The Cartographer

by Peter Twohig

  For a start, the only thing the other Commandos wanted to talk about was making up a new game based on the murder, one in which we would pretend to murder each other, and because I could draw, we could get an exercise book, and I could make drawings of all the different murder methods we dreamt up. Normally, this plan would have met with my approval — drawings of murders were my cup of tea — but I knew that it would only make me more worried, and I could live without that.

  But the worst thing about the plan was that it had been Matthew Foster’s idea, and now the other Commandos were thinking of letting him join our club. I could see that if I voted against this, I would probably make myself unpopular, so I agreed. It made me wish Tom was still around, because then I would have had two votes, if you see what I mean. There were two consolations, however. First, according to the rules, Matthew Foster would have to be a private (I was a corporal) as he was the last person to be recruited. (This suited Luigi down to the ground as it meant he could be a lance corporal at last. He said he could hardly wait to tell his dad; and he meant it, too.) And second, he would have to be initiated.

  Even so, that meeting put me off being a Commando a bit, so I decided to spend the rest of the week after school concentrating on the map, not that I had a lot of choice as one of the local kids had gone missing — the younger Harrigan kid, I heard Mum tell Mrs Carruthers — and after that none of us were allowed to go anywhere but straight to school and back. I knew who the Harrigan kid was, because his big brother, Greg, had once stuck bubble gum in my hair when Tom and me were at the flicks, and the little kid had been with him. Mum had to cut so much hair off that I ended up looking like Friar Tuck, so Greg Harrigan was our sworn enemy. But after Tom died, I lost interest in getting back at him.

  The Commandos reckoned that he’d probably run away to join the navy, but I wasn’t so sure as he was even younger than us. My money was on the old attic trick: Berny Aldersear, one of the kids at school, had once run away from home and gone no further than his own attic. He was there for a fortnight before they caught him raiding the fridge one night. His parents already reckoned he hadn’t gone too far when they discovered that he was still putting his socks and undies in the laundry basket. Old habits.

  But it’s lucky I did spend more time at home as it gave me time to think about the map. There are two kinds of map: the first kind shows you where all the good things in the world are so that you can find them, and the other kind shows you all the scary stuff so you won’t walk into it — that’s how my map had started out. But both kinds hide things that are so bad that they give you nothing but trouble. It’s up to you to find them, then decide where they should be on the map. After the Incident in the Broken Down House, I decided that my map was crawling with those hidden things you had to watch out for. But there were way too many and after a little while I worked out why: I was cursed.

  Others might have seen it right off the bat; I did not. It took, for me, three new thrillers: Murder on the Second Floor, The Mystery of the Old Man in the Laundry and The Forking of the Dead-end Boy (a new form of crime, as far as I could tell, and one that I hoped might one day be named after me, as its discoverer) before the penny dropped.

  When I thought about it, it made sense that I was cursed; in fact, I was probably long overdue. Look at the facts: I knew the location of the Phantom’s Skull Cave, Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, the Batcave and Jet Jackson’s secret laboratory with its jet hangar. And now I knew what the murderer down Kipling Lane looked like. I knew way too much to be allowed to live! I had brought this on myself; this had been coming for a long time, since Tom, really. In fact, I suppose I’d been half expecting it. This was not one of those curses that some loony old witch doctor bungs on you for refusing to marry his daughter; this was one of those curses that you catch, just by doing the wrong thing, like Pinocchio’s nose — and thank God that’s not a true story. It’s the kind you get when you can’t help someone who’s dying. I didn’t get it when Tom died — there was probably some kind of mix-up — so God sent the woman down Kipling Lane, to make sure the curse worked the second time round. You can’t fight that kind of stuff.

  But you can trick it. And I thought of a way to do it. I would become a new person, though exactly who I had not yet figured out, only that it would be someone with powers and abilities far beyond mortal men, someone who could outfox murderers, and do as he pleased without having to worry about bumping into his archenemy. The main thing is, I would no longer be the person who had been cursed. Then the expeditions could continue. For the new person I’d become, the map would hold no dark secrets, but would help me to succeed and to find my way.

