Girl Underground Page 5

  So far so good, though. Dad had a word to everyone about watching what they say. Even Uncle Grub hasn’t put his foot in it yet, though I personally think giving Dad plastic cowboy guns for his birthday was a bit careless.

  ‘Hey, George,’ says Dad, waving the plastic arrow at Uncle Grub. ‘I thought these things were meant to be harmless.’

  ‘Don’t blame me, Len,’ says Uncle Grub, grinning. ‘They’re from your warehouse.’

  Everyone laughs again, except me.

  I can’t believe it. Uncle Grub mentioned the warehouse.

  Luckily Dave is more concerned with picking carpet fluff off his roll-neck sweater. Before he can ask what else is in the warehouse and does Dad have import papers for it all, I zoom in with a plate of little puff pastries filled with prawns. Soon Dave is munching happily and chatting to Mum.

  I stand next to Mum with the plate. She doesn’t like prawns but I want to keep an ear on what they’re saying. Mum’s been looking a bit emotional today. I think it’s because Gavin can’t be here for Dad’s birthday.

  ‘Good party, Mrs W,’ says Dave.

  ‘Call me Roz,’ says Mum. ‘It’s a pleasure having you and Menzies here. Next time we hope Menzies’ parents can come too.’

  Dave stops chewing. ‘Dunno about that,’ he says, looking doubtful.

  ‘Perhaps Menzies can ask them,’ suggests Mum.

  Dave frowns. ‘His dad’s pretty busy. His mum’s the one who does most of the parenting. Still, I always reckon a bloke’s pretty lucky if he’s got his mum there for him.’

  I realise Mum is biting her lip, struggling to control her feelings. She’s thinking about Gavin.

  I thrust the plate of pastries at Dave again to distract him.

  Uncle Ollie’s wife Del swoops in and steers Mum out into the garden. Dave watches Mum go, frowning. I dig him in the stomach with the plate.

  ‘Would you like another vol-au-vent?’ I ask. It’s a word I learned from Antoinette in home economics.

  Instead of answering, Dave suddenly looks around.

  ‘Where’s Menzies?’ he says.

  With a jolt of alarm I realise Menzies isn’t in the room. The guest of honour has wandered off.

  ‘I saw him go upstairs,’ says Uncle Ray.

  ‘Probably having a pee,’ says Uncle Ray’s wife Bernie.

  ‘I’ll find him,’ I say. I dump the plate of pastries in Dave’s hands so cocktail sauce splashes onto his shirt, and while he’s brushing himself off I leap up the stairs.

  The last thing we want is a Federal cop wandering around upstairs. It’s bad enough having Menzies up here. Last time I looked there were Iraqi pressure cookers stacked in Gavin’s room and US army electric toothbrushes under Mum and Dad’s bed. I think there might be US army toothpaste in the bathroom cabinet, too.

  I tap urgently on the bathroom door.

  ‘Menzies,’ I hiss.

  That kid can be a real pain sometimes. Dad was very clear about everyone using the downstairs dunny.

  No answer. I open the bathroom door. Menzies isn’t in there.

  ‘Menzies,’ I hiss louder.

  If he’s poking around under Mum and Dad’s bed, I’ll have to hit him with a pressure cooker and hope concussion makes him forget what he’s seen.

  OK, I wouldn’t really do that. Dad hates violence even more than swearing.

  Suddenly I hear Menzies’ voice, loud and heated, coming from my room. I hurry in. Menzies is sitting on the floor, shouting into his mobile phone.

  ‘You just don’t care, do you? You don’t care that innocent kids are suffering. Well you can tell Dad that when I’m eighteen I’m not voting for him. Ever.’

  He snaps the phone shut and throws it across the floor. He slumps back against my bed. Then he realises I’m in the room. He looks up at me, eyes big and angry behind his glasses.

  Suddenly I feel angry too.

  ‘If you wanted to spend the weekend talking to your parents,’ I say, ‘why did you come here?’

  And put me under so much stress, I want to add. So I’m probably going to need blood pressure tablets by the time I’m thirty, like Uncle Ollie.

