The Dead of Night (27 page)

When we were satisfied with his plan he used his pliers to cut the filament in each toaster and made us practise setting the timers. By then it was three o'clock and time to go. We set our timers, quickly repacked our swags and saddled ourselves with them. We were taking them with us this time, so we could make faster escapes.

We'd chosen the same houses as the previous night. I had Fi's neighbours,' Robyn had the next one, which we thought was also being used as offices, then Lee took the next—Dr Burgess's house—which was obviously the main headquarters. Opposite that was a big new brick house where a lot of officers slept, and Homer had chosen that. Now that Fi didn't have to take a truck out of gear she was free to attack a house too. She bravely offered to do her own but we talked her into going to the one at the top of the hill, which seemed to be more
heavily used. Of course there was every chance that hers was going to be damaged by the blast,' as she knew.

I followed the same course as the previous night, climbing the brick fence and trekking through the compost pit. I was clutching my toaster; a timer was making a bulge in one pocket, and a torch in the other. We had to be in our positions by four o'clock, so again I had enough time to be able to move slowly and carefully. But I guess I was sick of being so careful, so disciplined all the time. After taking five minutes to move six steps I finally lost my cool and moved ten metres in one rush, to hide behind a lemon tree. I thought by doing so much it'd make the rest of the trek less monotonous. But it nearly killed me. I was just about to leave the tree and take my next step when I heard a snap of wood. It sounded horribly like the tread of a human foot. I hesitated, then crouched and waited. Sure enough a moment later a beam of light shone across the garden. It traversed the plants in deadly silence. I crouched even lower, scrunching up my eyes, waiting for bullets to come tearing into me. Do you hear the bullets before you die? I wondered. Or does it all happen so fast that you feel them and die without even hearing the noise? I forced myself to open my eyes and twist my head slightly, to take a little look. I half expected that the sentry would be there, looking down at me, with rifle poised. But there was only the torch beam, continuing to explore, at this moment quite a way from me and shining on a rose bush. Then it was turned off. I realised straightaway what a stupid position I'd put myself in by my impatience. If I moved any time between now and four o'clock I risked being heard. If I didn't move I'd
left mvself quite a distance to get to the house when four o'clock came. Time was going to be tight enough anyway. I thought about it for ten minutes and decided on a compromise. I'd move to a position where I could see the sentry, and then decide my tactics.

I moved with excruciating care. With excruciating pain too, after being curled up like a frightened guinea pig for so long. I nearly got the giggles when I wondered how I'd explain the toaster if I were caught. "I had a sudden craving for toast, and I was looking for a power point." I kept shuffling along, taking little sneak looks every step or so, until at last I could see the sentry. He or she—it was too dark to tell—seemed to be facing out into the garden still, as though watching and listening. Just my luck to get one of the efficient ones. I tried to get a look at my watch but it was too dark here to tell the time.

We had arranged everything for the sentry change at four o'clock and now I didn't know how close four o'clock was. My only hope was that I'd hear the new sentries arriving out the front, for the changeover. There was quite a little ceremony that took place for the changing of the guard. I'd watched it so often now that I knew the script. The new ones marched up the street to the Burgess house and halted there. Then the person in charge blew a whistle and the different sentries emerged from their positions, made their reports, formed a line and marched off to their quarters, while the new ones split up to go to their different posts. It only took a few minutes, but it was those few minutes we depended on.

I thought that if the sentry could hear the whistle
then I should too, so I stayed frozen where I was and waited. I thought that I'd be there for ages but after only ten minutes I heard the scrunch of marching feet from the road. The sentry heard it as well, and suddenly lost her attentive attitude and walked off to the corner of the house. She paused there, waiting for the whistle. You could tell she wasn't allowed into the street until she heard it, but she was hanging out for the signal. I'd guess that every house had a guard poised at its back corner, waiting for the moment of freedom. Four hours of boring duty in the middle of the night would have that effect.

