The Cartographer (29 page)

So I thought:
No Granddad — and here's me with nothing to do but wait
. I went for a walk around the long thin house that I knew as well as my own, and climbed the skinny stairs to the first floor. Granddad's bedroom was tidy and the bed was made — he told me he promised Nanna he'd keep the place neat for her, because she liked that — and beside the bed on his bedside table there were two photos. One I'd seen a million times: a picture of Nanna in the garden wearing a big sun hat with her arms full of gladdies and a lovely smile on her face. The other I'd seen before too, but not for a while, and not here, either.

It was the photo I'd nicked from the copper's house, down by the Orange Tree pub, the one of the lady and the kid.

You know how just when you think you've got a firm grip on your raspberry ice-block, and the next thing you know it's in your lap, or worse, on the ground? It's like that with a lot of people. I reckon Mr Sanderson was one of those people. Only a few months ago, he was just an old fogey with no blood in his face and a fridge full of creamy soda. Now he was some kind of special rozzer with super powers. And he was living in
that
house. Wonder Woman was another one. One minute I was putting as much space as possible between her and me, and praying I would never see her or Bob again, and the next my life had got so mixed up with hers that I had practically become part of her family.

Now I added Granddad to the list. It seemed to me that he was a lot more mysterious than I had thought, and I would have to keep a close eye on him for any interesting information that might come my way. I would have thought that he'd be the last person on earth to have a picture that belonged to a copper beside his bed, apart perhaps from a copper's relative, which I reckoned no one would own up to being anyway. Later, when I got home, I drew a dotted line between Granddad and the copper's house, which I had previously copied onto the map. Finally — reluctantly — I continued the line to myself.

And it was lines of another sort that I was now preparing to explore. If you're one of those people who thinks that the
last thing a kid who's been chased by a homicidal maniac in an underground tunnel would do is revisit the old haunt to reminisce and do a bit more exploring, then you don't know much about kids, and not a lot about the Cartographer, either. The Cartographer likes nothing better than to follow underground tramlines to wherever they may lead, and get his hands a little dirty in the process, and cares nothing for murderers. Besides, I had to get a closer look at the underground train I had found. And anyway, Tom would have gone back down there.

Actually, at that moment, the Cartographer did have a knot in his stomach, like he'd had one too many of the lollopy-lady-in-the-spaceship's doughnuts, but he knew this time it was a good knot, not a bad one. I'd had a similar feeling — the bad one — the day Tom climbed up on top of the monkey bar, and stood up. I'd never seen anyone do that before. The soles of my feet were thrilling in pain just watching. We'd had our play, we were finished. We should have been off home. But Tom hadn't given me the word, and I liked to hear him say it, because nobody said ‘home' like him. Nobody cared enough about it. But I was allowed to say whatever I liked to him, so I did.

‘No, don't. Let's go.'

But with a bad feeling I realised that I hadn't opened my mouth, hadn't said anything at all, just thought it. I had thought of the words shooting out like snooker balls — click, click, click … plock. Done, or rather, said. The words were in my head, waiting for the word chute to open. But it didn't. Anyway, I didn't know what he was going to do, or what the monkey bar was going to do. Later, I told myself he would have done it anyway, eventually. He wouldn't have paid any attention to me. He wouldn't have even understood why I was
telling him to stop. That was something we didn't do. But I could tell that he could read the concern in my face, and didn't mind a bit. He was allowed to have one more play, do one more trick. He enjoyed the one-more game a lot more than I did: one last bit of cake, one last joke, one last comic swap, even though he knew we were going to miss the tram, be late for Mass, whatever. I was more your enough-is-enough type of twin.

He read my mind.

‘One last swing,' he said, looking down at me. ‘One last trick, then we'll be off home.'

Home.
That was the last word I heard him say.

The Cartographer shut his ears and concentrated on today. I'd made sure I was carrying an extra set of torch batteries, but not the pinch bar, which I had left behind, in case I had to run like hell. I had also prepared special rations for the trip, consisting of a few Bester's cream biscuits, some jelly beans — good for any caper — and a cold sausage roll, even though I knew it was going to taste like Zac had slept on it. There was one other difference about this expedition: I was careful to be as quiet as a mouse with not a lot to say. I swear I nearly broke my brain trying not to burst into ‘Sixteen Tons'.

