by Tony Davis
George rolled onto Beeper’s mattress and sized up his own bed base. There were drawers beneath the mattress but the bed frame was twisted from the heat and dryness. The two drawers would no longer pull out and hadn’t been used in years.
‘Stand up, Beep.’ George lifted the mattress off the floor and leaned it against the door to give himself more room to work. He hoped it might also muffle some of the noise.
‘I’m hungry, Torgie.’
‘So am I. But there are just two tins left. We have to make them last until, well, I’m not sure how long. We’ll have to make do for the moment with a few more biscuits. That’s all.’
Footsteps padded down the hall into the day room.
‘What does Emily eat?’ Beeper asked.
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
George began work on their hideaway. With the claw on the back of the hammer, he levered the face off each drawer, creating a pop and a small puff of dust each time. He handed the pieces of wood to Beeper, putting his finger over his lips as he did so.
He then reached under the bed and pulled out the twisted sides and bases of the drawers. He used the hammer claw to pull out a few of the nails holding the sides together.
‘Stack all these pieces in the bottom of the wardrobe, Beeps,’ he whispered.
‘Are we going to get into trouble for pulling this apart?’ asked Beeper.
‘No. Dad will understand that we had to do it.’
George put the nails in his pocket. He lit a match and used its light to examine the space under the bed. It was small and the centre of the bed sagged badly, but it would do.
It took George fifteen minutes to scrape out the silt from beneath the bed. While he worked, he squashed a spider and several bugs. What looked like a snake in the candlelight proved to be just an old belt.
‘Watch this, Beeper.’ George lay flat on his stomach and wormed his way under the bed through one of the gaps. He had to twist his shoulders and fold his legs to fit.
‘Come on!’ he whispered.
Beeper slid in through the gap where the other drawer had been. ‘Is this to hide from Emily?’ he whispered back.
‘It’s to hide from Welfare. If they get inside the house, we’ll sneak in here and they’ll never find us.’
‘She won’t tell. She likes me. If we’re nice to her she might be nice back. She could help us find Dad.’
‘That sounds like the sherbet lemons talking. She can’t be trusted, and don’t you forget it, Beeper.’
The boys climbed out. ‘There must be a way to seal those holes once we’re inside,’ said George.
‘We can go in through the same hole, me first,’ Beeper replied. ‘Then we won’t need two holes.’
‘Good idea!’
George nailed the face of the first drawer back into place as quietly as he could, leaving long spaces between each blow of the hammer.
George took the face of the second drawer and nailed the old belt to its back. ‘Maybe this will work! Let’s try it.’
Beeper slipped back in, crawled around the centre of the sagging mattress, and out of the way. George followed, wriggling backwards, feet first.
George pulled on the belt, and the face of the drawer clicked into its place, held straight by the ridges above and below. As long as George kept hold of the belt, and as long as they kept quiet, no-one would suspect they were there.
They crawled out and sat on the bed. George smiled at Beeper’s grubby face. ‘That was hot work. But we did well. I think we deserve something to eat now.’
He pulled from his backpack the can-opener, two spoons and one of the two remaining tins. It was the large one without the label. ‘We’ll try this first. I had a bit of a daydream about this tin while we were working. It’s hard not to think about food. Anyway, I imagined it was red salmon. We might as well have our last biscuits. There’s three each. To go with our salmon.’
Beeper bit into one of his biscuits. He stared hungrily at the tin. George shook it and checked again if there was anything useful written on the outside. The numbers embossed into the lid gave no clue.
George clicked the can-opener into place, smiled at Beeper, and wound the handle slowly and carefully. A small bulb of dark liquid pushed up through the lid as the blade punctured the metal.
‘Were you right, Torgie? Salmon for breakfast?’
George lifted the lid and sniffed at the contents. He dipped in his index finger and touched it on his tongue. The liquid was thick and metallic in taste.
George put down the can, lay down on the bed and screwed his eyes shut. He let out a long, deep sigh. ‘It’s some sort of machine oil. Can’t eat it, can’t drink it.’
