by Peter Twohig
‘Love, we —’
‘Yes, you can. It’s settled.’
She turns to me. Now what, for God’s sake?
‘You’d better see if you can stay with the Sandersons for a few days. Get them to give me a ring later. I don’t feel like talking to them just now.’
‘Mum —’
‘Just do as you’re told for once!’
But that’s not what I need to talk to her about. Frankly, I don’t care if I never sleep at home again. But Mum needs to be warned, old friend or no old friend.
Back in my bedroom again I yell: ‘Mum! Hey, Mum!’ until she can’t stand it and comes stomping down to my room like some kind of monster from outer space.
‘What!’
‘Mum, you can’t let that kid stay here —’
‘I can —’
‘He lights fires —’
‘I know —’
‘It was him who burnt down their house —’
‘I know —’
‘You know?’
‘Everybody knows. Is that what you brought me down here for — to tell me that the kid’s a pyromaniac?’
‘Pyromaniac?’
‘Yeah, a firebug, like your Uncle Pat.’
‘Uncle Pat? I thought he stole moneyboxes?’
‘That’s Uncle Bert.’
‘I thought he was the one with the primrose dress?’
‘That’s your other Uncle Bert, and we don’t mention his name in this house.’
‘There are two Uncle Berts?’ You learn something new every day. ‘Mum, are you sure all those blokes are actually relatives?’
‘Well they’re somebody’s bloody relatives.’
‘Jesus, Mum, the point is: I was worried about you.’
She looks at me with a strange frown, like she’s going to sneeze on me, then she suddenly grabs me in a bear hug, the kind that can snap a man’s spine like a Uneeda biscuit.
‘Jesus, Mum, me hat!’ I gasp.
‘Don’t swear,’ she whispers automatically.
She lets me go, and her eyes are all red and swollen, which is definitely the best time to ask Mum tricky questions.
‘Mum, that copper said something about Biscuit. Did he really get —’
‘Listen, don’t worry about that copper … and don’t ever repeat whatever he told you to your father. He’d go troppo.’
I see.
‘Okay, Mum.’
‘You’ve got Zac, now; consider yourself lucky.’
I wondered if I was still on a roll. But one look at her face told me that if she didn’t get a Bex and a snifter soon she wasn’t going to feature at the turn, let alone the finish post.
‘Hey, Mum, about Mr Sanderson —’
‘What about him?’
‘Mrs Sanderson said you knew him during the war.’
‘Not now,’ she said, as she turned to leave. That went well.
No sooner had Mum walked out than Flame Boy walked in — I made a mental note to have a turnstile installed. He just stood there and gazed at me with that funny lopsided look on his dial. When he spoke I felt the way I would have felt if Zac had suddenly piped up and told me that henceforth he would prefer to be addressed as Beaumont and fed only a vegetarian diet. It was just that Flame Boy had always struck me as one of those kids who subscribes to the theory that actions speak louder than words.
‘Your dog didn’t get hit by a tram,’ he begins quietly. ‘That copper shot ’im,’ he says, not wishing to drag the matter out. He inclines his head. ‘In the back yard. He gave Mr Purvis a quid to bury him. Mr Purvis lives over the back from us. I saw —’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay. I know. But he said that if I caused him any trouble it’d be me next,’ I say, in the spirit of Flame Boy’s new-found talkativeness.
We looked at each other intently, and the conversation continued for some time in silence, which, if I read it right, was probably just as well.
When he left, I pulled up the carpet and got some of my money out. I would need more victuals and a few extra supplies. I filled my explorer’s bag and took it to the back door, walking past Flame Boy, who was sitting in the kitchen looking suspiciously innocent. I got my billy-cart and pulled it to the back door, and made a few more trips to my room to get the things I needed the most, including my secret possessions. Then I went down to the living room and kissed Mum goodbye. As Flame Boy’s mum was crying, I gave her goodbye a miss. On my way back to the kitchen, I stopped and regarded Flame Boy, who was still sitting there looking like the kind of kid Jesus would kill to play with. In the tradition of our new communication, I gave him one of those slow shakes of the head that means: Don’t even think about it.