  I don’t say that. Menzies mustn’t know there’s any reason for me to be stressed. I try to stop glaring at him.

  ‘I’ve had another letter from Jamal,’ says Menzies quietly. ‘Things are getting worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘The guards at the detention centre won’t believe Bibi gets toothache,’ he says. ‘A dentist looked at her when her tooth wasn’t hurting and he said she was making it up.’

  ‘Didn’t the x-ray show the problem?’ I ask.

  ‘They don’t have x-rays in detention centres,’ says Menzies. ‘You have to be taken to hospital for that. Jamal’s got a plan to get Bibi taken there.’

  I find myself hoping it’s not anything dangerous.

  ‘A soccer match,’ says Menzies. ‘And if that doesn’t work, a hunger strike.’

  It’s worse than I’d imagined.

  ‘You know what a hunger strike is,’ says Menzies. ‘It’s where people refuse to eat anything.’

  ‘I know what a hunger strike is,’ I say.

  I tried it once with Mum when I was about three. She just held my nose and shoved the food into my mouth. They don’t do that with bigger people. They do something much worse. One of the prisoners in Gavin’s section went on a hunger strike and Gavin told me what happened to the poor bloke.

  ‘A hunger strike’s not a good idea,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ says Menzies, his face pale with concern. ‘You can get malnutrition. You can even die.’

  Poor Menzies looks so upset I don’t tell him what else can happen.

  I grab Menzies’ phone off my bedroom floor.

  ‘Ring Jamal,’ I say. ‘Try and persuade him not to do the hunger strike.’

  Menzies shakes his head.

  ‘Send him an email then,’ I say.

  ‘People in his detention centre are only allowed to get letters,’ Menzies says. ‘It’s Sunday so I can’t write to him till tomorrow.’

  We look at each other gloomily.

  Menzies gives me the new letter from Jamal, then goes downstairs to show Dave he hasn’t been kidnapped by terrorists or by voters who want Sunday mail collections.

  I lock myself in the bathroom and read.

  Dear Menzies,

  Me and Bibi gave one of the guards his birthday presents yesterday. A soccer ball and a desert lion.

  ‘Happy Birthday, sir,’ we said.

  ‘Thanks 5603 and 5604,’ said the guard.

  I wish he hadn’t said that. Bibi hates being called by her number. She snatched the desert lion back and threw it into the guard’s coffee. We had to spend the rest of the day in our room. I could smell the soccer ball burning in the incinerator.

  I’m not giving up.

  Sir Alex Ferguson, the manager of Manchester United, said the secret of soccer is to never give up even if things are looking hopeless. I think that’s also the secret of surviving in a detention centre.

  I’ve got a new idea.

  I’m arranging a soccer match between the refugees and the guards. Soccer is a good way to make friends and cheer people up, even parents who are getting very depressed.

  There are some problems. My hip is still very sore where a pirate kicked it on our journey to Australia. Several of the other soccer players here are injured also, or have insomnia. Plus some of the guards hate soccer and make fun of us when we play. I think they’ll change their mind once they play it.

  I hope so because Bibi often has toothache but the guards do not believe her. The dentist could not find the pain and stopped looking when Bibi called him a camel snot.

  She needs an x-ray in hospital.

  I think the guards will agree after they’ve played soccer with her.

  But in case they don’t, I also have another plan. A hunger plan. I have seen people in this detention centre stop eating food for man
y days or even weeks, and after that time they are taken to hospital.

  If we must, me and Bibi will stop eating food. I will too because you can’t ask your younger sister to stop eating food if you don’t. After a number of days or weeks the Australian government will know that Bibi really has toothache because who would stop eating food if they or their sister didn’t really have toothache?

  I hope we don’t have to do this. I know hunger will hurt a lot but we will survive because our ancestors were bakers and desert warriors and they were very tough. Also we feel strong because you are our friend, Menzies.

  I hope your family are well and safe. What is your father’s job? My father is a taxi driver, but now he queues with my mother for food for me and Bibi. (You know what parents are like.) He also writes many letters to the National Library trying to learn about Australian law to get us out of here.

