Footprints (7 page)

Mr. Turnbull presses on. “I'm trying to be helpful, but being rude will get you nowhere–”

“Being polite wasn't doing much good either, was it?” says Drumgold.

The door from the lobby opens and the commissionaire walks smartly to Marcia, who nods at the door of Mr. Turnbull's office.

Mr. Turnbull stands. “I don't think I like your tone, young man.”

“Tough shit,” says Drumgold.

Isora puts her hand on his arm.

Mr. Turnbull, seeing Isora's gesture, tells Drumgold, “I suggest you take the advice your sensible friend is trying to give you – and calm down. I'm going to ask you and your silent companion to leave, but you, young lady...” He smiles at Isora. “...are welcome to stay and talk.” His eyes are scuttling over her again. “I'll be happy to discuss whatever's on your mind, and if appropriate, I promise to bring it to Mr. Anderson's attention.”

Isora shakes her head. “We want to see Mr. Anderson.”

“It isn't going to happen. Sorry.” He takes a business card from a holder on his desk and offers it to Isora. “Why don't you take my card and give me a call?”

Isora says, “You know what you can do with your fucking
card.”

The commissionaire strides forward. “Hey now. You can't use language like that around here. Shall I put them out, Mr. Turnbull?”

Drumgold turns on the commissionaire. Isora takes his arm and catches Harper's eye. He takes Drumgold's other arm, muttering, “Let's just go, Drumgold.” They start down the hallway, passing Marcia, who looks away. Drumgold is walking deliberately slowly. The commissionaire puts a hand on his back to hurry him. Drumgold goes to turn but Isora tightens her grip and propels him forward. She's afraid he'll kick open the door to the lobby and reaches for it before he can do so. Two men and a woman, business suited and carrying briefcases, are at the counter in the lobby, and there are now two receptionists. They all watch as the friends set off across the lobby with the commissionaire close behind them. Halfway across they stop and Isora says quietly to Drumgold, “All right?”

He nods. Isora and Harper release him. The commission-aire says, “Move.” They walk to the door and Drumgold opens it. He and Harper step back while Isora sweeps through. Harper follows. Drumgold turns. The commissionaire eyes him warily. Drumgold looks at him and at the business people and the receptionists still staring. He smiles at them as he raises his finger before joining Isora and Harper on the sidewalk.

They walk in front of Anderson's car in order to cross the street. They wait while a bus passes. Drumgold reaches into his pocket. When they continue, he walks close beside the car, holding a coin hard against the side so that it scores a jagged line through the paint.

Harper mutters, “Why d'you do that?”

Drumgold says, “Why not?”

Harper slows as he nears the camp, hearing the murmur of voices. He slips his backpack from his shoulder and peers through the trees. Drumgold and Isora are sitting on the wooden chest, holding hands. Harper imagines Isora's hand would be cool and smooth, like a new bar of soap. He grabs a thin branch and shakes it to announce his presence.

Drumgold says, “We hear you, Harp.”

He marches into the camp and announces, “I got today's homework. I've even done it. Brought it in case you want to
copy it off me.”

When they got back from Saint-Leonard, Drumgold and Isora said it wasn't worth going to school just for the afternoon, but Harper had hurried there anyway.

Isora says, “Good old Harp.”

George scurries from the undergrowth, circles the camp once, sniffs at Harper's feet, and disappears in the woods.

Harper, watching the dachshund, says, “Is Dex away again?”

Isora nods. “I went over to tell him about this morning's trip and found the ceramic dog with a note under it saying he's been called in by Cousins Without Borders. You know – where he helps kids waiting to go to court for serious stuff.”

Drumgold looks through the trees towards the beach and says, “So what are we going to do about Anderson?”

“Try and see him again, I guess,” says Harper.

Drumgold scoffs, “If you want another meeting with a junior sleazebag pen pusher who treats us like we're ten years old and then throws us out of his office, then go right ahead.”

“We could try and see him at the cottage,” Harper suggests. “That way we wouldn't have to get past that Mr. Turnbull.”

