Robyn Hogan

The rain swirled gently round us and we turned our faces to it; cupped our hands to capture it. We tossed our helmets aside. I ran my hands over my head, through my hair, lifting it from the scalp, letting the cool air in. A truly marvellous feeling! But the wind was strengthening, the storm building and rumbling towards us. This south side of the hill was exposed; when the full force hit we’d be drowned rats. We scrambled the many metres to the crest, clutching at damp straws of tussock for support, enjoying the smell of grass in earth.

There’ them young tigers now.

Mick Gray’s voice boomed across the plateau even before we had time to stand upright. He was quite some distance away but his eyes were as sharp as his words were loud and slow. It was the bright blue of police uniforms we actually saw first. That police would be searching for us should not have surprised us but it did. I had deliberately avoided talking about who might be looking. Every time, down there, when I started to think about the chaos we might be causing I felt I’d fall to pieces. We both put our energies into escape; hopes of saving ourselves. The hard work involved did not allow us too much time for speculation.

And our job was not yet finished. Though I would have preferred ti was Dad or Mum we met first. They might be furious but they would listen kindly. By the scowl on Fox’s face I think he wished we had been a little more cautious in our approach, too.

We trotted through the rain, lighter beneath the tree canopy, feeling smaller and smaller as the four police officers and Mick Gray strode towards us.

“Told you they’d been mucking round this here spot the last few days,” Mick bellowed, adding, “where’s your lanky mate?” Jaw jutting out, greasy hat pushed back on his head, he was enjoying himself. He would go on at us about this trip forever; never let up even when we grew old. That was his way. We faced one eternal, noisy hassle with him.

As we met up, two officers slipped behind us. I suppose it was only their training but I shivered. The wind was becoming harsher, the rain colder but I shook because I was scared. A different feeling to the terror of being trapped; the fear of meeting suffocating foul air. Confronting our actions was not going to kill us. I knew that. I didn’t expect it would be a happy pushover either.

Fox stiffened beside me. I shot him a sidelong glance, beneath my hair, and he nodded ever so slightly. I was spokesperson.

One police officer, a woman, had taken out a small pad, flipped it open and was poised, ready to write. Another officer was talking quietly into his radio. We both jumped as Mum’s voice crackled back.

“They’re safe!” And she started crying, wailing and choking on tears, through the black machine in his hand before he flicked a switch.

“We can call off dredging the creek now,” he growled at us. I suppose it isn’t fun searching for lost people and I felt a real criminal.

“Okay. Now the formalities. Who have we here? Names?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m May Smith and this is my brother, Basil.” This is going to take forever if they were going to start with such basics. I rushed on. “And our friends, Alex Snow and Jacques Something French are trapped in a cave below this hill.”

The woman was writing furiously.

“Didn’t know there were any caves this side of the Gorge. Any of you ever heard of caves round this here place?” Mick Gray stuck his oar in.

Anxiety, the problem of getting Alex out and the dreadful looming nearness of the real storm following the drizzle, not to mention Mick Gray, made me cross.

“There are — and it doesn’t matter whether you have heard of them or not!” My voice was rising, becoming hysterical. I clenched my hands and concentrated on speaking to the woman notetaker.

“Alex is injured, cannot move his hips. His legs seem all right. But his breathing is awful; he’s real sick, I mean.”

The radio crackled again and the policeman in charge of it called up an ambulance.

Suddenly the storm was upon us. Lightning flashed, wind roared through the tree tops, thunder crashed and rolled. Then rain poured down in sheets, thick curtains of white water.

“Look out! They’re after us! Run! Run!”

Jacques came screaming through the blinding rain, running, barefoot, hair wild. He shot past us, zigging and zagging in a strange, lop-sided gait, his arms flailing against the downpour.

“They’ll never catch me! Never!”

His voice screeched and tore the air like cockatoos as he fled past us. He sprang up over a boulder, running as swiftly as a cat, and leapt out and over the cliff.

“N-e-v-e-r!” pierced the rain and the wind in the long wail as the whitish wall of rain closed behind him.

Mouthing expletives the police began tearing off after him. Mick Gray, who knew the country, lumbered back down the creek facing slope, avoiding the cliff face. He would get to Jacques first.

Then there were other shouts coming through the trees. Blurring blue figures running. And Mum and Dad.

We four came together in one great hug, sopping wet, water and tears pouring over, round, down us. Washing the dirt and dread away.

“Sorry,” I gulped.

“You are safe. That’s all that matters.”

I pulled back. “It’s not all. There’s Alex. And he’s hurt. And sick.” I croaked out between sobs.

“That’s under control.” Dad eased us as a bunch to stand together. It’s hard to talk, especially looking up, in rain. That was easing too. Another summer thunderstorm. And no more a drought breaker than the earlier ones.

“We saw the man come up behind a boulder. Apparently a cave doline. We found your helmets. And the string. That was good thinking.”

“Too narrow to get Alex through.” Fox spoke for the first time since our rescue.

“They’re digging it out now. And the ambulance will be here any tic. They’re pretty experienced at cliff and cave rescues, you know.”

“Yeah.”

Dad squeezed our shoulders, his strong hands biting in, warm, comforting.

“You’ve done all you can. It’s up to the experts now.”

A couple of police officers sauntered up. The rain had stopped though water dripped through the trees. Everyone was so wet it didn’t matter.

“He’s dead. Smashed his head on a rock in the creek bed.”

I felt my face go soft, relaxed for him. “He’s escaped them,” I said calmly.

“Who? Who has he escaped?” One officer was quick to snatch at my words.

I looked him square in the eye, feeling totally mature. “The demons in his head.”

The policeman frowned, peering hard at me but I held my ground. “He was mad, you see. He said so.”

“But no fool,” Fox added.