by Paul Collins
His eyes were wide, gazing into the recent past as if it were a Bible-book.
And then he hops off, taking more than his luggage with him.’
The horse let out a whinny, and we saw a donkey plodding towards us with a farmwife and her baskets perched atop, her skirts tucked up against the road’s mud. Bath tipped his hat at her, she nodded her sun bonnet back.
‘Busy road, ma’am?’ he said, a question-greeting.
‘Not at this spot,’ she replied smartly, and urged the donkey onwards.
‘What did she mean?’ I asked Master Bath, but he was busy with the past again.
‘A big trunk,’ he said. ‘No man, however strong, could tuck it under his arm and walk away. He had help! Another passenger, or the sight of a fellow miscreant on the road. Tips him the wink, stops the coach ...’
He bent down, staring at the impressions of pas sage in the road’s mud. I saw: our nag’s big feet; the donkey’s, daintier; several cows being driven to market and complaining with cowpats; but no other wheeled tracks over the ruts of the coach, nothing to help them get the prize away.
‘Not even a wheelbarrow, sir.’
‘See these?’ he said, pointing at several footsteps, pressed deep. ‘They were carrying weight. And they stepped up into the drier, grassy verge ... But where did they put that trunk? They couldn’t have got far, not without someone seeing them, on the road or in the fields.’
He was grinning now at the thrill of the chase, like a hound scenting a fox.
But my mind was elsewhere, worrying at the farmwife’s words, and the sound of a faint buzzing. The nag was restive, too, tossing his head irritably, so that I had to hold hard onto the reins. Then I felt something alight on my neck. A flea? No, bigger! I swatted at it, and just missed. Something striped bright yellow shot between my fingers with a buzzing whine.
‘Ohno!’
A wasp, and in the tree above it the London-town of its fellows, the reason why nobody had dared to take an axe to the withered oak.
‘Ohno!’
The wasp landed on the nag’s tender pink nose. As he tossed his head again, trying to dislodge the unwanted passenger, the wasp lashed out.
‘Ohno!’
Stung and sore, the nag reared, while I hung on desperately. Then he shot down the road. I hung on as long as I could, but got shaken off on the verge. Down Ifell, through grass and sedge into shallow, filthy, brackish water.
Silence, except for the nag’s hooves galloping away. And then my master’s face, looking down at me as I lay full-length in the roadside ditch.
‘No broken bones, lad?’
I felt around, and shook my head.
He laughed. ‘Well, you’re a sight then!’
‘Yes sir, and I think I know where the trunk might be.’
He pulled me out, dripping mud and leeches. The ditch was deep and wide under its thick grassy cover. We waited until the wasps calmed down, then we followed the line of the ditch past the oak. Some few steps onwards, covered with more grass and sedge, we found the trunk.
‘The villains,’ said my master, grinning. ‘Clever, though, to stow the trunk out of sight where nobody would think of looking, thanks to the wasps. Planning to come back later I’ll warrant, under cover of dark, with a handcart ...’
It took three goes, in which we got even more muddy, but we hauled the trunk out of the ditch. It was a dead weight and the padlock was secure. We set the trunk down on the verge, and for somewhere to sit, sat on it. The nag was nowhere to be seen.
‘What now, sir?’
He squinted at the fields, then dug into his purse.
‘Take these coins lad, and hire those fence- menders to give us a helping hand.’
‘Me, sir? I’m covered in mud!’
‘But the coins aren’t. Go on, stir yourself!’
Money greases all passage, and even though I looked like a beggar, Hodge and Will were happy to lay down their fencing tools and help us, for my master’s pence.
Peckham village was half a mile away and even with the four of us, it was hard work carrying the trunk. Thirsty, too, and the first sight we saw was a glad one: the alehouse. Tied outside it was the farm wife’s donkey.
