Deadly Sky (ePub), The (4 page)

Nobody was singing in the streets or down the narrow alleyways as he headed back to the hotel. Nobody was smiling now. People stood in the road, staring towards where the march had ended. More sirens wailed to a stop behind him, by the big office building. Darryl didn't look back.

A little kid started trotting across the footpath, heading in the direction of where angry shouts and barked orders still rose. A woman rushed after him, seized him and clutched him to her. Two other women called out to Darryl in French, asking something. He shook his head and kept moving.

Guests and a few workers in uniforms stood clustered
in front of the hotel, gazing towards the market. ‘What's going on?' an Australian voice demanded. Darryl shook his head again. ‘Don't know.' He just wanted to get to his room.

When he tried to fit his key in the lock, his hands were shaking so much that it took him three attempts to get the door open. He'd dropped his pineapple somewhere, he realised.

For ten, twenty, minutes, he sat on his bed, watching a bar of sunlight edge down the wall opposite. His hands had stopped shaking, but his back and stomach felt stiff and cramped. He must have been holding his whole body tense without even noticing.

He saw again the waving signs. The young guy rushing forward; red paint splattering over the ambassador and steps. The police charging into the crowd; the frightened, fleeing bodies. Someone could have been hurt. Someone
did
get hurt. He kept staring at the wall. What did those protestors think they were doing? Why did so many people think like them?

The wall said nothing.

His mother wasn't due back for a couple of hours. He could have set out for another walk. He could have gone down to the beach again. Instead, he stayed in the room.

The TV showed some woman singing in French. There was nothing to read except his
Deadly Cloud
book. Darryl opened it at the page where he'd dropped it the night before, and tried to concentrate. A full-out atomic attack on the United States or the Soviet Union could cause 5 million deaths from cancer in the years afterwards, because of radioactivity …

Darryl smacked the book shut. He'd felt so excited about coming here; but he'd never expected anything like this to happen. He pictured the young guy from the plane standing above the fallen policeman, wooden shaft raised to strike. If Darryl ever saw him again, he'd tell him he was a maniac. If the maniac understood English, that was.

A key turned in the lock and his mother bustled in. ‘Hello, love. I thought you'd still be out exploring. There are sirens all over the place – I wonder what's been happening?'

Darryl didn't answer. He couldn't at first: his mum was too busy telling him about the church youth group; how the kids had wanted to know if they had any boiling mud pools in their street in New Zealand, if you could eat snow, if lots of people owned pet kiwis.

‘Then I talked to a few of the girls who might be
coming to New Zealand, and the first thing
they
asked was what New Zealand boys were like! So I told them I had one back at the hotel, and how handsome you were.'

Darryl snorted.

‘What did you do?' his mum finally asked. ‘Did you find the market?'

‘Yeah. And you know those sirens? There was a march. Some anti-nuclear thing. Some idiot threw red paint over this ambassador guy, and it turned violent.'

His mother stared. ‘Are you all right? I
told
you to be careful!'

‘It wasn't my fault! I was just coming out of the market when it all started. I didn't know it was all going to—'

His mum held up a hand. ‘All right, Da. Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. Tell me what happened.'

He did. Most of it, anyway. The chanting and the signs, the church minister, the ambassador and the police, and the paint and the fighting that came afterwards. He didn't mention the batons thudding down on bodies, the bleeding faces, the screams of frightened kids, the young guy with his furious face.

‘Both sides feel so strongly, don't they?' his mother said. She shook her head. ‘There's another test in just over a week; the day we fly home. About noon, I heard someone say. People probably want to get their message across now.'

She walked over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘The main thing is that you're OK. And
I'm
hungry! Let's have lunch.'

I'm hungry, too, Darryl realised. Wonder where my pineapple ended up?

As they set off down the corridor, his mother smiled at him, and stroked the hair back off his forehead. Darryl pulled away, and she laughed. ‘Sorry, sorry. We'll eat, and then we'll go sight-seeing. Somewhere where the only signs being waved are ones for ice cream.'

They ate big crusty sandwiches and sweet almond biscuits in a place just up the road from the hotel. So
that's
what a
pâtisserie
sells, Darryl thought as they entered. It wasn't the one they'd seen earlier, and he felt relieved that they hadn't headed in that direction, even though the streets seemed back to normal. What had happened to those protestors the police had taken away? Were they in jail?

Twice more, his mother asked him if he was OK. ‘I let you out of my sight for a few hours, and you're mixed up in a riot. You're as bad as your father!'

