‘This is insane.’
He nods me in again.
‘You’re an arsehole.’
He smiles. August knows I’m just like him. August knows that if someone told me there was a hungry Bengal tiger on the loose behind a door I’d open it to be sure they weren’t lying. I slip down into the room and my bare feet land on the cold damp earth of the room’s floor. I run a hand along the walls, rough brick and dirt.
‘What is this place?’
August stands staring at the red telephone.
‘What are you looking at?’
He keeps staring at the telephone, excited and distant.
‘Gus, Gus …’
He raises his left forefinger. Wait a second.
And the telephone rings. A rapid ring that fills the room. Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
August turns to me, his eyes wide and electric blue.
‘Don’t answer it, Gus.’
He lets it ring three more times and then his hand reaches for the receiver.
‘Gus, don’t pick up that fucking phone!’
He picks it up. Phone to his ear. He’s already smiling, seemingly amused by someone on the other end of the line.
‘Can you hear something?’
August smiles.
‘What is it? Gimme a listen.’
I grab for the phone but August pushes my arm away, his left ear squeezing the phone to his left shoulder. He’s laughing now.
‘Is someone talking to you?’
He nods.
‘You need to put the phone down, Gus.’
He turns away from me, listening intently, the phone’s twisting red cord wrapping over his shoulder. He stands with his back turned to me for a full minute, then he turns back around with a vacant look across his face. He points to me. They want to speak to you, Eli.
‘No.’
He nods his head and passes the phone to me.
‘I don’t want it now,’ I say, pushing the phone away.
August snarls, eyebrows raised. Don’t be such a child, Eli. Then he throws the phone at me and, instinctively, I catch it. Deep breath.
‘Hello?’
The voice of a man.
‘Hello.’
A real man type man, deep voice. A man in his fifties maybe, sixties even.
‘Who is this?’ I ask.
‘Who do you think this is?’ the man replies.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘No, I really don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You have always known.’
August smiles, nodding his head. I think I know who it is.
‘You’re Tytus Broz?’
‘No, I am not Tytus Broz.’
‘You’re a friend of Lyle’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re the man who gave Lyle the Golden Triangle heroin I found in the mower catcher?’
‘How do you know it was Golden Triangle heroin?’
‘My friend Slim reads The Courier-Mail every day. When he’s finished with the paper he passes it to me. The crime desk has been writing stories about heroin spreading through Brisbane from Darra. They say it comes from the main opium-producing area of South-East Asia that overlaps Burma, Laos and Thailand. That’s the Golden Triangle.’
‘You know your stuff, kid. You read a lot?’
‘I read everything. Slim says reading is the greatest escape there is and he’s made some great escapes.’
‘Slim’s a very wise man.’
‘You know Slim?’
‘Everybody knows the Houdini of Boggo Road.’
‘He’s my best friend.’
‘You’re best friends with a convicted killer?’
‘Lyle says Slim didn’t kill that cab driver.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He says Slim was verballed. They stitched him up for it because he had history. They do that, you know, the cops.’
‘Has Slim told you himself that he didn’t do it?’
‘Not really, but Lyle says there’s no way in hell he did it.’
‘And you believe Lyle?’
‘Lyle doesn’t lie.’
‘Everybody lies, kid.’
‘Not Lyle. He’s physically incapable of it. That’s what he told Mum, anyway.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘He called it a full-blown medical condition, “Disinhibited Social Engagement Disorder”. It means he can’t mask the truth. He can’t lie.’
‘I don’t think that means he can’t lie. I think it means he can’t be discreet.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Maybe, kid.’
‘I’m sick of adults being discreet. Nobody ever gives you the full story.’
‘Eli?’
‘How do you know my name? Who are you?’
‘Eli?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure you want the full story?’
There’s the sound of the wardrobe door sliding open. Then August sucks in a deep mouthful of air and I feel Lyle looking through the wardrobe space well before I hear him.
‘What the fuck are you two doing in there?’ he barks.
August drops to the ground and in the dark I can only see flashes of his torchlight frantically making lightning bolt shapes on the walls of this small dank underground earth room as his hands feel desperately for something and he finds it.
‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Lyle hollers through clenched teeth.
But August does fucking dare. He finds a square brown metal door flap at the base of the right wall, the size of the cardboard base in a large banana box. A bronze latch keeps the flap fixed to a strip of wood in the floor. August loosens the latch, flips the door up and, slipping quickly onto his belly, uses his elbows to crawl through a tunnel running off the room.
I turn to Lyle, stunned.
‘What is this place?’
But I don’t wait for an answer. I drop the phone.
‘Eli!’ screams Lyle.
I dive to my belly and follow August through the tunnel. Soil on my stomach. Damp earth and hard dirt walls against my shoulders, and darkness, save for the shaky torch bouncing white light from August’s hand. I have a friend at school, Duc Quang, who visited his grandparents in Vietnam and when he was there his family visited a tunnel network built by the Viet