  So once I’d refined my map, I worked at putting a new explorer’s kit together. Soon my bag had in it: a magnifying glass; binoculars, a birthday present from Granddad, and damn handy at the races; my new compass; a red multi-purpose pocketknife (another birthday present, this time from Dad, before he shot through); a liquorice strap, to keep my strength up; a Spirax notebook (a real reporter’s notebook); and a pencil (HB: the initials of Harry Black, the private eye, who had lost it on one of his capers). The only thing missing that I really wanted was Mum’s Brownie Box camera, but I had no idea how to work it — I made a mental note to find out. If I’d had that damn camera when I saw the murderer looking at me, I could have taken his picture, mailed it to the police, and saved myself about twenty-seven nervous breakdowns.

  A few days later, the paper said that the Harrigan kid had been kidnapped and his family had received a ransom note. So all the kids were allowed back on the street, as our parents reasoned that the kidnapper was hardly likely to kidnap every kid in Richmond. And besides, the kidnapper was probably flat out at home, now that he had an extra mouth to feed.

  I was so glad to be out and about again that I went for a walk — a practice walk, to test the explorer’s kit — down the lane that followed Church Street along the back of its shops. I had an idea that if I went for a nice long walk I might bump into Dad, who I thought might be working undercover as a spy. Dad had shot through before, but never for a whole month, and usually to some place we all knew, it being pretty impossible for anyone in my family except Granddad and me to keep a secret. He’d lobbed on Uncle Ivor so often they’d cleaned out the lean-to for him and his bike. And Nanna Blayney kept a bed for him at her place, though he preferred not to show up there, as it only upset Mum more, if that was possible. This time he hadn’t gone to either place, but no one in the family was walking around going: ‘Now where’s that scallywag Bill Blayney got to?’, which struck me as strange.

  ‘Granddad,’ I said to him one night when he came over to deliver a wooden crate full of lollies that he’d found, ‘you seem to know everything.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ says he, offering me a humbug from a little jar, but already not liking where this was going.

  ‘Where do you reckon a bloke would go if he wanted to disappear, motorbike and all?’

  He looks at me as if he’s just discovered he’s got a cavity in one of his teeth. ‘What you mean is, where’s your father?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I said with a mouth full of humbugs: one for me and one for Tom.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you this much’ — he looked around to make sure we were alone — ‘he’s all right, and thinking of you, and he’ll be in touch when the time is right.’

  ‘You mean when he’s completed his mission?’

  He made a frog mouth. ‘Yeah, when he’s completed his mission.’

  I knew it!

  ‘Thanks, Granddad. Help yourself to a humbug — they’re on me. Have two.’

  I reckoned that if I did bump into Dad, he might take me to the pub and shout me a lady’s waist of raspberry vinegar and lemonade, and I’d forget everything that had happened for a while. As I said, it was an idea.

  It was a quiet afternoon. There was nobody around, just cats — I actually saw a black and white cat with three legs, and he is now on the map. I thought it was lucky
for me that I had not been around when he lost that leg as that would have done nothing for my confidence at all. Anyhow, I was walking, and being extra careful not to overdo the exploring (in view of my track record) when I came to a particularly interesting box that had been dumped in the lane, probably because no one wanted it (the only reason something would be in a lane — or anywhere else, come to think of it). It was a box full of books.

  I once heard Granddad say to Jack Whaley, the SP bookmaker, that he was partial to a good book, and I know just how he feels. But these books had pretty boring titles. Checking my Spirax, I see that one was called Abbey Girl, and another Naughty Nights. They had thin covers that were made for folding back, like the Argosy and Reader’s Digest, but no pictures, even on the front. I decided to take one home for Mum, who had been doing a lot of reading lately. I chose Hot Housewives, because she was always complaining of slaving over a hot stove, but I could tell by the look on her face that it was not a good choice. Still, she read it. So the box was not a bonanza, but it did tell me something about the people who threw it out: they probably had a lot more books they didn’t want.