When I got back to the turn-off in the tunnel where I had made the wrong turn when I was running from the bloke with the torch, I could see how easy it was to do that, as the tunnel had forks all over the place. When I came to the little train, I stopped and had a good look around, knowing that, once I was past this point, I could not be sure of outrunning an axe murderer unless he had accidentally gone for a stroll with an extra-large axe. The coast seemed clear so I eased myself into the driver's seat, and checked the dashboard. There was an
on/off switch and I gave it a little flick, just to see what would happen. What happened was that a red light came on and a couple of little needles on the dashboard moved. On the floor were pedals, like a car's, so I pressed one of them to see if it did anything and the whole train moved a few inches. This was one of the greatest discoveries I had ever made in my life! I had a train of my own! There was a click in my brain, and the Cartographer made way for …
Railwayman!

 

Yes, Railwayman, who lives underground and drives his jet-propelled train around the tunnels deep beneath the city, spoiling the plans of evil men and helping the police to send them to Pentridge to rot or to hang. Railwayman, who is often armed with a pinch bar that he found in a railway shed, and who has his own secret supply of hand grenades; and who, with his faithful companion, Shadow the Wonder Dog, has taken a solemn vow to explore underground railways everywhere, and to make maps of them, so that he won't accidentally have the same adventure twice.

 

I pushed the pedal a little more and as the train edged forward, I could feel its power all around me, pushing and pulling me at the same time. It was like driving a tank. The only sound it made was a click as the cars behind it got pulled along. I kept my foot on the pedal until I was at the beginning of the tunnel. Then I found the reversing lever, and the little train started going backwards. The only problem was that the cars made a bit of noise banging against each other. So I hopped out and went to the back of the loco and had a look at the coupling. It was a bit like my Tri-ang train set, so I pulled out a big pin on a chain, then a little lever, and I was free of the cars behind me. Back in the driver's cab, I pushed the forward
pedal down as gently as possible. As we glided into the tunnel like a phantom train, I looked down at the dash and found the switch that turned on the headlight, which lit up the walls and track ahead.
In for a penny, in for a pound
, Mum says — one of her best.

So there I was, Railwayman in his train, tearing down the tracks like Casey Jones on the
Cannonball Express
. At first I was taking it easy, just to get the feel of the tracks, then the clicking of the wheels as we went over the cracks kind of got to me and I accelerated to cruising speed, Railwayman's favourite speed. Then I thought:
Hmm, I wonder what this baby can
really
do
, and I opened up the throttle. She hummed along like a little beauty: I must have been doing ninety! I had time now to take in my surroundings properly. The tunnel had tiles all over the walls and ceiling, like the connecting tunnels at Flinders Street Station, and they rippled with light as I tore along almost silently. I thought to myself:
Biscuit would have loved this
. Next time I came down here, to the underground, I would bring Zac. Luckily, he was one of those dogs who believe that actions speak louder than words.

The ride was a long one, and the headlight lit up the tunnel only a short way ahead of the train. I was relieved when I hit civilisation — a sign on the left that said simply
USE
, and another on the right that said
GH
, followed by a turn-off. I was all for going to
USE
, as that was the straight line, but the switch had been set to the right.
USE
would have to wait.

After a little way, I came to another turn to the right that was, according to its sign, going to
HQ VIA VB
.
Finally
, I thought, a
sign that not only means something, but is also pointing to a brewery
. I would check that out later. It wasn't long before I came to a sign that told me I had arrived at
GH
, a dead end.
GH
was not a big deal, but it did have both a lift and a stone staircase. It had something else too: two sets of neon lights that were switched on.

I knew that whoever left those lights on could be back at any minute, so I prepared for a quick getaway. I rolled the loco onto a small loco turntable, then I turned the engine around so that it was facing back the way I'd come and headed for the stairs, holding my torch like a weapon, in case I should be surprised by a smugglers ring, or stumble into an opium den or a bank robber's hideout — God knows what was up there!

