It was a cool day, pretty smoggy. We were in a scrapyard of some kind, with a pile of roofing iron on my left and a mountain of bolts and nuts and stuff to my right. Some of them were pretty big. Toddy led me to his bike, which was a Ducati, polished to within an inch of its life. You know, there’s this word, salubrious, and it means attractive or something, but there’s no way it should. Salubrious? Excuse me! Does that sound enchanting and fragrant? It’s gotta mean grey and depressing and gloomy. So as far as I’m concerned, this scrapyard was salubrious, and in that salubrious place the Ducati shone like a butterfly in a butcher’s shop. Pity it sounded so bad. He started it up — after three goes — and I felt like sticking my fingers in my ears and begging him to turn it off.
But instead of doing that I took a peep at myself in the rear-vision mirror. Firstly, without the mask on. It was dramatic. The change was amazing. I looked older and, to be honest, better, I thought. More, I don’t know, sophisticated or something. More like a city girl. Well, that was good. I might have to be a city girl for a while. I slipped on the mask. Unrecognisable. I was lost, gone, my identity removed simply by adding hair and covering my face. But there was still the problem of my eyes. Before I could say anything Toddy handed me a pair of sunglasses. ‘There you go, princess,’ he said. Princess? God, he was worse than Homer. But he’d thought this through. Maybe he did it every day, took girls from our side of the border into these dangerous situations. It’d make for an unusual job.
We rode down a dirt track which was the driveway into the place and turned left. OK, now I had some sense of where I was. City, probably, but on the outskirts. Could well be Havelock. I sure hoped it was. This was the poor side of town though, boring buildings, dull factories, nothing beautiful, no style. I called into Toddy’s ear, ‘Are we in Havelock?’ and he called back, ‘Well it’s not New York.’ Then he added, ‘No more talking.’
I saw the sense in that. You never knew how far your voice might carry, and I didn’t want people to hear voices speaking English as we rode past.
It was cold on the bike and I used Toddy as a windbreak. I had a million questions. Where was he taking me? Did he know anything about Gavin? How were we going to find Gavin? How had all this been arranged? Who was Toddy anyway? Could I trust him? How did I know that? He could be taking me straight to the nearest police station.
Soon, though, I stopped concentrating on those questions as there was just too much else to look at. The traffic was getting heavier and with every block we seemed to be moving towards the centre of town. Seemed like people got to work pretty early around here. There were a lot of motorbikes but I felt quite conspicuous, more and more vulnerable. We stopped at a red light and a moment later another motorbike pulled up beside us. A girl was riding it. She was about one metre away, jammed between two lines of traffic. We could almost have rubbed noses. She stared straight at me. I stared back. Wig, sunglasses, paper mask… that was all I had. Underneath was all Ellie. The light seemed to stay red forever. She never took her eyes off me. With a jerk Toddy’s Ducati moved forwards again. She followed a second after us. For three blocks I knew she was right behind. I didn’t dare look around. Nothing spells guilt louder than looking around. But under the highpitched quivering of the Ducati I could hear her bike. It was a deep and powerful throbbing. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth block it disappeared. Now I looked around. There was no sign of her. I hoped she hadn’t gone straight to the nearest authorities to report the suspicious-looking girl on the shining motorbike.
Travelling openly through a foreign city — because that’s what it was now — felt strange and exciting. I wished I could just be a tourist and walk these streets even more openly. I wished I could travel overseas and go to places with exotic names like Beijing and Uttar Pradesh and Ulan Bator. Oh yeah, Mongolia, that was another country I’d forgotten when I was stuck in the hay bales. That made fifty-one.
If only my mind wasn’t tortured by thoughts of Gavin lying desperate in a cell somewhere. If only I could be sure he wasn’t dead or injured. If only my life wasn’t in constant jeopardy every second I was on this side of the border. Well, if wishes were fishes we’d all cast nets in the sea. Or, as my Stratton grandmother once said, ‘If wishes were dishes we’d all have cupboards full of Royal Doulton.’
‘But you do, Grandma,’ I’d replied, which for possibly the only time ever stopped her in her tracks.