  The gate nearest the box of books was one of those high tin gates that you find at the back of most shops, and it had a hole you put your hand through to open it. I made sure I had a good look through the hole first, and also through the crack at the side of the gate, to make sure there was no dog in the yard as it is a well-known fact that a dog can be trained to keep quiet until a hand is stuck through the hole in the gate and then the dog bites it off. You can’t take the hand with you to hospital for it to be sewn back on either, because the dog would be trained to eat it. These dogs are called watchdogs because they are trained to watch you, and they live in watch-houses, which are kennels for watchdogs. I thought I heard something in the yard, so I decided not to stick my hand through the hole but climb up and take a peek over the fence instead. I hopped up on the box of books, my left foot on a copy of House of Sin, and stuck my right shoe in the hand hole to push myself up — I was not worried about getting my shoe bitten off because I’d heard that watchdogs are only trained to bite exposed flesh.

  The yard was empty, so I climbed over the fence and let myself down the other side. The back wall of the building was made of red brick, and was still damp from the last rain. Most of it was hidden by a shed that was joined to the building, which I guessed was a shop as it had a tin sign leaning against the wall, saying in red letters: THE ARGUS. The shed door had a padlock on it, which was unlocked.

  Inside, the shed turned out not to be a shed at all, but the back room of the shop, and it was lined with books, so that there was just barely room for me to squeeze through. I had smelt books before, but never like this place. It was so good I had to stop and sniff for a sec, and I see that on the map I gave it a six (though the memory is worth more). At the far end there was a door with a keyhole in it, which turned out to be unlocked as well. Inside was the back of the shop itself. The smell of books here was even sweeter, and there were other smells as well: pencils, newspapers and, of all things, tea. It took me a second or two to realise that the tea was right beside me, freshly brewed and in a cup. It was not one of those lady’s cups with red roses on it, but a thick white cup bearing the letters ‘VR’ with wings on either side. I knew what that stood for as Granddad had a cup the same, and he once told me with a wink that it had fallen off the back of a train. So I reckoned that some bloke who was a lot like Granddad owned that cup and he would be back any second to drink his tea. The last thing I wanted was to get caught by the kind of bloke who collects things that fall off the back of trains, so I crept out the door and carefully closed it again. That left me in the little back room.

  I decided to have a bit of a look around, in case there were any Phantom comics or racing car books. There was only one thing I saw that I had to have: the Royal Australian Survey Corps Mapping Manual. It was thick, it was coloured, and when I opened it in a few places, I saw that it was full of maps. Also, it was clear from the List of Contents that it would teach the reader how to make proper maps. It went into my bag so fast that if a watchdog had turned up he would not have seen what I did with my hand. I walked back through the yard but did not climb over the gate; I opened it and stepped through it like William the Conquerer. I came, I saw, I conquered. The curse was lifted. I had the antidote. I had a Secret Manual that told me how to make the perfect map. That was my new mission: not to walk; not to amble aimlessly, merely to explore; not to climb ladders that led I knew not where; not to trip over I knew not what and be murdered by I knew not whom — but to map.

  True, there would be exploring, but I would never again wander into places that ran with blood, like the steps of the sacrificial temples of the Mayans. I would determine, using the Manual, the way a successful soldier does, the best way to go, the best terrain to map, and the best way to represent my travels. No longer would the outcome be the thrill of exploration — I was sure that exploration would be involved — but the thrill of discovery itself, surely the aim of exploration. There was a big difference, and as I wandered away from the back of the shop, turning down this lane and that, I felt I was in safe hands, whatever that meant, and I saw clearly that my life would never be the same again. I even began to think that I might now be able to find out where the hell Dad was holed up.