‘Let me treat you all!’ said my master, and still carrying the trunk we waddled to the door. It slammed behind us and we set the trunk down; then looked up to see a roomful of patrons, gaping. At the nearest sat an old man with a great handbell in front of him. His jaw dropped like a hangman’s trapdoor - he stood up and rang the bell loudly.
‘Oyez, oyez, and if that isn’t the trunk I was paid to cry for, with its thieves, too!’
Hands seized us, and the fence-menders, too.
‘They paid us,’ Hodge and Will protested, ‘to do their dirty work. Said they were thieftakers!’
‘A likely story, the filthy beggars!’ said the Crier. From the back, a big man with a bigger cudgel pushed forward.
‘I be the parish constable of Peckham. And who might ye be with this fine trunk, not your property?’
‘I’m Mr Bath, thieftaker of London Town,’ said my master.
‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba!’ said the farmwife.
So we ended up in Peckham’s tiny watch-house, locked in one cell with the trunk for safekeeping locked in the other. We spent the night there, lying on flea-ridden straw with a thin blanket shared between us, and water and stale bread our food. But Master Bath always kept his wits about him, and had enough money hidden in his boots for emergencies. One bribe went to the parish constable for pen, ink and paper (even if it was the back of an old feed bill).
Another bribe went to the alehouse boy to carry a letter back to London.
And so it was, first thing in the morning we woke shivering to peals of laughter: Mr Fielding, leaning against the bars, all his double chins shaking like jelly. Although it hadn’t seemed funny until that point, we joined in too. We got a ride back to London in Mr Fielding’s coach, and cramped it was with the trunk safely inside with us, just in case. On a long rope, trotting behind us came the hired nag, with a swollen nose, but not the least sorry for leaving us in the lurch.
Mr Fielding, being Mr Fielding, had somehow found a fresh-baked pie in Peckham and so we showered crumbs all over the trunk on the way back to London. A quick wipe down and it was returned to the offices of the East India Company. We heard later it departed from Gravesend the next day, ex actly as scheduled.
Back at our lodgings, Master Bath sat down and eyed me from behind his glasses. ‘That was smart work, lad, to lead us to the trunk. So I’m thinking you’ve earned a small share of the reward.’
‘Oh, I don’t want money!’
He stared at me. ‘In heaven’s name, what do you want, lad?’
I had an armful of wood for the fire, and clutched it tightly, to get my courage up. ‘I want to be more than your servant, sir!’
No one had ever heard anything of the sort before, Mr Fielding said, but he signed the papers and made an attested copy. And that is how I became not just a servant boy, but an accredited apprentice to Mr Bath, Thieftaker.
And one day, I’ll be a Thieftaker, too!
The empty car park was a bad omen. Kevin walked past the rusty gates of Gorgebank High, carrying second thoughts. He could still walk away and no one would ever know. No one would care. Who would go to a school reunion in the Facebook era? And a five-year reunion? It was too soon.
The hall still looked the same. The stench of the toilets nearby lingered in the air and revived Kevin’s memory. There was nothing on the stage except a stereo coughing up some old music.
There were six large round tables surrounded by plastic green chairs. There was only one table with people at it. Kevin sat by himself, at the table furthest away from them.
Andrew waved at him. ‘
Come over, man.’
Kevin recognised that screechy voice and ignored it.
After ten minutes, Andrew and the others came over to him. Andrew was wearing his crinkled suit. It reeked like sour pasta sauce. He hadn’t washed it since the Year Twelve formal. ‘How’s it going, Kevin Earnshaw?’
Kevin concentrated on the large banner stretched across the stage, under the faded green curtains. Gorgebank High Class cif 2007. His mind raced down the list of better things to do on a Saturday night. An old man staggered in from the side door. He stood out the front of the stage, his face blending in with the cracked walls.
‘Welcome to the reunion,’ he mumbled. ‘You may not know me. My name is Mr Tomly, I’m currently the Year Twelve advisor. None of your old teachers could make it.’
Kevin wished he were that smart.