They were both silent for a few minutes, then Mrs Davis asked: ‘Would you like to come along with me to tomorrow morning's school? You don't have to do
anything: just sit at the back and pretend you don't know me.' As Darryl hesitated, his mum grinned. ‘It's a boys' high. Our own one back home wants to see if they can start up a few connections. Then I've got the girls' high in the afternoon.'

Darryl gave a half-nod. ‘All right.' But now it was time for some sight-seeing.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in one of the brightly painted buses, tooting its way out into the country.

Coconut trees stretched in tall avenues, or curved high above the bus. A boy prodded three trotting black pigs out of their way. Jungle-covered hills rose on one side, and the sun sat high in a brilliant blue sky.
This
is what I came here for, thought Darryl.

They got off the bus and followed a sandy track that curved towards a black cliff. The thump of breaking waves grew louder, and a sighing, whooshing noise came as well, like some huge sea-creature breathing.

Rounding a corner, they stood staring at where waves flung themselves against a glistening wall of rock.
Whoosh!
Water shot from a gap higher up, like a hidden geyser.
Arahoho Blowhole
read the sign nearby.

Darryl's mother made him stand in front of the streaming cliff, and, while she took a photo, he prayed
nobody else would arrive and see him looking a dork.

‘What can you do on that other place we're going to?' he asked, as they strolled back towards the road.

‘Mangareva? I'm not sure. It's really small. Very small and very far away. It'll take us nearly six hours to fly there, remember.' His mother walked on, sandals in hand, wiggling her toes in the gritty sand. ‘Actually, we're lucky it's even there.'

As Darryl glanced at her, she said: ‘It was France's first choice for a nuclear test site. They were going to move everyone away and start blowing the place to bits. Luckily, they decided on Mururoa instead. Not so lucky for Mururoa, I suppose.'

‘I'm really looking forward to Mangareva,' his mum went on, while they ate in a different café that night – fish and rice with pineapple; ice cream with pineapple; a drink with … pineapple! ‘They've never sent anyone to a New Zealand school before. A lot of the families there live just by fishing, or basic farming. But the French government have given them money to make up for the tests, and they want some of their young people to find out what the world's like.'

‘So they're better off because of the bomb?' Darryl felt surprised when his mother just nodded.

‘Yes – in some ways. But there has never been anything like this in the world before. There's never been a weapon powerful enough to kill almost everyone on the whole planet.'

Aw, come on, Darryl thought, the government would never let
that
happen.

Darryl did go to the boys' high with his mother the next morning.

‘Why don't Tahitian kids go to France if they want a different education?' he asked, before they left their room to meet the taxi.

‘New Zealand's closer.' Mrs Davis was checking her blue dress in the mirror. (‘
Don't
tell me I look “OK”!' she'd warned her son.) She wore a dark blue flower made of some kind of cloth in her hair. She'd bought it from a fancy shop near the café the night before, while Darryl stayed outside. (‘No way I'm going in there!')

His mother scooped up her folder of notes. ‘Plus
they know our government's opposed to nuclear testing, so they like us for that.'

Our government's opposed to nuclear testing? Darryl thought. Nobody told me.

The high school principal shook his mother's hand, kissing her on both cheeks. She smiled, and went pink. Darryl took a step back, in case the guy was planning to kiss him, too, and stared. Just as well his father wasn't here. Weird to think now that Mum and Dad were always rowing because Dad was wanting them to do something different, while Mum said they needed to make a steady home for him – and now she was the one doing something
really
different.

The school was a couple of long, two-storey buildings. Palm trees rose along both sides. He'd seen a stretch of sandy ground with soccer posts on it, but no green playing fields, and no rugby posts. How could you have a boys' school without rugby posts?

‘The senior pupils are ready for you,
madame
,' the principal was saying. ‘And your son – he will speak to a class, yes?'

No! Darryl gaped. But his mother just smiled. ‘You'll be fine. Tell them about the weather.' Before he knew what was happening, a young teacher appeared, shook his
hand, and led him along a corridor and into a classroom. Thirty boys all stood up as they entered. Darryl turned to see what important person was following, then realised that the class was standing for him.

‘Thees ees Dah-reel from
la Nouvelle-Zélande
,' the young teacher said. ‘He weel speak to you.' Turning to Darryl, he went: ‘If you would talk slowly? The boys, their Engleesh is leetle.'

Darryl swallowed, and stared at the rows in front of him. Blue shorts, white shirts, sandals. Dark heads. Some faces looked interested; a few looked bored already. Suddenly he wanted to show those ones.