Then I grabbed my dog, and left. My plan was to lie low until this whole mess blew over. Once again, I had become: The Outlaw!
Who runs from hideout to hideout, living only off the land, and off his secret victual supply obtained from O’Connor’s milk bar, and off his secret underground grog supply, known only to a few. The Outlaw! Who, with his two fellow superheroes, the Cartographer and Railwayman, leads coppers and murderers a merry chase, and, with his faithful companion, Shadow, sniffs out crime wherever it occurs and rescues beautiful women from the evil mates of their husbands!
It was a long walk over to the Sandersons’. I was lugging all my worldly possessions and treasures, not including any clothes I never liked in the first place and only ever wore because I was forced to by the Clothes Squad — it’s a bit like the Gaming Squad, only not open to bribery. And not including the brown plastic brush and comb set that Aunty Betty gave me for my birthday, that I had only been saving in case Zac got fleas. And not including the Carlton football beanie that Aunty Dot gave me at the start of the season when we went to her place, and which I wouldn’t be seen dead in. And not including the watercolour set that Lex next door gave me if I promised to kiss him and which I was now too ashamed to use, even though I wanted to, bugger it. These things I would let go up in flames. But the rest was safe in my billy-cart, except for my bike, and that would be okay in the back shed for the time being.
The Sandersons were thrilled to see Zac and me.
‘You can park your car over near mine,’ said Mr S. ‘And you can park your dog in his usual spot.’
That was a little joke that we had, because Mr S had cleaned out the old kennel that was around the back and it was now Zac’s holiday home. Mrs Sanderson always kept a bowl of fresh water out there, and a bag of dog biscuits on a bench, in case we turned up and there was no one there. I was treated a bit like Zac, these days, as they had put a secret key under the house for me in case I needed to let myself in, in an emergency. Mr Sanderson said he was sure that I could probably get in without a key if I wanted to, but he was equally sure that I never would. He was right. No one except Granddad had ever trusted me with a whole house before, and though I thanked them both, I swore to myself that I would never use that key, not even to save my life.
So I parked my billy-cart next to the Sandersons’ black Humber Super Snipe and joined Mr S on the porch. After Mrs S had distributed cold drinks, she nodded towards the driveway.
‘Nice-looking billy-cart.’
I knew what she was thinking; Mrs S was as sharp as they come.
‘Thanks. I suppose you’re wondering why I brought it over.’
‘I’ll bet it has something to do with the fire,’ said Mr S. ‘Am I right?’
I have mentioned that Mr S was a mind reader, I think, but this was going too far.
‘I thought so, because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about this place’ — he waved his pipe around him — ‘it’s that it’s like a giant wheel made of streets and lanes and houses with you at its centre, watching … watching, and occasionally getting involved — too involved sometimes.’
‘A kid I know burnt his own house down and him and his mum have moved in with my mum,’ I said, feeling that I was not telling them anything new.
‘Hence the possessions … your special pos
sessions. You don’t want them to be next.’
‘That’s right. I thought it was time I took you up on your offer to bring some things over. I’ve saved a few quid, you know, helping Granddad, and I thought I’d better bring that over too. It’s here.’ I patted my bag.
‘Well I’d hang on to that, if I were you, because there probably won’t be any more from that particular line of business. Perhaps we should open a new bank account for you.’
‘You can have two bank accounts?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
The Cartographer liked the sound of that, even if the Outlaw thought banks were for robbing.
Mr S puffed on his pipe, then looked at it as if he was expecting a genie to fly out of it. I knew that look: he had a ticklish question. Well, tickle away, Mr S, tickle away. This time I’m ready for you.
‘Tell me, did you bring everything?’