Mr Tomly rubbed his hands. ‘I’m sure more students will turn up. I’ll go check on the sausage rolls ... Help yourself to some cordial.’ He shuffled back through the side door.
Andrew laid down his business cards like he was playing solitaire. He flicked one over to Kevin. ‘If you want to claim compo, I’m your man.’
Kevin picked it up. ‘You a lawyer?’
‘I will be.’
Kevin looked closer at the card. Andrew Carf!Y, 2”d year Law student. He pretended to stuff the card in his pocket, but dropped it under the table.
The girl beside Andrew smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Millie.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Kevin remembered her at their graduation day. She had lip-synced to the song
‘Hero’. And it was still painful. Most girls Kevin knew from school had stacked on the kilos. Millie was an ugly duckling transformed into a slightly better duck. ‘So, you and Andrew are together?’
‘Nah, I’ve got a missus.’ Andrew took out his wallet and showed them a photo. ‘She gets her visa to come here next month.’
Millie went over to the drinks table and grabbed a jug of cordial and four plastic cups. She returned to the table, her face animated as she mimed to the song on the stereo. ‘So what do you do, Kevin?’
Kevin shrugged. ‘Urn, stuff’
‘Oh, okay.’
The other guy snatched his drink. It spilled all over his shiny tracksuit. ‘You remember me?’
Kevin looked at Andrew and Millie. They shook their heads.
‘It’s Phillip Bray.’
‘Don’t know, man,’ Kevin said. ‘I must have blocked it out.’
‘Nah, it’s all right.’ He crushed his cup on his forehead.
Millie smiled. ‘Well, I’m part of a girl band. It’s called Desire.’
Andrew laughed until Millie’s glare shut him up.
‘We came fifth in the Gorgebank RSL talent quest.’
It was Phillip’s turn. ‘Urn, I’m between opportuni ties. I’m taking care of my uncle. He got discharged from the army for being too fat. He got stuck in the tank’s hatch.’
‘I remember that,’ Andrew said. ‘He made the newspaper and everything.’
Kevin felt sick when everyone looked at him. Even the music stopped.
Millie played with her pigtails. ‘Come on, Kevin, what do you really do?’
Her voice echoed in the hollow hall. Kevin’s neck was sticky. They meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t tell them the truth. Kevin thought about his stack of DVDs at home. He was in the middle of watching a reality series about celebrity funerals. He slouched in his seat. ‘I’m a mortician.’
Kevin could hear their brains grinding. Why didn’t he just copy Phillip?
Millie nodded. ‘Sounds exciting.’
‘Yeah it’s, urn, cool.’ Kevin gulped his watered down cordial.
Mr Tomly crept in with a plate of sausage rolls.
‘Ah, still no one else?’ He placed the plate on the food table next to the drinks. ‘Help yourselves ...’
Nobody moved. Mr Tomly sighed. He brought the tray of sausage rolls to their table.
Millie scrunched up her nose. ‘I’m vegetarian.’
‘I have some dim sims,’ Mr Tomly said. ‘They’re just thawing in the microwave.’
‘It’s okay, I’m not hungry.’ Millie poured some more cordial. She filled Kevin’s cup, too.
Mr Tomly walked over to the stereo. ‘Could have sworn I put in fresh batteries.’ He shook it around.
Kevin bit into a lukewarm sausage roll. It tasted like cardboard and ice. Still, he was happy. This bunch of nobodies gobbled up his lie. He was better than them, even though he was a slacker. He couldn’t wait to go home and write about it in his blog.
There was a loud thud. Everybody turned to see Mr Tomly lying awkwardly on the floor. Andrew rushed up and touched Mr Tomly’s neck. ‘Ohmigod. He’s dead.’ He put his hands on his head.
Millie shrieked. ‘We gotta call the police!’
‘If you call the cops, I wasn’t here, okay?’ Phillip said. ‘I didn’t even graduate here. I dropped out in Year Ten.’
Andrew picked up the battery from the dead man’s hand. The tip was wet with spit. ‘He must have licked it.’
