The Tunnels of Tarcoola (12 page)

DAVID
walked the streets in a daze. A minute ago he had been having the time of his life, surrounded by friends and full of purpose. Now, suddenly, he was alone, with nowhere to go but home, where his parents' party would still be in full swing. He wished there was a secret entrance into his house, so he could get to his room without being spotted.

KITTY
sat in front of the computer, eating kugelhopf and trying to make the internet work. The cake was usually such a treat, with its layers of lighter-than-air pastry shot through with gooey chocolate, but today she ate mechanically, without enjoyment.

Nothing was going right. Whenever she tried to connect to a website she got that horrible error message with a list of pointless suggestions. Marty knew how to fix it. He had a special method of unplugging things and plugging them back in, then turning everything on again in a particular order; but she wasn't game to try that and it was no use asking him. She knew what a slammed door meant.

The extra piece of cake sat on the desk, still in its plastic container. It was meant for Martin, but why should he have it? He'd been down on her all weekend, making it obvious he didn't take her seriously. Losing his temper and shouting at her was just the last straw.

She jabbed again at the internet icon on the computer screen, but the result was the same.

She frowned at the cake. Well, she thought, there's one thing I can do. She picked up the cake and went out in search of Andrea.

ANDREA
was pushing her way out through one of the overgrown paths in the Tarcoola garden, twigs in her hair. She had gone in through the factory grounds and spent some time sitting by the fishpond, throwing stones into the water, but it didn't help much. There was still something tight in her chest that wouldn't let go. She thought about going down into the bomb shelter and curling up on one of the narrow beds, far away from people, and staying there for a long time; but at the thought of approaching the house on her own her courage failed.

It wasn't even that she cared so much what Martin did. When they were little, being friends was all about swinging on the monkey bars and jumping out of trees, and that was great. They'd never really had that much to say to each other, and that was okay too. But girls like Samantha made her feel like she was rubbish. Samantha and her friends, with their shiny hair and designer clothes, looked down their sneering noses at her and saw all the things that were wrong with her life. Why did Martin have to say in front of the others that he cared more about Samantha than her? Now her friends made her feel like rubbish too.

The path swung round and ran parallel to the lane, separated by some overgrown shrubbery. She made her way through to the gap in the fence, but when she peeped out into the lane she spotted a small figure trotting purposefully in her direction. It was Kitty, carrying something.

Andrea shrank back into the bushes and inched away from the fence. She couldn't face anyone, or deal with the sort of kindness that Kitty would offer.

She waited, hidden in the shrubbery. A minute or two went by. There was no way Kitty could come through the hole or pass down the lane without Andrea seeing her, but she did not appear.

Andrea edged back to the hole and risked a quick look into the lane. It was empty. She drew back, puzzled. If Kitty had turned around and started walking back she would still be visible. Where could she have gone?

After a few more minutes she climbed out through the hole and turned towards home. There was something odd lying on the ground and she squatted down for a closer look.

It was a small plastic takeaway food container. In it was a generous slice of kugelhopf.

Andrea left the container where it lay and walked home, still wondering. Kitty must have dropped the container, turned back and run away, very fast. Why would she do that?

The shadows were lengthening by the time she got home. Her mother was watching television, a game show.

‘There you are, love!' she called. ‘Come and help this idiot out. He's got five letters of an eight-letter word and he still can't see what it is.'

Andrea curled up in the threadbare armchair and her mother looked shrewdly at her morose face. ‘I was thinking of getting a pizza tonight,' she said. ‘What do you reckon?'

‘Sure,' said Andrea. ‘Where's Celeste?'

‘God knows. Off somewhere with the comrades.'

‘Who?'

‘That new boyfriend of hers is all political. Tells me the revolution is tomorrow – the workers are going to overthrow the bosses. I'd like to be there when they overthrow Dean.' She smiled at Andrea and lit a cigarette.

KITTY
had been pretty sure she would find Andrea in the garden. Martin had said it was best to come and go from the lane, so it would make sense to go that way too.

She half-ran, half-walked in the afternoon sunlight, clutching the container, rehearsing what she might say to Andrea. Her legs were still tired and sore from clambering around in the tunnels yesterday, and she was puffing a bit when she turned into the lane, peering at the fence as she hurried along, oblivious of everything else. There had been few people in the streets, and the lane was deserted.

A dog barked in one of the yards backing onto the lane. Kitty took no notice.

Soft footsteps came up rapidly behind her. Suddenly something was flung over her head, scratchy on her face, covering her eyes. A hand clamped over her nose and mouth, and at the same time she was picked up, her arms pinned to her sides. Half-choking, she squirmed and struggled, kicking out. She felt herself being carried at a run, and heard a man's rasping breath.

A car started up and she was bundled in, face-down. Her mouth was free for a moment and she screamed, her voice hoarse.

‘Shut up!' Something struck her on the side of the head, then the hand came over her mouth again. Another hand pressed her head down onto the car seat.

They were travelling fast, round one corner, then another and another, changing directions. Dizzy and sick, she tried to count the turns and memorise the route. Her heart was thudding and her hands were cold and clammy.

The journey didn't take long, then she was carried a short distance and dumped roughly on what felt like a concrete floor. Big hands reached under the blanket that was covering her and tied something over her eyes.

‘That's too tight,' she whispered, groping at it. Her hand was slapped away, then someone pulled her into a sitting position, her back against something hard and knobbly.

