On the Run (14 page)

“Get on!” he whispered, and Olive climbed onto the raft, clutching Bonzo by the ear as she crawled to the front. The raft wobbled side to side.

“Spread your weight. Spread out and hold this.” Ben passed her the bag of money. He still wore his backpack. He held the raft steady, pain shooting up from his tailbone, and guided it into the middle of the dark, flowing river. Knee-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep. The water was black ink but for a few patches of moonlight poking through the tips of the tall hoop pines.

The cold numbed the pain in his tailbone. Voices slashed through the darkness. Threats. Where were Mum and Dad? Caught?

The flashlight beams were flying down the incline toward the river now, spraying light through the trees. Ben swam, kicking hard with his legs and holding the front corner of the raft. Olive lay still and flat, the water lapping over her shoulders and legs. He knew that she couldn't swim well either. She hugged Bonzo and the bag of money.

The current took them. Ben wanted to laugh and cry at the same time—laugh with nervousness and fear, cry with the knowledge that he was escaping from his parents, from the police.

The flashlight beams painted moving tree shadows all over the rock wall on the far side of the river. Hulking, sinister shadow puppets. Ben paddled along next to the raft now, trying not to make a sound. The river moved quickly, and Ben concentrated on steering away from the line of rocks jutting into the middle of the river.

He began to feel that maybe they would get away with this, when a shot went off and his body crackled with adrenaline. Ben looked back and saw that one of the flashlight beams was riverside. Were they firing at him and Olive?

He dug in and paddled hard. The dark shapes of rocks and ferns stretched into the center of the river up ahead. He tried frantically to guide the raft toward the opening where the river flowed quickly. He looked back and the flashlight beam was moving down the river's bank toward them. They would either be caught in the ray of the flashlight or stuck on the clump of rocks. Ben paddled, not caring so much about noise now, knowing that his life, both their lives, might depend on getting away.

He felt his body and the raft being sucked toward the waterfall.

“We're going down,” he whispered, warning Olive. “Down the drop.”

“Okay,” Olive said quietly.

The water swept them toward the opening between the boulders and the edge of the river. At the bottom of the small waterfall the water roiled and frothed and the foam glowed white in the moonlight.

“Spread yourself across the raft,” he said firmly, and she did.

Ben edged around to the back of the raft, his body still in the water. He knew that they would drop six feet over the fall. He knew that the strength of the raft he had built and sheer luck would decide whether or not they made it. This was an impossible option, but so was going back, giving themselves up, giving their parents up.

They were powered through the gap in the rocks with a gale-force rush, down and over. Ben was airborne, trying to push the back of the raft down as he followed it. He waited for the slap of raft on water, for the raft to explode into a million splinters. He prayed for Olive and he prayed for himself and for the madness of what they were doing. His feet hit the surging broth below. The front of the raft tipped sharply forward and Ben tried to stop it from nose-diving into the river. There was the slap, and he sank beneath the water, losing his grip on the back of the raft.

In and down.

The raft was lost to him, and his entire world was no breath, muffled roar of water, and blackness. Even with his eyes open he could see nothing and he had no idea which way was up and which way down. This was a relief from the fear and dread that waited for him above the surface. Nothing but darkness. Ben felt the weight of his backpack, and, for a moment, he wished to live down there in the netherworld, where nobody and nothing could get him. Except piranha. Ben had always been afraid of piranha. Even in swimming pools.

Soon, fear for Olive and physical inertia pushed him up and out of the water. His face was filled with spray, and he wiped his eyes and searched in the dark roar of the falls and he wanted to call out but he did not. He waited and he paddled as the river shoved him downstream. He saw Olive's head. She was trying to regain stability. Then he saw the raft. It was under her. She was on it. It had not tipped. It had held together. She was holding the bag of money and Bonzo. Ben kicked hard and he laid a hand on a rough branch on the edge of the raft and they drifted quickly down, saying nothing.

