A Killing Frost by John Marsden
I wanted to believe I had a chance, but I couldn't. If they were going to shoot me, a few little details about Cobbler's Bay weren't going to stop them. At the same time there was no point in not telling him.
"It's no big secret," I said. "We got into Cobbler's Bay in the back of a broken-down container truck that they towed in. We'd stuffed the container with anfo, and when they loaded the container onto a ship we blew it up."
"Anfo? What's anfo?"
"You ought to know. You were in the Army, weren't you?"
He flushed a little. "Just answer the question," he said stiffly.
"It's ammonium nitrate, fuel oil. You use a detonator and that sets off the anfo, and the whole thing blows sky high."
"How did you get that material?"
I shrugged. "You can get stuff like that on any farm."
"How did you know this' How could you make a bomb of that force?"
"My father used anfo all the time. To blow up tree stumps, stuff like that."
His head came forward and his small black eyes glittered at me.
"But when I spoke to you and your friends the very first time, on that memorable occasion in the Holloway Valley, I distinctly remember you told me you knew nothing about explosives. 'We don't know anything,' was the phrase used, I seem to recall."
I was silent. I sat there blushing, caught out in the lie, and unable to explain it away. I was trying to protect Kevin of course, but I was off to a bad start. The Major pressed home his attack.
"You spoke of 'we' when you described the actual attack. Who arc the 'we'? How many people attacked Cobbler's Bay?"
"Oh sorry, it was just me. The others helped me get a few things together, that's why I said 'we.' But I did it on my own."
He laughed, but with no humour.
"You're not doing a very good job." He waited a moment without looking at me, then leaned forward again.
"I'll tell you what really happened," he said. "Somehow you have managed to link up with trained soldiers. I'd guess, saboteurs of the New Zealand Army who parachuted in. We know they're in this area. You met them and you've been working with them, under their orders, and when you were caught last night you were either on your way to rejoin them, or you were in the middle of a mission that they'd sent you on. Which is it?"
I sat there open-mouthed.
"I know you're trying to protect them," he said. "But I warn you for the last time young lady, your life depends on telling me everything. So far you've told me nothing."
I struggled to get a voice.
"Why ... What makes you think we weren't on our own?" I finally managed to ask.
He gave a tight little triumphant smile, as though I'd confirmed his theory. I think the way I had asked my question made him think he was right; that he'd busted me.
"Quite simple," he said. "You are six school students. I've been working with young people since I left Teachers' College at the age of twenty. I know what they can and cannot do. These things you and your friends claim to have done are simply impossible. When I first met you, and you made various boasts about attacks you'd made on the Wirrawee bridge and so forth, I dismissed them as typical teenage bragging.
"Later, some time after the battle in which I'd assumed you were killed, I found out that the Wirrawee bridge had in fact been destroyed, and at least two girls were witnessed running from the scene. I knew then that I'd underestimated your group, and I realised that you must have had Regular Army support.
"Then there was the explosion in Turner Street—you had some involvement in that, didn't you? That had all the hallmarks of professional terrorists. The attack on Cobbler's Bay. The attack and destruction of a grounded helicopter by a New Zealand Air Force jet: that was just a pleasant coincidence for you, was it? Is that what you seriously expect me to" believe? The ambush and slaving of the officer and two soldiers: you think a bunch of kids could catch professionals that way?
"No, Ellie, the truth is that you've become involved in something much bigger than you realise, something that's gone way beyond your control.
"And if you want to still be alive this time next week, you'd better tell me everything and tell me fast. We need to know where to find these people right now. If we don't find them then you'll be dying on their behalf, and I don't think you want that, do you? You're very young, too young 'to die, if you'll forgive the cliche. These people you've been working for, these people who have in fact exploited you — if only you could see it—they're professional soldiers. They accept dying as an occupational hazard. They know that when they sign up. You don't have to take any responsibility for them."
It all made a weird kind of sense, that was the terrible frightening thing about it. I could see exactly how he would have arrived at the conclusions he'd reached. In a way he'd paid us a compliment, by being unable to believe we could have achieved what we had. By-being such bloody legends we'd got ourselves into an awful mess.
I didn't know where to start. I began by being rational. I tried to explain to him how we'd gone about our attacks. But I was too tired and scared, and the words came out badly. I couldn't remember half the things we'd done or the order in which we'd done them, and within three minutes I was floundering, tying myself up in a fishnet, almost feeling the lines cutting my throat. I switched from rational to begging, at last dropping my pride to the floor and pleading with him for my life. The only thing I didn't do, the only way I kept any self-respect, was not to dob in Homer about Cobbler's Bay or Kevin about the explosives. Perhaps I would have if I'd thought it might make a difference, but I knew it wouldn't. The best story I could finally come up with was to tell him about Chris, and to say that Chris taught me about explosives. But, as Major Harvey said, if that were the true story I would have told him straight away. I had no reason to protect Chris.
There was nothing I could say to that, because it was true.
At one stage, sick of being picked on, I said to him, "Why don't you ask the others? They'll tell you the same thing."