They now had one small tin of Italian-Style Diced Tomatoes. And that was it. Beeper had already eaten two of his three biscuits.
Yes, they had a hiding place. But with nothing to eat, what good was that? And the longer Dad was away, the less likely it was that he’d just drive up and walk in the house. Maybe Mr Carey was right. There was nothing one person could do to make a difference. Certainly not a person who had just turned thirteen.
Beeper crunched his way through his final biscuit and hugged his brother. ‘Got to eat, Torgie.’
George bit into a biscuit. It was hard and dry. He picked up the last tin and pulled at the ring-pull. ‘It’s not worth putting on plates. You eat half, then I’ll finish it.’
Beeper scooped tomato pieces into his mouth with his fingers. He licked juice from the lid, then passed the tin. ‘Rest is for you.’
The tin was more than half full. George knew how hard that must have been for a hungry six-year-old. But he didn’t have the energy to say thanks. He broke up his two last biscuits and dropped them into the tomato mush to soften them. He mixed it all up with a spoon, then started shovelling everything down his throat.
‘How do we get more food while Dad’s away being a secret agent?’ Beeper asked.
‘I’ll come up with something,’ said George. He scraped the spoon around the bottom of the tin to scoop out the last of the thin red juice, then followed with his finger. He cupped his hand underneath the spoon to catch the drops, then sucked the spoon one last time.
‘The only good news, Beeps, is that she might leave now. There’s no food left for her to steal.’ George licked his fingers. He didn’t care that they were nearly black with filth.
There was another loud creak from above. Was that a bulge in the ceiling, or was he going mad with hunger?
Beeper looked up too. ‘I’m scared, Torgie. Is something hiding up there?’
‘Probably just the wind.’
‘I hope it’s not a snake, Torgie.’
Beeper reached for George’s photos and flicked back through them. He stopped at a photo of a city. ‘It’s from the sky. There’s the aeroplane wing in the photo. Is it our city?’
George flipped the tin upside down, hoping for another drop. There was nothing. He packed the mugs, plates and can-opener into his backpack in case they needed to hide in a hurry.
‘It’s our city, yes. Dad says that this was the most beautiful place in the world.’
Beeper blew dust off the photo and stared at it more intently. He ran his grimy fingertips over every detail. ‘Just like the selfish Giant’s garden. A whole city full of grass and trees and swimming pools. Such blue water.’
As they sat side by side on the bed, above their new hiding spot, George looked at a photo of his mother standing outside the city markets, next to the train station. He imagined being there again with her, back in the days when it wasn’t so hot, when the stalls were all loaded with food. Before Mum began having her turns. When she could hug him without bursting into tears.
As George daydreamed, and Beeper pointed to the clear water lapping up to the crowded, white sand of a city beach, there was the sharp sound of plaster tearing.
Then came a rush of dust and rubble as the ceiling collapsed.
EIGHTEEN
George was pitched forward o
ff his bed and hit his head on the floor. He pressed his eyes tight and held his breath while waiting for the falling debris to stop. Then he pushed himself off the floor and into the dusty daylight, dragging Beeper up with him.
The boys covered their mouths and noses with their hands and waded through the dirt, plaster and wood. The door was still blocked by Beeper’s mattress. George dragged it aside and wrenched at the door handle.
They stumbled down the hall and into the day room. The girl was sitting at one end of the dining table. She stared at them but didn’t stand up.
George sunk down against a wall with his head between his knees. His neck ached where lumps of plaster had hit him, and his right temple throbbed where he had hit the floor. His face stung, he couldn’t focus. He could hear Beeper spitting and coughing nearby.
‘Hell of a mess you’ve made there,’ the girl said. She went out to the hall, pulled their bedroom door shut, then began coughing too.
George started hacking up sludge. He had no choice but to spit it onto the floor. ‘What happened?’ he finally croaked.
