Ash Road (11 page)

But it was Peter who ran. The boys were so big; they looked so strong. He bolted, afraid that they were going to set upon him. Peter feared violence more than anything; he would go to any lengths to avoid a fight. He didn't stop running until he reached the road, and when he looked back the three boys were not to be seen. The only person in sight was someone who looked like Stevie, a long way up the hill, waving to him.

But the bigger boys were still there; they had gone to earth like frightened rabbits. They couldn't see Peter any more than he could see them. The roaring trees along the road and the path and round about them concealed them from one another, but only visually. In the minds of the three boys every tossing leaf was a spying eye, an accusing eye, and the difficulty of covering up their guilt was beginning to look overwhelming. They were so dog-tired that the situation was beyond them. They couldn't think straight, not even clever Harry could think straight, and Wallace's mind was a frightened blank waiting for a lead. Running away from the fire had only proved their guilt; it hadn't made them safer at all. And it wasn't that Graham had meant to start the fire; it had been such an innocent accident. But who'd believe them now? All the alibis they had invented seemed so feeble and so futile. Everyone would know now that they hadn't spent the night at the Pinkards', and if they couldn't face up to a few unsuspecting children how were they to face suspicious parents or angry officials.

Graham felt evil and deceitful and full of remorse because he had failed to help that poor girl willingly. She had looked such a nice girl. And why would an undersized boy of about thirteen take such fright? Graham was relieved that the boy had taken fright, but it still didn't make sense. Were all Graham's feelings beginning to show? ‘What do you think?' he said, in a half-choked voice. ‘Will I give myself up? It'll be so much easier if I do.'

‘Of course you won't give yourself up!' Harry's were angry words and Graham wanted them to be. He wanted Harry to drive the thought away, to kill it. ‘We can't worry ourselves about a kid. He got a fright, that's all, same as us. We haven't done murder or anything. The way you act anyone would think we had.'

But they had lost the opportunity of escape: the girls had come to the side of the house: in sight of them and in hearing range if voices were raised. Perhaps the boys could still walk away as Graham had wanted to do in the first place, but that would be more cold-blooded now than it would have been then. Wallace said with a touch of bravado, ‘Why should they guess anythin'? Why should they find out anythin' if we don't tell them?'

‘But that kid,' said Graham. ‘He acted like he knew something. He was scared stiff.'

‘He got a fright,' repeated Harry, belligerently. ‘So did we. He's gone now, anyway. I bet he hasn't stopped running yet.'

‘Well, what about our packs?'

‘What about them?'

‘They're up on the road for everyone to look at.'

‘Yeh,' said Wallace. ‘You blokes see to the girl. I'll get rid of the packs. I'll hide 'em somewhere.'

‘Let me,' said Graham breathlessly.

Harry looked at him, perhaps too closely, but believing he understood Graham's earnest desire to continue avoiding people if he could. ‘Okay. You do it. But remember where you hide them.'

Graham, trembling from head to foot, headed for the gateway with all the haste his sore feet could summon. Pippa made a move, afraid that the boys were all going to melt away before her eyes. ‘Lorna wants some more help,' she called and took a couple of steps towards them. ‘Are you going to give it to her?'

Pippa took a couple more steps hesitantly, not sure of herself or whether these two big fellows were nice boys all dirtied up or a couple of toughs. Another time she probably wouldn't have thought of it, but the day itself was so violent. The wind that buffeted her was nerve-racking in a way; and her passionate argument with Peter was still in her mind like an ugly fright from which she had not recovered, and the shock of looking into Mr George's face was something she would not quickly forget. What an awful morning it had been, from the very first moment; as if she were living a day in the life of another person, as if all the circumstances of this day simply didn't belong to her. Even the monotonous buzz of the telephone that her parents had not answered. And why should these boys hold back? Why should they be as Lorna had said they were? ‘They do act funny, Pippa,' Lorna had said. ‘Even when they helped me carry my dad they wouldn't look me in the eye.'

Pippa took two or three more steps, and suddenly felt that she had ventured as close as any sensible person would dare. ‘Have you been fighting the fire?' she said.