There was a brief silence. The place was cold, and smelled faintly of kerosene. Kitty could sense people near her. All her instinct to escape seemed to have dissipated, and she was trembling.

‘Let me go,' she said, unable to stop her voice from quavering.

‘You've been a very nosy little girl.' The man's voice was harsh and he spoke right in her ear, his breath on her cheek. She recoiled and jumped up.

‘Sit down!' It was another voice. Someone gave her a shove and she stumbled and fell to her knees. ‘You don't move until I say you can move.'

Behind the blindfold, Kitty clenched her eyes shut. I won't cry, she told herself. They're not going to see me cry.

‘Now,' said the first voice, ‘you're gonna tell us what that old bitch has been saying to you.'

‘Who?'

Something struck her head again.

‘Don't play games with us!' said the first voice. ‘What do you think this is?'

Kitty didn't answer. She squeezed her eyes tight.

‘You've been talking to her. What's she been telling you?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Don't give me that bull!'

‘Why would I lie? She's just a poor old lady.' Kitty let the tears flow now. ‘I take her flowers. She hasn't told me anything.'

Now the man put his hands on both sides of her face and squeezed. ‘Why are you kids hanging around that house, then?'

‘No reason! Just playing.'

He released her suddenly and shoved her off balance. She heard footsteps, then whispers as the two men conferred. They seemed to be arguing. A door slammed, and her hand crept up to her blindfold.

‘Don't even think about it,' growled a voice.

Her senses seemed to sharpen as time passed. She was aware of a man's breathing, not far from where she sat, trembling. Some distance further away, she could faintly hear a voice. From the pauses, she guessed he was talking on a phone. The voice rose and grew shrill, then stopped abruptly.

More footsteps, then she was grabbed by one arm and dragged to her feet. The man walked quickly as she stumbled along beside him, her arm hurting from his grip. She was preparing herself to scream as soon as they got outside, hoping she would recognise the feel of the outside air; but before she knew it she was pushed into the car again, her interrogator beside her with his hand over her mouth, and they were driving.

‘We're gonna let you go this time,' a man's voice said, close to her ear. ‘But when you see the old lady, you're going to ask her something for us, and you'd better get an answer. You understand what I'm saying?'

Kitty could only make
Mmmm, mmmm
sounds.

‘She's got some papers that don't belong to her. You find out where she's put them, and tell us next time.'

The thought of a next time made Kitty feel weak inside.

‘That's right, girly,' hissed the man. ‘You know what's good for you – and your brother, too. He likes his soccer, doesn't he?'

Kitty started to struggle. She needed to tell him that Martin had nothing to do with this. The man tightened his grip on her.

‘I knew a kid, good football player, only he had an accident, broke both his legs. Real sad. Never played again.'

Kitty strained against his hand.

‘You just give us what we want next time,' said the man soothingly, ‘and everything'll be okay.'

The car stopped.

‘And keep your mouth shut. You tell anyone about this, we'll know about it.'

The man reached across Kitty, then she felt herself being pushed out through the open door. She heard the door shut and the engine accelerating. By the time she had ripped off the blindfold it was too late: the car had disappeared.

For a moment she had no idea where she was, then she recognised the street. It wasn't too far from where she lived. But her legs were shaking and the walk home seemed to take forever. It was a shock to reach her own house and to find it looking completely normal, as though nothing had changed in the world.

The front door was wide open, light streaming out and music playing. Her parents were bringing bags and boxes of garden clippings through from the back yard and placing them on the footpath for the green waste pick-up.

‘About time, Kitty!' called her mother. ‘It'll be getting dark soon.'

‘Yeah, sorry,' she muttered, hurrying upstairs to the bathroom. She washed her face and peered at her reddened eyes. They didn't look too bad.

Martin's door was shut. She tapped lightly, then opened it. Martin was sitting at his desk, drawing.

‘I don't want to talk to you,' he said immediately.

‘But there's something I have to—'

‘I mean it, Kitty. Go away.'

‘But I just wanted to see what you . . . what if—'

Martin half-rose in his chair. ‘Out, now!'

Kitty withdrew to her own room and sat on her bed, unable to make up her mind what to do. Her hands were still shaking.

She longed to tell her parents. Her father would make those men sorry they had ever come near her. But how would he find them? She hadn't seen their faces, or the car, and she had no idea where they had taken her. What would her parents do?

She pictured them all going to the police station, and the police not even believing her. But the men would be watching, and they would know that she had told. She shuddered.

Her parents would believe her. This was like their worst fears coming true. And of course she would have to tell them the whole story, about the house, and the tunnels, and the treasure. After this she would never be allowed near the house again.

If she had her own phone, like so many of her classmates, she could call someone for advice. The men would never know if she talked to Andrea or David, or even Rosa. Why wouldn't her parents let her and Martin have mobiles?

‘Kitty?' her mother called. ‘Could you come and set the table, please?'

She went down to the softly lit dining room, her mother's favourite tablecloth folded on the table. There was a glass jug filled with fresh flowers on the sideboard, and the smell of roast chicken wafted through. She could hear her parents laughing in the kitchen while her mother stirred the gravy and her father sliced the meat.

She couldn't tell them.

At dinner, Kitty's father said suddenly, ‘There's a sort of protest meeting at the Town Hall tomorrow night, about that development Harold Buckingham's planning.'