‘A cave-in,’ the girl said, sitting back at the table. ‘Dust gets in between loose roof tiles. Builds up on the plaster until it’s weighing so much, the ceiling falls in.’
George lifted his head from his knees, then began a new bout of coughing and spitting.
‘You probably hurried it up with all your hammering, kiddos. What are you building in there?’
Beeper was on his hands and knees, near the back door, struggling to breathe. George clomped across and thumped his brother’s back. It made no difference. George struck him between the shoulder blades a second time. Beeper noisily coughed up a throatful of grit.
‘I’ll get you a drink, Beeper,’ the girl said.
George jumped to his feet before she could move. Even though he could scarcely see, he stumbled to the kitchen bench and dizzily grabbed two jars.
Beeper drank his water in one go. George passed him the second jar, then returned to his place against the wall with a jar of his own. He rubbed his eyes furiously. Rubbing made them hurt more, but his vision improved. He was looking straight at her, and realised what she was doing. She was drinking from the Paris mug.
‘Don’t use that!’ George said. ‘It’s Mum’s.’
She ignored him, refilling the mug a few minutes later.
‘Where are we going to sleep?’ Beeper asked.
‘You could start digging out your mattresses and move them in here,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll help you Beeper, if you like.’
‘Don’t want your help,’ said Beeper sheepishly, half-glancing at George. He downed the last of his drink and went for more. ‘You … you can’t be trusted.’
George scanned her face and could see no reaction to Beeper’s comment. He wanted to keep on the pressure. He stood, shook the dust from his hair, and slapped at his clothes. ‘And we’ve nearly run out of clear water, thanks to you!’
‘I have a name,’ she said. ‘It’s Emily. And I have to go outside to do something very important.’
‘Good. There’s nothing left to eat or drink, so there’s no reason for you to come back.’
The girl stared at George for a few seconds, then her mouth curled into a grin. She headed down the hall and left the house.
NINETEEN
George held a stone in his right hand. It was the size of a brick. Beeper carried a stick with a nail poking out the side. They crouched in the back yard in the searing mid-morning heat, staying as still and quiet as they could.
‘Another one,’ hissed Beeper, sprinting towards the back fence. He slammed down his stick with both hands but he was too slow. The rabbit had already shot into its burrow under the fence. Beeper stood at the centre of the dust cloud he had created. He whacked the ground in frustration, then threw his stick against the fence.
The rabbits were thin and sickly, but they were quick. It no longer mattered if they were diseased; the boys had no choice. They had to catch them too. There wasn’t enough clear water to offer the rabbitoh man. Anyway, George didn’t want to admit to him that they still hadn’t found their dad.
The boys had tried all afternoon the day before, and all this morning, without any luck. After yet more failed attempts, George cornered a twitchy, grey one. It had a black face and sores around its eyes. It tried to dig its way under the fence but hit rock-hard dirt after a few scrapes in the dust.
George lifted his stone and aimed at the rabbit’s head. He hesitated and moved his feet to get into a better position to throw. The rabbit darted past his legs and down a burrow.
They hadn’t eaten since the day before. George was so light-headed, he felt he was floating above the ground as he walked back towards the house. He slumped under the shade of the eaves, too tired to even brush away the flies.
‘Here, bunnies,’ Beeper yelled from the back fence. He used his hunting stick to try to dig out a burrow, but under the loose dust, the ground was like concrete.
Through the sweat trickling into his eyes, George watched Beeper’s blurry outline. At least the hunt kept Beeper busy, no matter how pointless it was. And it stopped him complaining he was hungry.
George sighed. No rabbits, no real chance of finding any other food. Still no Dad. How could they get to the hospital or the port? Or anywhere? They didn’t have the strength for anything.
For a brief moment, the previous morning, George had been happy with himself. He had used his brains and his hands and built a place where they could hide. He felt he was becoming a fixer, just like Dad. But everything had gone bad in seconds.