‘Not everything. I left a few clothes and things behind. I was kind of hoping they might go up in smoke.’
‘I mean, did you bring all of your … special possessions?’
What was he getting at: I had everything, the rest could burn.
‘Y —’
Jesus! The hand grenade! I completely missed it!
‘Jesus,’ I whispered, but it was too late. ‘Sorry, Mr and Mrs Sanderson — slipped out. I have to go home for a minute … forgot something.’
‘You forgot the hand grenade you borrowed from the City Boys High School basement,’ said Mr S, looking at me. I noticed that it was not a question.
Suddenly I knew how it felt to be a balloon that has had the air let out of it.
Next he’ll be telling me I’m in love with Josephine Thompson, I thought.
I gave my next question a lot of thought. I didn’t want to ask it in such a way that he’d have something to go on.
‘What makes you think I have a hand grenade, Mr Sanderson?’
He clapped his hands.
‘Well played! Actually, you don’t, though I like the way you phrased that question very much.’
I was confused.
‘You don’t have it because I have it. I’m sorry your privacy had to be invaded, but in view of the danger from the fire, and the fact that your house was unattended and unlocked … well, I’m afraid the decision had to be made.’
‘How long have you known about it?’
‘Before it was retrieved? About half an hour. It was just good luck that it was easy to get.’
‘How’d you know where to look?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know how they knew. They’re good at these things. The person who found it is trained to think like you. Anyway, it had to be done. Sorry.’
‘But, how did you know it was me who took it?’
‘Didn’t really. But you are the hub of the wheel, don’t forget. When I heard that a grenade had gone missing — not a whole box, mind you, but a single grenade — I thought that had all the marks of a souvenir hunter. And around here, all roads seem to lead to you in some way, at least all the lanes and drains do.’
That was it. I had to assume they knew everything: the little train, the secret ammo dump, the lot. They’d torn up my floorboard, invaded my sanctuary, and for all I knew, guzzled the oath-taking wine that doubled as the blood of my forefathers.
So I made a note to myself to swear — I had brought the cat’s skull with me, wrapped up inside the head of a teddy bear I’d found — that I would succeed on my path of righteousness, grenade or no grenade. After all, it’s not as if I had been planning to blow up the grandstand at the Collingwood football ground or anything, though now that I thought of it I realised that was probably one of my better ideas. I would swear by the ghost of Biscuit — it was lucky he was dead, really, as most kids don’t have a ghost to swear by. I didn’t think Zac would mind, as Biscuit was his uncle, and uncles aren’t like everyone else, at least mine aren’t.
Mr S had done the right thing; I didn’t blame him. He had organised it so that I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life breaking rocks, and for that alone I’d always be grateful. But he also proved to me that the freedom I’d always taken for granted was not real, or at least, was not very great at all. He had shown that he could dip into my life any time he liked, no matter where I was. And now both my treasure collection and myself were under his roof.
‘So,’ said Mr S, breathing out as if he was getting ready to dub up for the biggest game of alleys he had ever played, one of those games where you have to risk your tombola, ‘was the grenade the only dangerous thing you had? Were there any other grenades or explosives?’
‘No, that was it.’
‘Any firearms, guns or the like?’
He looked at me for a few seconds then mentioned something I’d actually been thinking. That famous X-Ray Mind, there was no escaping it.
‘Last month, the windows were shot out of the brewery not far from here. A man was found injured in the old railway shed nearby.’ He paused to indicate that it was my turn.
‘Yeah, I know. Mum told me.’
‘What your mum wouldn’t have known was that he was mauled by a large dog with yellow fur.’
I remained calm — I looked at him and my thoughts flashed back to a conversation I’d had quite recently with Granddad.
‘Boy,’ said Granddad, ‘if you don’t want to end up like all the punters you see, it’s not enough to know how to read their emotions in their eyes, like I taught you, not that you’re not good at it, ’cause you are. You have to find a way to prevent them from reading anything in your eyes.’
