by Peter Twohig
By the time Mum arrived home from being the Boss, I had cleaned up and switched off the TV and was lying on the bed, looking like I still hadn’t had a decent rest. If your mother comes home and finds you scoffing cream biscuits, and knee-deep in afternoon television, you’ve only got yourself to blame for the consequences.
‘What have you been up to?’ said Mum, coming up the stairs.
I didn’t answer: that’s the correct answer.
‘Are you feeling better?’
She was in the room now, so appearances were everything.
‘I’m terrific. I tried to watch TV but it gave me a headache.’
‘That’s it. No television for you tonight.’
Normally, that would have stung like a backhander, but you can’t afford to have anything go wrong at this stage. So no TV it was.
I was just wondering what form of fun kids have in orphanages, where there’s no television, when there was a noise downstairs and Charles Dixon appeared at the door looking like someone had kicked the bucket.
I pretended I was half dead, and weakly raised a claw and beckoned to him.
He came over and leant over the bed.
‘Closer,’ I whispered.
He put his face near mine.
‘Closer.’
His nose was touching mine. I could feel his breath.
‘Hello, Charlie!’
‘Oh, you’re not sick at all!’
‘Shh. Shut the door. I’m as sick as a parrot, if anyone asks. How’s school?’
‘Oh, everyone’s talking about the fire, of course, and how you and Father Jackman jumped into that burning car and saved that bloke’s life.’
‘Really?’
I reckon the truth is like bubble gum: it’s useless until it’s been stretched a bit. I didn’t ask him what made him think that, as it’s not my way to question my friends and fellow Olympians.
‘They say Father Jackman’s going to die.’
‘Nah, he’s a game little bugger. Anyway, I’m praying for him.’
‘Yeah. Jeez. I s’pose I will too. We’re having a special Mass for him tomorrow, and the whole school’s going.’
‘Will you tell Brother Gerard that I said I’m sorry I can’t come to the Mass? The doctor said I have to rest.’
‘You bet. Look, I brought you a couple of comics. You can keep ’em.’
Charles put his hand in mine. It was warm and dry, not like I thought a boy’s hand would feel. We held hands for a while. Then he suddenly got up and left, without saying goodbye. I wondered why he did that. I thought I might have overdone the acting thing and frightened him. I do tend to do that. I would remind him it was an act next time I saw him, but not before tomorrow’s Mass. I wished I could be there when he told Brother Gerard. But you can’t have everything, otherwise I’d be sitting down at our old house with Tom watching Jet Jackson, and listening to Dad singing ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?’ and doing both parts.
I was just getting into my Frank Sinatra imitation when Mum suddenly stuck her head around the door and announced that I had another visitor, though, judging from the look on her face, I thought it might be the police or the fire brigade, both of whom like to keep in touch.
My bedroom was busier than the show-bag pavilion on closing day. I only just had time to bung on my sick look when Mona’s face appeared under Mum’s. For a second it was like looking at one of those flip books where the angry dial turns into the pretty one, then Dial A disappears, leaving Dial B. But before she left, Mum pushed the door all the way open. She probably thought I needed the air.
Mona sat on the bed and held my hand and gazed at me as if I was a rabbit. I gazed back: this is the way to handle the female of the species. Pretty soon my eyes began to water from all the gazing, and so did Mona’s, though not from gazing — I can tell the difference. She started kneading my hand as if she was going to make a scone out of it.
‘Sweetheart,’ she whispered, ‘are you all right?’
She smoothed my hair: it made no difference.
‘I’m still a bit weak. I have to spend a few days in bed.’
‘All the girls at school are talking about how you saved Father Jackman. I told them all you were my boyfriend. We went to Mass and prayed for Father, but I prayed for you. The church was full of flowers. One fell off and I saved it for you. Here.’