“I'm sure Anderson would love to see us all arrive at his cottage,” says Drumgold. “I can see Diamond Head and Droopy in the welcoming party.”

“We should make at least one more personal appeal,” says Harper.

Drumgold turns to Isora. “What do you think, Is?”

“I think we have to move on. What did Dex say to do for the second wave?”

“Legitimate and responsible political action,” says Drumgold.

“That's demonstrations and petitions and stuff,” says Harper uneasily.

“A protest march!” says Isora.

“I can't see us having a protest march,” says Harper.

“Why not?” Drumgold demands.

“You can't have a protest march with just three people.”

“We'll put posters up and get people to join in,” Isora suggests. “That way it won't be just us, because if it's just us Anderson will have the police all over us again. But he can't do that if there's a crowd.”

“You reckon?” says Harper.

“Same thing if we do a petition,” she says. “Then it won't be just us.”

“We need posters then, about the march and the petition,” says Drumgold.

“Whoa,” says Harper. “Does that mean? Are we...have we agreed?”

“It means we've tried the personal appeal shit and got nowhere,” says Drumgold. “That means now we try legitimate and responsible political action. So are you with us? Or what?”

Isora and Drumgold look at Harper.

“'Course I'm with you,” he says. “I just like to be sure – you know – where we are.”

“Then get with the programme,” says Drumgold. “You do the writing. You've got paper and stuff. We'll do the petition first.” He starts to dictate, “Sign below if–”

Harper shakes his head. “You don't say it like that.”

“First you don't want to do the petition. Now you're the fucking expert,” says Drumgold. “What do you mean, you don't say it like that?”

“You say: ‘We, the undersigned,'” says Harper. “I know 'cos Dad's done petitions.”

“Okay. ‘We, the undersigned, want to go on Back River beach–'”

“‘Want
access to
Back River beach...' Sounds better.”

“‘
Demand
access to Back River beach.'”

Harper pauses his writing. “That's a bit strong, isn't it?”

“Do you want it to sound weak? Read what we've got so far.”

Harper reads, “‘We, the undersigned, hereby demand–'”

“Where did ‘hereby' come from?”

“You always say ‘hereby.'”

“Why?”

“I don't know. You just do.” Harper starts again. “‘We, the undersigned, hereby demand access to Back River beach.'”

He looks up at Drumgold.

Drumgold looks at Isora, who has taken paper and markers from Harper's backpack and is working on a poster. “Is?”

“No-one's going to know who's doing the petition.”

“That's the idea,” says Drumgold. “Then the police won't be coming after us.”

“But Isora's right,” says Harper. “There's always something on the petition to say who's doing it – the union, or the welfare committee, or whoever.”

“We need a name for ourselves,” says Isora. “Like...the Society to Free the Beach!”

“The Society for the Liberation of the Beach,” Harper suggests.

“‘Society' makes us sound like a bunch of old ladies,” says Drumgold. “How 'bout the Organisation for the Liberation of the Beach?”

“Too business-y,” says Isora.

“The
Front
for the Liberation of the Beach,” says Harper triumphantly.

Drumgold and Isora stare at him.

“Brilliant,” says Drumgold. “Where d'you get ‘Front' from?”

“Must be something I read for social studies,” says Harper.

Drumgold proclaims, “The Front for the Liberation of the Beach. Put that at the top of the page. No. Put it underneath where you sign, and write it as an acronym at the top.”

“As a what?”

“Just the initials. Put them at the top of the page. Now read what we've got.”

Harper starts, “T-F-F-T-L-O-T-B.”

“What the hell's that?” says Drumgold.

“What the hell's what?”

“T-F-F-T-L... and all that.”

“It's the ac...acro...the initials.”

“You use just the main words for an acronym, dummy. ‘Front' and ‘Liberation' and ‘Beach.' Try again.”

Harper grumbles, “How am I supposed to know that?” He reads, “‘We, the FLB, hereby–'”

Isora interrupts, “Wait.”

“Now what?” says Harper.

