Yes, it was a good plan. It was very clever. And maybe the thing I liked most about it was the effect it had on Lee. He was determined to do it. He lifted his head more and more as we talked; he became outspoken, he started smiling and laughing. He’d been depressed a lot of the time since he copped the bullet, but now he actually said to me, ‘If we do this, if we succeed, I’ll be able to feel pride again’.
I hadn’t realised how ashamed he’d been of not being able to help his family.
We made a list of all the things we needed, just a little list: four motorbikes, two walkie-talkies, two pairs of wirecutters, bolt cutters, torches, aerosol cans, matches, cattle-prods, rope, and a petrol tanker. Just a few odds and ends like that. We started our search on the Fleets’ place, and then moved onto the neighbouring farm, collecting as we went. The motorbikes were the biggest problem. Most rurals don’t take much care of their bikes. Half the ones we found were held together with fencing wire and masking tape. We had to have fast, reliable bikes, that would start first time. Then they had to be fuelled up, have their oil and headlights and brakes checked, and brought together in a central spot, which happened to be Fleets’ garage. We worked pretty hard that afternoon.
Chapter Twenty
Curr’s Blue Star Fuel and Oil Distributors was in Back Street, about six blocks from the bridge. Fi and I found it with no trouble but with much relief. We’d agreed between the two of us that we could have a rest when we got there, and we sure needed one. We’d wheeled those bloody great bikes about four k’s, stopping and hiding a dozen times when one or both of us imagined we’d heard a noise or seen a movement. We were pretty twitchy just doing that; I hated to think what we’d be like when the real action started.
I was a bit nervous being paired with Fi, I must admit. There was no way I was ever going to be a hero, but at least I was used to doing outdoors, practical things, and I suppose that gives you a bit of confidence. I mean just the little things at home that I took for granted, chopping wood, using a chain saw, driving, riding the horses (Dad still liked using horses for stockwork), being a rouseabout, marking lambs and drenching sheep – these were the commonplace routines of my life, that I’d never valued a lot. But without my noticing it they’d given me the habit of doing things without looking over my shoulder every sixty seconds to see if an adult was nodding or shaking his head. Fi had improved heaps in that respect, but she was still kind of hesitant. I admired her courage in taking on the job Homer had given her, because I guess true courage is when you’re really scared but you still do it. I was really scared, but Fi was really really scared. I did just hope that when the chips were down she wouldn’t stand there frozen with fear. We didn’t want frozen chips. Ha ha.
Once we’d hidden the bikes we set off for Curr’s. I tried to put into practice the lessons I’d learned from computer games. My favourite game was Catacomb and I’d found the only way I could get to level ten was to keep my head. When I got angry or overconfident or adventurous I got wiped out, even by the most simple and obvious little monsters. To get the best scores I had to stay smart, think, be alert and go cautiously. So we crept along, block by block, checking round every corner as we came to it. The only time we spoke was when I said to Fi, ‘This is the way we’ll have to do it on the way back with the tanker’. She just nodded. The only time my concentration wavered was when I caught myself wondering if I’d ever get to play computer games again.
As far as we could see it was all quiet on the Curr’s front. There were big wire gates, locked with a chain and padlock, and a high wire fence all the way around the depot, but we were prepared for that with the wirecutters. We’d brought bolt cutters as well but they were no match for the gate: the chain was just too big. Plan B was to use the truck to break through the gate.
We took a smoko for twenty minutes. We sat behind a tree opposite the depot, getting our breath back, while Fi tried to call up Homer and Lee on the walkie-talkie. Just as we were about to abandon the attempt and go for the tanker we heard Homer’s hoarse whisper coming from the receiver.
‘Yes, we can hear you Fi. Over.’
It was somehow vastly exciting, and a wild relief, to hear his voice. Fi’s eyes glistened.
‘How’s Lee?’
‘Fine.’
‘Where are you? Over.’
‘Where we said we’d be. How about you? Over.’
‘Yes, the same. We’re about to try to get in. It looks OK. They’ve got plenty of what we want. Over.’
‘OK, good. Call us back when you’re in business. Over.’
‘Bye,’ Fi whispered. ‘Love you.’
There was a pause, then the answer. ‘Yeah, I love you too Fi.’
For Homer to say that to anyone was pretty good; for him to say it with Lee and me listening was amazing. We switched the walkie-talkie off and moved cautiously over to the fence of the depot. There were big security lights along the wire fence, but the power seemed to be switched off to this part of town. I hoped that meant that any burglar alarms would be inoperative too. I took a deep breath and made the first cut. No bells rang, no lights flashed, no sirens howled. I cut again, and kept cutting until I’d made a hole about big enough for a hare.
‘We’ll never get through that,’ Fi muttered. As she was the size of a rabbit and I’m the size of a Shetland, it was obvious who she meant by ‘we’.
‘We’ll have to,’ I said. ‘It makes me nervous standing here. It’s too exposed. Come on.’
Fi put one leg through, then gracefully twisted her body after it and followed with her other leg. All those ballet lessons were good for something, I thought enviously. It was obvious that the hole had to be bigger, so I cut some more, but even when I did get through I ripped my T-shirt and scratched my leg.
We scurried across the yard to where the trucks were parked. I tried the doors of a couple but they were locked. We went over to the office and peered through the grimy window. On the opposite wall was a board hung with keys.
‘That’s our target,’ I said. I turned and found a rock, picked it up and came back to the window.
‘Wait,’ Fi said.
‘What?’
‘Can I do it? I’ve always wanted to break a window.’
‘You should have joined Homer’s Greek Roulette gang,’ I said, but I handed over the rock. She giggled and drew back her arm and smashed the rock hard into the window, then jumped back as glass showered over us both. It took us a few moments to shake it out of our clothes and hair. Then I leaned in and opened the door from the inside.
The keys were neatly marked with the registration numbers of the trucks, so we took a handful and went back to the yard. I chose the oldest, dirtiest semitrailer, because the newer smarter ones seemed to shine too much in the moonlight. It was a flat-fronted International Acco. The first thing we did was to go to the back of the trailer and climb up the thin steel ladder to the top, walking along the curved surface to inspect the storage compartments. It turned out that there were four lids, spaced at equal intervals along the top. I twisted one of the lids and took it off. It was much like the lids of the milk cans that we still had in our old dairy. It came away easily, even though it was quite heavy. I tried to see if there was any petrol inside but it was impossible to tell. I searched my memory. When the truck came to our place each month, what was it the driver did? ‘Hold this,’ I whispered urgently to Fi, giving her the lid, then shinnying down the ladder. Sure enough I found what I was looking for – the dipstick on a bracket on the base of the trailer. I pulled it off, and hurried back up the ladder. I dipped the tank that we’d opened. It was too dark to get a reading but the glint of wetness in the moonlight showed there was plenty of fuel in it.