She gave me a busted dahlia. But I was more concerned about all the other things she’d said. I like my surprises in small packs, like my lollies. In fact, the only thing I like in large packs are fireworks. I was still gazing, but I was realising that all the girls at Vaucluse now knew that I was her boyfriend, and I wondered what I would do if she and Josephine Thompson sat next to each other again. Probably join the French Foreign Legion. I was also realising that the story had got around that I had saved Father Jackman. Funnily enough, I did not feel completely terrific about either of these stories, because Blind Nellie could see how both could cause problems.
But I wasn’t going to complain as long as Mona De Coney was sitting on my bed, holding my hand and practically crying because I nearly got killed. The Spirit of Progress knows which side his bread is buttered on.
‘Here,’ she said and reached into her school bag. I was a bit peckish, so I was hoping that it was a pineapple doughnut — I admit that it was a faint hope. However, it was a Mad book. There’s an old saying that you can’t have too many of those, so I was still pretty happy.
‘Mona, that priest —’
‘Shh, save your strength.’
‘It was him who —’
‘Shh, sweetheart.’
‘I’m not —’
She leant over and gave me a kiss — it was really more of a pash. I gave that kiss a nine on a new scale I’d invented just for kisses: The Pash Scale. Something about it reminded me of raspberry jelly babies. I think that if it had reminded me of a pineapple doughnut, I might have given it a ten.
After that, the arse fell out of the staying home sick business. Mum had found Mona’s visit a bit stressful — it was the quiet bits that did it; if only you could talk and pash at the same time, you’d have the problems of the world licked — and declared that if I was fit to have visitors, I was fit for school.
I therefore returned to school the next day, and found myself an object of interest. Brother Gerard did not give me a hard time, probably because I looked a bit pale, a talent that Tom and I were born with, and which the brothers still didn’t know about, in my case. Even we didn’t know how we did it, but we were able to do something to our fizzogs that suddenly turned them from Captured British Airman pink to Japanese Prison Camp Commandant yellow. It helped if you thought of eating a chunder sambo. There’s more to it than that, of course, but you can start there.
So Brother Gerard was generally treating me like a returned war hero, and I was keeping a low profile, which is what Granddad and I always do at the track, so as not to make the punters skittish. My strategy came horribly unglued at lunch time, when a large kid who looked a bit like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, only wearing a St Dom’s uniform, came up to me and punched me in the back of the head so hard that I went down like a bag of briquettes and scraped my face on the concrete. Funny part is, I had seen him coming, got his number straight away, and turned to see which unfortunate kid was going to cop it from him, when he hit me.
‘That’s for being a show off, Blayney. I’ll give you another one tomorrow.’
It wasn’t a long conversation so I managed to get the gist of it. And I knew what had happened. It was God, my nemesis, getting his own back for me letting people think that I was a hero. God, having no arms or legs, has to use bullies to do his dirty work. Hence Hitler.
After school I walked up to the Epworth Hospital — it was conveniently placed — to see Barney. I found him awake, but not a happy little Vegemite.
‘G’day, Barn.’
‘G’day, young feller. They tell me you tried to save me. I won’t forget that — never. Christ
, a bloke’s as dry as a camel’s crotch.’
‘Any time, Barn. In the end I was no use at all, but. They even brought me in here for a while ’cos I flaked out.’
‘What happened to your face? Did that happen at the accident?’
‘Nah, a kid at school jobbed me. Sneaked up on me. That’s what I came to see you about.’
‘Yer want me to go around and heave a brick through his window?’
‘Nuh. Thanks anyway.’
‘How about I give him a bit of a fright with the old Bowie knife?’ He patted his lower leg, where he usually kept it hidden. ‘He’d never touch yer again.’
‘I was thinking more of asking Granddad to teach me how to beat the bejesus out of him.’
‘Now, now: language.’
‘’Cept I don’t know where Granddad is. But you do.’
‘I’m not supposed to say.’
‘Strewth, Barn, I won’t tell anyone. I never told anyone you had that briefcase.’
‘I was taking it to a friend’s place. Family heirloom. Belonged to his old mum.’
‘I didn’t come down in the last shower. The last time I saw that briefcase it was with Keith Kavanagh, the kid who was staying at our place when it burnt down.’
