Catch the Zolt Read online

  First published in 2013

  Copyright © Phillip Gwynne 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 844 2

  Cover and text design by Natalie Winter

  Cover photography: (boy) by Alan Richardson Photography,

  Model: Nicolai Laptev; (speedboat) by Getty Images

  Set in Charter ITC by BT 10.5/16.5pt by Peter Guo/LetterSpaced Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Reg,

  a good mate gone too soon

  Contents

  The Day I Turned Fifteen

  Secret Men’s Business

  You Don’t Mess with the Debt

  Snap! Crackle! Pop! Ugali!

  A Formality

  Hypotenuse the Cat

  Family Photos

  Wailing

  Over Flow

  Mere Anarchy

  Sniffing out the Hound

  Sniffing with the Hound

  Creatures of the Night

  A$9.99 Casio Keyboard

  Postcard Worthy

  Like Wow! Hideout

  Shot

  Flowers Too Otto’s Dead

  Confident Hair

  Home with the Zolts

  Stolen Car

  Dead Cold Hand

  Turtle Time

  A Race Worth Winning?

  Pull the Plug on it

  The Standoff

  Tray Tables Upright

  Nail the Landing

  Collateral Damage

  THE DAY I TURNED FIFTEEN

  My fifteenth birthday started off pretty much like every other day: the alarm on my iPhone going off at 5.30 am, playing the song I hated most in the world, ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’. I was forced to get out of bed, stumble across the room and turn off the alarm. Now that I was out of bed, I’d stay out of bed. So, once again, the despicable Baha Men had done their job.

  The night before Mom – yes, Mom – had suggested that, because it was my birthday, I should take the day off.

  ‘You’re always running,’ she said. ‘Enough with the running.’

  Mom, my mum, is one hundred per cent American, one hundred per cent Californian. Even though she’s been here for more than twenty years she still talks like an American. She calls a footpath a ‘sidewalk’. She pronounces aluminium ‘a-loom-i-num’. A buoy a ‘boo-ey’. So that’s why all us kids, and even Dad sometimes, call her Mom and not Mum.

  However, my coach Gus – who also happens to be my grandfather – hadn’t agreed with Mom.

  Which wasn’t unusual, by the way, because they don’t agree on a lot of things.

  He said that I couldn’t really afford to take the day off, not with the Queensland titles less than a month away.

  I put on my running gear: singlet, shorts, socks, but not my shoes, and padded down the hall, past my brother’s bedroom, my sister’s bedroom, my parents’ bedroom. As I descended the circular staircase I could hear a noise, which became a newsreader’s voice.

  ‘We interrupt our regular bulletin to bring you this breaking news: it has been reported that sixteen-year-old Otto Zolton-Bander, also known as the Facebook Bandit, a modern-day Robin Hood, has been captured.’

  Somebody must’ve left the television on last night.

  But as I reached the ground floor I could see Dad, still in his pyjamas, remote in his hand, intent on the plasma screen.

  Mom always jokes that if Dad ever gets sick of being a business tycoon he could get a job on TV as a presenter on one of those lifestyle programs. Not that he would ever do that, but I know exactly what she means: he has that sort of wholesome, easy-on-the-eye look about him.

  ‘Dad!’ I said. ‘What are you doing up this early?’

  ‘Happy birthday to you,’ he sang, giving it the full Pavarotti. ‘Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Dominic. Happy birthday to you!’

  ‘That really was tremendous, Dad,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t give up my day job if I were you.’

  Not that I really have any idea what his day job is.

  ‘And we’re still on for tonight?’ he said. ‘Your grandfather’s after your birthday dinner?

  There wasn’t going to be a big party for my birthday this year as Mom and I had decided that we’d save that for next year, for my sixteenth.

  ‘Secret men’s business?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Secret men’s business,’ he repeated, not smiling.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  Dad flashed his TV-presenter smile, before turning his attention back to the screen.

  I said goodbye and kept walking.

  Sitting on the front steps, I put on my running shoes, lacing them up tight, strapped the heart monitor around my chest, set the timer and took off.

  It was one of those warm, cloudless days that are typical of the Gold Coast. Even more typical of Halcyon Grove, the gated community where we live. According to the Halcyon Grove Country Club, we have twenty-seven more golf-friendly days than any other place in the country. Not that my parents ever take advantage of that, because they are always too busy: my father making money and my mother giving that money away. But I think they like the fact that if they ever do decide to take a day off to play a round of golf, they’ll have had twenty-seven more to choose from.

  There are no fences within Halcyon Grove and each house is like an ocean liner – white, gleaming, multistoreyed – afloat on a sea of green. At this time of the morning the only people on the streets were the workers going to work: the nannies, the gardeners, the canine-fitness facilitators. They hurried past me, heads down, avoiding eye contact. As I ran past the Havillands’ house I did what I always do: looked up at the second storey.

  Imogen was there, as usual, her face framed by the window.