  Your friend,

  Jamal

  I lie in my bed, staring into the darkness.

  Downstairs in the living room the Bulgarian cuckoo clock strikes midnight.

  I wish I could stay here for ever, snuggled safe and warm under the covers, my tummy full of Mum’s apple and chocolate biscuit crumble, my lips tingling with Dad’s US army toothpaste.

  But I can’t.

  There’s something I have to do.

  ‘Menzies,’ I whisper. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers from the mattress on the floor.

  I knew he would be. When everyone finally went home, yawning and saying what a good party it had been, and Mum and Dad started yawning too, Menzies and I just looked at each other.

  How can people sleep, Menzies’ look said, when kids are suffering injustice?

  I lean out of bed so I can whisper to Menzies very quietly. You can’t be too careful when there’s a federal policeman asleep on the couch in the living room.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ I whisper. ‘If I ask your dad to help Jamal and Bibi, perhaps he’ll listen to me. I’m not related to him so he won’t feel like his kid’s trying to boss him around.’

  In the green glow from my Albanian alarm clock, I can see Menzies thinking about this. I don’t tell him exactly what I’m going to say to his dad, the gory details, because I don’t want to upset him.

  ‘You’ll have to make sure you don’t lose your temper,’ says Menzies. ‘He can be really stubborn.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Some of my family are a bit pigheaded too.’

  Menzies thinks some more.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘It’s worth a try. Thanks.’

  ‘Follow me,’ I whisper. ‘And bring the letter.’

  We creep out of my room, tiptoe across the landing and into Mum and Dad’s room. I close the door behind us and switch the light on.

  Mum and Dad are asleep, tangled up in the sheets. We’re all messy sleepers in our family.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Dad. There’s something important I need to ask you.’

  Dad groans and opens one eye.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But it’s urgent. Me and Menzies won’t be able to sleep till we know the answer.’

  ‘Bridget,’ moans Mum long-sufferingly. Then she sits up, alarmed. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Can I have a note for school?’ I say. ‘So I can go to Canberra with Menzies next weekend?’

  ‘Canberra?’ says Mum, staring at us both. ‘Why?’

  ‘To meet my parents,’ says Menzies. ‘So they can repay your hospitality.’

  I take it back, porridge doesn’t make you slow after all.

  Mum and Dad look at each other. I can see they’re both delighted.

  ‘Of course you can,’ says Mum. ‘How exciting.’ Then a thought hits her. ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘Dave’ll drive us,’ says Menzies. ‘Then he can visit his mum.’

  Mum looks at Dad. He shrugs, then nods. I can see they’re both having visions of me and Menzies getting married and me ending up a member of parliament.

  ‘School might prefer you didn’t have two weekends away in a row,’ says Mum. ‘Why not make it the weekend after?’

  ‘We can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s urgent. We need to ask Menzies’ dad to get some kids out of a refugee detention centre.’

  Mum and Dad look at each other again. Suddenly they don’t seem quite so delighted.

  ‘A refugee detention centre?’ says Dad.

  ‘I don’t think you should be getting mixed up in that sort of thing,’ says Mum doubtfully. ‘Those detention centres are there for a reason. The government’s explained it all. They’re to scare off other refugees who might be thinking of coming here.’

  ‘Mum’s right,’ says Dad.

  Sometimes Mum and Dad are so trusting and law-abiding I could scream.

  ‘There are kids locked up in those places,’ I say. ‘Little kids with toothache. Older brothers who are desperate.’

  I turn to Menzies for help.

  ‘My father likes to hear citizens’ views on government policy,’ says Menzies. ‘Plus we’ve got loads of spare rooms at our place, so it won’t be a problem.’

  Mum and Dad still look doubtful.

  ‘Show them the letter, Menzies,’ I say.

  Menzies holds out the letter.

  ‘The hunger strike bit,’ I say. ‘Show them the hunger strike bit.’

  Menzies points to one of the pages. Dad takes it, and he and Mum read it.

  ‘Jeez,’ says Dad. ‘Kids on a hunger strike.’