I heard the distant trilling of the whistle, and the sentry was gone, without a backward glance. I didn't have time for any more caution. I stood straightaway and walked quickly to the back door. These sentries were going to be in a heap of trouble tomorrow, if they survived. My biggest fear now was the door itself. If doors were locked we'd agreed to use our discretion: either to give up, or to wrap a hand in our jumpers and punch a pane of glass out. But Fi was sure they wouldn't be locked. Her theory was that most of the people who lived in Turner Street were so security-conscious that they'd all have deadlocks, like on her house. For the soldiers to get into these houses in the first place, they'd have had to break in. That meant, that unless the doors had been repaired, they'd still be unlocked—and unlockable.

It was a very logical theory and for once logic worked. When I turned the handle of the door and pushed, the whole door nearly fell off. It had been smashed open,
then stood up again and propped against the doorframe. "Onya Fi!" I grinned, hoping the others were going as well as me. It was so dark that I had to use the torch; I fished it out and put my hand over its lens and switched it on. In the dim pinkish light I saw a row of boots and knew I was standing in the back porch. It was just the way Fi had described it.

I moved fast, straight through to the kitchen. With a tiny thin ray of torchlight I found the stove. One glance was enough to make me feel sick. It was electric. That meant I'd have to search further, take longer. I hurried through into the dining room, sweat starting to rush out of my pores. Here I found what I wanted: a gas heater. I turned it full on, and jammed the timer and toaster into a power point, throwing the switch on. I'd set the timer to an approximate time, as we all had, in case we were too rushed to fine-tune them. Now, I didn't know if I had time or not, but I was too scared to think about it, and to be honest, too scared to care. But I did check the broken filament in the toaster: if the two broken ends weren't close enough together there'd be no spark and all this would have been for nothing. Gas was gushing into the room and I was trying not to breathe it in. The smell was terrible. It was frightening how quickly the gas rushed out. I moved the ends of the filament a little closer together, put it down gently, and ran into the sitting room. Another heater here, good. Turn it on. Is there time to check the rumpus room? And the study? Yes. Well, one anyway. The rumpus room. Into there on fast feet, and another quick search with the covered torch. And yes, lucky lucky, a third
heater. I switched it on and scrambled for the back door, desperate to get away, full of desperate fear that the new guard would be in position. I could smell the gas even at the back door. I couldn't believe how it was spreading. I got to the door and took a quick peek out. I couldn't afford to take any more time, to show any more caution. I propped the door up again behind me and scurried for cover. Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. That was the sentry's boots on the gravel, coming around the side of the house. I dived like a footballer, landing under a bush with tiny leaves and tiny flowers, but banging my knee on a rock as I did. Oh, that poor knee. Every time I hit anything it seemed to be with that knee I stuffed my fist in my mouth in agony and lay there with tears smarting my eyes. At the same time I couldn't help noticing how sweet and fragrant the bush smelt. It seems crazy to have been aware of that, but I was.

I let myself have a few seconds under the bush, but I knew I had to move. With the rough job I'd done on the timer, the whole place could go up much earlier than I'd planned. I crawled out from my cover and began another interminably slow hike through the garden to the back wall. I gave myself ten minutes, but I was terrified there'd be an explosion before that. Sweat was streaming down my face, as though I'd run five k's. I kept picturing the timer suddenly throwing its switch on, the rush of electricity into the toaster, the sparks flying from the end of one broken wire to the other, the gas erupting in a sudden huge blast...

At the compost pit I ignored my knee and hauled
myself over the wall, then did a kind of limping run down the lane. I went straight to the bikes and with wild joy saw Fi, holding a bike with each hand.

"What are you doing?" I hissed. "It's too dangerous to wait here." But I grinned at her.

"I know," she said. "But I couldn't bear to go off on my own." And I saw her perfect white teeth gleam back at me from her grubby face.

I grabbed the bike and without another word we pushed off. As we did I heard running feet behind me. I looked round, startled, but hopeful. It was Lee, panting hard.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"Good line for a movie," I whispered. He gave me a puzzled glance, then remembered, flashed me a smile, and took off. Inside a second he was five metres ahead of me. Fi and I had to pedal hard to catch up.