  I decided, with a feeling that was so delicious I could almost smell it, not to take the Manual out and look at it until I arrived home. Who knew what evil spies were lurking around corners or looking over fences and might suddenly appear, claiming to be its owner? It was not until I had put three corners between myself and the shop that I felt that I could slow down and take it easy, as every good private eye does when he gets the chance. Then I allowed myself to saunter. I would have swaggered, but I knew that guys who swaggered usually came to a sticky end, so I kept it down to a saunter. But I sauntered jauntily; in other words, the way soldiers walk when they are on leave — like I was. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I rounded a corner and found myself face to face with the very object I had practically devoted my whole life to avoiding: a dog.

  Not just any dog. This dog was the size of a Ford Prefect and had the face of a Bengalla jungle beast. Actually, at that moment I would have preferred a jungle beast to a dog; I knew exactly what steps to take when confronted by one of those. However, I knew that I could not outrun a mad dog. Not even the Phantom could do that, which is why he had one of his own as a pet. This dog was a real mongrel — and he was snarling at me as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. It was one of those times when you wished you’d brought a bag of chops and sausages, or at least a bone. I froze. He looked as if he was about to pounce any second. What would Larry have done? That was easy: he would have filled him full of lead. The Phantom would have sicked Devil onto him — what a fight that would have been!

  The dog took a step closer. Now I could actually smell his breath, and it was pretty bad, as if he had just eaten a dead person. Slowly, I slipped off my bag and began to hold it as a weapon. If he took another step, I would swing it, and that would be the end of him. It would be quick and clean. Then he would be in hell where he belonged.

  There were footsteps. Someone was hurrying in my direction, just around the corner. He would run into the beast and be killed! Yes! He would run into the beast and be killed! And I, who’d seen more dead bodies than I’d had hot dinners, would look on with horror, thanking God that it wasn’t me. No, actually, I would run like hell. That was my plan, and I would stick to it.

  Suddenly, the stranger was upon us. The dog turned around to face his new victim, and I took a step backwards so as to be closer to my escape route. The newcomer was a youngish man wearing a gold bow tie and a red shopkeeper’s apron, and on it the words ‘The Argus’. He had followed me, and now he had me; and if I tried to run I was as good as dead. He and the beast confronted each other and I was just thinking that with a bit of luck they would kill each other, when the man reached out and grabbed th
e beast by the collar and said: ‘Naughty boy. What have you been up to?’

  The beast’s response was to sniff my bag suspiciously as if to say that he had only been about his master’s work, that’s all. But the man with the red apron pulled him away with a laugh and walked off with him, talking to him as if he actually liked him. As they rounded the corner, the beast fixed me with a red eye that said: ‘You’ll keep.’ But everyone knows that dogs don’t live as long as people, so I figured that I could probably outlast him. Besides, if he wanted a piece of me he would have to get in the queue.

  How lucky am I, I thought, as I resumed my walk, though it had lost all of its jaunt, and try as I may, I could not find one single jaunt in my whole body, so I had to be content with a sort of relieved slouch. And that was how I was walking, with my head bent and my eyes on the ground, when I saw a most interesting sight. It was a drain hole with a grille over the top, only someone had moved the grille to one side a little and I could see that it was the kind of grille that could easily be slid away from the hole.

  Inside the hole was a metal ladder, and at the bottom was a dark, paved-looking space. It seemed as if whoever had built it had had me in mind. Down the ladder I went. All I wanted was a look — for the map’s sake. I felt somehow protected by my new Manual. It had already saved me from the dog. And a Manual that can do that can save you from anything. I have already mentioned that I was one of those rare breed of kids who are not afraid of the dark. Dad always told me that if anyone ever heard me coming in the dark they would be a lot more scared than me, so I was not the least bit worried about going down the ladder. Tom had gone down one of these drains once, and had run all the way to the next exit, which was a large gutter drain. I was relieved when he reappeared, because everyone knew that Snowy Williams had drowned in one of these drains — but he had been too little to take c are of himself. All of these memories, and the drain itself, made me so excited that I forgot about my troubles. As I stepped off the ladder I wondered if this was how Tom had felt when he swung on the edge of the monkey bar. Probably not, I thought. What Tom had done was bloody dangerous.