John Marsden - While I live

I didn’t bother answering that, just said, ‘Well, we’d better not go through the front gate. Let’s cut across the paddock here.’

We made our way along the ploughed furrows, trying not to break too many ankles. From a row of trees we could at last see the house. There was no movement. And no light going on and off. Homer and I both looked at Gavin. He spread his hands out, palms up.

‘Hey, don’t blame me.’

‘What do you think?’ Homer asked me.

‘We’ve come this far. Might as well finish the job.’

It was difficult in broad daylight to work out a good approach. We took the obvious route, towards the massive machinery shed, which would put us reasonably close to the house.

We were being a bit casual, not casual exactly, but I imagine we all thought the same thing, that nothing was wrong and we were on a wild-goose chase. And we reached the machinery shed with no drama. By then Homer was getting embarrassed.

‘Shannon and Sam are going to give us heaps about this,’ he complained.

I just shrugged. We were committed, for better or for worse.

Unlike most machinery sheds this one had a side door. And unlike most machinery sheds this one was spotlessly clean and tidy. Put ours to shame. We snuck in through the side door. All was quiet, except for us. No matter how careful we tried to be, our footsteps echoed a bit. I kept to the shadows and went past the workbench. I stood there, hidden by a big yellow Kubota.

By then I was starting to swing back to thinking that Gavin might be right. It was one of those ‘nothing is wrong and that’s what’s wrong’ situations. Both the cars were in the carport yet the place was dead still. And I hoped I didn’t mean ‘dead’. At this time of day, in this kind of weather, the Youngs should have been zigzagging all over the place, from the house to the machinery shed, from the shed to the fuel pumps, from the bowsers to the dumpster, from the dumpster to the chooks, etc etc etc. Instead, if a blowie hadn’t been buzzing past me in the machinery shed, nothing would have moved.

Gavin came up beside me, touched my elbow, and pointed down. I looked. There was a fresh red line of blood drops on the concrete floor.

I felt a lurch at my heart, like someone was trying to pull it out of position. I looked at Homer and he looked back at me. I suspect his face was mirroring mine: a kind of sick expression of ‘No, please, not again’. He may have been a member of Liberation and he may have enjoyed the excitement of war, but at that moment I think he’d had enough. I know I had.

‘It mightn’t be human,’ he muttered.

I shook my head and turned my attention to the house. I wanted to try to get in the upstairs part, because I thought it would be safer. Whoever had flashed the light had done it from upstairs, so for a time at least they had felt safe up there. And going that way would give us the advantage of surprise. General Finley had sometimes used the word ‘hostiles’ to describe enemy soldiers. I quite liked it as a word. If there were hostiles in this house the last thing they would expect was visitors through the upstairs windows.

I looked at Homer and said, ‘Let’s get in through the first floor.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘A trampoline?’

I didn’t answer, just kept looking, impatient to start moving, but reminding myself that reconnaissance was three-quarters of any battle. ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.’

There was a triangle of water tanks immediately beside the house, and they had flat tops. That had to be the route. This wasn’t like some old house in an Enid Blyton story, with ivy conveniently growing up the wall. The Youngs’ place was quite English looking, in a slightly fake way: one of those brick houses with a tiled roof. At least all the upstairs windows that I could see were open.

I gave Homer a look that was meant to say ‘I don’t know about this but do we have a choice?’

I’m not sure if he understood the look, but I was not happy. In spite of our conversation about the agony and ecstasy of these combat episodes, taking a majorly dangerous route into a potentially lethal situation wasn’t how I wanted to spend the afternoon. It was an afternoon that had been going along in a quiet and straightforward fashion. Maybe I’d find nothing in the house more shocking than Alastair watching ‘South Park’. Sure hoped so.

We chose a wooden stepladder because it would make less noise than a metal one. I had a quick look out the door and the coast seemed clear. Now was as good a time as any other. I swallowed hard and did a dash to the tank. I felt incredibly exposed. At least the ladder was light. I reached the first tank and leant against it, trying to get some oxygen into my lungs, which felt empty of everything. At the same time I tried to press myself so far into the corrugations that I would disappear.

Homer and Gavin arrived at speed beside me. Immediately they started peeping around the sides of the tank. I left them to do the looking, but really, what was the point of looking anyway? If hostiles suddenly turned up and Homer and Gavin saw them, well, it would give us extra time to hold our hands up and surrender, but that would be about the only advantage.

As soon as I had some breath I turned towards the tank, propped the ladder against it, and scrambled up.

Putting my head over the top, I was aware again that I was totally exposed. I got up there anyway. The top was all muddy and covered with leaves and dead insects, like the top of every tank in Wirrawee I’d guess. But I wasn’t bothered by that. I crouched down and waited for Homer and Gavin.

When the three of us were there Homer and I hauled the ladder up, as quietly as possible. Unfortunately complete silence wasn’t possible. It knocked and banged against the tank a couple of times, and to make it worse the tank sounded empty, so there was a booming echoing effect which probably wasn’t all that loud, but to me could have been a tenpin bowling alley on a busy day.

There was no point waiting though. We tiptoed to the part of the tank roof closest to the house and set the ladder against the wall. I looked up at it and swore quietly to myself. There seemed like an awful big gap between the top of the ladder and the window, and I’m not that fond of heights anyway. But I knew if I waited any time at all Homer would try to beat me up there and I didn’t want that. Only because the suspense would have killed me if I’d had to watch him go into the house first.

I gulped again, put my foot on the bottom rung, settled the ladder a bit more, nodded at Homer to thank him for holding it, and started on up.

Standing on the second rung from the top was difficult. I had to try to get a grip on the bricks because there was nothing else. I was so close to the wall that I couldn’t use the lean of my body for balance. And what was worse, I still had to get onto the very top rung, and even then it would be a stretch to the sill.

I forgot the famous advice about not looking down, glanced in that direction, saw Homer and Gavin’s anxious faces, and wished I hadn’t. I knew I had to get onto that top step fast. To keep my balance I needed a lot of energy. I couldn’t hang around until I got tired. But I’d be pressed flat against the wall and then have to try to reach the win-dowsill. I wasn’t sure if that would be possible: in fact I thought it probably wouldn’t. But I knew I had to try it.

Suddenly into my imagination came an image of me reaching for the window, failing, and falling backwards, breaking my spine in a dozen places when I hit the unforgiving top of the tank.

Sometimes I hate having an imagination.

I hoped Homer was holding that ladder with maximum power. I had nothing to grip with my hands, so all I could do was press them against the bricks. I slid them up the wall inch by inch, feeling the rough surface scrape my palms. As I did I brought my right foot out and, trying to keep perfect balance, trying not to let my leg tremble too much, I eased it up.