February Page 7

  317 days to go …

  I sat up in the alcove in the drain, the drawings spread around while I stared at them by torchlight. I was trying to work out what the half-woman, half-lion sphinx might have meant. Had my dad been trying to warn me again about the dangerous woman he mentioned in his letter? The beastly, answer-demanding Oriana de la Force?

  The sounds of the city echoed through the drain, and my mind began replaying the moment I’d turned and seen my double staring at me. Had he seen something in me that scared him? Maybe he knew that seeing your doppelganger meant doom.

  316 days to go …

  I’d risked going for a swim off a rocky cove not far from Dolphin Point, a spot where people rarely swam because of the strong currents that often whirled around there. When I first dived into the water it was pretty calm. It felt so good and refreshing to be underwater and free, but I could also feel that the ocean was growing rougher by the minute.

  It was a stinking hot day and as I floated on my back and looked up at the sky I saw that in the southwest, thunder heads were building—huge grey cauliflowers of cloud with ominous, flattened tops. Time to go.

  I climbed up the rocks and hurried to my backpack, secured in a cave-like hole well above the high water mark.

  I moved as fast as I could, knowing that I needed to get back to the stormwater drain to grab my stuff before the downpour.

  Just as the first heavy drops started to hit the hot black tar of the roads, I made it to the tunnel. The roads hissed and steam lifted like ghosts. It was going to be one of those storms that dumps thirty millimetres on the city in half an hour.

  I climbed up into the alcove and took out the plastic folder with Dad’s drawings. I forced my sleeping-bag into my backpack and wondered how I could best stow the drawings. I was thinking that maybe I should secure the folder on the outside of the backpack with octopus straps, when I heard voices echoing through the drain.

  I grabbed my torch, jumped down from my alcove—my backpack and the drawings in one hand, torch in the other.

  Now the voices were loud—there was a roughness and a nasty edge that I knew meant trouble. One guy in particular had a very ugly laugh. I hesitated, wondering for a moment whether I should try to leave by the main drain, running straight into them, or avoid them by going down one of the smaller tunnels.

  It was too late. Three guys appeared, emerging from the main drain into the small clearing before the other two channels branched off. They looked surprised to see me. Their surprise quickly turned to aggression.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the leader, a tall guy with his black hair slicked back, a scar running through his left eyebrow, and what looked like a permanent sneer on his narrow lips.

  ‘Yeah, we rule the drains. Who do you think you are?’ The other two echoed from each side of their slick leader. Generally rats ruled the drains, but I thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to say that.

  The other two guys were smaller than the first. The shorter, stout kid, was dressed in military-style gear, while the other guy had a shaved head and was squeezed into tight black jeans and a striped singlet, like some sort of urban pirate. They stood there, snarling at me while my mind raced for a way to deal with this.

  I knew this scenario too well. I’d faced it plenty of times in the schoolyard. A gang of guys looking for a fight. A fight that they can’t lose—three against one.

  ‘What’s in that bag?’ demanded the sneerer, making a lunge for my backpack. I jumped back quickly, out of his reach.

  ‘And what’s in the folder? Give us a look!’

  I knew this game, too. If I didn’t give them what they wanted, they’d jump me and grab it anyway. If I did give them what they wanted, they’d jump me just the same. You can’t always talk sense to bullies, Dad once told me.

  ‘Give me that!’ barked Scarface.

  ‘No way,’ I said, taking a step back, putting more distance between me and them, so I’d have more room to move.

  ‘You’d better,’ said the guy with the shaved head, taking a step towards me.

  ‘Why don’t you come here and get it!’ I said, playing for time, my mind working furiously for a strategy. I needed to deal with the leader first. If I could get him down fast, the other two wouldn’t be too hard to sort out. I heard Dad’s voice in my head: ‘Watch their hands, and you’ll see the punch coming before it lands.’

  ‘Come on,’ I taunted, ‘if you want it so bad, come and get it!’

  I glared hard at Scarface, keeping his hands in my peripheral vision. I wasn’t feeling any where near as tough as I sounded, but there was no way I was giving my backpack to these losers.

  The threesome looked surprised at my attitude, and Scarface’s neck and face flushed red, his hands moving fast into furious fists. I braced myself, muscles surging with adrenaline.

  He swung at me and before he knew what hit him I’d doubled over and charged my head into his gut like a battering ram. I heard him grunt as he went flying backwards, hitting the deck hard.

  I kept going, avoiding his flailing arms and legs as he scrambled to recover his balance and his wind. But I was already gone, leaving them all behind me, racing away towards the Y-intersection.

  I threw myself into the left-hand branch.

  Scarface’s swearing and the shouted threats of the others thundered down the drains.

  This drain was smaller and more sloped than the main one. As my feet pounded along, the enraged footsteps of the three in pursuit pounded even louder.

  ‘C’mon! Dogs! Freddy! Get the little scumbag!’ Scarface yelled to the other two.

  I had no idea where I was heading. They were gaining but I could hear something else—a sound I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t the distant rumble of trains; it was something else.

