The Amazing Spencer Gray (9 page)

‘Right, let's get this show on the road,' Dan Milner said, nodding to the two other rescue crew members on board, one of whom was closed-eyed behind his sunnies, trying to catch a few last zeds.

‘Mate, it's not
that
early!' Dan said.

‘Mate,
it's 6 am!' Rich croaked. ‘What's earlier than that?'

There was a pause.

‘No, please don't answer that. Just shut up and let's get up there and find these guys.'

‘Okay, Doc, we're coming your way,' Dan murmured. ‘Second time lucky.' He picked up the two-way. ‘All clear for take-off, Reg, over?'

‘All clear, Bell Rescue, over.'

‘Roger. Will radio in again shortly, over.'

‘Thanks, Dan. Over and out.' In the hangar, Reg squeezed Suzie's shoulder. She sat on an old office chair, and nursed a mobile phone in her hands. Every
now and then, she'd wake it up from its slumber and check the screen, just in case.

Pippa was there too, a sheet of butcher's paper spread out on the floor, and a pencil-case full of her best textas. She was drawing a picture for Dad, to give him when he got back. When she finished it, she was going to do one for Spencer.

Spencer almost didn't want to look up in case it wasn't true. But there was no mistaking that sound. They'd come back!

They were hugging the mountain, and flying in an anticlockwise direction. Again, Spencer waved his arms over and over and over above his head, but he knew there was a slim chance anyone could see him. He needed to be wearing a high-vis vest or something! Charlie's fluoro-yellow shirt would have been perfect for this, he thought.

Now Spencer wasn't sure what to do. Should he go back to the crash site, or keep walking down towards the road? Or should he stay put?

If he continued to walk downhill, he'd be walking
away
from the help that was surely meant for them. But if he went back to the
Drifter,
and the chopper missed it again, then it was all just wasted time. Maybe staying
here, where it was open and exposed, wasn't such a bad idea? Then again, if they
did
find the crash site, and Spencer
wasn't
there, then they'd have to search for him too.

Aaaargh! What to do?
Think,
Spencer,
think!

He turned back to the sky. The chopper had disappeared from sight and sound. Where were they going? This mountain was big—they might not find either of them at this rate.

Spencer spun around. Where had they gone? What was this, the Bermuda Triangle or something? On a gnarled tree not far away, the crows sounded like kids practising the violin—badly.

He checked his watch. It was 6.40. He pulled his jacket up around his neck. All this standing around was making him cold. Spencer had a mountain to get down; he reckoned he'd better get started.

At 6.45, the Skippers two-way crackled: ‘Wind's dropped significantly up here today, Reg. We're nearly over Bluff Knoll's peak now, over.'

‘Roger that, Bell Rescue, over.'

Mum and Pippa looked at each other.

‘Give 'em a few minutes now, to get there and circle the peak,' Reg said to them quietly. ‘They'll probably
fly in a sort of corkscrew pattern down from the top so they don't miss anything.'

It was still raining. The tarmac was slick black with it. Right then, Mum couldn't imagine what she'd loved about gliding. And she couldn't imagine what they'd been
thinking
when they let Spencer go up in the
Drifter.
Spencer wasn't old enough.
He's not old enough!
She felt like screaming into that spartan, stinking old tin shed they called a hangar.

He's just not old enough, she thought weakly.

With no trail to follow, and visibility so bad, Spencer had no choice but to just take the easiest path in front of him, weaving between bushes and around massive rocks. He listened out for the sound of the helicopter. He couldn't hear it, but he was grateful to think of it out there, looking for them.

Spencer focused on the angle of the ground beneath his feet—anything below 180 degrees was good; anything above it was not. He had to do everything he could to get help for Dad. He thought about Dad's head, and hoped he hadn't rolled off the fleece ‘bandage' Spencer had shoved under there. If that cut was exposed it might just bleed and bleed ... and Spencer knew you could die if you lost too much blood. Dad must have a cracker headache. And his knee would probably be the size of a beachball by now. And Dad hadn't had any water for hours. Spencer had moistened his lips before he'd left but it wasn't the same
as actually
drinking,
was it? He knew—anyone knew—that you could go for a few days without food, but without water, things got bad quickly.

He passed a cluster of grasstrees, their trunks like fat black pipecleaners. His boots slid over flat granite rocks, and he tried to slow down over them—he just couldn't risk falling and getting hurt. Ahead, he could see a fairly clear way: not too steep, with only tufty bushes and smaller rocks to negotiate. Spencer picked up to a walking jog, and, as he got his rhythm, broke into a concentrated jog, hopping over rocks and turning his hips around bushes and grasstrees. As he warmed up, he steadied his breathing, focusing on sucking air in through his nose to avoid getting a stitch. He kept his eyes on his feet and on the ground a little way ahead, anticipating the small leaps he would need to make or deviations around rocky outcrops.

