by Peter Twohig
Down the tunnel in front of me I could hear someone running. Had Bob known of another entrance? Shit. I looked at the little train, sitting right where I had parked it, and wondered if the batteries had much juice left in them. I looked at the dashboard and flicked a switch. The dash lit up like a Christmas tree, much brighter than it had before. Of course — the electricity was on; it was now running off mains power. I hopped in instinctively and threw the train into reverse. The station had a turntable, but I didn’t have time to use it. With no cars behind it, and not having to rely on battery power, the train took off like a rocket.
As I shot backwards up the western tunnel, I looked back at the railyard, but still Bob had not emerged. Then I was around the bend, and all I could see was the rippling light from my train on the blue-tiled wall, like the wake of the night ferry.
32 There should have been zither music
As I shot around the bend, now in a blaze of overhead lights, two things dawned on me: first, that all the other engines back at US ARMY HQ would be live and ready to switch on; and second, that if Bob had his own way in, he probably knew how to drive them. I put my foot down hard on the pedal, and hoped to God I was wrong. Once again God had the last laugh, for as I reached an extra-long piece of track and looked back, I saw, rounding the bend in the distance, the light on the front of another train. I reached down and switched off my headlight, and continued grimly. I dreamt up two new hopes, to replace the ones God had just buggered up: first, that Bob’s train had a string of cars attached to it, slowing him down; and second, that he didn’t know how to disconnect them. Worth a try.
When I arrived at the switch that led to GH I stopped and switched the line over to it, then reached in and turned the headlight back on and jammed the throttle down with my torch. The train took off and headed for the bend, taking the invisible Railwayman with it. I had grown fond of Railwayman, and I wished him well. I seemed to remember that the junction was quite close to USE, about four hundred yards, so I ran for it, feeling naked without my train, but expecting Bob to take the bait.
He did not.
When I got close to USE, I heard his train behind me, and turned in time to see the sweep of his headlight as he began rounding the last bend. I thought I was running as fast as I could, but suddenly found myself running faster. The USE railyard was lit up like Myer’s on Christmas Eve, but there was no one around. I already knew that the door at the top of the stairs was like the door in Forbidden Planet that was designed to stop the Id getting out and killing everyone, so I headed for the lift instead. I hopped in and saw that the lights on the control panel were bright. This time I would travel in style. As Bob’s Train of Terror came into view, I pushed the top button, which was simply labelled Street Level. The lift gave a little jolt, then nothing. I pushed it again. Same. Then I noticed a keyhole next to the buttons. It was God again, God at his very best — it beats me why so many people don’t believe in him. Bob was now in the railyard, so I felt that my best option was one of the favourites of every boy. I climbed over the side of the lift cage and got up that ladder like Sir Edmund Bloody Hillary.
I had made this climb before, and I knew the ladder was five storeys high, a hell of a long way, and was probably made for climbing by some bozo who was an Olympic ladder-climbing medallist and liked to climb half a dozen every morning before breakfast just to keep in shape. I, on the other hand, was one of those people who sees a ladder and says: Mmm, a ladder, and unattended, too. Surely, a leisurely climb is called for. But the circumstances required that I grit my teeth and go for it. I felt like Harry Lime in The Third Man — there should have been zither music. But it was a long climb. Meanwhile, Bob had arrived by allowing his train to crash into another, and jumping out at the last moment. He had learnt that by jumping off trams as a kid: I recognised the style, and decided to label it the End of the Line Dismount when I got back to the map. He then ran to the lift and somehow got it started. As I climbed, I wondered at the kind of rotten luck a bloke would need to have to be chased by a homicidal maniac with a key to an underground lift that nobody used. I was three floors up when the lift began to ascend, and I could see the top of it as it came towards me at a rate that I knew I couldn’t outclimb.
As it got close, Bob stuck his head out of the lift and shouted to me: ‘Give me the plates and you can go. That’s all I want.’
At my school, and in the Commandos, they reckon I’m a bit of a conversationalist, yet I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything suitable to say in response to Bob’s generous proposition. I decided instead to let Sir Edmund’s legs do the talking.
Now Bob’s head was accompanied by a hand holding a gun out the side of the lift, which made me pick up the pace a little. There was a loud bang! and close to my ear a breezy ricochet that reminded me of Mrs Morgan’s Electrolux being turned on and off suddenly. I should have kept moving, but I stopped. And when I tried to move again, I found that my legs had run out of gas. The lift was now coming up beside me, and Bob stuck his head out once more, expecting, I think, to get some idea of who to shoot at next. I didn’t hesitate. As soon as he turned his face upwards, I stamped down as hard as I could on the white patch on top of his nose. With a scream, he fell to the floor, holding his face with both hands, and for a few seconds he was higher than me, as the lift overtook me. I immediately found that second wind Granddad told me boxers often get when the money is going against them, and started climbing again, this time abreast of the lift. Only a few feet away, Bob was unaware for the moment that I was right beside him. As he got to his feet, I could see that I was still not going to make it, so I took out my compass and jammed it in the nearest of four little wheels that the lift had at its corners to keep it on its rails. The lift immediately began chewing up my compass, and slowed to a crawl, though not to a stop. I got away from it and reached the wooden trapdoor, just as it came to a compass-grinding halt below me.