His fault again: he hadn’t fixed the loose sheet of iron on the roof. Dust had sneaked in through the tiles, the ceiling had collapsed, and their room had been buried.
The boys hadn’t dug out their filthy mattresses. They were frightened by the gaping hole in the ceiling, with its exposed rafters, falling wires, and risks of snakes and rats. They’d found the backpack under all the debris, but hadn’t stayed long enough to search for the hammer.
They had spent the night on their father’s bed: sweaty, grimy, hungry and unable to sleep. Beeper insisted George tell him more about secret agents and Drought Barons. George half-heartedly thought up what he could, hoping he could bore them both to sleep.
Towards morning, George drifted off. Hunger awoke him an hour or two later. Now, as the strip of shade under the eaves narrowed and the late-morning heat beat onto his skin, George had never felt so useless.
He hadn’t been able to catch a rabbit or find any other food for his brother. All he had for him were big fat lies: their father chasing someone across green fields; their father jumping over fences; their father reaching for a lasso and shouting, ‘You can run but you can’t hide.’ A stupid story straight out of a comic book.
George sighed and scanned the back yard. Everything was out of focus. He felt like curling up into a ball and never moving again. But he had to take care of Beeper. Dad would never forgive him if he didn’t. And he’d never forgive himself.
Beeper was still digging. ‘Leave it, Beeper,’ George yelled. ‘You’re not going to catch a rabbit.’
Beeper’s face was bright red and running with sweat, making streaks in the dirt on his cheeks. ‘Want to keep trying, Torgie.’
‘Later. When it’s cooler.’ George glanced at the house next door. Mr Carey was standing at the window on the second floor, staring down at them. George couldn’t make out the expression on his face.
George would normally turn away timidly when he saw Mr Carey through the glass. This time, he stared straight back until Mr Carey left.
‘Come on, Beeps,’ George said. ‘We’d better go inside and do some straining. You can have some of that orange flavouring.’
When they twisted the kitchen tap, it produced more noise than water. None of the filled jars had properly settled; George hadn’t kept up with the chores. And the girl had kept taking the cleanest water for herself. Not a single jar was really ready to drink.
/> Beeper strained what little water came out of the tap, while George poured the contents of the clearest jar into the two white mugs. He put two teaspoons of powdered orange juice into each, hoping it would disguise the horrible taste of murky water. He banged the bottom of the tin to dislodge the few grains of flavouring left, sprinkled them into the mugs and stirred gently.
‘Here’s yours, Beeps.’
George sipped his own drink slowly through closed teeth, trying to filter out any grit that hadn’t been caught by the cloth. He glanced up and spotted a rabbit emerging from a burrow in the back yard, but ignored it. There was no point.
He let loose a string of coughs that tore at his throat. The air inside the house was even dustier than outside. Dust from the collapsed ceiling had spread all over the house.
‘Is Dad a hero?’ Beeper asked.
‘To us, yes.’ There were now two scrawny rabbits against the back fence, but George felt he couldn’t open the back door, let alone throw his stone.
Beeper tipped his head back and took in as much as he could without filling his mouth with silt. ‘I mean to everybody else.’
George could scarcely talk. ‘Well he’s not a hero yet, Beeper.’
George finished his drink and swallowed some of the gunk at the bottom, hoping it might taste of orange. It didn’t. But the water did give him a little more strength. ‘Nobody knows about his secret mission. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a secret. But just imagine what everyone is going to say when he succeeds.’
‘Yes, it’ll rain for the first time in my life. And trees will start growing. And everyone will be friendly and happy.’
‘Yes, Beeps. That’s enough talk about it for now.’
‘And we can eat meat and fish that isn’t from a tin,’ added Beeper. ‘And …’
Someone shouted out in the street. George put two fingers over his lips. ‘Ssh, Beeps, listen!’
The voice came closer. ‘Rabbitohs! Bunny for money or bunny for water.’
George found enough energy to stand up. ‘If we can drink this water, he can, Beeps. Let’s go.’