‘But, Granddad, they’re punters; they’re not going to.’
‘See, that’s where you’re wrong. Some of them are just like you and me: sharp as tacks. So here’s what you do: you look them in the eyes without blinking or looking away, and think of a place you always love to be, doing something you always love to do. Now, there’s only one way to teach you this: we have to do it for real. So I want you to ask me the most embarrassing question you can think of — no kidding. Be hard on me. Put me on the spot.’
‘I have a question, Granddad, but I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘If it’s that bad, then I do want to hear it, not because I might hate you but because I might love you even more. Understand?’
‘’Fraid not. But here’s the question. Ready?’
He looked at me and his clear blue eyes were steady and clear, as they always were, and I remembered that these were the eyes that looked into the eyes of Leonard Jenkins, before Jenkins went to the canvas, some say without ever knowing what hit him.
‘Granddad, why did you keep that picture I lifted from that copper’s house down near the Orange Tree?’
Granddad’s gaze softened a little, and his blue eyes seemed to have a sudden warmth to them, and he said, relaxed as you like: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ And his eyes stayed lovely and calm.
‘Jeez, Granddad! That’s terrific,’ I said, forgetting what I had asked him for a second, then suddenly remembering.
‘It’s all right, boy. I’ll tell you all about it one of these days. But now it’s your turn, and I’m going to be just as hard on you … harder. Just remember I’m on your side. And remember, be in that place you love as if your life depended on it, because one day it might. Ready?’
I settled down and looked into his blue eyes, now sharp and twinkling. Granddad already knew just about everything about me worth knowing, so I wasn’t worried.
‘Now, listen, boy, do you think Tom would be alive today if you had tried a little harder to lift that monkey bar off him?’
I wanted to look away, I wanted to blink a few times, close my eyes, something, anything, but my eyes were already steady, and hadn’t moved, so I imagined his eyes were like TV sets and on TV was Josephine Island, and I could see me and Biscuit and Zac, and we were sitting on the grass, eating chocolate-coated doughnuts, and looking down onto the Yarra Bend ferry as it glided past. And
it was one of those perfect days, with a warm breeze, and the aroma of fennel in the air. And I let myself speak, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
‘No way, Granddad, he wouldn’t. I did my best, just as he would have done, had it been the other way around.’
I could tell that Granddad was very impressed, because he nodded and opened his eyes wider to show it.
‘That was good, bloody good,’ he said. ‘Now don’t you ever tell anyone about that happy place you just went to, not even me. That way no one will ever be able to get at you. You could even bullshit your way through a lie detector test with that.’
I nodded, relieved, but churned up inside at the question he’d asked. It was the worst — and the best — question he could have chosen.
‘And don’t worry about what happened to Tom,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I know the pain of losing someone, don’t forget; and, well, it’s still early days for you.’
Mr Sanderson was still talking.
‘… the police believe the gun belonged to that man and that the windows were shot out during a fight. And the gun has been used since — I can’t tell you what for. What I want you to tell me is this: do you know who has that gun?’
That was easy. Granddad had taken it away, and I knew that he wouldn’t have it sitting on the mantelpiece, because he hated the damn thing. So I told him the truth.
‘No.’
‘Was it ever in your possession?’
Time to go to Josephine Island.
‘No, I’ve never had it.’
I saw him using X-Ray Mind on me, and wondered idly how it would go up against Josephine Island.
He sat back and studied me as if he’d just realised for the first time since he’d met me that I was not in fact the gas man.
‘You know, the youngest person I ever saw do what you just did was twenty years older than you and had been highly trained. Did your grandfather teach you how to do that?’
Shit, he was good, that Mr S. And I know when I’m licked.
‘Yes, he did. But don’t ask me how I did it; I’m not sure I could explain.’
‘Oh I know all about it, believe me. The question is, do you want to tell me everything that happened that day, or just what happened to the gun?’