November (15 page)

‘I’m
not Callum Ormond!’ I scoffed. They started dragging me off the street and towards an unmarked car. I couldn’t let them take me to a station. If they fingerprinted me, I’d be dead. ‘You have the wrong guy!’

‘Yeah, well if you ain’t Callum Ormond, then
who the heck are you?’ the cop demanded with a sneer.

‘He’s Matt Marlow, that’s who,’ came a familiar voice, loud and commanding.

I managed to twist around to see Nelson Sharkey approaching. He rushed to my side and swiftly produced something, seemingly from my back pocket.

‘You have the wrong kid, officers,’ he said, waving a small book in his hand. He flipped through its pages. ‘This is certainly not Callum Ormond. Take a look for yourselves,’ he said, handing it to them.

It was my new passport! Unbelievably, and in the nick of time, it had finally arrived!

‘Don’t make fools of yourselves and the police force,’ continued Sharkey. ‘You can’t arrest kids like this without even checking their ID. Senior Sergeant McGrath would not be happy about this. He can’t stand it when the rookies on his shift mess up.’

The cops squirmed uncomfortably.

‘And who are you?’ one of them asked.

‘Detective Dane Cooper,’ he lied, ‘from Clarendale. You’d better let this kid go before I report you two turkeys. I could hit you both with a false imprisonment charge, or detaining a minor without a supervising adult present.’

‘Thanks, Detective,’ I said. ‘I tried telling them they had the wrong person. They thought I was that fugitive kid, Callum Ormond. They wouldn’t believe me when I said it wasn’t me!’

The two cops released me from their grip, and shamefully hung their heads.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Nelson, yanking my arm.

Once we were a few metres away, he whispered to me. ‘We’d better go our separate ways now. Stay focused. The police hunt for you has intensified. Strike Force Predator has doubled in size. They’ve promised the public that you’ll be behind bars before the year is out. You have the passport—that was the reason I called the meeting—so take it away and get out of here. You can thank me later.’

And with that, he darted across the road and out of sight.

Guilt sat in my chest like heartburn. I’d thought for a second that Sharkey had betrayed me, and then he’d come to my rescue, yet again.

The pressure was on. It seemed like everyone was working to the 31 December deadline. I had the passport, now we just needed to book flights … and get Boges out of the limelight.

After a few minutes of walking, I quickly rang Sharkey to thank him for saving me again.

‘Hi, Detective Dane Cooper,’ I said when he
answered the phone. That made him laugh. He said he couldn’t think of anything better on the spot.

I filled him in on the Boges situation, and he told me he’d do anything he could to help. He also said he’d look into December flights to Ireland for us.

‘I’ll see what I can find out about Boges,’ said Sharkey. ‘If I can help him, I will. I have to go now. The big game starts soon, and I have to get my couch ready!’

I was so out of the loop, I had no idea what game he was even talking about. And I’d forgotten to ask him about how his hot date went, the night Winter broke into Sligo’s scram bag. I knew Sharkey wasn’t going to offer up that information without a fair amount of pestering.

My phone started beeping; I had a voicemail message from Winter. She must have called again while I was on the phone to Sharkey. I didn’t bother listening to it, dialling her number instead.

Just before it began ringing, a squad car cruised past and I was forced to hang up and shove my phone back in my pocket, pull my collar up and my cap down, and walk on. Eric Blair and Nelson Sharkey were right. Strike Force Predator had intensified.

I could feel my phone vibrating on silent in my pocket, and when I saw that it was Boges calling, I hit ‘answer’ as fast as possible. I ducked into an alley to take the call.

‘Boges! What happened? Are you OK?’

‘Man, they drilled me. It was a tough few hours. They wanted to know everything, but don’t worry, I don’t think I’ve done any damage. I impressed myself with how good I am at lying now. I’ve become a master. Sometimes I remember the lies better than I remember the truth.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I admitted. ‘Thanks, Boges. I’m so sorry you had to—’

The phone cut out. I almost threw it on the ground in frustration—the signal had dropped out. I’d have to try him later.

I was walking towards the football stadium. Crowds of people in the red and white colours of the local team were gathering ahead of me. It looked like they’d just piled off some buses at the bay. I wished I had my own red and white gear so I could lose myself among them all.

The crowds were building up fast, and I noticed more and more cops and security guards milling around. I’d have to take the long way home to avoid them.

My phone vibrated—it was Winter calling again. Suddenly I felt eyes on my back. Someone was watching me again, I was sure of it.

I increased my pace, and the warning bells in my head increased too.

Someone was watching me from a car, lingering on my right.

I tensed up as I turned to see who my quiet observer was. I couldn’t believe my rotten luck.

Of all the cops in the city conducting crowd control, it had to be him—Capsicum Spray Cop! The guy I’d escaped from months ago!

He saw the shock in my face, and his suspicions were confirmed.

He was onto me. As he scrambled to jump out of the car, I ran.

I shoved and jostled my way through the crowds, ignoring the angry shouts of the people I was barrelling through. I didn’t have time to apologise—my freedom was at stake!

I pushed and squeezed my way into the masses, forcing through, hoping that it would be impossible for him or any other cop to find me in this huge throng.

Ten minutes later, I found myself being carried along by this great wave of sports fans. It was out of control.
I
was being pushed now, and realised I was being hauled through the open
gates of the stadium, pouring into the
grandstand
. I fought my way clear of the group, only to be caught up again in another.

