John Marsden - Circle of fight

Twenty minutes later we were in what must have been one of the oldest parts of Havelock. It was the kind of respectable suburb where prices are high, where dentists and architects live. We rode slowly down a wide street that had a lot of speed bumps and was closed at the far end so nasty noisy old trucks and buses couldn’t disturb the sleep of the dentists. Toddy kept peering at the numbers. Three blocks from the far end he stopped and turned off the motor. ‘Down there,’ he whispered.

‘OK.’

‘Number 503.’

‘OK.’

‘Good luck.’

I didn’t bother answering, just got off the bike. I think he was feeling a bit embarrassed at dumping me like this. Or maybe he’d always planned to do this. Whatever, he reached into the pannier of the bike and pulled out a leather pouch, unwrapped it and showed me a handgun. Like everything about Toddy it was a little larger than life, with a silver handle and a long barrel.

‘Do you know how to use these?’

I took it from him, slipped the safety off, and checked the breech and then the magazine. It was fully loaded. It was a nice weapon too, a little heavy but beautifully balanced. I was aware that my confidence with it was impressing Toddy and I admit I played up to that a bit. I just wished I could have twirled it around my finger and shot a sparrow a hundred metres away to impress him a bit more, but it didn’t seem like a good idea.

‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. He hesitated. I think he’d been hoping I’d say I didn’t know how to handle guns or I didn’t want it or something, but now he was committed to giving it to me. He swallowed and said, ‘No problem.’ At least I hadn’t taken his motorbike. Not yet anyway.

‘I’ll bring it back,’ I promised.

Liberation had told me not to bring any weapons because the consequences would be too serious if I were caught. They’d said the people in Havelock would be able to get me something, and now it seemed that they had, at the last minute.

I walked away then, without any sentimental goodbyes. I wasn’t in the mood. I did appreciate Toddy’s help but I had to concentrate on what was coming, and dealing with Toddy seemed to take a lot of energy. I heard the bike start up behind me and I could tell he was wheeling it around and then came the quiet fade-out as he rode away down the street. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

From 493 on came a row of terrace houses, pretty much like terrace houses everywhere, two or three storeys, with bits added on top of some of them. Each one had its wrought-iron fence and garden about A4 size. Some gardens were neat, some scruffy, and one was a spectacular crop of weeds that would have supported a couple of steers for a week. I guessed that would be Number 503, but of course I was wrong; my houseful of suspected terrorists had the prettiest garden in the block. I walked past. I was still wearing the black wig but not the face mask of course. It wasn’t much of a disguise but at least anyone looking down from a window probably wouldn’t be too alarmed.

I felt dismayed at what I saw on my brief inspection. The way terrace houses are all stuck together means you can’t go sneaking up the side to have a look or to get in a window or to try a side door. I kept on going and went all the way to the corner. At this hour of the night things were really quiet. That was the good news. The only good news. I turned right and went down the road a bit until I came to the lane that ran behind the houses. They had them in Stratton too, these narrow cobbled access lanes that in the old days were used by the nightcart men, the guys who came into your back yard to pick up the bucket of poo and pee from your dunny and take it out to the truck. That would have been a nice job. Especially when you tripped with a full bucket on your shoulder and went sprawling onto the cobblestones. Your social life could be affected for a while every time that happened.

I walked quietly up the lane past the high fences and back gates. You couldn’t see into any of the places but I could tell which one was 503 because 501 had its number painted on the fence in a sloppy mess of yellow. Again I walked past. If they had sentries front and back they’d be starting to wonder about me by now. It was all very peaceful though. I wondered if I’d come to the right house, if those guys had told us the truth, or if Toddy had just mixed the details up. He hadn’t written anything down when the young guy talked to him.

I went up to the next intersection and turned right, then crossed over at the next one into a small park. Christ this was difficult. I didn’t know what to do. Toddy had been adamant that this was my only chance: it was tonight or never. Well, I had to go with that. There was no other advice floating around. No second opinions. Somehow I had to take a crack at that house, and if I failed in the attempt… well, I didn’t need to scare myself with the consequences.

At least it kind of focuses your mind when there’s only one alternative. I sat there, not thinking any more about whether I should do this or whether I should lie low until tomorrow night and try again then. All I had to think about was how to get into a terrace house. And it had to be through the front or the back. Or the roof I suppose, or from underneath, but they didn’t seem viable options. The first thing I thought of was just to walk up and try the front door. There must have been a chance that they didn’t lock it. People do stupid and careless things so easily. If that failed and there was no sentry, then no problem. If there was a sentry, then I might have a very big problem.

I moved to a different position in the park, where I could see 503 more clearly. Maybe someone would go in or out and I’d get a better idea of what was going on. Surveillance, like the cops do.

Another option was to go round the back. I’d have to climb the back fence and I didn’t know what I’d find when I dropped into the courtyard. Could be a nice party of armed guys enjoying a quiet beer. But I could peep through a hole in the fence first. If I did get in there, the back door might be unlocked.

I could walk up to the front door and knock on it and pretend I was collecting for the Red Cross or I was a Jehovah’s Witness… but it was a little late at night. Plus, when you’re the alien you can’t do stuff like that. I shook my head and tried to get back on track.

The front of the house matched the others in the row in lots of ways, like I said. That included having all kinds of bits and pieces stuck on the front of it. Someone had covered in the upstairs veranda for example, and one of the ground-floor windows had been converted with a sort of box arrangement. Plus there was a lot of ivy. As I crouched there I imagined I could see a route going up the front of the building that someone reasonably fit and athletic could climb. And I was the girl who’d got Gavin off the cliff on Tailor’s Stitch, not so long ago. Compared to Tailor’s Stitch this didn’t look too hard. The biggest difference was that on Tailor’s Stitch there were no windows, and so not much chance that someone would lean out a window and calmly shoot me.

I didn’t know what laws were operating in this town. Would they be allowed to shoot me in cold blood if they caught me climbing into their house? Probably. And if not, I guessed they wouldn’t have too much of a problem taking me somewhere quiet out of town and doing the job there.

Occasionally cars went down the street but I hadn’t seen a pedestrian the whole time I’d been there. That meant I should be safe from being caught by a passer-by. The cars were a problem though. They tended to go slowly, because of the speed bumps, and being a deadend street they were people going home, not racing past at a hundred k’s. If they saw me stuck on the front of the house like Spiderman I couldn’t expect much mercy.