If it wasn’t for my fears for Gavin — and for myself — I could have enjoyed the motorbikes loaded with boxes of electric kettles and cages of chooks and big bottles of water for office workers. The shops bulging with fruit or car parts or shoes or baby clothes. The mess of traffic at every second intersection, the constant honking of car horns, the little stands along the footpaths with people selling food, the kids so neat and pretty on their way to school. But every time I started to relax a little I saw something else, something sinister. Soldiers. Everywhere. Half-a-dozen marching loosely along a footpath, a group standing smoking and talking at an intersection, a truckload in the traffic in front of us. At no stage did we pass a whole army, but by the time we got to Toddy’s place we’d seen a fair part of an army, scattered around a city where there was no escaping them, almost no street or park where they were not in evidence, soldiers, soldiers, soldiers.
And I could see myself in a different city almost, not the open visible one with shops and schools and grandparents and kids and people going about their business, but another city, darker, where criminals crept from place to place and soldiers hunted them, a city which gave no access to help or friendship, but offered only pursuit and vengeance and execution. Like spiderwebs over a garden, almost invisible in the bright light, the people of this other city were connected, but the connections could not survive the attack of a determined and relentless enemy. Soldiers armed with rifles and knives and righteousness could slash through cobwebs. I had a visa into this dark city but the other one would be forever closed to me. The things I had done, the life I’d led, meant that no matter how long I lived I could never be invited into the bright and open city where normal people went about their normal lives.
We reached a different part of Havelock, more open, bigger shops, a couple of parks. A massive church that was probably a cathedral back in the old days. The good old days. I hadn’t left high school and I was already talking about the good old days. For the first time I saw foreigners, people like me. A Saab ahead of us at the lights had a blonde girl in the back seat. Across the road I saw two boys, about thirteen years old, one with red hair and fair skin. To my amazement he was wearing a Fremantle Dockers top. The other one had a Brazilian soccer shirt. The kid with the Brazilian shirt looked like he might be from a meeting of a couple of continents, South America and Asia maybe. They were coming out of a cafe and they just walked on down the street like they were in their hometown. That gave me some confidence. No-one jumped out at them asking for identity papers and wanting to know their mothers’ maiden names. The soldiers ignored them.
There were more street signs in English around this district too, so I figured we were in the part of town where more foreigners hung out, the part Lee had described, where the United Nations had people working.
We arrived in a little courtyard. Toddy jumped off the bike and swung the gate shut so we were protected from the eyes of neighbours. I waited while he did that, then followed him into a narrow high building that could have been a house or an office block. We went up the back stairs and into a little room that had a table and a couple of chairs and a fridge and not much else. Toddy got me a glass of water which I drank in one go. I was insanely thirsty. He filled it again while I reminded myself to take a water bottle with me next time I went riding in the middle of a haystack.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘here’s where you’ll be staying. You can go out in this neighbourhood with no problems as long as you keep to your cover story. You’re Paula, right?’
‘Yep, Paula McClure, daughter of Mr Jerry McClure and Dr Suzanne Spring. I live at Apartment 127 in Block D, at the UN Staff Residence, my birthday is October 31 and I have a sister named Laura.’
‘Let me see your ID.’
I hauled out my old reddish-brown wallet, which had been my mother’s, and gave Toddy my little pass, which wasn’t much bigger than a credit card and had my photo and the usual date of birth and address stuff, along with a lot of writing that I couldn’t read. Toddy inspected it carefully, front and back, then nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s good,’ he said. ‘They do a nice job. It’ll pass OK.’
‘Seems like I’m not the first person he’s seen from Liberation,’ I thought. He held out his hand for the other card, my ‘Permit to Live in Havelock’. It also had a photo of me, with a whole lot of details down the lefthand side, and instructions in French and English about travel limitations and how to get a new card if you were careless enough to lose this one. Toddy approved of that too, although he didn’t look too familiar with it. As a ‘local’ I guess he didn’t need one.
‘Now,’ Toddy continued, ‘like I say, you can go out in the street but you shouldn’t unless it’s necessary. Better stay here, safer. Now, here is the situation. I have contacts who are trying to find where the little boy is. Your arrival here is good, it will put more pressure on them to come up with answers. If we find him and you think you
