John Marsden - Circle of fight

It was quite a few weeks before we were off on another mission. It was meant to be sooner but they kept putting it off. But this time I volunteered to go, for two opposite reasons: partly because it was meant to be just a little mission without a lot of danger, but partly because I wanted to feel danger again. One of the effects war had on me was that I got bored really easily these days. It was hard to settle down to routine. Brushing your teeth, feeding the dog, studying for a test, these things did not have the gut-grabbing excitement of towing a steel dumpbin through a rain of bullets while you hoped your friends, who were hiding in the dumpbin at the time, didn’t get killed. I didn’t want to be addicted to this kind of stuff, I knew it was unhealthy, but like all addictions it had its hands around my throat before I knew it was there.

Liberation, the organisation that I didn’t even belong to, the organisation that was so secret I knew only a couple of its members, had offered me a new quad bike to replace the one I’d lost when we’d had our deadly rendezvous over the border, but the bike came with a string attached. They made it clear that I was expected to use the bike on a new trip. Pretty long string. But this time I gave in without a fight, for the reasons I said. I tied Gavin to Mrs Yannos with some of the leftover string, not quite literally but almost, and went with Lee and Homer, just the three of us, out into the sweet night air.

‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it…’ The boys told me the night before where we were going and what we’d be doing. It was what you call a sensitive mission. I swore oaths of secrecy and even now can’t say much about it, but it involved meeting someone deep in enemy territory and giving them a parcel. It was a very well-wrapped parcel — seemed like a strong cardboard box with about a hundred metres of tape around it — and none of us had a clue what was in it, but when we met the man he said, ‘Thanks, this will keep quite a few people happy,’ I wondered if it might be drugs. Had Liberation turned me into a drug runner? Maybe I should have thought this through a bit more, and not trusted so much in people I didn’t know. Then the guy smiled at us and said, ‘You seem very young. Do you know how much is in here?’

He seemed so relaxed and his English was almost perfect. I shook my head. He shrugged and said, ‘Well, enough for a luxury car. They must trust you a lot.’

I realised then that it was money, and felt guilty for not trusting the Liberation people. I admit I also thought, ‘Gee, I could have paid off a lot of the farm debts if I’d known that earlier.’

The man gave Homer a packet of papers, a big envelope stuffed with bits and pieces in a pretty messy way, like they’d just been shoved in there. Back we went, as dawn greyed the sky. It was such an easy trip that I wondered if security was getting a bit slacker now. It was difficult at times to remember that if we were caught we would face death. It wasn’t until we were back on our side of the border, the safe side, that I realised we’d been turned, not into drug runners, but into spies. The papers might have looked like a big mess, but I’d say they were pretty hot. The guy we’d met was probably being paid for spying and now we were in the same category as him, even if we were amateurs. Everyone knows the penalty for spying, in pretty much any country. The Americans electrocuted that Jewish couple, the Rosenbergs I think their name was, in the 1950s, because they claimed they were spies for Russia. When it comes to spying, people don’t muck around.

Back home I fed the boys omelettes for breakfast. Homer went off with the envelope full of papers, Lee went to bed, and I went to school. Partly I went because I’d promised Gavin I’d be on the bus, but partly because it amused me to go. I wanted to be able to sit through each class, have recess and lunch like normal, hang out with the usual people, knowing all the time that while they’d spent the night doing homework and watching TV and then going to bed, I’d spent it spearing through the night on the quaddie, in enemy territory, carrying a huge amount of money, meeting a spy, collecting secret documents, risking death. How weird life was. How amazing that an average human like me could be so adaptable. I did fall asleep a couple of times in lessons but the rest of the time I spent wondering how I had ended up in this strange existence.

In the next few days, though, I found myself feeling bugged about the trip. I had the feeling Homer knew something that I didn’t, and apart from Poland China pigs and taking diesel engines apart, that doesn’t happen a lot. If you could see Homer’s school grades you’d have to agree. I like feeling superior to Homer whenever I can, I don’t mind admitting that, because he’s so good at making other people feel inferior, so it was doubly or even triply annoying to think that he was sitting smugly on some secret knowledge. It was my fault because I’d refused to join Liberation, the group which organised these parties. I didn’t even know who was in charge of our local branch, only that it was someone Homer and the others nicknamed the Scarlet Pimple. It could have been Homer himself, or Jeremy, or anyone else for that matter. Could have been any one of half-a-dozen macho young guys in the district. Could have been a girl. Could have been Gavin or Mrs Yannos or Mr Rodd. Chances were that it wasn’t though.

But when I saw the big Greek wombat a couple of times the next day, and the day after that, I had the feeling that more than usual was being kept from me. Like there was a big rock in the middle of our conversations and he kept sailing around it.

I wanted to know about that big rock.

Well, I found out about it, and was sorry I had. No, that’s not true. Knowledge has got to be better than ignorance any day of the week, that’s what I believe anyway. I just wish I could have made better use of the knowledge.

On Thursday afternoon Homer wanted to get off the bus at our place and come home with Gavin and me. His idea was that I’d feed him and then take him home. He’d probably have another meal at home, but that’s Homer for you. Never stand between him and a steak. But it was fine by me and we got off together and opened up the twin-cab, which was parked by a young sugar gum and nice and warm in the spring sun. Apart from anything else, it was good to have Homer to myself for a bit. Well, as much as Gavin would share him. We hadn’t had a decent conversation for ages, just a few words as we rushed past each other in school, or grunts as we fed cattle or serviced machinery together.

‘Place is looking all right,’ he said as we cruised up the driveway.

‘I don’t think Dad would have agreed with you.’

‘Nah, but it’s not bad. Mr Young’s cattle are getting some condition. I had a look at your lot the other day too, and some of them are coming on well.’

‘And some of them aren’t.’

‘Yeah well Miss Queen of Positivity, I’m trying to look on the bright side. If you buy a bunch of skeletons, at the end of the day you might have skeletons with meat but they’ll still be skeletons.’

‘The walking dead.’

‘Yeah exactly.’

‘They weren’t that bad.’

‘Nah, those Poll Herefords aren’t too bad.’

‘They’d want to be for the price I paid for them. Eleven hundred and forty bucks a head.’

‘The way prices are going you could get a grand a head for steers that died of starvation.’

‘That died three weeks ago.’

‘Only three weeks? Sheez, you’d get fifteen hundred if they’d only been dead three weeks. Hey, how about you turn right up there and go across the ford?’

‘Hey, this thing doesn’t have four-wheel-drive.’