Over the commotion of the rowdy football fans, attendants were yelling about tickets.

I wondered where my pursuer was.

I ducked under some scaffolding and found myself on a ramp where the footballers themselves suddenly appeared, charging up the slope, pumped to the max, about to hurl themselves onto the field. But it wasn’t only the players who suddenly appeared: alongside them was Capsicum Spray Cop!

Somehow he’d managed to keep me in sight. He was bearing down on me, pushing his way past people to get closer. He looked more determined than ever to get me.

‘Hey!’ he shouted, as I ducked into the line of players. They were so fired up and focused that they didn’t even notice me as they surged along.

Before I knew it, I was running out onto the oval with them! I ducked behind one of the players as I ran into the stadium, barely conscious of the exposure of my surroundings, desperate to escape the vengeful cop and the rest of the police backup he’d have behind him.

I was vaguely aware of the roar going up from
the tens of thousands of fans who seethed with hysterical excitement for the upcoming match and their team.

Players from the opposing team stormed onto the oval, and the home crowd exploded into menacing booing and hissing. I looked around me—huge spotlights shone down like a hundred police choppers. I was a fugitive, mixed up in the beginning of a highly anticipated football match!

My eyes searched for an escape, darting over the crowd like a Mexican wave. Another tremendous roar erupted—even louder and more intimidating than before. My sight stopped circling. I’d landed on the massive television screen, looming high on one end of the stadium. On it was a huge close-up of my face!

Me!

I’d been recognised! Again the crowd roared like thunder. I ducked and ran but was immediately tackled down by one of the players who’d spotted the impostor. The audience went wild! Winded, I struggled to my feet. Now the crowd was yelling out my name!

‘Cal-lum! Cal-lum! Cal-lum! Cal-lum!’

I took off, running, as fast as my legs would carry me. I had to go faster than ever—I had professional sportsmen on my tail. The sound from the crowd was insane! The TV cameramen
were providing a new game—Chase the Fugitive—and the crowd was loving it. They were all pointing at me like I was a horse at the races.

I couldn’t avoid seeing myself up there on the screen as I moved this way, then that, sprinting in zigzag angles, confusing the football players who were trying to catch me.

I’d almost forgotten about Capsicum Cop—I was just running! Players came at me from all angles but I was smaller and faster. I’d had almost a year’s training now and I wasn’t just here to win a match, I was running for my life!

I ducked and swerved, avoiding them, while the crowd was chanting, ‘Cal-lum, Cal-lum, Cal-lum!’

A stream of police officers poured onto the ground, and now a siren was wailing over the top of the chanting. In the grandstands, the crowd started booing the police! The angry mob was whistling and hissing at them, like the police were the opponents!

For some strange reason the crowd was on my side! It didn’t make sense! I was the Psycho Kid, not their
hero
!

The masses in the stands were now shouting, ‘Go Cal! Go Cal!’ It spurred me on, and I exploded in one direction, then swivelling like an
ice-skater
, I skidded away in the completely opposite direction, and off the field.

I dodged cheerleaders and a goofy-looking mascot, and was running back down the ramp where I’d entered the grounds. I had no option but to keep going, even though I knew it led underneath the stadium and not out of it. There was no alternative. I avoided one final tackle from a player who went skidding into the hoardings around the edge of the oval, much to the delight of the noisy bystanders, and then I darted down the ramp again, disappearing from the cameras, and public view.

It was quieter down here but I knew I only had a few moments before someone would catch me. I raced along the network of corridors with various rooms and dressing rooms off them, trying to find a way out. Already, I could hear the yelling and shouting of the police and their pounding footsteps.

I took a chance and ran into one of the rooms at the end of the tunnel—obviously a dressing room—with showers at one end and a row of benches around the walls, littered with jerseys, boots and towels. There was a window, but it was high up in the wall, barred and locked, offering no escape.

A huge koala mascot costume leaned lopsidedly against a wall at the end of the benches.

Outside in the corridors, I could hear the
police calling each other as they searched and cleared the rooms behind me.

It was only a matter of time before they reached this room.

I could still hear the muted roars of the crowd in the stadium above me: ‘We want Cal! We want Cal!’

It was a frenzy!

My heart was racing, my brain feverish with useless ideas on how to escape. I grabbed a football jersey and started pulling it on. Who are you kidding? I asked myself, as I caught my reflection in a mirror. I looked like wanted fugitive, Cal Ormond, now wearing a football jersey. I threw the jersey to the ground, cursing at the crooked stare of the sightless koala mascot.

A huge riot cop stormed into the room opposite.

After everything I’d gone through, and within days of organising flights out of the country, I was trapped under a stadium.

The heavy boots of the approaching police officers stomped closer. Any second now, they’d spring me. Hopelessly, I scanned the room again for a place to hide, beyond the bench with the clothes and over to the koala mascot. Its black plastic eyes seemed to stare crookedly into mine.

My hiding place was staring straight at me!

I dived over to the bench, hurled my backpack
up on a nearby hook, where it blended in with all the other bags, grabbed the koala suit, shoved my legs into it, pulled my arms through the grey sleeves, and with hands made clumsy by the padded paw gloves, I grabbed the huge headpiece, and thrust it over my head.