concrete acid bath in which metal artefacts were cleaned. Beside that was the heavy wooden bench where the professor catalogued his field specimens. One end was cluttered with camera lenses and filters. The other was strewn with knives, tools and piles of handwritten notes. In the centre of the table, a white dust cloth covered a dome-shaped object.

  ‘Yes.’ Raymond French snatched away the cloth. ‘The Head of Savakor!’ Floating in formaldehyde in a large glass jar was a wizened, slightly undersized human head with yellow-brown skin and patchy remnants of long black hair. Its eyes were tightly screwed shut. A single line of unfamiliar characters were tattooed across its forehead. The mouth was stitched closed with dozens of tiny plaited cords.

  ‘Who was he?’ Oscar leaned close to the jar. A pity, he thought, that it was not Gerard Napier.

  ‘I'll know within hours.’ The professor rubbed his hands together. ‘A colleague of mine found him, entombed in the temple of Savakor, northern Borneo. That temple is the sole remaining trace of a culture once occupying a certain valley, a race more advanced than the tribe living there now.’