“FLB is boring. Let's be just the Back River Front, and we'll write the acronym using the ‘B'
and
the ‘A' from ‘Back,' as well as the ‘R' and the ‘F.'”

Drumgold grins. “BARF! Perfect! And it says how we feel about Anderson taking over the beach. Go on then, Harp.”

Harper starts again. “‘BARF. We, the undersigned, hereby demand access to Back River beach.'” He looks up from his paper and adds, “I've left space for people to sign. Then at the bottom I've got Back River Front.”

Isora holds up her work. There's a sketch of the beach at the bottom of the page, with shaded lettering stating Back River Front, as if it's written in the sand. Above it there's an invitation to join a march to protest the closing of Back River beach.

“When shall we hold the march?” she says.

“Next Saturday,” says Drumgold. “Two o'clock.”

Isora adds the date and time to her poster and says, “It's getting too dark to see. I'll do a few more at home tonight.”

“We'll put them around town, with the petitions, tomorrow night,” says Drumgold.

“We'll have to be careful,” says Harper. “We don't want people to know it's us doing the–” He stops. He's heard something. He doesn't know what. He cocks his head, listening.

Isora says, “Where's George?”

She's about to call, but Drumgold, peering through the trees towards the beach, puts his finger to his lips. He motions for Isora and Harper to get close to the ground. Staying low, he works his way through the brush towards the beach. Isora and Harper follow. They are close to where the woods give way to sand, still working their way forwards, when there's a shot and something smashes into the woods with a noise like tearing paper.

Harper says, “Jesus.”

Isora gasps, “George.”

Drumgold holds his hand back to her. She takes it and moves beside him.

Harper lies still. He's afraid he's wet himself.

A voice from somewhere on the beach says, “Did I get it?”

Another voice answers. “Can't see. There!”

Another shot zings into the undergrowth.

The second voice calls, “You got it.”

Isora whispers, “Fuck.”

Harper can see her shaking. Drumgold is holding tight to her hand while he peers at the beach. He murmurs, “Droopy and Diamond Head.”

“We've got to let them know we're here,” Harper whispers. “They're going to shoot us.”

“Wait,” says Drumgold.

Something rustles through the undergrowth beside them. George throws himself at Isora. She rolls onto her side, hugging him. He's panting heavily and Isora puts her hand around his jaws, muzzling him.

Diamond Head says, “What was it?”

“Coyote?”

“Too small.”

“Rabbit?”

“Too big.”

“Bobcat, maybe.”

“Or that damn dog the kids let shit all over the beach.”

“The dog wouldn't be out here by itself.”

“Right – which means the kids could be somewhere around, too. Let's take a look up here.”

“They'll find the camp,” whispers Isora.

Drumgold mutters, “Make for the logging road as soon as you can. I'll meet you there.”

Still on his stomach, he worms backwards away from them and disappears into the woods.

Harper raises his head a fraction to peer at the beach. The security guards are walking straight towards where he and Isora are hidden. Diamond Head holds a rifle loosely in one hand. Harper glances at Isora. She still has George pinioned against her and is lying halfway across him, stroking him with one hand and muzzling him with the other. The dog is trembling violently. Harper thinks, If George breaks free, or barks, or whines, will Diamond Head fire into the undergrowth? He wonders if he should do the responsible thing and reveal their presence and ensure Isora's – and his own – safety, despite the trouble that would lead to. Could he face Drumgold if Diamond Head fired again and hurt Isora? But could he face Drumgold if he lost his
nerve and revealed their presence needlessly? He wishes he had his friend's insouciant cool in the face of threat.

Diamond Head and Droopy are now so close Harper is staring at their legs and feet.

“It went in here somewhere,” says Droopy. “Let's take a look.”

Harper braces himself for discovery.

Diamond Head says, “What's that?”

The loud snap of a branch has sounded from the woods farther along the beach, towards the cottage. It's followed by another, and the sound of thrashing foliage.

“You got yourself a moose,” says Droopy.

“I can tell a goddamn moose from a rabbit or a dog,” says Diamond Head.