Authors: Gabrielle Lord
March (5 page)
We’d had a narrow escape for sure. The
candles brightened the dark interior and Repro snatched up a newspaper and held it up for me to see. ‘I picked this up—the latest edition—while I was out getting the food,’ he said. ‘You’re one hot property, my boy. I’m afraid you can’t stay here very long. I know you’re in strife but you’re too hot to stay with me.’
I gulped. There was my face all over the front page, again. Sure, it was blurred and the detail was poor, but I was recognisable.
‘You’re a wanted criminal,’ Repro said. ‘I thought you were just involved in a little misdemeanour at the zoo. They’ll be looking for you everywhere now,’ he said, waving the newspaper at me. ‘They nearly just walked right through my secret door. We can’t have that, sport.’
I hated hearing Repro say that, but he was right. It was a fair call. I didn’t want to put him at risk again. He’d helped me too much for me to turn around and do that to him.
I studied my image in the newspaper. I’d have to work on my appearance again, which meant I’d have to rely on help from Boges.
‘So much as I like the company, my boy—I love a chat—I can’t afford to have you stay here. Not without some sort of reimbursement.’ As he said these words, he rubbed his fingers and thumb together, indicating money. ‘It’s not just
the extra food I’d have to get for you, and the drain on resources,’ he said looking up at his illegal patch into the electricity cable, ‘but you’re a hazard to be around. You seem to drag the cops with you wherever you go. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t want this place ever found. This is my home. Plus I’m very attached to my toes and they’re very attached to me. We never want to be separated. I aim to keep all ten for the rest of my life.’
Sounds outside indicated that the search party was retracing its footsteps, coming back towards the yard area and the filing cabinets. Again, we both sat still, waiting in tense silence until they passed.
Repro was making it very clear that I couldn’t stay. Not while things were so hot. But this was the best hideout I’d ever seen:
self-contained
, secure and hidden.
I gave it one more try.
‘I don’t have any money, but I could be useful to you,’ I said. ‘You know, I could run messages. Be a gopher?’
‘I can look after my own arrangements, thank you, and you need to stay low, not be running around gophering. It’s a pity,’ he said. ‘Would have been good if you could have stayed. It’s nice having someone to chat to.’
‘I have quite a story,’ I said, trying to tempt some more time out of him.
He grinned, cautiously. ‘Maybe just one more night then.’
I’d spent the whole day looking through the collection. Repro had gathered an amazing amount of stuff. There were golf clubs; jars of coins, buttons, beads, pins and badges; loads of books and stacks of newspapers—local and foreign—meticulously arranged by date
and
location. I found some classic novels and did some reading. Typically I would have gone straight for the thrillers, but that kind of fiction didn’t seem to cut it any more for someone with a life like mine.
I’d been engrossed in a book for a couple of hours, but my eyes kept turning to the painted landscape of the harbour on the wall. I thought it was familiar—probably a print of some very famous artist’s work that we’d looked at in art class. School … what a distant memory.
Lazily, I looked over at Repro who was humming to himself while toying with some sort
of little motor at his table. He seemed to enjoy my company, although he was nervous all the time. My presence must have made it worse, but I was pretty sure that was just the way he was.
I was sorting through some more of Repro’s books from his library on the shelf, when I noticed an old, stained, black-and-white photograph leaning against a white pillar candle in a silver dish. I picked it up to look at it and also noticed a tiny gold angel pin that was resting beside it.
‘Who’s this?’ I called out to Repro. He looked up and squinted at the photo I was holding—a picture of a smiling woman with great big curls in her hair, leaning against an old-fashioned car.
His face fell.
‘That’s nothing. Put it back,’ he snapped.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, returning it to its seemingly sacred place by the candle and the pin. ‘I was just curious.’
‘No,’ Repro said after a moment.
‘I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you … I’m just not used to having anyone around, looking at my stuff. See, it’s a picture of my mum. We haven’t spoken in a very long time.’
‘How come?’
‘Oh … she wasn’t happy with the way my life was heading; this was a while ago now. She
wasn’t happy about the people I was mixing with … she was trying to change me, but I resisted. And then she stopped writing to me … turned her back on me after I was sent to the slammer for robbery.’ Repro walked over to me and picked up the picture. ‘Can’t blame her. But I haven’t seen her since,’ he said, sadly looking at her image.
‘Have you tried to get in touch with her?’
‘No. I don’t want to cause her any more trouble. I’ve put her through enough shame.’
‘What’s this pin?’ I asked him, changing the painful subject. ‘Lost property?’
‘Ah,’ he said, taking the pin and holding it up in the light. ‘Mum gave it to me, years ago. It’s a guardian angel.’
He slowly put the pin back in its place with the photo. ‘I don’t know if the pin ever did much to protect me, but I’m still here, aren’t I?’ he said with a toothy grin. ‘In any case, these are all I have to remind me of her.’
Repro sighed and went back to work on his motor, leaving me to wonder whether I’d end up like him … alone … away from my family, away from my mum.
Before I knew it, it was late again and Repro was
snoring softly on his sagging little bed. We’d played poker well into the night, after I found a deck of cards amongst the treasures on his shelf. He even had a shuffle machine and an
almost-complete
set of fluoro-coloured chips.
This would be the last night, I told myself. I couldn’t risk it for him any longer. I’d need to move on and take myself elsewhere.
I packed up all of my stuff and then made myself look as good as possible with the help of Repro’s bathroom and mirror. We said a quick goodbye and I thanked Repro again for everything he’d done for me. It was obvious that neither of us was keen to return to solitude, but we both knew I needed to go.
Before I ducked through the door, he handed me a small brown paper bag. ‘Take this with you,’ he said, with a hand on my back. ‘Best of luck.’