  Once she and I were at Robina Mall when a total stranger, a man with a phoney tan in a linen suit, came up and offered to turn her into the world’s next supermodel. At first I thought he was some sort of perve – there’s no shortage of those at Robina Mall – or that he was joking – Imogen a super-freaking-model? But he was serious. He gave her a glossy business card, told her to discuss it with her parents and then ring him when ‘she was ready’.

  When I looked up at the window I tried to imagine Imogen as a supermodel, Imogen strutting down a catwalk in Paris or Milan. But I couldn’t. All I could see was the daggy Imogen I’d known my whole life.

  She held up a piece of A4 paper, on which was printed Happy Birthday Dipstick. Even from here I recognised the font as Gotham, and I felt sort of honoured that she’d called me a dipstick in her favourite typeface.

  I smiled up at her, but as I did my foot clipped something – the wheel of a bicycle – and I stumbled, just managing to regain my balance and stop myself from sprawling to the g
round.

  ‘Idiot!’ I yelled, thinking how catastrophic a sprained ankle would’ve been this close to my race.

  Maybe his little sister had left it there accidentally but I couldn’t help thinking that Tristan Jazy had done it on purpose. I looked up at the Jazys’ house, half-expecting to see him there, watching from a window, that trademark smirk on his face. But all the windows – and there were a lot of them – had their blinds down.

  Rap is crap, sharks are cool, under no circumstances should dads ever be allowed to wear Speedos, and Tristan Jazy was so not okay!

  It took me five minutes and thirty-two and a half seconds to get to the gate. I had my usual brief conversation with Samsoni, the Tongan guard, as I ran slowly through the pedestrian entrance.

  ‘You’re better off running inside, Mr Silvagni,’ he said.

  I wish he wouldn’t call me Mr Silvagni. I wish he’d call me ‘Dom’. Or ‘kid’. Or even ‘bro’. But it’s one of the rules of the Halcyon Grove Body Corporate: At all times Employees are to address Residents with the appropriate honorific.

  ‘No topographical variation inside, Samsoni,’ I said, which is what I always said.

  And Samsoni gave the same resigned smile he always gives. He, like me, knows that runners, especially middle distance runners, need topographical variation.

  I followed the Halcyon Grove wall around, turning into a small street. Its official name is Byron Street, but because it’s lined with trees, and the trees are full of birds, who at this time of the morning were in full chirp, I’d renamed it Chirp Street. And Chirp Street was where I encountered my first topographical variation. It wasn’t really a hill, more of a bump, but it was still a chance to increase my heart rate without increasing my pace.

  Chirp Street is never a busy street, especially so early, and I was surprised when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a white van approaching from behind. Cars – or vans – aren’t really my thing and I couldn’t have told you what make it was. I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen one like this before, though. It was streamlined, sort of futuristic-looking, and seemed to be making no noise at all. And because the sun was glinting off the windscreen, I couldn’t make out who was driving.

  The van was about three metres behind me, moving at the same speed I was. When I sped up, so did the van. When I slowed down, so did the van. I thought of Samsoni’s mantra: You’re better off running inside, Mr Silvagni, and how I’d always dismissed it.

  Yes, this kid from my school, Jason Walker, had been kidnapped a couple of years ago. Yes, they’d cut off his left ear. Yes, his parents had paid a million dollars to get him – or the remainder of him – back, but I’d always thought that was because he was a soft target, exactly the sort of dorky rich kid a kidnapper would kidnap. That couldn’t possibly happen to me, I’d thought. But here I was, on a deserted street, with an ominous-looking van following me. Maybe there was an innocent explanation for its presence, but it was the less innocent ones that were competing for my attention.

  As the van got closer, my brain started whirring, making that noise that a hard disk makes when you dump a load of data on it.

  What to do next?

  Suddenly, a swoosh! sound, and then blackness. Just like when I’d had my appendix out a few years ago and had been ‘put to sleep’ by the anaesthetist.

  When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the footpath.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the white van disappearing around a corner.

  I did a quick inventory, wriggling each limb in turn. It didn’t feel as if there was anything broken. I couldn’t see any obvious abrasions.

  Okay, so the van hadn’t hit me, I thought, as I carefully got to my feet.

  But what had happened to me?

  And then I noticed it: a small red lump on the back of my right hand. I ran my fingers across it. It was like I’d been stung by a wasp or a bee.

  So maybe I had been anaesthetised, and this was where the needle, or whatever they’d used, had gone in.

  In that case, I should ring the police.

  I even took my iPhone out to do just that.

  But then I had second thoughts: what, exactly, was I going to tell the cops? And what, exactly, would they do?

  Above me the sun was shining in the cloud-free sky. Around me the birds were chirping.

  I put my iPhone back into my pocket.

  This was weird, but it was my birthday and I wasn’t going to let this spoil it.

  So I did what I always did: I ran. And when I was running, really running, concentrating on form, pace, rhythm, there wasn’t much room for anything else in my brain; I immediately stopped thinking about what had happened.