  I kept running. I was passing dark entrances to other much smaller drains, on my left and right, but they were too small to climb into. Water was starting to trickle from these small drains and onto the floor of the one I was running through. I knew that a city the size of mine would have kilometres of drains beneath it, but I hadn’t realised just how extensive this underworld was.

  Soon I was splashing through ankle-deep water. But still the footsteps behind me persisted.

  The rumbling was getting louder and I suddenly understood what it was. It was the accumulating sound of dozens of drains rattling under the surge of the water that was pouring down from the city’s gutters! Smaller channels were emptying their contents into larger ones; the larger channels in turn sending cascades of water into the huge culvert system.

  The water was now halfway up my calves and it was getting harder to run. The guys after me were finding it harder, too.

  I was starting to worry. Give up, you morons! We all needed to get out of the drain! I remembered Dad telling me that fast-running water, once it gets over your knees, is far more dangerous than it seems.

  The drain was becoming steeper, sloping down towards someplace I didn’t even know.

  Even the strongest swimmer would find it hard to do battle with the combined tide of thousands of tonnes of water that were descending on the roads, footpaths, and freeways of the city. I was struggling to stay in control. The sound of rushing water echoed loudly throughout the drain and I couldn’t tell whether I was being chased anymore. All I could hear was the roar of the rising water.

  Now I was in big trouble, being bumped along by the powerful surge of the fast-flowing water. It knocked me off my feet and I struggled to hold the folder with Dad’s drawings and the torch up over my head to keep them dry. When a huge surge of water suddenly hit me, I lost my balance completely, and both the torch and the folder flew out of my hands.

  As soon as the torch hit the water it went out, throwing me into total darkness. I yelled and struck out in the rising drain water, which carried me along like a bodysurfer. I blindly stretched out my arms and fingers, desperate to find the plastic folder. I was only thinking about the drawings.

  The pow
er of the surge was pushing me along faster than I could ever swim. It bumped and crashed me against the walls. I had no idea where the drawings were. I was screaming in the dark, hurtling along, shouting for help but there was no-one to hear me.

  Ahead of me I thought I could see bluish light.

  The light was getting stronger. Now I could see a grilled entrance above the chop of the ocean. The drawings were lost. By now they’d be somewhere off the coast, sinking to the bottom of the sea. And I could be joining them any moment.

  The surge pushed me faster and faster towards the grille and the ocean. But then I saw something that I could scarcely believe. In front of the grille was a mesh screen, catching plastic and rubbish. And slap bang right in the middle was the folder! I crashed into it and grabbed the folder. The mesh screen busted out on the impact of my body, and flew down to the seething ocean below. I hung onto the sides of the grille with one hand, the folder in my other, while the gushing water tried to tear me down.

  I clung there for a long time, my head barely above water, my fingers turning wrinkled and white, but I didn’t let go of that grille or the folder.

  After what felt like an eternity, the water began to subside. Eventually the water level dropped completely, putting my feet back onto the hard ground.

  Everything was soaked. The gang of three was long gone. I’d made my way back out of the drain and was now walking along unnoticed in the rain—just another drenched pedestrian, sodden and dripping.

  I called Boges from a public phone, and he quickly came to my rescue … again. I don’t know how, but he managed to fix my damaged mobile and torch, and he gave me some dry clothes and a waterproof bag to store things more safely.

  After about ten minutes he had to go again. If only I could have followed him.

  The alcove in the drain was saturated. Puddles sat where I’d been sleeping—clearly it had not escaped the stormwater level. I tried to sweep it out with my wet clothes, so I could rest up for a bit, but I knew I couldn’t stay much longer anyway and risk being trapped.

  I settled down, trying to sleep. My body and mind were still churning over the gang I’d faced and the flooding storm. I hated fighting.

  Back in Year 1 at school, one day, Boges and I were about to have our lunch on the benches under the trees when two big kids—Kyle Stubbs and Noah Smith—approached us.

  ‘What’s that rubbish you’re eating, weirdo?’ Kyle said, pointing at Boges’s lunchbox.

  ‘Yeah, weirdo?’ echoed Noah.

  Mrs Michalko had packed Boges fried potato dumplings. She’d put in extra because she knew I loved them, too.

  Even at six, Boges was reasonable and logical. ‘It’s called piroshki, and you’re the weirdo, not me.’

  Kyle kicked Boges’s lunchbox, sending the potato dumplings flying out everywhere.

  They rolled and coated themselves in playground dust and grass.

  ‘What’d you do that for?’ asked Boges. ‘What am I supposed to have for lunch now?’

  ‘Oh, boohoo,’ mocked Noah.

  I looked around for a teacher but there was no-one in sight.

  Kyle kicked at some of the piroshki on the ground. ‘You can still eat this,’ he said, with an ugly grin.

  With his grubby hands, he scooped up some of the dirty potato dumplings. ‘Come on, open your mouth!’

  Noah grabbed Boges and tried to prise his mouth open. Boges kicked and struggled, almost falling off the bench. I didn’t know what to do; I was so much smaller than these guys. But when I saw Kyle trying to squash the dirt-encrusted piroshki into Boges’s mouth, something like fire raced through my body. With all my strength, I flew off the bench where I’d been sitting, and rammed Kyle Stubbs. I was only small, and Kyle was huge, but he went flying, knocking Noah in the process to the ground with him.