I hoped it wasn’t the last I’d see of my new friend.
After checking that all was clear, I quickly squeezed through the secret door in the filing cabinet. On the other side I hurried away, passing the bright graffiti and the old rubbish that had gathered along the ground near the stone
walls. I slipped through the rusty iron gates at the yard entrance and paused for a second to look back at the gloomy space. No-one would ever have guessed that such an incredible world existed there in hiding. I hoped it would stay that way for Repro.
I walked towards the city, cautiously, keeping my head down, while scanning through the shop windows for a glimpse of what I was looking for …
I arrived at the mall and looked around for a suitable café … and there I found Florentino’s.
I strolled in and took a seat at a table along the wall, right in front of a power point. Surreptitiously, while putting my bag down and picking up the menu, I plugged my phone charger in behind me and kicked my backpack in front of it.
I pulled the brown paper bag Repro gave me out of my pocket. There was something small in there, so I carefully tipped the bag upside down and watched as a tiny gold pin fell out onto the table. I picked it up and held it in my hand. It
was his little guardian angel.
‘I’m just waiting for my friends,’ I said, smiling at the waitress who’d come over to take my order. She was a cute girl with spiky blonde hair and a tiny silver ring through her nose.
‘No problem,’ she said, smiling back, before pouring me some water and moving on to another table.
I drummed my fingers on the table, pretending to wait for the friends who were running late, and I occasionally glanced at the non-existent watch under my sleeve in an attempt to look irritated. But mostly I looked around at the other people in there: some kids drinking milkshakes, two mothers with babies in prams, enjoying a stolen coffee break … and then there was me—psycho kid—a wanted criminal and fugitive.
I tried to relax. I leaned over to the empty table next to me and picked up a newspaper from the untidy pile left for customers to read. A photo of Mum and Rafe instantly jumped out at me from about halfway down the page. I let my head fall into my hands. Just under this photo
was another one of a little girl, her face turned away, drip stands and tubes surrounding her hospital bed, and a range of high-tech monitors stacked behind her. It was Gabbi, my little sister.
‘… If you love your sister, please contact us, Cal.’ I read Mum’s words. ‘We’ve done everything we can to help her get through this … but her condition hasn’t changed. We need you to come home.’
‘Rafe Ormond, the fugitive’s uncle,’ the paper reported, ‘who was also assaulted by the boy in the horrific Flood Street attacks of January, has begged his nephew to come home. In a public appearance in Richmond yesterday, he pleaded, “Please, Cal, you know that this is not doing any good to anyone—running away like this. You need to come forward. Hand yourself in. You know that it’s just a matter of time before you’re caught, so please come home. We can deal with this together. You’ll be looked after, I promise. No-one’s going to hurt you, but every day you stay away, you’re making things worse for yourself. Think of your mother. Think of your sister.’’’
Slowly, I let the newspaper slip from my fingers. This new appeal from Mum and Rafe could only mean that Gabbi’s condition was deteriorating.
‘Are you OK?’ the waitress with the spiky
hair asked, looking down at me with concern. I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there just staring at the paper, head in my hands. I quickly pulled myself together.
‘I’ve just had some bad news,’ I managed, pushing the newspaper out of sight.
‘Your friends can’t make it?’
I nodded gratefully.
‘It would have been nice if they’d let you know a little bit earlier, hey?’ she added. ‘So can I get you anything, then?’
‘No thanks,’ I replied.
She picked up my empty water glass and turned away. I unplugged my phone, stashed the cord in my backpack and left the café.
I found a quiet corner in the arcade, near the bathrooms and a loading dock, and pulled my phone out. I really wanted to call home. I was longing to hear Mum’s voice, just to tell her I was still OK … but I wasn’t even sure what
home
was anymore. I considered calling Rafe’s place but I hesitated, worried more than ever about being tracked by the police.
Instead, I called Boges, grateful again for him and his untraceable phone.
‘Boges, it’s me!’ I said when he answered.
‘Hey man, where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you for days! It’s not good to leave me with nothing but my imagination—I thought maybe you’d been captured by one of the gangs and murdered or something. Then I overheard someone at school saying something about you being attacked by a lion at the zoo! It was all over the news and the radio. Dude, what are you doing?!’
‘My mobile’s been dead. Boges, listen. I’m really worried about Gabbi. I just saw an article in the paper and a picture of her where she’s surrounded by all this … medical junk.’
‘Things aren’t going so great with Gabs, Cal. Your mum said the doctors have been trying different ways to stimulate her recovery, but nothing’s working. There’s been no reaction. Your mum also said something about finding you so that you can talk to her.’
‘What? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who’s supposed to have tried to
harm
her and they want me to
talk
to her?!’
‘I know your mum’s said some crazy stuff about you, Cal, but I don’t know if she really believes that you harmed Gabbi … or maybe just not intentionally … I don’t know, she’s very up and down.’
I wasn’t convinced. Nothing at all had
suggested to me that Mum believed any part of
my
story.
‘They just want me to come in so they can grab me and lock me away,’ I said. ‘I reckon the police are using Mum and Rafe, and even Gabbi, to get at me. They’re probably trying to make it look like I can just stroll on home, apologise, hug the family, then hold out my hands while they carefully place the handcuffs on my wrists and then help me up into the paddy wagon. The reality is that they’ll do whatever they can to get me behind bars, and they sure as hell aren’t going to be gentle about it.’
Neither of us said anything for a long moment. I sat down on an upturned milk crate near a skip bin.
‘Boges,’ I continued finally, ‘I hate to ask you again, but I really need some money. You don’t know what it’s like trying to survive on the streets without it. Other people can get some sort of social security payment. But I can’t.’