Talking slowly gave him time to think fast. ‘G'day. That means
Bonjour
.' Several boys laughed, and repeated ‘G'dayee'. Darryl felt better. ‘It's twenty-two degrees here in Tahiti?' The young teacher nodded. ‘Well, back home it's ten degrees.' The boys murmured.

Darryl went on: ‘And it's probably raining. And snow is falling on our mountains and on our volcanoes. So I like the weather in Tahiti.' More laughter, and even some clapping. Darryl felt great.

He told them about his school uniform. ‘Grey. And more grey.' About playing cricket in summer. How he liked listening to The Jackson Five, especially their sixteen-year-old singer Michael Jackson. He talked about New Zealand rowers winning a gold medal at the 1972 Olympics, and how shocked everyone was
when terrorists shot dead some Israeli athletes. The class nodded.

‘Some of our Maori people can speak their own language as well as English. But most of us speak just English. You can speak two languages, so I think you are clever.' He stopped.

A lot of grins and clapping. A boy at the front row put up his hand, and asked, very carefully: ‘What— what you enjoy in Tahiti?'

‘The sunshine,' Darryl told him. ‘The pineapples. The market. I went there.' He hesitated. ‘I saw the march – against nuclear tests.'

Another hand. ‘In
la Nouvelle-Zélande
, you say no to the bombs?'

Darryl felt awkward. Then he remembered his mother's words. ‘Our government's opposed to nuclear testing.' Yes, he thought as he said it, we're a long way away from it all, and we're lucky.

‘We do not wish the bomb, too,' the same boy said. Another voice quickly went, ‘The
nucléaire
stop the communists!' Someone else chimed in: ‘
La France
needs bomb to protect our islands!' The young teacher raised both hands, said something in French, and then told Darryl: ‘People here argue on both sides.' Darryl remembered his mother had said the same thing.

Whisperings at the back of the room. Then: ‘What are like
les filles de la Nouvelle-Zélande
… the New
Zealand girls?' Everyone laughed, including Darryl.

‘There are … some really nice ones.' (What are you
saying?
went the voice inside his head.) ‘Girls are – different.'

The teacher laughed. ‘In French, we say
Vive la différence
'. Long live the difference.
Merci, Monsieur
Dah-reel. Claude?'

A tall boy stood up. ‘Thank you of – from – us. Have enjoy in Tahiti.'

Hey, Darryl told himself as he was led back to the school office. Mr Reidy must have known something: I
did
speak to a class!

‘You were so good!' his mother said that evening, as they ate in the previous night's café once more. ‘People kept telling me!'

Darryl pulled a face. ‘Lucky it was a guys' school.' Actually, he thought again to himself, I wouldn't have minded talking to the girls' high, too … Aloud, he said: ‘They can't leave the nuclear tests alone.'

They'd finished their fish (with pineapple) and were waiting for their meringues (with pineapple). The waitress arrived with someone else's order, looked awkward, apologised and hurried away. ‘I suppose the tests won't leave
them
alone, Da,' his mother replied.

‘Yeah, but remember what Grandad Davis reckoned?' Darryl reminded her. ‘Lots of new weapons were invented in World War II. New artillery shells, landing craft, aircraft carriers. They all helped win the war faster, and saved lives. Grandad said the atomic bomb was the same, only more powerful.'

He felt startled at his sudden rush of words. ‘And if the Americans hadn't dropped those bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Grandad and thousands of other prisoners would never have got back home alive.'

Mrs Davis held up her hands. ‘I know. Anyway, we're on holiday. One more church group tomorrow morning, and a school visit on Monday morning, but we'll see all the sights we can fit in around them. Early flight to Mangareva on Tuesday. Early – and long.'

The waitress returned with their meringues. As she placed them on the table, a spoon went clanging onto the floor. ‘Oh,
non!
' the woman exclaimed. ‘So sorry!'

‘Don't worry.' Darryl's mother had already picked up the spoon. She glanced at the waitress. ‘Are you all right?' Darryl looked, too. The woman was crying.

‘I – sorry,' she said again. ‘My son: he is hurt in demonstration march. Now police say will arrest him.'

Mrs Davis put her hand on the woman's arm. ‘He sounds a brave boy.
My
son' – she nodded at Darryl – ‘he was there.'

‘I'd just been to the mark—' Darryl began, then froze as the waitress embraced him.

‘They say bomb is to protect us. Who protects us from bomb?' She moved away.

On Monday, Mrs Davis left early for a group on the other side of the island.

He heard her running around on tiptoes when birds began singing outside the wooden shutters. Turning over, he went back to sleep, then got up at nine o'clock, and yawned off to breakfast in their café, as he and his mum were now calling it. A different waitress smiled as she brought him crisp rolls, milky coffee, his own basket of fruit, including – ta-dah! – some pineapple.