‘Kavanagh, Kavanagh …’
I groaned. ‘And speaking of briefcases, how did you get your hands on it? The kid left a note at his hideout saying that it wasn’t there. I thought he’d hidden it.’
Barney was embarrassed.
‘I was keeping an eye on you, and I saw you come out of Tannery Lane. I reckoned the Kavanagh kid had it in there, and I was right.’
‘But his note said it wasn’t there.’
‘Didn’t see that; didn’t have to. I’ve been doing B&Es long enough to know how people hide things. It’s my job, just like your job is to look out for your mates — see, I know you.’
‘You were following me.’
‘Sorry, young feller, but I was under owner’s riding orders. That briefcase had to be delivered to someone. I would have made it too, ’cept for that useless bloody tram driver.’
‘I still need to talk to Granddad.’
Barney was tossing up which would be worse for him: letting me get murdered by a bully, or telling me where Granddad’s secret hideout was. The look on his face was worth a photo.
‘Okay, this is how you get there.’
35 The hideout
It was a long way to the address he gave. Barney told me whose house it was, and that Granddad was holed up in a little place around the back. The place was a mansion in Studley Park Road. I had been told that I had to enter by going down the lane behind it, and that if anyone spotted me within cooee of the house I was to turn around and go home, and call off the trip permanently. I had to take a few trams to get there and I was aware that once I had crossed the river I was in Hawthorn, which is enemy football territory. It made me feel like a traitor to the Swannies, as I was neither visiting an aunt nor going to Glenferrie Oval to watch a match.
By the time I got there I was bushed, and thirsty enough to drink from a horse trough (though I couldn’t find one). But the mission came first — that was the Code of the Superheroes. I got off the tram just past the mansion, and walked down a side street and down a lane. It was a posh area, but it had lanes just like everywhere else.
Using my powerful Kimball O’Hara memory I found the back gate, which was marked just the way Barney said it would be, and took a peek through the hole to see if the coast was clear. Then I opened the gate and crept in. I knew there was no dog because I checked with Barney first — your superhero does not want to be torn to bits halfway through his mission, and I did not have Zac, my faithful and ferocious Labrador, with me, as he was still having a well-earned holiday with the Sandersons.
Inside I found a whole series of sheds, large and small, and a few small houses. It was like a little town inside a castle wall. I found the little house I was after, and knocked. The door was opened by Uncle Seamus.
He stuck his head out and took a look around, and hauled me in like a flathead at the same time. The door couldn’t have been open for more than three seconds.
‘Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,’ said Granddad.
‘Hello, Granddad. Hello, Uncle Seamus. Long time no see.’
Uncle Seamus laughed his big laugh that sounded like it was coming from the other end of an underground drain, and Granddad made a face like he’d just had a needle in his bum — there was a lot of that going around.
‘Bloody Barney,’ said Uncle Seamus, making it sound like four words.
‘Couldn’t be helped,’ said Granddad.
‘D’ja get the briefcase from Barn, Granddad?’
‘It’s safe and sound, so don’t you worry.’
‘What were the papers about?’ I asked, innocently.
‘Now how do you know what’s in that briefcase?’ asked Granddad.
I didn’t want to tell them that I peeked at the hospital, as that was sneaky.
‘Keith told me when I found him with it … under the church … St Felix’s. Also —’
‘Under a bloody church!’ said Uncle Seamus. ‘What the hell was it doing under a bloody church?’
‘Keith hid it there. He’s had it ever since it was first buried, years ago. He thought his dad would come back for it.’
‘Well, he was right about that. But he couldn’t find it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because somebody bloody moved it, that’s why! Anyway, it’s none of your business, boy.’
I wish I had two bob for every time I’ve heard that; I could afford a pet boa constrictor.