  ‘Bridget, love,’ says Mum, looking pretty shocked too. ‘There are some awful things happening in the world, and it’s very sad, but there’s not a lot we can do. We’ve got our own families to worry about. Isn’t that right, Len?’

  Dad doesn’t answer for a bit. He’s staring at the page. Then he realises Mum is looking at him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says.

  But he doesn’t sound convinced.

  ‘You know what’ll happen if those kids don’t eat,’ he says to Mum. ‘The authorities’ll stick plastic tubes down their throats, right down into their guts, and pump food into ’em.’

  Mum looks even more unhappy.

  Menzies is looking aghast.

  I wish he hadn’t had to hear that. It’s always a shock for people who don’t have anything to do with jails. Particularly when they hear how the plastic tubes make the bile rush up the hunger strikers’ throats and burn the inside of their noses.

  But it’s probably just as well Menzies has heard it because now he knows exactly what Jamal and Bibi are facing.

  The time is approximately 8.12 a.m. and I’m proceeding in a westerly direction across our living room towards the kitchen.

  Something is wrong.

  I can feel it in my guts.

  I try and work out what it can be.

  Menzies is having a shower upstairs, but I’ve removed all the illegal toiletries from the upstairs bathroom so that’s OK. Dave the bodyguard is using the shower next to the laundry, but I’ve made sure the soap and toothpaste in there are legal and the fake serial numbers on the washing machine and dryer are facing the wall so that’s OK too.

  Hang on, I think I know what might be wrong.

  ‘Mum,’ I whisper urgently, leaning across the kitchen benchtop. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  Mum stops scrambling eggs and rolls her eyes.

  ‘The warehouse,’ she says. ‘He kept me awake half the night tossing and turning and then he was up at seven with some harebrained scheme about sending a gift to every member of parliament. Something about persuading them to change their minds about keeping kids in detention centres.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ says Mum. ‘He’s left us alone in the house with a federal policeman.’

  I’m thinking of something much more awful than that. I’m thinking of Uncle Grub backing his van up to the side door of parliament house. I’m thinking of government ministers going ballistic when they see Dad’s gifts have got fake serial numbers and instructing Dave t
o arrest our whole family.

  There’s no time to explain this to Mum.

  I grab the phone.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ says Mum. ‘The warehouse answering machine’ll be on.’

  ‘I’ll ring his mobile,’ I say.

  Mum points to Dad’s mobile on the kitchen bench.

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. Dad’s memory is a shoddily-made imitation of the genuine article.

  ‘We’ve got to go to the warehouse,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ says Mum. ‘I can’t just leave our visitors here.’ She points upstairs and I know she’s referring to Iraqi pressure cookers, among other things.

  I feel like I’m in an Iraqi pressure cooker myself.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say. ‘I know the way. I’ll see you in a bit.’

  Before Mum can stop me I’m out the front door and hurrying down the street. I’m pretty sure I know the way. I’ve never done it on foot before, but I’ve memorised most of the landmarks in case me and Dad are ever in a police chase and he gets wounded and I have to take the wheel and drive to the warehouse to destroy all the incriminating evidence before the police get there. I’ve never worked out exactly how I’ll do it because there’s heaps of the stuff and burning it would attract too much attention and flushing it down the dunny would take months and burying it would take almost as…

  What’s that noise behind me?

  It’s a car, crawling along at my heel, following me.

  I daren’t turn round. If it’s the police they’ll tell from my face I’m guilty.

  ‘Bridget. Hop in.’

  It’s Menzies’ voice.

  I turn round. Menzies is grinning at me out of the passenger window of Dave’s car. Dave is at the wheel, looking like most adults do when their Sunday morning is being ruined by kids.

  ‘We told your Mum we’d give you a lift,’ says Menzies.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble and get in.

  What is Mum thinking of ? Letting a federal policeman and the son of a government minister go to the warehouse? But I guess if she’d tried to stop them that would have given the game away too.

  Boy, it’s complicated being a criminal.

  For a second I’m tempted to give them wrong directions and pretend I’m just going to the video shop or something, but then I remember I’ve got to stop Dad.