The rain was gone, and Tahiti steamed under a bright sun. Darryl headed off along the beach, feet crunching in the clean, shelly sand. A few hundred metres on, a track curved up towards the headland. He climbed slowly, between walls of grey tree trunks and huge green leaves. Insects droned. Butterflies drifted. A corridor of glowing sky shone above. The rest of the world had vanished.

‘BRARRR-OWWW!'
He leaped as something tore across the sky overhead.
‘BRARR-OWWW!'
Planes. Fighters of some sort. Blue, white and red circles with
a thin yellow border on their wings. French? Must be doing training.

He shook his head. Even here, he couldn't get away from reminders of the bomb.

‘You're in the paper!' his mother announced, the minute she came in. She laughed at the expression on her son's face. ‘Saturday's – it was in the school staffroom; I picked it up, and there was this handsome guy staring at me.'

The paper was in French, but there on the front page was a big photo of Friday's marchers, just as the police charged into them. Batons were raised; signs struck at uniformed figures; people's mouths opened to shout; arms lifted to protect themselves. Some had turned to flee. The market's corrugated iron roof showed in the background.

There was no sign of the young guy from the plane. But – aw, no! – there was Darryl himself, standing to one side, staring at what was happening. His jaw hung open; he looked a total idiot.

‘We'll have to send a copy to your dad,' his mother said.

‘Why?' Darryl demanded. ‘I look like a moron.'

‘No, you don't.' Mrs Davis laughed. ‘Anyway, he'll
want to know what you're doing, that you're having an … an adventure.'

Darryl was remembering another photo of himself, in a 100-yards race at his intermediate school, which had been published in the local giveaway paper. ‘Who's the good-looking guy?' his father had grinned. ‘Looks so much like me!'

He swallowed as he remembered, but said nothing.

They were flying out of Tahiti early the next morning. ‘To the Island at the End of the World,' his mother said, as they headed for their café.

The waitress who'd been so upset smiled when they came in. The police had let her son go, with a warning to behave himself, she told them before they'd even sat down. He had a cut head from where something had hit him, but he was all right. ‘The young people!' she said to Darryl's mum, and ruffled his hair, too. Darryl forced a smile.

‘It's our last night in Tahiti,' Mrs Davis said. ‘What should we eat that's really special?'

The waitress beamed. ‘You try
poulpe
.
Poulpe
is very lovely.'

‘All right,' Darryl's mother laughed. ‘We'll try two
poulpes
. OK?'

Darryl began to say ‘What are—', then just nodded.

A few minutes later, the waitress came back. She carried two tall glasses, brim-full of golden liquid. Slices of orange and pineapple sat on top. ‘For you. Is cost nothing.' Darryl grinned.

‘What
is
“
poulpe
”, by the way?' Mrs Davis asked, as the waitress turned to go. The woman beamed again. ‘How you say it? Octopus.' Darryl gulped.

But it tasted good. Chewy, but good.

‘Mangareva?' the waitress exclaimed when they were leaving. ‘Oh, it is beautiful! It mean Floating Mountain. There is lovely high hill. Good happiness to you.' She kissed them on both cheeks. Darryl decided he didn't hate it too much after all.

The sun was just up, but already warm through the shutters, when they dragged their suitcases down the corridor to the foyer next morning.

Sunlight between the palm trees threw stripes like zebra coats across the road to the airport. They checked in, ate a chocolate croissant and then another chocolate croissant in the café, and just fifteen minutes later, an announcement told them to board through Gate Six.

‘It's a much smaller plane,' Mrs Davis said as they
walked. ‘Only about twenty people. Twin engines, it said on the brochure.'

Darryl remembered the announcement on the flight from Sydney. ‘So it can climb on one engine and fall down on the other?'

His mother giggled. ‘It's going to be special, Da. I've been really looking forward to this part.'

Me, too, thought Darryl. Excitement lifted inside him once more.

Their plane was smaller, all right. Smaller, but sturdy-looking. A dozen or so people stood queued at the steps leading up to it, while a guy in black trousers, a white shirt and a peaked cap checked their tickets.

His mum began handing over theirs. The man was young and slim; he looked only twenty or so. He passed the tickets back to Darryl's mother, and smiled. He glanced at Darryl, and looked puzzled.

Darryl knew he was gaping: the uniformed figure was the young guy who'd been on the flight from Sydney. The same one he'd seen brandishing a sign in Friday's anti-nuclear protest march.