The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  I had planned on using one of the tried and tested prayers I had seen on TV or at the pictures, you know: Dear Lord, please forgive this sinner and welcome him into your arms, and so on. But then I remembered that it was God who had caused this whole bloody mess, and almost scared me to death into the bargain, and left me alone without the person I loved most. The moment I remembered that, my relationship with God went to the beach, which is what I say when I stop thinking about something, in this case, God. If he really wanted to help, I thought, he could start by going to Hell.

  There was no one in the playground but me, so I didn’t mind too much when I realised I was crying, and I don’t mean little trickles, like Elizabeth Taylor when something was wrong with her pet horse; I mean like most of the kids who were in the Gala Theatre the day I went to see Old Yeller, and Old Yeller bought the farm — I howled with the rest of them, knowing they would think it was the movie that was doing it to me. Now, I was howling like a kid who was by himself in a playground, and didn’t care.

  I was still crying like this — I had got out of control, like one of those stagecoaches when the driver gets shot — when I walked down the path to the street, and when I looked up, expecting to see no one, it being too hot for anyone to even think of going out that day, the first thing my eyes fell on was the first house I’d run to for help over a year ago, across the road. The bloke who lived there had something coming to him for slamming the door in my face. He’d keep.

  My eyes then slid across to the next house, which was under the same roof, another in the long row of houses. There had been no one home there. Thirty long seconds had gone down the drain. Why had I gone there? I should have known. But how could I? If only I’d skipped that house. Ah, hell.

  Then I glanced at the next house. The Capras’ place. It was the Capras who helped me, took me in, and got the ambulance. I could hardly believe what I saw as I looked at their door. It opened, and out came Flame Boy, carrying a school bag. When he saw me, he gave me his shy smile and crossed the road to me. Instead of speaking, he kept on past me and headed for the park. Together we walked to the edge of the power station and disappeared into the bushes. Inside, we came to a small clearing with a large grill in the ground, in the middle. The grill had been moved out of the way by a rope that was wound around a steel fence pole.

  ‘Is that your hideout?’

  ‘Nah, it’s my emergency escape tunnel. I don’t like it down there, but.’

  ‘Where do you stay?’

  ‘All over the place.’

  ‘But I told you to stay put. I have to think. What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Food ’n’ stuff.’

  ‘Did you nick it from the Capras?’

  ‘Nah, they gave it to me.’

  ‘They’ll dob you in.’

  ‘Nah. Tony’s dad’s not a dobber. They want to help me — as long as I go away.’

  I could see that.

  But then again, I couldn’t, as Tony Capra was in my class at St Felix’s, and he was a real Goody Two-Shoes.

  ‘But what about Tony? He’d dob his own mum in, I reckon.’

  ‘He’s on holidays somewhere. They give me food every few days.’

  Other questions formed in my brain, but I couldn’t hear them properly. My brain was deaf and dumb.

  He was still talking.

  ‘So do a whole lot of other people. But they won’t let me stay, in case I burn their house down. They just want to help me.’

  I had a feeling this was the longest conversation Flame Boy and I had ever had. It was a kind of world record.

  ‘Mrs Hutchinson —’

  ‘The witch?’

  ‘Yeah. She calls me Ned Kavanagh.’

  ‘But Ned robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.’

  ‘That was Robin … Kavanagh.’

  It was like one of those strange movies where the star goes nuts and they make the screen go all wavy. I felt like I had created an outlaw. Next thing, I thought, he’ll be robbing banks.

  ‘Look, I want to find you a hideout until I can work out what to do with you. There’s something else: your aunty has turned up at our place. She wants to take you home with her to Wodonga – you and your mum.’

  ‘I haven’t got any aunties.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. Her name’s Aunty Daphne.’

  ‘Don’t know her! She’s trickin’ you!’

  ‘No, I don’t think Aunty Daphne knows about tricking. She laughs a lot, but.’

  ‘Then I’ll go over to your place.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  I said it too fast, without thinking.

  ‘You hate me! It’s a trick! There’s no aunty!’

  ‘There is, true dinks. No, I just mean my mum is still upset … about the fire.’

  ‘You’re not trickin’ me!’

  I felt like the time Tom rolled me down Brighton Street inside a forty-four-gallon drum.

  ‘Look, just meet me here in … um … two days. Okay?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Don’t start any fires.’

  I shouldn’t have said that word, because straight away his little beady eyes lit up like glass alleys. I sighed, and he gave me one of his lopsided smiles, and was gone. He looked much improved in his clean clothes, which smelt of disinfectant. Mrs Foster had chucked in that extra dollop of Pine O Cleen after all.

  I turned around and walked back through the park to Fawkner Street. Across the street, the house next door to Tony Capra’s now had a kid standing at the front gate. This kid, it turned out, was the most amazing kid in Richmond: Raffi Radion.

  8 Raffi Radion

  Tom and I had known this Raffi kid since before Tom died, but we had only met him once, at the local baths. We had gone home and told Mum about him, and it turned out that she already knew all about him, which was a complete surprise, like when you find out how you got your belly button.