It was a question they didn't want to answer but had to answer. ‘Yeh,' said Wallace, ‘that's right. Worn to a frazzle, too.'

‘You're tired?' said Pippa.

‘Ready to drop,' agreed Wallace, visibly slumping.

‘Is that why you've been acting funny?'

Harry shrugged. ‘I wouldn't say we're acting funny.'

‘I told Lorna that you'd been firefighting, that that's what was wrong with you.'

‘Nothing's wrong with us.'

‘Where's he going?' Pippa glanced in the direction Graham had taken.

‘Nowhere,' said Harry. ‘He'll be back.'

They didn't sound like toughs, not really. ‘Lorna wants help to carry her father up the road,' said Pippa. ‘We've got to get him to my place. My dad doesn't answer the phone, but I know he's there.'

‘You mean carry him on that door?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘How far is it?'

‘About a third of a mile.'

‘Crumbs...When Wally said we're ready to drop he meant it, you know.' Harry knew he shouldn't have said more, but he couldn't stop himself. ‘We've been fighting fires all night. We wouldn't be here now except they sent us away for a rest.'

‘Did they send you as
far
as this?'

‘Yeh,' said Wallace. He couldn't resist the temptation to impress. ‘That's right. We're down this way to have a rest and keep an eye on things. Eh, Harry?'

‘Sort of,' said Harry uneasily. ‘Wouldn't it be easier for you to get your dad to come down here?'

‘It would be if he's at home. But if he's not home we'll have to get someone else. The Fairhalls, probably.'

‘Who are the Fairhalls?'

‘They live opposite my place. They've got a car, too.'

‘It's no farther then—is it?—to walk to the Fairhalls than it is to your place?' said Harry.

‘I suppose not.'

‘Well, what's the use of killing ourselves struggling up that hill with the door and all? Doesn't make sense, does it? You don't need us at all, do you?'

Pippa couldn't quite follow the circle the conversation had taken. She turned back to Lorna with a confused shake of her head and Lorna said heatedly, ‘I told you they wouldn't help. I told you they were running away from something. They're not worn out from fighting fires, they're worn out from running away.'

Wallace was suddenly frightened and aggressive. ‘What's that you say?' he shouted.

‘You heard what I said,' Lorna yelled. ‘My brother's a firefighter and he's fighting them now. If he was here he'd punch you on the nose. You're not firefighters. You're just nothing. Get off my father's property before I set the dog on you.'

‘What dog?' sneered Wallace. ‘I don't see any dog. Y'haven't got one.'

‘I have, too,' screamed Lorna. ‘Blackie. Blackie! Here, Blackie!'

Wallace saw red. Somehow this screaming girl seemed to be the whole reason why their wonderful holiday had turned into a nightmare. He grabbed at a garden stake and dragged it out of the ground, uprooting the plant with it, and brandishing it at her. ‘Put a dog on me,' he yelled, ‘and I'll beat the daylights out of it. I'll beat 'em out of you, too.'

‘Put that stick down!' shouted Harry across Wallace's threats. ‘Are you crazy?'

Pippa stared in astonishment and fright, sure that she should have been running for her life but unable to move, blankly dismayed that she had become a part of something that wasn't supposed to happen to nice people. All she could produce was a plaintive cry against the wind: ‘Peter Fairhall! Peter!' Lorna, frightened and defiant, continued shouting taunts. ‘You're probably thieves or something. You're probably runaways from a Home or something. Blackie! Blackie! Where are you, Blackie?'

‘This is stupid. This is mad,' bellowed Harry. ‘All right. We'll carry him for you. We'll do whatever you want.'

‘You'll do nothing for me. I wouldn't have you touch my father. Get off this property or I'll ring the police. Blackie!
Blackie!
'

Wallace dropped the stake at his feet almost as if it had turned red-hot in his hands. He seemed suddenly to hear his own father, ‘You're as strong as a man, Wallace. Hold that strength back or it'll land you in trouble. You must learn to control yourself or you'll bite off more than you can chew.' And it had happened. He didn't know how or why, except that the urge to use his strength violently had been overpowering, had seemed the only way to break out of something he couldn't understand. There wasn't a dog; the dog didn't come; but the girl still called for him. She wouldn't have kept on calling if there hadn't been a dog, and Wallace knew from the way she called that it'd be a big dog. He was afraid it would leap upon them out of the trees like a sleek black panther, and he gasped, ‘Run for it. Quick. She's crazy.'