That's when he told me that they were in the hands of other interrogators; he'd spoken to all five of them but he'd saved me for his own special attention.
We went on for hours until the Major started to look as exhausted as I was. The woman left at some stage; I was hardly aware of her going. The soldiers who'd escorted me lounged around in the corridor outside, glancing into the office occasionally. In the end I gave up. There seemed nothing I could say that would convince Harvey we'd acted on our own. I sat there in grim silence as he tried and tried again to convince me to tell him everything.
I think he honestly believed his own theory. But I also think he had something to prove. I wondered if he were under pressure himself, maybe to prove to the soldiers that he was local to them, and good at his job. I didn't know, and I didn't care a lot. I had enough problems of my own.
The only thing I was grateful for was that it hadn't occurred to him that our attack on Turner Street was aimed right at him. We'd set out deliberately to kill him; that was the main point of it. We'd failed, but in our failure we'd apparently achieved something dramatic, because right at the end of the session he said to me, "And the attack on Turner Street, that was another coincidence, I suppose, was it?"
"How do you mean?" I asked tiredly. It was the first time I'd bothered to respond to anything he'd said for fifteen minutes.
"How did you know General S—was there?"
I couldn't pick up the name he said; it was not an easy one to pronounce.
"Who?"
"You sec, that's yet another reason I know you're lying. Or arc you going to tell me your little gang had an intelligence network as well?"
"What?"
"Ellie, it took a very sophisticated intelligence network to know that the General was in Wirrawee that night. Most of our own soldiers didn't even know. But you knew. You and the people who planned that attack. Sooner or later you're going to tell me about that too, how you got that information. It's very important to us. But the most
And on that cheerful note I was returned to my cell.
I had a bit of a reaction in there. I was totally exhausted; I had no resistance left. I wanted to crawl under the bed and go into a foetal position. As there was no "under the bed," all I could do was huddle in a corner. I didn't cry; but I shook a hell of a lot. I wanted to pull myself together because I knew I'd need all the strength I could get but there was no strength there. So I huddled and shook.
They were still feeding me, which was surprising, and when they brought tea in, it motivated me a bit. I didn't get up or even look at them while they were in the cell, but after they'd gone I staggered up', went to the desk and forced myself to eat the meal. I didn't know when I'd get another one. Major Harvey obviously wasn't pleased with me.
Less than an hour later I got taken back to his office. I felt there'd been a very slight change, though. He seemed more resigned, less urgent. Gradually, listening to his threats and insults, I realised what was happening. By then six of us had been through hours of questioning and all six of us must have shown such complete amazement at the New Zealand commando theory that they were starting to doubt it themselves. There was no suggestion that it was going to make any difference in the long run but it did mean that the pressure on me was fractionally lighter. He still ranted and raved but without quite' as much confidence. The stumbling block for him was the idea that we could have done so much by ourselves. Because he refused to believe that, he had to look for another explanation and, as they'd caught everyone else in the Stratton-Wirrawee district, he thought 'it had to be the Kiwis.
We struggled on way into the night, hour after weary hour. At times Major Harvey shouted and screamed, at times he reasoned with a kind of fake patience, at times he became emotional. "You're an attractive young girl, Ellie," he said, in a way that made my skin crawl, "and the last thing I want is to see your life ended at such an early age. But you've got to tell me the truth or I can't help you. I know you're holding out on me. I know young people, you see. I've had a lot to do with them over the years, and I know when they're telling the truth and when they're not. I've developed a sixth sense about that kind of thing. Now, Ellie, please, help me, help yourself, help your friends, by telling me who organised these attacks."
Thinking that anything was worth a try I started acting repentant.
"I know we did the wrong thing, Major Harvey," I said, hanging my head. Mr. Kassar's drama lessons in body language were quite useful sometimes. "But we didn't know what was best. We didn't have anyone to tell us, you see."
He became instantly pompous. It was like adding boiling water to coffee. For someone who claimed to be an expert in young people he didn't seem too smart to me. "Yes, but Ellie," he said, "when I gave you the chance to learn from me. to earn- out orders in a proper well-organised military environment, you adopted a sullen and resentful attitude. You can't dispute that."
"But I didn't know what I was doing then," I said. I nearly added: It was just a stage I was going through. "I admit, I was disobedient. But I've learned better now I won't be like that again, I promise. Just give me a chance and you'll see."
He looked away, and I sensed with a sad stale sense of despair that there was no hope.
"It's not in my hands," he said stiffly, and I knew, with my highly advanced expertise in dealing with adults, that for once he was telling the truth. "Those decisions are made by others. My job is to persuade you to tell us where the terrorists are, and I have been' instructed that if you do, there may be some chance for clemency."
"I can't tell you because they don't exist," I said wearily, and for the hundredth time. Then I lost my temper.