The moon raised its head from behind the trees and for a moment he could see the soft glow of the river and banks ahead. To the left was the tall rock wall and, to the right, overhanging trees. Ben paddled for the trees where there was cover from moonlight—shadows, reeds, rocks, darkness. Darkness would be his friend now. His skin felt cold, but the paddling warmed his insides. He took a mouthful of water, mossy and gritty. He spat it out.

They paddled quietly away from the demented roar of the falls and he listened, body tingling. He felt water in his ear. He tipped his head sideways and shook it out.

He looked behind.

Through the trees he could see a flashlight beam scanning the darkness back where they had set off. They paddled on, drifting close to the right-hand bank under the cloak of shadow, listening to the cries and calls of the police officers behind and up the hill.

“Why did the police come?” Olive asked.

Ben ignored her.

There was a corner ahead, feeding around to the right beneath the overhanging trees.
Where do rivers lead?
he wondered.
Do they lead to oceans? Into a lake?
Why had he never learned this? How far would they go and which direction were they traveling?

Sometimes his feet touched the bottom and he pushed off, away from the bank. He could float like this till first light if the river flowed on. It must have been after one o'clock. Five hours till light, Ben thought. His heart rate calmed, and the adrenaline started to evaporate. He pulled his body up onto the raft. The shouting was distant now, but Ben wondered if they were being followed. Surely two kids could not escape the police.

Just then, there were two more shots. One-two. The sound bounced off the tall stone wall.

“What was that?” Olive whispered, grabbing Ben's arm.

Two shots for who?
They were too far away to have been for Ben and Olive. So who were they for? They floated back out into the moonlight. No cover from tree shadows.

“Not sure,” Ben said. “Maybe it was car doors slamming.” He said it to soothe her, to soothe himself. He prayed for his parents. He prayed that what he had done—telling them about the police—had not led to the end of them.

Ben lowered his head. He saw the reflection of the moon and stars in the water. He imagined that he could dive into that deep, dark sky and fall forever. He wished on the bright white moon, on the river, on the darkness, that everything would be okay, that Mum and Dad would be okay, that he and Olive would make it out of this.

In Ben's stories, the good guys always won. But Ben didn't know who the good guys were in this story. Or when it would end.

 

HOPE

It was the sound of blades that woke him. The rotors.

Chk-chk-chk-chk-chk-chk.
That's how they sounded.

Ben tried to open his eyes but the early sun threw daggers and he closed them again. He felt the gentle bobbing beneath him and the sogginess in his shoes and clothes and he remembered. He sat up. His eyes opened, and he saw red. Blood red in the water. He pushed himself up off the raft and got to his feet. He was waist-deep. The sports bag was still on the raft, but he could not see Olive anywhere. He shivered and he called for her, but she did not respond and all he could hear was the
chk-chk-chk-chk.

“Olive!” he shouted.

Still nothing.

Ben still had his backpack on. He grabbed the heavy sports bag and waded through the red water, leaving the raft in the reeds on the river's edge. He clambered up the steep bank and looked into the river from above, praying that he would not see Olive in there. He didn't know how far they had traveled or how long he had been asleep.

He shielded his eyes and searched the sky. No helicopter. Not yet. But that's what it sounded like.

“Olive!”

No response. He scanned the surrounding bush. It was muddy here. And rough. Not the shady, ferny coolness of the river near the cabin. Harsher. No pines, just gums, eucalypts. Farther down, some giant trees with enormous roots on the riverbank.

“Olive!”

Chk-chk-chk-chk.
That sound from the sky. From a low mountain range behind him.

Ben shivered with the cold and began to run.

“Olive, where are you?”

A high-pitched noise came in reply. A bit like a voice, but he couldn't be sure.

“Olive!” He ran and listened but it was hard to hear as the
chk
of the helicopter moved up behind him. He scrambled through the trees, over the hard, stony ground. “Olive!”

Then her voice. “Ben!” He saw her slight figure in a small clearing up ahead, waving both arms. “They're coming to save us.”

