Darkness Be My Friend

Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston

Copyright © 1996 by John Marsden

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce
selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin
Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

First published in 1996 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited,
St. Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The text of this book is set in 12-point Transitional 521 BT.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Marsden, John, 1950-
Darkness, be my friend / by John Marsden.
p. cm.
Sequel to: A killing frost.
Summary: As survivors of an enemy invasion of their homeland,
Ellie and her friends return to Australia as guides for soldiers from
New Zealand who plan an attack on the Wirrawee airfield.
ISBN 0-395-92274-7
[1. Survival—Fiction. 2. War—Fiction. 3. Australia—Fiction.]
I. Title
PZ7.M35145Dar 1999 98-38493
[Fic]—dc21 CIP
AC

Manufactured in the United States of America

QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5

Much thanks to Charlotte and Rick Lindsay, Roos Marsden, Felicity Bell, Paul Kenny, Jill Rawnsley, Julia Watson and students of Hale School, for help so generously given.

For Neil Elliot Meiers
Born 10th January 1984
Left 29th December 1995
for another adventure

Aga:
wood stove

Ag. bike:
motor bike used on farms

anfo:
ammonium nitrate (fuel oil)

B&S's:
dances for young rural people

bikkies:
biscuits

bitumen:
asphalt, tar

blowies:
blowflies

BLS:
brandy lime soda

blue heeler:
cattle dog

boot:
car trunk

Buckley's:
if you have Buckley's chance, you have no chance at all

bugger:
something difficult or unpleasant

bush:
uncleared Australian countryside

bush-bash:
to force a path through the bush

cactus:
trashed, a mess

Charolais:
breed of cattle

chook:
chicken

circle work:
to drive a vehicle in tight circles for sport

crack a mental:
to become angry

crack onto:
to make a sexual advance toward someone

creche:
baby-minding facility

crocodile:
straight line of children walking in pairs

dag:
eccentric, amusing person

dingoes:
wild dogs

dobbed:
told on, tattled

dreaming:
Aboriginal word which expresses a close affiliation with an area of land

dunny:
toilet

fair dinkum:
the truth, the real thing

flat-chat:
as fast as possible

the flick:
the brush-off

footy:
Australian Rules football

good nick:
good condition

goss:
to gab

graziers:
farmers who have sheep or cattle

hit-out:
strenuous exercise

hooning:
acting wildly

hotted up:
modified to go faster

hypo:
hypochondriac

jillaroos:
female apprentice farmers

jocks:
underpants

jumper:
sweater

k:
kilometre

kitbags:
duffel bags

Kiwis:
New Zealanders

kookaburra:
Australian bird

lollipop lady:
crossing guard

Macquarie:
a brand of dictionary

merino stud:
farm that breeds Merino sheep

milkbar:
small corner store, mini-mart

nappies:
diapers

nick:
naked, also condition

one-tonner:
small tray-top truck

paid her out:
teased her

perv:
to look at a person in a sexual way

poddy lambs:
lambs raised by hand

rapt:
delighted

Ratsak:
rat poison

recce:
reconnaissance

ride-ons:
lawn mowers that people drive

roo:
kangaroo

Saladas:
biscuits

sherbert:
a sweet white powder eaten as candy

shout:
to pay for everyone's drinks

slaters:
beetles

a snack:
an easy task

spur:
a ridge on a mountain

sultanas:
fruit that is similar to raisins

sussed out:
examined, checked it out

tacker:
kid

tech:
school that teaches technical skills

texta:
marker pen

torch:
flashlight

tray:
the back section of a truck—the flat part that the load sits on

uni:
university

ute:
utility vehicle

wethers:
castrated male sheep

whinge:
to whine

yakka:
work

I didn't want to go back.

That sounds pretty casual, doesn't it? Like saying, "I don't want to go to the movie," "I think I'll give that party the flick," "I don't feel like it today."

Just one of those comments you make.

But the truth is, I felt so sick at the thought of going back that my insides liquefied. I felt like my guts would pour out of me until my stomach caved in. I could even picture it: my ribs touching my backbone.

But my insides didn't pour out. After they told us what they wanted I'd go and sit on the dunny, but nothing happened. Sitting there holding myself,'wondering if I'd ever feel good again.

And it was because my life was at stake. My life. I thought there should be a long time to think about that, a lot of careful thinking, a lot of discussion. Everyone giving their opinions, heaps of counselling and stuff, then me going away and spending weeks weighing up the options.

But it wasn't like that. They pretended there was a choice, but they were just, you know, doing it to make me feel good. And OK, maybe the truth is there couldn't be a choice, because the whole thing was too important. But I didn't want to know about that. I wanted to scream at them, "Listen to me, will you! I don't care about your big plans, I just want to hide under the bed and wait until the war's over. All right? That's all I want. End of story."

And I wanted someone, anyone, to acknowledge that I was being asked to put my life on the line. That what they wanted me to do was enormous, gigantic, ginormous.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.

That's from a poem a World War One guy wrote. A teacher in Dunedin gave it to me, and OK, I'm a young woman not a young man, but I still don't want to lose my life. I don't know much about anything but I do know that.

So, there I was, wanting weeks to think, to concentrate, to feel. To get used to the idea of going back. To get ready.

Wanting weeks and getting days. Five days to be exact. Five days between Colonel Finley asking us, and our arriving at the airfield.