"What's it matter to you anyway?" I screamed. "You disgusting filthy heap of shit! What are you helping them for? You're a traitor. At least we tried.' At least we did the best we could. I don't care if I do die, I'd rather be dead than end up a complete and utter arsehole like you." I was standing and screaming, aware that little flecks of spit were flying out of my mouth and hitting his red shocked face. Not that I cared about that. Then the guards were in the room, grabbing me and throwing me onto the floor.
Soon after that I was marched back to my cell. It was dawn, and great grey clouds were being lit by a stormy grey light. I walked along with my head back, my eyes as wide as I could make them, marvelling at the vastness and wildness of it all. I didn't know how many more skies I would see. In my cell, there was no trace of nature at all, so this couple of minutes was very precious, something to be thought about and relived for hours to come. All my life I'd been surrounded by sky and earth and trees and to be cut off from them now, to be cut off so suddenly and completely, was very hard.
The Slaters had a Japanese lady visit them a couple of years back. She was about twenty-three, twenty-four.
She told them that until her trip out to Australia she'd never seen the horizon. Twenty-three years old and she'd never seen the horizon! It was a modern-day horror story. I'd realised then how lucky I was.
Twenty-five
I sat in my cell in a state of expectation, waiting for the next summons to Major Harvey. I was all tensed up, unable to sleep, though I felt unbearably exhausted. Breakfast came and I ate it and then made myself go through the exercises that I'd decided on the day before. But already, less than twenty-four hours after making those resolutions, I found myself struggling to keep them.
All day I waited for the summons and all day it failed to come! Around midafternoon I dozed off at the desk, my head on my arms. When I woke, my head felt heavy and achey, and my left leg had gone numb. I felt worse instead of better.
Tea arrived, brought on the tray by the same group of three women. I was starting to notice the different guards now. The one who carried the tray each time was the; shortest of the three. She was a plain-looking dumpy woman with a flat face and sparse black hair. She looked about forty. Her uniform was the least adorned of any of the guards; no stripes, and only one small badge sewn to the left shoulder, so I suppose she was pretty junior in rank. Despite her plain looks she had a kind face. I thought that in her own country she-was probably a cleaner or a maid, the same job' that she was doing here, except that now she was in uniform. The two women at the door, with guns drawn, were younger and slimmer. They looked like sisters. One-seemed nervous, as though she thought I might attack her at any moment. The other, the officer, was more confident, more relaxed. She always watched me with interest, like she was curious about me.
So this time, when the woman put the tray down, I tried making a joke. I was already desperate for human company, for warmth, for friendship. I didn't want to be their enemy. I waved at the tray and said, "What is it this time, a Big Mac?" The woman carrying the tray-looked startled, then gave a little smile and shook her head. "No, no, no Big Mac," she said. The officer laughed out loud. The other one just looked even more nervous, as though making a joke was really a kind of attack. They went out again, shutting the door, but I felt encouraged by my first attempt to be friendly, warmed by that moment when we'd laughed together. I ate my tea in a slightly better spirit.
I'd been thinking, of course, of ways of making a dramatic escape. At one stage I'd thought of telling Major Harvey that there really were New Zealand commandos, and I'd take him to them. Then, when I was out in the open air, I'd wait for an opportunity to grab a gun or something, or run away. One of the many problems with that was I could hardly escape from the prison and leave my friends inside.
I told myself it would have been easier if I'd known definitely that I was going to be killed. Then I'd have done anything, even staged a suicide escape attempt, because I'd have had nothing to lose. But while there's life there's hope, I guess, and I couldn't bring myself to accept that my execution was such a certainty.
Another escape method would have been to take a hostage. Hol
After tea I did my exercises again. For one thing, I wanted to wear myself out physically, so I'd have more chance of sleeping when the lights were turned off. So I did more aerobics, flinging my arms out, kicking my legs, chanting songs to myself. This time I just ignored the camera.
When I was pretty puffed I sat on the bed. I realised that what I wanted most was something to read or, failing that, something to write on. I decided to try getting the guards' attention. I was curious to see what would happen and, again, I didn't have much to lose. So I went to the door and banged on it with my fist. The door was so thick and heavy that I couldn't make a loud-enough noise. So I tried shaking it, which didn't work either, as it was too solid, too well fitted. Then I yelled for a bit, first at the camera, then through the door. I wondered if my friends could hear any of this. I hadn't seen or heard a glimpse of them since we'd entered our separate cells. But it didn't seem likely that anyone would hear me as my voice sounded so muffled, even to me. It was frustrating, and a bit scary. I felt so cut off, and wondered what would happen if there were a fire in the prison. It wouldn't be a healthy place.
I yeiled for ten minutes. There wasn't much else to do; it helped pass the time. Just as I was about to give up I heard the locks start to rattle. The door swung open and I found myself looking at the two younger women who were always there when my meals were brought. One was standing well back, with a gun trained on me. The second one, the officer, who'd laughed at my Big Mac joke, was right at the door, and she spoke. To my surprise her English was very good.
"Stand against the wall."
I went back a few paces but she waved me further, till I was touching the furthest wall from the door. Then she came in a couple of steps, though her buddy stayed out in the corridor.