  I took the bridge across the canal and entered the next suburb, Chevron Heights. After sleepy Halcyon Grove, Chevron Heights was always a bit of a shock. Even this early it was busy: shopkeepers were readying their shops for the day’s business, people were queuing at bus stops. Some workers were putting the finishing touches on a yet another new office for Coast Home Loans; it seemed like every corner on the coast had one now.

  Up ahead I could see the diminutive figure of Seb, waiting for me, as usual, just outside Big Pete’s Pizza Parlour, running up and down on the spot.

  Seb is half a head shorter than me, quite a few kilos lighter – he’s a bit of a runt. In most sports this would be a disadvantage – bit-of-a-runt basketballers don’t slam dunk; who wants to watch a bit-of-a-runt footballer? Not middle distance running, however. The last three 1500 metres world record holders – Saïd Aouita, Noureddine Morceli, Hicham El Guerrouj – have each been a bit of a runt. I used to be a bit of a runt too. But this season I’ve shot up. Bulked up. And even though I’m still ranked first in my school in both the 800 metres and the 1500 metres, my lack of runtiness was starting to worry me.

  Long black hair tied back, knee-length basketball shorts, sleeveless T-shirt – Seb looked more like a skater than a runner. And maybe he is a skater – how would I know? – but he’s definitely a runner, and a pretty good one. That’s how we first met. Earlier this year we kept crossing paths – literally – on our respective early-morning runs. Initially we just acknowledged each other, then we started talking and then we started running together.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Seb.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  If I left at the usual time – which I had – and ran at the usual pace – which I had – then I’d arrive at Big Pete’s at 6.12. When I checked my watch it said 6.16. Seb was right: I’d lost four minutes.

  I didn’t have time to ponder this further because we’d reached the start of the biggest climb on our regular run, the topographical variation we call the Gut Buster. As I was coming up to a big race, I was in a taper, which meant that I shouldn’t push it, that I should ‘apply the handbrake’ as Gus said. Seb wasn’t in a taper, which meant that he could do what he liked, run as hard as he wanted to.

  Keep that handbrake on, I told myself as Seb moved ahead of me, opening up a two-metre lead.

  You need to conserve energy, I told myself as the lead stretched to five metres.

  Are you really going to let this runt beat you to the top? I asked myself as I released the handbrake and powered up the hill, passing Seb just before the crest.

  Immediately I knew that my heart rate was higher than it should be, that Gus would see this when he downloaded the data from my heart monitor, that he probably wouldn’t be happy. This was exactly why he always insisted I didn’t train with anybody, and why I hadn’t told him anything about Seb.

  Cruising down the hill towards the rising sun, the sea breeze in our faces, we continued on the rest of our regular loop, running along the side of the Ibbotson Reserve.

  That’s its official name but we all call it Preacher’s Forest on account of this mad old man, the Preacher, who’s been camping there forever.

  It’s a huge tract of land – parts of which are rainforest, parts of which are ma
ngroves, parts of which are sand hills – with creeks running through it, a large swampy lake in the middle and a disused airfield on the other side. Every second week there’s a developer on the news talking about how the future of the Gold Coast depends on Ibbotson Reserve being developed. Followed by a conservationist talking about how the future of the Gold Coast depends on Ibbotson Reserve not being developed.

  We could hear the Preacher’s voice, indulging in one of his customary rants.

  ‘Doomed to destruction, happy is he who repays you for what you have done to us!’

  Seb and I exchanged looks: what a crazy old bugger!

  ‘Doomed to destruction!’ repeated Seb.

  Thirty-two minutes later and we were approaching Big Pete’s from the other direction. When we passed Big Pete’s, Seb said, ‘Loose as a goose on the juice,’ before disappearing down a side street, headed for wherever it was he headed for when he left me.

  I’ve never been to Seb’s house. I’ve never met his family. I’m not even sure what school he goes to. If he even goes to school. And when I googled his name, or the name he’d told me – Sebastian Baresi – all that came up was the bass player in this Italian death metal band called Del Diavolo Testicoli. Really, all I know about Seb is that he loved running.

  As I crossed the bridge again Elliott the kelpie joined me, barking, wagging his tail. I didn’t know whose dog he was – I’d named him after Herb Elliott, the champion Australian runner of the fifties – but every morning, at the same place, he joined me.

  ‘Good boy, Elliott!’ I said.

  Just as we were about to enter Chirp Street, Elliott left me, as he always did.

  ‘Bye, Elliott!’ I said, and he responded with one of his staccato barks.

  All the way back home I had this feeling that somebody was watching me, monitoring me.

  It had been a strange morning. A really strange morning. But, hey, maybe this was what life was all about when you were fifteen years old.

  SECRET MEN’S BUSINESS

  A lamp on top of the desk threw out a weak light, leaving pockets of darkness in Gus’s office. I couldn’t even see the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, let alone read the titles of its many books, but I knew that mostly they were about running. The other walls were covered in framed photos, posters and newspaper clippings, also to do with running. Somewhere in the shadows Roger Bannister was breaking the four-minute mile, John Landy was setting the 1500 metres world record in 1954, and Hicham El Guerrouj was setting the current world record of three minutes and twenty-six seconds.