If anything, I guess I felt angry. Cheated. They were treating me and my life like I was a plastic toy. Pick it up, play with it a moment, chuck it aside. Plenty more where that came from.

Colonel Finley always talked to us like we were soldiers under his command. Like there was no difference between us and his troops. But they had signed up to take risks and fight wars and shoot people. We hadn't! Seemed like only yesterday that we'd needed a lollipop lady before we could even cross the road outside school. And yes, I know, people have told me a thousand times how in some countries kids are in the army when they're eleven years old, but I didn't care about that.

"That's not how we do it," I wanted to shout at them. "We're different."

That was all that mattered to me.

Only Fi seemed to understand how I felt. Up to a point, anyway. I couldn't help thinking that she didn't see it quite the way I did. That surprised me, I've got to admit. I didn't want to look like a wimp, compared to the others. I wanted to be stronger than everyone. Fi had her own strengths; I knew that, of course, but I liked to think that I was more of a leader than her. Yet here she was saying pretty well straightaway that she'd go, while I sat there in shock, dithering, wanting to go off for a few years and think about it.

I was actually angry at her, that was the crazy thing.

Or maybe not so crazy. After all, I was angry at everyone. Might as well include her.

It started when we'd been in New Zealand almost five months. We'd escaped from a nightmare, or we thought we had. The truth is, there's no escape from some nightmares. This one followed us across the Tasman. They'd air-lifted us out of our own country after it was invaded. We'd arrived in New Zealand burnt and injured and shocked, with broken bones, and scars inside
and out. We'd lost contact with our families, we'd seen friends die, we'd caused other people to die by our own deliberate actions.

We were just typical survivors of war, I guess.

And then it all started again.

It was the end of spring, moving into summer. The bushfire season. And that's appropriate because the whole thing began a bit like a bushfire. You know how it is. First you hear warnings on the radio, then you hear a rustling in the distance, like bark in a breeze, then there's white smoke, could be clouds, maybe not, can't be sure, but at last comes the smell, the never-could-be-mistaken smell of burning.

And suddenly it's on you. Suddenly there are trees exploding a hundred metres from the house and the heat's like you've opened an oven door and sat in front of it and there's the sound of roaring wind and in among the grey and white smoke you see the wild wicked flames dancing.

For us the first hint, the first warning, was a rumour going round the refugees that some of them would be dropped back into occupied areas. Either with Kiwi troops or, in some cases, on their own. Either to carry out a particular job, or to be guerillas, doing the sort of stuff we'd done around Wirrawee and Cobbler's Bay.

I must be dumb, because I didn't think they'd ask us. It never crossed my mind. Lee heard about it first. "Bet we're on their shopping list," he said. But I didn't take any notice: I think I was reading at the time.
Emma,
as I recall.

I've got to keep on trying to be honest here, because I have been, ever since I started writing stuff down, so
I'd better say that the reason I thought they wouldn't ask us is that we'd done so much already. God, hadn't we done enough? Hadn't we gone for it, time and time again? Hadn't we blown up a ship and wrecked Cobbler's Bay and killed a general in Wirrawee? Hadn't we had Lee shot in the leg and the other three? (I can't even say their names right now.) And hadn't we stared death right in the face and felt its cold fingers tightening its grip on the backs of our necks? What would satisfy them? Did we all have to die before they'd say, "OK, that'll do, you can have the rest of the war off"?

How much did we have to do?

It gets me so upset thinking about it.

I know there's no logic in this. I know when there's a war on they can't just say, "Look, we'll carry on without you guys for a while, you give it a miss for a year or two."

But somewhere along the line, somewhere way back in childhood, we'd been taught that life is actually fair, that you get out of it what you put in, that if you want something badly enough you can achieve it.

That's garbage. I know that now.

Suddenly at the time in my life when I most wanted things to be fair, suddenly no one was mentioning the word any more. It wasn't on our spelling list; there was no Pictionary card for it; the Macquarie went straight from "faint" to "fairy."

The New Zealanders had been good to us before this, I've got to admit. Of course that made it even harder to refuse Colonel Finley. But yes, they'd been good to us. Right from the start they'd arranged a lot of counselling and stuff. We all ended up getting that, even Homer and Lee who once upon a time wouldn't have gone to a
shrink if you'd paid them. The psychologist they gave me, Andrea, I got really close to her. She became like a second mum.

And we did actually have holidays and everything. I'm not kidding, we were like heroes. Anything we asked for, they gave us. Fi and I made a sort of game of it for a few weeks, asking for everything we could think of. Then suddenly I got sick of that game.

But we went to the South Island, and skied the Remarkables, and we flew to Milford Sound and drove out through a tunnel, and we checked out Mt. Cook, then followed the east coast down and went across to Invercargill.

Andrea said I was "in denial," rushing around like a maniac because I didn't want to look at the things that had happened to us. Not that she said "like a maniac." It wouldn't be very tactful for a shrink to say that.

The funniest thing was when we were meant to go on these jetboats, near Queenstown somewhere, and we all chickened out. Like, I'm talking major cowardice. None of us had bothered to ask what jetboats were; we thought they were some little fun riverboat cruise thing. But when we got there we started to realise they were monster boats that went roaring down the river at about a hundred k's an hour, in water that was, like, five centimetres deep.

And once we realised that, none of us would go in them. We stood on the banks of the river, shivering, like a pathetic little mob of sheep waiting to be dipped, and the driver of the first boat was saying, "Come on, let's go, hockey players," and we couldn't move.