  I looked at Raffi over the gate, and he looked at me. It was the strangest thing, because he looked so much like me it was scary. He even had hair like dry grass that stuck out all over the place. It was also weird because I had actually gone to his house for help for Tom on the day he died, but no one had been home. Now I understood the look on the Capras’ dials when they opened the door to me, and I asked for help: they thought I was Raffi. And I knew that Tony Capra must have known Raffi for ages, though he had never mentioned him to me at school. Come to think of it, Tony had always avoided me at school. It was bad enough that every morning I woke up and thought about how Tom had died in front of me while I watched, without being able to do anything. Now, seeing Raffi, I began to feel a fresh sense of something being wrong, something I didn’t even know about yet.

  I decided to say hello.

  ‘G’day.’

  ‘G’day.’

  ‘You’re Raffi.’

  ‘You’re one of the Blayney brothers.’

  ‘I was one of the Blayney brothers.’

  ‘How can you stop being a Blayney brother?’

  ‘My brother died. Now there’s just me.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. I know how it feels.’

  I doubted it.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘My cousin next door died.’

  ‘What’d he die of?’

  ‘She was a girl. Leukaemia.’

  ‘Yeah, but was she your twin cousin?’

  ‘Nah.’

  Still, I felt sorry too.

  ‘I didn’t know you lived here.’

  He was grateful for the change of subject, and straight away changed back to the tough kid’s voice you’re expected to use when you’re standing inside your own front gate.

  ‘Do you know Tina Camponi?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Good.’

  We’d run out of questions; and it was too hot to talk anyway.

  He dropped the voice.

  ‘Wanna come in for a sec?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Inside it was cool and dark, and smelt o
f oldness and roses. I looked down and saw that the long rug in the passage had a rose-looking pattern, which made me think it might have been magic. Down in the living room there was a television, a big one. I wanted to turn it on, but I wasn’t game.

  ‘You remembered my name,’ I said.

  He smiled the biggest smile you can without breaking something. ‘Everyone knows who you are. Even my nanna knows who you are, and she doesn’t know anything about kids. Even the police know who you are, ’cos they came here once. Even —’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I felt bad that he only knew me by reputation, the way the nuns knew me, not by getting to know me first. It wasn’t as if I was a bodgie or anything. Or a tea-leaf.

  ‘I better go.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He was, too. He had gone too far. Kids can be hard on each other, but they usually stop short of pulling knives and things.

  He looked at the clock. ‘Let’s play a record.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He switched on the record player, and shoved on an Elvis record: ‘Jailhouse Rock’. I listened, and wondered for the hundredth time why Elvis had to try so hard. Why couldn’t he be more like Buddy Holly was?

  I used the music as an excuse to observe Raffi, which Granddad says you should always do when something’s going on. That way you can suss out the other bloke’s clothes, especially his shoes: you can learn a lot from a bloke’s shoes. Are the laces worn out? Do the heels need replacing? Do they match? But I got no change out of Raffi’s shoes, because he wasn’t wearing any. I wasn’t surprised I hadn’t met Raffi: he went to a different school from me, the state school.

  So I looked at his living room. It was neat and clean; even the ashtray had been washed. On a table was Raffi’s school bag. The mantelpiece held only three photos, one of Raffi and his mum, who looked tired but pretty, and one of a baby-holding old lady, who looked like she was fresh from the nanna factory, and one of Ron Clarke carrying the Olympic Torch at the MCG. Charles Dixon’s living room had the same look: the signs of a boy and a mother.

  ‘Why have you got a picture of Ron Clarke?’

  ‘’Cos we went to see him carry the Olympic Torch into the Olympic Stadium. I was eight; we lived over in Cremorne then.’

  ‘We went to see it too. Tom and I used to collect pictures of the Olympic Torch, but I haven’t got that one.’

  ‘That’s the only one we’ve got.’

  ‘We’ve got heaps – I mean, I have. I don’t collect them anymore. I wouldn’t mind having the real one but.’

  We both laughed.

  Just then, I got a feeling in my head like a terrific idea was going to happen. I needed to think.

  Finally, Elvis finished murdering the song, and Raffi took the record off.

  ‘Mum’ll be home any minute. You better go.’

  I was used to this. When Tom was around, everybody thought we were as cute as a pair of baby penguins. But a twin by himself is like the Mouseketeers without Annette Funicello.

  ‘I’m home. Who better go?’

  His mum was coming down the passage. When she walked in, she froze for a sec.

  ‘Well, I suppose you had to turn up sooner or later.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Radion.’

  ‘Where did you two meet?’

  ‘At the gate.’

  ‘No, at the baths.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, at the baths.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you since that day. But you live just here.’

  ‘You haven’t seen me, but I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Wow! When?’

  ‘I was on the bus with Mum, and you were standing outside South Yarra Station with your mum and dad.’

  A thrill of electricity went through me, practically killing me. ‘You were cleaning the window and looking out.’

  ‘Yeah. The window was fogged up.’