  ‘Come on Boges!’ I yelled, swinging round and yanking my friend up.

  As Kyle and Noah tried to get back to their feet, we raced past them, kicking dirt into their faces.

  They never bothered us again.

  315 days to go …

  ‘Can I please speak to Eric Blair?’ I asked. I’d finally decided to call Dad’s work to find out if Eric knew anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied the woman on the other end of the line, ‘Eric Blair’s on sick leave. He’s … he’s not well. I can take a message for you, but I’m afraid I’m not sure when he’ll be returning to the office.’

  ‘That’s OK, I’ll call back another time,’ I said, hanging up.

  Straight away my phone rang, taking me by surprise.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Why haven’t you called me?’

  ‘Winter?’

  ‘Who else would it be? What’s the deal? Why the silence?’

  ‘What? I’ve been trying to call you—I tried you heaps. Your mobile’s been switched off for two weeks!’ I started thinking how desperate I must have sounded and started to tone it down. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Sometimes I’m hard to catch. There are things I have to do. Now, do you want to see that angel or not?’

  As I waited for Winter near the Swann Street station entrance, I looked over a community noticeboard at ads for part-time work, roommates, sales of laptops, cars and furniture. I moved further into the shadows when I saw some ‘no psycho’ tags next to a curling wanted poster with the face I once used to have on it.

  Everyone seemed to want a piece of me.

  I patted my backpack, checking to make sure the drawings were safe. I’d slipped the folder underneath the plastic backing of my bag, and unless someone did a really serious search, the drawings couldn’t be seen.

  I spotted Winter before she saw me. In her drifty clothes, with the light of traffic headlights behind her, she seemed like some strange being from a spirit world. As she walked closer I could hear the faint chiming of tiny silver bells that lined the bottom of her long, white skirt.

  To my surprise, she kept on walking past me.

  ‘You wanna see the Angel, don’t you?’ she said, turning back, raising one eyebrow.

  I looked into her dark, almond-shaped eyes and she gave me one of her cool smiles.

  ‘I could have waited until tomorrow,’ I said, ‘but you insisted it had to be tonight.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m busy tomorrow.’

  ‘School?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t go to school. I’m home-schooled. But it still had to be tonight. There’s a full moon. I need that.’

  ‘Are you planning on turning into a werewolf?’ I joked.

  ‘You’ll see. Well, come on then!’

  Although I was joking about the werewolf thing, I realised as I followed her that I had no idea what she was up to. Boges’s words of warning were all I could think of. Good cop, bad cop.

  I hurried along to keep up with her as she led me through the city streets, her wild hair trailing behind her. She walked like someone in charge of the world.

  It wasn’t until we came to the bottom of a hill that I recognised the lane leading off to Memorial Park. The park I was abducted from.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m the sort of guy who likes to know where he’s going.’

  ‘Are you now?’ She paused. ‘I thought you wanted to see the Angel.’

  ‘I do. I just wanna know where he is already.’

  ‘Look, we’ll get there quicker if you quit the questions.’

  Last time I was here I ended up in a car boot, and then locked in a closet. I hung back.

  ‘Come on!’ Winter grabbed my arm. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I lied.

  ‘Then come on. We’re nearly there.’

  She hurried along in the moonlight, silver bells ringing on her skirt. I tried to stay cool, but alert.

  I kept looking around me, checking out every movement in the shadows. In this dark and secluded place, anyone could ambush us—or me. My heart jump
ed at the thought and a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach made it hard to concentrate. I was braced, ready for anything. To run like hell or fight for my life.

  We stopped at the low, wide steps at the front of the cenotaph. I’d never been this far into the park before.

  ‘Sometimes the homeless sleep in here,’ Winter said, dragging open the rusted iron gates that had once closed off the central area of the memorial. The lock looked like it had long since fallen away.

  Just before going in she turned and held out the watch on her wrist. ‘See?’ she joked. ‘It’s almost midnight, there’s a full moon and I haven’t turned into a werewolf.’ She laughed and bared her teeth. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  We stepped over scattered rubbish and leaves and I tried to relax as she took my hand and led me further into the moonlit interior.

  314 days to go …

  I found myself in the middle of a wide, circular space with an ornate mosaic floor. Ahead of me a figure stood on a tall stone pedestal—the sort of statue you see on graves or memorials. It was almost like being back at Crookwood Cemetery, when Boges and I were looking for the Ormond mausoleum at midnight.

  It had been a warm summer night, but now a cold wind had blown in, lifting the dead leaves, making them skitter in an eerie little whirl. I shivered then looked up at the ghostly statue.

  ‘That’s not an angel, it’s just a soldier!’ Fear gripped me tighter. I was trapped. I’d followed her willingly into this creepy joint and now anyone could grab me, or the drawings.

  I was about to hurry back down the steps when she called out to me.

  ‘Where are you going? Look up!’

  She held out her arms and looked to the sky. ‘There’s your Angel!’