There was a train with a few cars behind it parked at this end, facing down the tunnel the way I had come.

I scrambled up the old stone steps to a heavy iron door at the top. It had a handle but no lock. I pulled it a little bit and looked in, and what I saw was a room made of stone with a couple of dim light bulbs in the ceiling, switched on, and rows of shelves with thousands of bottles on them.

I went into the room, leaving the door open, in case I needed to escape, and walked around slowly. When I came to another set of steps I went up them, but couldn't open the door at the top, which had a newish lock, the kind you need a front-door key for. I went back down the stairs but there was still nothing but bottles, so I was just about to leave when I noticed in one wall a box-shaped hole, and when I looked more closely I saw that it was a little lift in the wall, about waist-high. I knew what it was: a dumbwaiter, the kind Charlie Chaplin hid in, in
The Count
. I had never seen one in real life before. This one didn't have a rope to pull; instead there was an electric control panel on the wall beside it. I wanted to hop in and go for a ride — of course! — but I didn't know what was up top: I mean, what if it
opened in the bar of a pub full of coppers? They wouldn't be too happy if I suddenly showed up — no one ever was.

But pubs couldn't be open all the time, and Railwayman was the kind of bloke who could bide his time. However, before I could work out a plan, there were footsteps outside the upstairs door, and the sound of keys. I was on the wrong side of the cellar to make a run for my train, so I slid under one of the sets of shelves and waited. The bloke who came in switched on a whole lot of lights and what had been a dimly lit room became as bright as day. He walked right past me and I saw that his shoes were brand new and shone like black mirrors. His pants had a thin grey stripe at the sides and he moved, I thought, like a policeman.
Oh my God, I was right!
I thought.
I am in a pub
. The bloke only wanted to collect some bottles of wine, and he took his time about it, too. In the end he collected about a million bottles and put them in the dumbwaiter inside some cartons. I took a peek, to see how he was working it, and saw him press a button at the side. Up it went, without a sound.

He didn't even wait for it to reach the top, but straightaway headed up the stairs and closed the door with a quiet click that told me it was locked again. Immediately, I formed a plan, one that was so clever it almost made me laugh, until I remembered that it's always the bad guy who does the laughing. Then I thought
What the hell
, and laughed anyway. I would come back at a time when the pubs were all closed, probably tomorrow, and ride the lift to another great adventure. They couldn't catch me in the Orange Tree and I was damn sure they'd never catch me in this pub either. Also, I now had a triple identity to protect me, for the Cartographer was not only the Outlaw as well, but also Railwayman.

I wandered around for a while, looking for a bottle of wine to take with me for the journey home, and finally decided on a bottle of Osborne Solera Gran Reserva, mainly because there was a kid in my class at school called Osborne — we called him Ozzy, but his mother called him Claude.

I retraced my steps to the little train and switched it on. The red dash light was sweet to see: it reminded me of a raspberry sugar umbrella. I made a mental note to buy one of those as soon as I got home — they lasted for hours, and after a while you could almost see through them. And the sticks were handy for making Plasticine people, too. All in all, a lolly with a thousand uses, thought Railwayman.

 

On the way back, I came to the junction with the
USE
line. To go that way I had to go past it a little, get out and switch the points over with the lever on the side of the track, then go into reverse for the rest of the trip.
USE
turned out to be a big station with half a dozen trains parked in neat rows. I hopped off and tried to start one, but these were the kind that needed a key. All I had to do now was see what was at
USE
. It might be the cellar of another pub: you never knew.

Well,
USE
had more than a railyard, it had a signal box full of levers, and I guessed that on weekdays it was a pretty busy place. It had stone stairs, just like at
GH
, but a set of double doors at the top. It even had a branch line to the right that said
HQ VIA VB
, a sign I'd already seen. Those double doors looked like they weren't going to open for anyone, not even Railwayman, and after what happened with the dumbwaiter, I was a bit worried about getting caught. So I went up quickly and took a look around, but could find no way in. That left the lift.