‘For all we know,’ said Uncle Seamus, ‘Kavanagh could be popping grapes from the hospital kiosk into Barney’s fevered mouth right now, and listening to his life story into the bargain.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that Barney would never dob on a mate, when I looked at Granddad and saw him look at me. We were remembering the same thing: that when Granddad got dragged in for questioning a year back over the matter of possession of a firearm (which was really an unfortunate mistake), it was because Barney dobbed in a lot of people around town to avoid being jailed for an entirely different matter (to wit, the striking of a plainclothesman). Then we both looked at Uncle Seamus. There was more head turning than a greyhound race.
‘Also, Mr Sanderson wants that briefcase.’
Uncle Seamus raised his eyebrows at Granddad.
‘The ASIO bloke I told you about. The two of ’em’ — he nodded towards me — ‘are as thick as thieves.’
‘I’m listening.’
Granddad gave me the nod.
‘What’s AS–?
‘The government.’
‘But last year he told me he worked for some other crowd.’
‘That wasn’t the truth. He was just putting you off.’
I hadn’t thought of Mr S as not telling the truth, but then I reminded myself that he was an adult, after all. So I supposed he didn’t have to.
‘Tell Uncle Seamus about you and Sanderson.’
‘I saw a lady get murdered in his house, last year. The lady was a copper, like Mr Sanderson — one of the special ones. That’s how I met him. He and Mrs Sanderson like me, and let me stay on weekends.’ I waited, but Uncle Seamus sat like a statue, with his eyebrows raised in a permanent question. I pushed on. ‘He wants me to do well. He’s very interested in Keith Kavanagh and his briefcase, though I think he’d like to see Keith locked up. I think he hates Keith’s dad too. At first I was trying to get the briefcase for him, but then I found out that Granddad wanted it, so I changed sides. And Mr Sanderson had a visit from a Russian who asked about it and was pretty upset when Mr S said he didn’t have it. He said he only wanted the letters that were in it and Mr S could keep the rest.’
Uncle Seamus was giving me the strangest look, so I pushed on. ‘Mr Sanderson called him First Secretary … Bobrov. He told Mr Sanderson to give his regards to the L
arsons —’
Granddad turned to Seamus.
‘The Zukovs.’
‘Mr Sanderson said they were Swedish.’
‘No, they’re not Swedish, they’re Russian.’
I was losing the thread.
‘Mr and Mrs Crawley’ — I turned to Uncle Seamus, who looked as if he was stuck in a time warp — ‘Mr and Mrs Sandersons’ next-door neighbours, told me the Larsons stayed with the Sandersons once and that Mr Larson sold Volvos. Anyway, that’s how I got the name for my secret club. But after what Granddad said I decided to call it the Olympians. Granddad, you won’t tell Mr Sanderson I told you, will you? It’s just that I didn’t know you wanted the briefcase until now.’
He wagged the rissole.
That seemed to cover just about everything.
‘Oh, and Mrs … Lucky … Mona De Coney’s aunty asked me about it too. Sorry, Granddad. I should have mentioned it the other day, but you had enough on your mind, you know, with Barney’s crash ’n’ stuff.’
‘Who the hell is Mona De Coney’s aunty?’ asked Uncle Seamus, looking as though he’d been struck by lightning.
‘Luca Martello,’ said Granddad.
‘Martello! You’ve been hobnobbing with the Martellos?’
‘Lucky is just Mona’s aunty.’
‘Ah, I see. Or rather, I don’t see. Oh wait, this wouldn’t be the same Mona who’s the love of your life, would it not? But the coincidence, Archie, the coincidence!’
I got a hell of a fright when Uncle Seamus said that word, because I had just about convinced myself that coincidence was all in the mind, where Aunty Betty said my epilepsy was, and now I realised that it was real to these two, who between them seemed to know a lot about the world. Worse, I saw clearly that it was a bad thing, like cavities. He might as well have said: ‘But the cavities, Archie, the cavities!’
‘Tell me, young kin of mine, how did you meet the bewitching Mona in the first place?’
‘Granddad sent me over to pick up some schoolbooks that Johnny De Coney didn’t need anymore.’
‘And you met the beautiful Mona.’
‘Yeah.’
‘A Martello.’