Don't drop too far back, Spencer. Stay at the front.

Air in. Foot down. Foot down. Air out. Foot down. Foot down. Air in...

Spencer's calves burned; his knees wobbled under the strain. His nose was running, his cheeks must have glowed. He yanked down the zip of his jacket to let in some cool air.

The bush around him began to change. Thorny
branches poked this way and that, reaching out for his hands and legs, and he was grateful for the protection of his jacket and cargo pants. But the bush got thicker and higher and closer, and Spencer had to raise his arms in front of his face to protect himself as he pushed through. The bushes scratched like attacking cats: so hard that blood immediately sprang out in small red dots along his skin. Another branch caught his hair and yanked hard.

‘Argh!' he yelled, grabbing it angrily with his hand. Pain seared into his palm immediately. ‘Argh, get off!' he half-screamed.

He looked around. This stuff was everywhere: in front of him and to either side. Psycho Thorny Forest! How far did it go for? Surely not the rest of the way down? He just had to keep going and hope things improved. But how to protect his face and hair?

Spencer reached behind his neck and was never so happy to find a hood on a jacket. He pulled it up over his head and tightened the strings around his chin. Not a good look but Charlie and Leon weren't here to give him heaps. He made sure his ears were covered, and tucked in his hair. He looked down at the rest of his body. He zipped his jacket full up. Then he bent down and pulled his socks up and tucked the end of his pants
into them. Again, a look of total dagitude, but he'd survive the embarrassment out here, he reckoned. The only exposed bit of him remaining was his hands. He shoved them into his pockets, bent his head down, and prepared to barge though that spiky forest like a bull through a fence.

Lead from the front, Spencer Gray! From the front!

By the time he got through the Psycho Thorny Forest—and it took a while—Spencer had rips in his pants and scratches on his face. He'd even turned around and gone backwards at one point, where the bush was tight and high, his face tucked down like a rugby player's to avoid injury.

And then he emerged. The thorny scrub stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Spencer looked out for the first time over the patchwork paddocks of farms below.

‘The cloud's gone,' he said aloud, surprised.

He turned back to see how far he'd come. The cloud was still up there, like a cold doughnut. He imagined the
Drifter
just below it, catching the rain, the greyness. Dad inside.

And the thought of Dad, all the way up there on his own in the wrecked glider—and the distance between them and the distance Spencer still had to cover to get
help—was too much for him all of a sudden. He stood there and tears came hotly, and he couldn't stop it.

‘Stop crying!' he said out loud, trying to sound firm. But the sound of his voice out there made it worse, and he just had to blubber for a bit.

After a while, having got some of it out, Spencer took some shuddery breaths and wiped his face.

In the distance, he heard the
arrrrr
of crows. His crows, he wondered?

‘Don't stop now, Spence,' he muttered.
‘Don't stop now.'

He lifted his head. There was still no track to follow, but at least there wasn't a psycho forest to bush-bash through. And there, beyond the paddocks, Spencer could finally see what he'd been aiming for all this time: a black snake of bitumen, winding around the base of the ranges. He took in a long slow beautiful breath, and felt it fill his lungs.

Spencer jogged across the rocky scrubby ground, slowing only for a couple of really steep sections. He slid down one long slope on his bum. If only he'd had his skateboard, minus the wheels!
That'd be a sandboard, Spence,
he almost heard Leon say sarcastically. He passed through more phases of the bush, was amazed
by the different plants that grew on the mountain. The angle of the ground eased the further he went and, when he reckoned he was within cooee of the road, he looked at his watch. 8.50. A bit later than he'd hoped, but not bad. Not bad at all. There was even a bit of sun washing over him as he arrived. Spencer nearly cried again as he stepped onto the hardness of the road. It felt strange underfoot, like when you got off a trampoline after a long time, or a boat. His knees shook crazily.

He was safe now, he knew that.

But as that feeling settled gently upon him, the need to help Dad rose up, like sudden nausea. Spencer took his water bottle from his jacket pocket, had a big slug. He put it back, and started jogging along the road towards help.

Nearly half an hour had passed with Spencer switching between running, jogging and walking in the middle of that road. Not a single car had passed. So many paddocks, yet no houses. None. Where were the farmers? Where did they live?