It took us ages to get to Mrs Alexander's. We had to go such a roundabout way, and most of it was uphill. But as we were finally dismounting outside her garage, the hill opposite seemed to catch fire. I've never seen a volcano, but I imagine that's what it'd be like. There was a kind of "whoosh" and flames shot into the air like a Roman candle. A moment later a thunderclap of sound hit us. At exactly the same time there were two more eruptions. We couldn't exactly see the houses but I saw the roof of one lift into the air and disintegrate, and the next moment all the trees around them caught fire and were blazing fiercely.

"Golly gosh," Fi said, gazing in awe. That was about the strongest expression she ever used.

The roar of the fire was so loud we could hear it from our possie. A wind of energy from the explosion suddenly came through the garden like a wall, bending trees and plants over and buffeting us. Small dark shapes blipped past me. They seemed to come from nowhere: birds fleeing from the blast. The whole of one side of Wirrawee was gradually being lit up. There was a hellish red glow in the sky; I could almost smell the burning.

"Quick," Lee said. "Let's move it."

We rushed into the garage. At least this time we had some light, from our torches, unlike the last time I'd been in that garage, groping around looking for matches, and in desperate danger.

"I hope Robyn and Homer were well out of that," I said. There was no time for more talk. I threw open the door of the nearer car, clambered in, and turned the key. There was a weary grinding sound.

"Oh God," I said. "Flat battery."

Lee leaned into the other car, a ute, and tried that, with the same result.

As he stood up again Robyn came bursting into the garage, puffing and wild-eyed.

"Are you all here?" she asked.

"Not Homer. And the cars won't start."

"Oh help," she said, and disappeared outside again, to look for Homer, I imagined.

I tried the first car again but the weary noise got more and more tired, until it became just a faint murmur.

"It'll have to be the bikes," I said to Lee. We ran outside and retrieved our bikes from behind a shed, where we'd dumped them. I couldn't help stopping to look at
the furious fires raging on the hill. There were lights on in every occupied part of Wirrawee, and we could see the headlights of many vehicles converging on Turner Street. And I could see two fire engines trundling out of the Showground.

"We've got one thing going for us," Lee said. "If we've wiped out a lot of their officers they mightn't have anyone smart enough to take charge or give orders."

I nodded. "Let's take advantage," I said. "What about Homer? Can we leave him a note?"

Robyn came over, out of the darkness, wheeling her bike.

"I'll wait for him," she said.

"No, Robyn, no, it's too dangerous. Please Robyn, don't do that."

She paused. Then we were all saved by a voice out of the night.

"Anyone for toast?" said Homer.

"Stay on your bike," I said quickly. "The cars are both stuffed. Where's Fi?"

"Here," came her little voice.

"Let's go, famous five."

Daylight came too fast, catching us when we were still a long way from my place and from the faithful Land
Rover. We made an emergency decision, to swing off the main road and into the nearest property, the Mackenzies'.

It was only the second time I'd been here since a jet had destroyed the house, in our full view. We'd watched from the shearers' quarters as the house had exploded, so many weeks ago. Seeing it again, in the cold, grey, miserable light of dawn, made me feel better about blowing up half of Turner Street. I felt sorry for the owners of those houses, but I knew we'd probably done the enemy more damage there than in all our previous operations put together. And it was at least a little repayment for the way these people had smashed the lives of the Mackenzies, bombing their house and shooting their daughter: Corrie, their daughter, my friend.

The others went straight on up to the shearing shed but I wandered through the ruins of the house for a few minutes. Already some little weeds had taken root and were starting to spread. Angrily, I pulled them out. Maybe I was wrong.
They
were life, in their own way. There was little else of it around. Nothing among the ruins was undamaged. Every piece of crockery was smashed, even saucepan warped and bent, every piece of timber splintered and scarred. I looked in vain for something that was unmarked. At least my teddy bear Alvin, a little scrap of love, had survived the Harvey's Heroes' massacre.