  The Great Ghost Bus Mystery had been cleared up with a bang.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mrs Radion.

  That was all she said. She looked from one of us to the other, then back. She did this a few times, as if we were freaks in a circus.

  ‘How’s your father?’ she finally asked.

  ‘He’s terrific.’ The truth is like castor oil, Granddad says. Best not to force it on people.

  ‘Glad to hear it. I was sorry to hear about your home.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘You don’t have to be polite. I know all about you.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you had your picture in the paper last year.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, that time Biscuit and I saved each other in the river. That picture caused more trouble than it was worth.’

  ‘Raffi told me how he’d met you and your brother. That was bound to happen, just like you turning up today. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. Where are you and your parents living now?’

  ‘Mum and I live at my granddad’s place up the hill; and Dad’s living somewhere else. I spend half my time with friends who live just around the corner in Kipling Street, the Sandersons.’ I paused, but there were no questions.

  Mrs Radion stared out the window for a few seconds. I could hear the wheels turning.

  ‘It was you who found that boy who was abducted last year — the Harrigan boy — and took him home, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but how did you know? I didn’t think anyone knew.’

  ‘Because the Harrigan boy described you, and the police came around here, that’s how.’

  ‘Wow, that’s weird.’

  ‘No, it’s a common event at our place. If Raffi did one-tenth of the things he’s been accused of, he’d probably be in a home by now. If I had any sense I’d ask you to leave and tell you not to come back.’

  I thought this was a hard way to talk to a kid, especially when he looked so much like her own son. I was so tempted to say it, my face nearly fell off; and Tom would have, of course. But Uncle Ivor, Dad’s brother, who seemed to know a lot about what he called ‘the weaker sex’, told me to remember two things as I go through life: never stick your finger in a ferret’s mouth; and never interrupt a woman after she has said ‘you’. And Mrs Radion was getting in her fair share of yous.

  ‘And why aren’t you in a home, by the way?’

  ‘I think Tom did half of those things … maybe more than half.’ It was okay; Tom would have said the same thing about me.

  Just then she turned into a different person, and sort of wilted like an old snapdragon. I hadn’t meant to use Tom’s name in a bad way, but it had an effect on her. For a second I thought she was going to hug me, or ruffle my hair, or both. It was like a summer rain had passed, leaving a fresh breeze behind it.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, dear. I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

  I didn’t know what to say to this. As usual, I thought a bit of crying was probably called for, but I just didn’t know how to get it going. I could feel my head splitting inside, but that was all.

  ‘Raffi, show your friend your room. Turn on the TV, if you like.’

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  When I left I headed over to Church Street and hopped on the first tram that came along. It was a city tram. I plonked myself down on the nearest seat, and let the hot wind wash over me. I needed time to think about what had happened at Raffi’s place. It feels bad when you discover that nice people have been thinking bad thoughts about you for a long time. And then there was the terrific idea I’d felt starting to sprout. You need to be alone for that stuff to happen, or preferably with your twin.

  The clippie came over and sat down beside me, to take a load off her feet.

  ‘So you managed to get on the tram by yourself all right.’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Must be hard, you know, being blind and not having your dog with you.’

  I thought I’d better come clean.

  ‘Oh, no. It’s not me who’s blind: it’s my dog.’

  ‘Yeah, and after I knock off I turn into Princess Bloody Margar
et.’

  Everyone’s a wag.

  At home I was met by some kind of reception committee, as if I had just stepped off a plane. Everyone was in the living room waiting for me, including Mrs Morgan from next door. But the worst thing about our living room was that there was a policeman in it, and on a scale of crumbiness that comes somewhere between being attacked by an Alsatian and not being able to go to the flicks because you’re as sick as a seagull.

  This particular policeman looked a lot like Constable Murphy, who lived in our old neighbourhood down the hill and was a bloody nuisance, especially where yours faithfully was concerned. Also, when the Orange Tree pub burnt down, a fair portion of Murphy’s house was severely singed into the bargain, as he lived right next door to it. I was heart-broken, as you can imagine.

  But he was not Murphy, being thinner though no less red and wheezy. In fact, he looked a lot like Barney with a uniform on. I wanted to smile at that thought, but no one else was smiling, so I decided to act dumb, as adults like to see that in a kid.

  It was the copper who spoke first, and I could tell as soon as he piped up that Granddad would rather have spiders crawling all over him than have this bloke in his house.

  ‘We — the police, and, ah … certain other people — are looking for one —’ (he consulted his notebook) ‘Keith Aloysius Gonzaga Kavanagh, aged twelve. When was the last time you saw him?’

  I could tell that everyone wanted to get rid of this copper and begin fumigating the place as soon as possible, so I decided to tell him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and be done with it.

  ‘The day before our house burnt down. I saw him that night in the living room watching TV.’

  The copper wrote it down, whispering the words to himself as he went. As I watched him I was thinking that if he tried that whispering act with Sister Benedict he’d get a blackboard ruler across his bum. This time I couldn’t stop a smile, and when I looked at the others they were all having a little private chuckle as well.