In that moment Harry almost despised Wallace. But it was only for a moment between the numbing confusion of the abusive exchange and a sudden stinging pain behind his left knee. Harry fell, from the shock of the pain and the hurt of it. He thought he had been shot, but it wasn't a bullet; it was a stone as big as a golf ball that little Stevie Buckingham had snatched from the path on the run and hurled with all his strength at Wallace. Harry went down with such a sharp cry, and the crack of the stone was so pronounced, that Wallace, too, thought Harry had been shot, and the last fires of his dangerous mood went out. He was suddenly cold and physically afraid. Muscles and sinews were no match for bullets.

He spun on his heel and confronted not a man with a gun but a boy, a boy no more than chest-high, coming at him like a terrier. Wallace was so surprised he couldn't protect himself. A sharp-toed shoe cracked into his shin, and with an anguished yell he reeled backwards, pummelled by the boy's fists, frightened to lash out in case he hit too hard, his feelings a mixture of amazement and alarm and honest admiration for the courage of the little fellow. ‘Bully,' the boy was screeching. ‘Bully, bully, bully.' And with every screech he landed another kick or another punch on Wallace's stinging body.

‘Stevie,' Pippa shouted. ‘Stop it! He's not fighting you, Stevie. You've won, Stevie. Stop it!'

6

Evacuation

Graham was sure that at last he was safe. It had been a close thing, but he was certain now that all the excitement had had nothing to do with him. He had scarcely pulled the haversacks into the scrub near the fence line when he heard a voice on the wind. What the voice said he didn't wholly hear but rather pieced together.

‘Peter Fairhall. I saw you. Come on out, Peter Fairhall. Your Gramps'll chew your leg off if you don't go home.'

It had given Graham a bad moment, and it had taken him a while to realize that it was not his own name on the air: names didn't count for much when a fellow was on the run.

‘What'cha hidin' for, Peter? Your Gramps wants you, Peter.'

It was a busy little boy, pattering down the hill, sometimes pausing to call again. ‘Better go home, Peter Fairhall, or he'll wring your blitherin' neck. That's what he's sayin', Peter.'

Graham couldn't understand how anyone could have seen him; he had taken such care not to expose himself to the open vista of the road. He had frozen; he had shrunk into the scrub.

‘I know you're there, Peter Fairhall.' The boy had taken a stone from the road and pitched it into the timber fifty yards or so farther up the hill. ‘You're a real scaredy-cat, aren't you, Peter Fairhall?' And he had come on again, calling, ‘Pippa! Where are you, Pippa? Mum wants you, Pippa,' and had turned at last into the gateway, not a great distance from where Graham was hidden, unaware of the eyes that followed him as he skipped down the path, unaware even of the violence that he was about to stumble upon.

Graham had grabbed his own pack then and darted along the fence line from bush to bush until clear of the risk of being seen from the house. Then he had run, he wasn't sure where, except that it was away from the road, right away, he hoped, from the direction of Pinkard's place, away from any place that might draw people. He had to be on his own so that he might give way, that he might lie down, that he might tear his shoes off to ease the agony in his feet, that he might even go to sleep. He didn't want to find Wallace and Harry again. He didn't care if he never saw them again as long as he lived.

He came down into a gully where a creek was flowing. It was no cooler than open ground, but it was private. He thought he could hear an engine beating somewhere; it was a long way off and the wind made its direction uncertain. But the trees were tall and the bush was thick and there was water in the creek and enough food in his pack to keep him alive for days. The hiking-tent was in his pack, too, so at least he would be able to get under cover at night. He felt vaguely that he was going to live out his years beside this creek. He would never go back into the world, never face his parents, never stand up in court to hear himself accused and sentenced. Nor would he have to worry himself sick about Maths B again.