Kevin studied Mr Tomly’s face. He looked so peaceful. ‘Let’s just go.’
No one said anything for a while. Then Phillip stuffed the sausage rolls into his pockets. Millie tidied up the cups and cordial. Andrew and Kevin shut the doors and windows. Phillip found a cloth and wiped the tables and chairs down. Kevin switched off the lights. Any sign of life disappeared when they left the room.
Are you on Facebook?’ Andrew dug out his car keys.
‘No,’ Kevin said.
‘Me either.’ Andrew crossed the road to his car.
Phillip lurched away from them down the road, the stereo under his arm. Kevin went the other way. Millie walked beside him, breathing hard and fast. He glanced at her. ‘I’m going to Maccas. Urn, you wanna come?’
Millie nodded.
Kevin was in denial. He wanted to believe that he never ate that sausage roll. That he never met Phillip. That he never flicked Andrew’s business card under the table . . .
Kevin stopped. Millie touched his arm. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, it’s nothing.’
Kevin finished erasing the whole night in his head. But he held onto Millie. Maybe the night wasn’t a total waste.
Millie twirled her hair. ‘Hey Kevin ... about Mr
Tomly?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What kind of make-up would you use on him?’
I’m going to tell you exactly what happened. Others will want you to know a different story, but I guess everyone has their own version. Police, counsellors, family. Bits they need to leave out because they’re embarrassed or wish they’d acted differently or because they were simply clocking up another shift and didn’t care too much either way.
But I’m not any of those.
This story starts and ends in the same place, even though no one but me knows that. And now you.
I know why Rory did what he did and how much was my part. I’m tired of carrying it around and wearing it noosed around my neck. I hate what it’s made me and that I’ve lied about it for so long, and nothing, not anything or anyone, is going to stop me telling you what really happened.
Mays Rock
A ritual of growing up in Hopetoun was a jump from Mays Rock. As a kid, it felt like standing on the tall est building above a city of trees, a jagged, snaking gully and a river that would snatch our breath away with its cold, black belly. Rory and I would ride our bikes along Beckett’s fire trail, dumping them a few hundred metres from the end where we made our way on foot across the platform to the rock.
The first few times we went, we just sat and talked about jumping.
‘I’d walk up to the edge, hold my arms out and
J
.Ump.’
‘Then you’re an idiot, Superman,’ Rory said. ‘The best way is to take a run up, swing your arms out for momentum and launch into the air.’
‘What makes you such an expert?’
‘Natural smarts.’
‘I hate to bring you back to reality, but smarts is the last thing that comes natural to you.’
That was it. Rory had me in a headlock. He looked puny, but he carried a lot of power in those skinny arms.
‘Let me go,’ I wheezed.
‘Not until you admit you’re wrong.’
‘Never.’
‘Then you’re here for a long time. I don’t have anywhere else to be.’
I tried to hold out, but I was starting to feel my head float from the rest of my body. ‘Okay, you’re right.’
Rory let me go. ‘I knew it was only a matter of time before you realised my greatness.’
I laughed and nodded toward the edge. ‘Does that mean you’re going to do it?’
Rory stared it down. ‘Soon. Maybe next time.’
Next Time
We were standing near the edge. It was a perfect day for a jump. No wind, no one around, and with the early stirrings of summer and the climb on our bikes, the cool water would be welcome.
Rory stepped forward and looked over the edge.
‘It’s a long way down.’
‘You’re only working that out now?’
He turned to face me. just letting you know in case you hadn’t noticed, in fact ...’
Rory’s foot skated on a rock. It slid out from under him and he was going down. He twisted his body and reached away from the edge but his chest hit the platform. I flung my hands out and grabbed his wrists. The lower part of his body was dangling above the river.
His eyes met mine in quiet panic. ‘Don’t let go.’
‘I won’t.’
My fingers dug into his skin. I hauled him, inched him across the rock, until one final tug on the back of his shirt and he was safe.