As I climbed through the trapdoor into the lift machinery room, I heard the lift door open, but not the door from the lift landing into the building. I knew there was no way I was going to get through the inner room and out into the tunnel before Bob came up the steps. But the door to the building remained closed. I heard him kick it a few times, then, as I looked down through the trapdoor at the lift door, I saw him climbing out onto the ladder.
‘Are these what you want?’ I asked, and heard my voice shoot up a few notches, blowing any pretence at coolness.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the wallet. Bob hesitated as I pulled out one of the plates and showed it to him.
‘Just hand them down to me, and you can go,’ he said, with a smoothness that reminded me of the way I had first heard him speak to Wonder Woman.
‘Take them,’ I said, and let the plate fall down the lift shaft beside the lift. As he watched it falling and listened to its distant ringing noises, I upended the wallet and let the other three plates slide out and tumble after it. I thought the next thing I’d see would be the lift going back down again. But I was wrong.
‘Right,’ was all he said, still using his soft voice, as he began to climb the last bit of ladder.
There were no more decisions to be made. I was running on empty. I dropped the trapdoor, opened the door to the inner room and slammed the door behind me. There was a key in the door, so I turned it. Then I ran to the exit that I knew would take me to the long, tiled escape tunnel. I sprinted up the tunnel and mounted the steps at the end. I ran to the heavy iron door, slid the bolt back, and pushed the door open.
Outside, the air was warm and fragrant with the smell of old acorns, and through the trees I could see flashes of cars and buses. The fence was an obstacle; I had never got around to digging an escape tunnel under it, and on top of it were two lines of barbed wire facing inwards. I climbed the fence and tried to mount the barbed wire, but it was too awkward. Then I climbed onto the top of the concrete box I had just emerged from, just as I did the last time I was here.
Everything w
as the same, except that this time my mind was in emergency mode and firing on all cylinders. There was a branch about four feet above the fence, and probably within the reach of anyone who just happened to be standing on the top line of barbed wire. The distance to the barbed wire was about a yard. I decided right then to renew my acquaintanceship with my old friend, God. I realised that in the past I might have spoken harshly of him, and on reflection I was now sure that I had misjudged him.
I jumped.
Well, I made it to the barbed wire, but I missed the branch by about seventeen feet, and after that I was diving for the ground, which at least was lawn — and my sincere congratulations to the groundsmen at USE. I hit the lawn on one foot and propelled myself forward in a somersault that would have got me a spot in Ashton’s Circus, then landed on my face, wondering if I was actually dead.
I got to my feet just in time to hear Bob’s Florsheims coming down the tunnel, and let me tell you he wasn’t whistling a merry tune, either. I took off across the lawn in the direction of St Kilda Road, knowing that once I was on the Moreland tram I was home and hosed. Even if there was no tram, I was within running distance of Dorcas Street, and the safety of Aunty Queenie’s place.
When I burst out of the trees at the side of the road I saw parked there a couple of black cars. The one behind suddenly vomited blokes in crumpled suits, who took no notice of me — plainclothes men. The one in front was a Humber Super Snipe, and sitting behind the wheel was Mr Sanderson. He calmly leaned across and opened the door for me to hop in, as if we did this every Saturday arvo. I closed the door and we pulled out into St Kilda Road. As we did so, I turned and saw the crumpled suits disappear into the trees.
I still had a grip on my sanity, but right then it wasn’t all that tight.
Mr Sanderson did a U-turn a bit down the road and we took off for the city.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ I was in shock.
‘What were you going to do next?’
‘Catch a tram.’
‘You were going to go home?’
‘No, to Aunty Queenie’s, in Dorcas Street.’
‘You’ve got more aunties than I’ve had hot dinners.’
‘She’s not really my aunty.’
‘Ah, I see — I think. Was she expecting you?’
‘No, she was just part of my escape plan. But I like yours better.’
We didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. Ditching the Outlaw and Railwayman had had a strange effect on me — I mean, I made them, so it was okay, yet for a while they had been a part of me. Letting go of Tom had given me a thrill of the kind I hadn’t had before, but I had felt that it was okay for him to go. Tom had died, and that was that. The Cartographer was a horse of a different colour. He had been doing something for me that I thought no one else could do. However, sitting in that Humber, I realised that Mr Sanderson had done more.
I promised myself that I would ceremoniously complete the map that day, perhaps with a special seal, and make myself a Knight of the Compass. I was tired of being the Cartographer, and I think he was tired of being me. When I got home, provided Mum didn’t kill him, I would let him do one final thing, the thing he’d always been unable to do: mark Rooney Park with a ‘T’ for Tom.
The silence was broken by a sudden radio voice, like a police car message. Mr S reached under the dashboard, pulled up a microphone and pushed a button.
‘Yes?’