Spencer thought about the fact that he was on a sort of ring-road, and he had no idea if, when he'd turned left onto it, that was the quicker route to the caravan park. He might have been five minutes from the place for all he knew, if only he'd turned right! He
couldn't
get lost at this point, he thought, and laughed out loud, slightly uneasily. What if you had that memory disease Reg's wife had, Alzheimer's? He imagined having no idea what he was doing, why he was there, which was the way home.

He looked at his watch.
Focus, Spence. Stop thinking rubbish.
He'd been going in this direction for thirty minutes. He couldn't turn back now. He had to stick
with it, as Mum would say. Stick it out. The caravan park might be just around the corner.

Nearly 9.30am. Where'd that chopper go? He ground his teeth, imagining they'd found the crash site and that paramedics were helping Dad at that very moment.

Then he imagined the opposite happening: the chopper flying over the crash site, and not seeing it. And flying on. Leaving Dad, all alone.

In panic, Spencer walked and ran and walked and ran. Eventually, he could only walk, jelly-legged.

There was noise, like a road train coming, and then a full-on willy-willy in the street. Spencer was confused; he saw a police car with blue lights swirling coming towards him—
finally!
—but the noise was coming from somewhere else. He felt dizzy, his legs like lacky bands. A helicopter swooped low above him, then circled back widely and hovered off to one side, blowing a field of dirt around; Spencer could see a man in reflective clothing, wearing a headset, sitting in the chopper's open door. He waved to Spencer and pointed with his whole arm at the police car.

‘Did you find my dad?!' Spencer yelled at him.

The man shook his head with emphasis and put his hands up to his ears at the same time. Spencer realised he couldn't hear a word he said, no matter how loud he shouted.

‘Hello!' shouted the policeman to him, jogging over. His car was on the verge, driver door open, lights
spinning disco blue. The two of them stood there and watched as the chopper lowered itself into the paddock like a chicken onto her eggs. When the rotors had stopped
whupp-whupp-whupping,
the policeman said, ‘Now you wouldn't happen to be one_____' he double-checked his notebook, ‘_____Spencer Gray, would you?'

Spencer looked anxiously up the mountain. ‘My dad—he's up there, with the
Drifter,
our glider—it crashed and he's hurt—he's bleeding from his head—and he's up there on his own_____'

‘Whoa, son, slow down, slow down. We know about your dad, don't worry. The search and rescue chopper found him an hour ago. He's being looked after now by an emergency doctor at the crash site.'

‘What's the helicopter doing here then?' Spencer said, watching the dust settle around the Bell, and a bloke climbing out of it.

‘It couldn't land up there on the side of the Bluff—there was nowhere safe for it to settle. William Chadwick, the farmer here, has given us permission to land on his property.' He indicated with a nod to a paddock just off the road. It was flat enough for a helicopter to land, as flat as a pancake. Next to it, Bluff Knoll looked like a volcano.

‘The SAR chopper will wait here while the
paramedics stabilise your dad and prepare him to be moved.'

‘SAR?'

‘Search and rescue. Sorry. When the boys radio through, Dan will fly back and winch them all up, then he'll fly straight to the Southern Districts Hospital.'

Spencer was finding it confusing; he couldn't seem to get all the details straight.

‘But ... why is it taking so long? Shouldn't they just get him out and take him straight to hospital?'

Sergeant Covich assessed Spencer before he answered. ‘It's taking the fellas a while to get your dad safely out of the wreckage ... they need to get him onto a stretcher in case he's got any spinal injuries. It's very cramped, apparently. They're using some gear to cut him out. He's ... sustained a few injuries. And the crash site's hampering things, by all accounts.'

Spencer swayed on his feet.

The sergeant reached out, supported him by the elbow. ‘You all right there, son? You've made it a long way on your own for a young bloke.' He helped him over to the car and opened the back door. ‘Just sit down and catch your breath now.' He reached for the two-way. ‘The team at the station are gunna be very happy to hear you're safe and sound. There's been a lot of
people worrying about you. You
are
Spencer, aren't you?'

Spencer nodded vaguely. He tried to listen to the policeman, to concentrate on what he was saying, but he was fading fast.

‘Covich here from Southern Districts Police Station: I need an ambulance to the Chadwick farm on Stirling Road.'

Spencer wasn't really there, was he, in a police car on the side of a road next to Bluff Knoll? Next to a search-and-rescue helicopter? Was he? Somebody wrapped a crinkly silver emergency blanket around his shoulders and handed him a bottle of water. Spring water. It had a picture of a beautiful mountain on the label.

Spencer grinned thinly at the picture before twisting open the bottle.

He barely had the strength to crack the seal.