No,
Ben thought.
Not save us.

The clearing was carpeted in dead yellow grass. He ran to it as the helicopter came over the mountain range behind. He looked back and he could see it now, flickering in and out of the tree branches. The sound was so much louder. Olive was still waving to the sky.

“We're here!” she shouted. “Here we are!”

“No!” Ben screamed, his voice drowned by the cutting sound of the rotors. He was close enough now that he could grab her and try to drag her into the trees, but she would kick and scream and make it impossible. He had to capture her imagination.

“Wave your arms, Turkey Brain,” she said.

“Let's pretend we're criminals on the run,” Ben said in a loud voice. “Let's pretend … that we have to hide from them.”

Chk-chk-chk.

“Why?”

“Come on!” Ben said. “Let's hide. Let's make it fun. Let's see if they can find us.” He tried to conceal the desperation in his voice, to not sound aggressive in his pleading. She would smell it. “We're bushrangers. Pirate-bushrangers. Captain Thunderbolt and his sister, Olive, captain of the ship. And they're trying to steal our loot.”

She was stuck then. He could see it in her eyes. It sounded fun, but why didn't Ben want to be saved?

The chopper seemed to swing right over them. It was high but so loud, and Ben knew that they had been seen, had been found. This meant a whole lot of things that he couldn't think about at that moment.

“All right,” she said, disappointed.

Ben grabbed her hand, and they ran. “This way.” They ran for the thickest trees, the heaviest cover.
Maybe we can get away,
Ben thought. Maybe they could escape the police for a second time. He knew how crazy it was, how wrong. He knew that he should not be running from the police, that he should be waving his arms too. But if he was rescued he would have to tell the police what he knew. And if his parents were still alive he couldn't give them up. He was running for them, what he thought they would want him to do.

Chk-chk-chk-chk.
The chopper was turning back toward them now. Ben ran for the trees with the enormous roots. There was no path. Low shrubs and bristly bushes scratched at his legs as he pulled Olive through. Dragged her.

“Arrrr!” Olive said. “They'll never catch us.”

“Arrrrr!” Ben said halfheartedly, and Olive fell. “Whoops!” He pulled her up and continued to drag her.

“Slow down!” she said.

“We can't. They'll catch us and plunder our treasure.”

Olive let out a well-practiced cackle, the cackle she used when she was playing pirates on the trampoline after school. But they were not at home anymore. Ben wondered if they would ever see their house again. He could see the thick brown trunk of the giant tree up ahead, the safety of its roots.

The chopper paused and hovered to their right. Ben stopped at the base of the old tree and glanced up. He could see the white nose and dark blue tail with “Police” written diagonally in white. He had seen dozens of pictures of these choppers but never one in the flesh. He was running from the police. He felt as though his dream of becoming a detective had all but slipped away.

The chopper was swallowed by the thick canopy of the tree. Ben and Olive nestled together, their backs against a fat, tall root. Hard green fruit lay around them in the dirt. Vines ran from the ground up to the branches, a tangled mess. The pair breathed hard, shoulders and heads heaving up and down, air filling and deserting them.

Still that sound, the chopper hovering out of sight. So loud. The
chk-chk-chk
was more like a
whoomp
now.

“Pretty fun, huh?” Ben said.

“Are we really playing pirates?” Olive asked.

Ben did not say anything. He was looking up through the branches, searching for their friend and enemy in the sky.

“Then why did you say we were?” she asked.

Ben shrugged. He didn't know why he had said it. How could this be the right thing to do?

Ben squeezed his bottom lip hard, and the shots from last night echoed in his head again. He was pretty sure the first one had been a warning shot. But what about the two shots as the cabin and the police and his parents had faded into the distance?

Whoomp-whoomp-whoomp.
It wouldn't be long, Ben thought. The chopper would land. What would he say? Why did they run?

Kids. They were kids. They were scared.

What would the police tell him about his parents, about the shots? He was afraid of what might have happened to them. Maybe that was why he was running.