‘We have them.’
‘Well done.’
‘No sign of Herbert —’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
After we crossed Flinders Street, Mr S parked the car, and we got out and walked back down to Downyflake and plonked ourselves at a table.
‘Hungry?’
I nodded.
Mr S ordered a coffee and a chocolate malted milk, ham and tomato on toast, and doughnuts.
There was something worrying me, something that had nothing to do with my run-in with Bob.
‘Mr Sanderson, just as I was getting off the tram in Church Street, I heard fire engines —’
‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t your house; it was over near the Orange Tree Hotel.’
‘Was it the house next door to the pub?’
He looked at me, shook his head and sighed, pretty much the way the nuns did.
I hoped Flame Boy was okay. He was only doing what he knew I wouldn’t have the guts to do. There was a long break, during which I memorised the contents of the room, for something to do. I was dreading whatever Mr S would come out with next, but I hoped we were finished with the subject of fires.
‘Don’t you want to know how I happened to be waiting for you?’ he asked.
‘I’m starting to think you have super powers,’ I said.
‘No, it’s much simpler than that. I was really waiting for Herbert. We were following him, and we knew that he usually came and went that way.’
I must have looked surprised.
‘He had keys for the tunnels — can’t tell you why, I’m afraid. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity to arrest Herbert with some plates he got his hands on a few months ago. We were certain it was him who had them. We were wrong. When they told me about the grenades laid out in a ‘T’ shape, I knew you were down there too, and we moved in. But by then you’d taken the train.’
‘He shot at me.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of things. We were sure Herbert had no idea who you were, where you lived.’
‘Me too.’
‘Also, we didn’t think you’d be able to get back down there. The whole place was locked up. By the way, how did you get in?’
‘Through the basement of the fort — on the island. I found a trapdoor.’
‘I see. I don’t think that was on our charts. But how did you get onto the island?’
‘I followed an electric power cable through a tunnel from the power station. It went under the river.’
He looked at me over his glasses for so long I thought he’d had a stroke.
‘Amazing.’
‘Mr Sanderson, why are there railway lines down there?’
‘They were built during the war, when MacArthur had his headquarters here. Then after the war, they were expanded in case of nuclear attack. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, and I’ll have to ask you to promise never to mention them to anyone, not even to your family. And if anyone ever asks you about them, you must tell them to speak to me. Mmm?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. Ah, lunch.’
Lunch arrived, and proceeded in silence.
‘So, have you decided which school you want to go to next year?’
‘Probably City Boys High,’ I said. ‘I already know my way around the place.’ I looked at him with a straight face but with one of those twinkles I’d got off Granddad.
‘You know, I went there myself,’ he said. ‘’Course, I never got as far as the basement. How about St Dominic’s up on the hill? Top school. You’d do well there.’
I’d already told the Sandersons that I had my heart set on St Dom’s.
‘Can’t afford it; costs an arm and a leg. And Dad’s gone again, probably for good this time.’
‘There are ways around that. So what do you think?’
I couldn’t speak, just nod.
‘Good, then it’s settled. Smart decision.’
He took a sip of coffee and looked around idly.
‘By the way, that shotgun has turned up. Just thought you’d like to know.’
I mimicked his nonchalant expression.
‘Thanks for telling me, Mr Sanderson,’ I said, as politely as I could, but praying that he would just shut up about the bloody thing.
‘Now: cartridges. This is important, the games are over now, and I have to hear the truth. Have you got any left?’
‘No. I left the last two in the canal … with the dead bloke.’
‘They’ll know that man was alr
eady dead, you know.’
‘Yeah, but now they’ve got a connection. And they’ve got the rope. I put a piece of it on the copper’s bumper bar.’
‘Nuff said, eh?’
‘God, I hope so,’ I said.
He took another sip.
‘Did anyone see you actually handle the gun? Anyone at all?’
‘No, no one.’
He read my mind again. ‘Don’t worry about your grandfather. He won’t be involved.’
‘Mr S … I mean, Mr Sanderson, what did Mum do during the war? She won’t tell me.’
‘That’s because she can’t.’
‘She did tell me about the ambulance.’
‘Mmm?’
‘That she drove one …’
He smiled to himself, and his eyes drifted off to Memory Lane.
‘Ah yes. Well, you’ll have to be content with that for the time being. Perhaps one day.’
There was a long silence between us, during which ‘The Donut Song’ was played with Burl Ives singing away in his tinny voice as if his life depended on it.
Mr S took out his pipe and I watched him relax as if he was sitting on his front verandah. He glanced at the plate of doughnuts and raised his eyebrows.
‘What would you give one of those pineapple ones?’
I sniffed in the direction of the plate.
‘Mmm … seven.’
‘And, ah, Josephine Thompson?’
About the Author
Peter Twohig was born in Melbourne in 1948 and grew up in Richmond and Dandenong. He survived a Catholic education, and worked in the Australian Public Service until 1992. He then moved to Sydney to become a naturopath and homoeopath. He has degrees in philosophy and complementary medicine.