The Detachable Boy (5 page)

‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Clifford the moustache man sang.

‘It’s so lifelike,’ Candy whispered.

‘Did you see that? It moved! Oh my god, it’s alive!’ the other woman wailed, and backed from view.

‘Now who’s delirious?’ Candy chided. ‘Look at the skin, it’s all shiny and such. Most certainly made of wax.’

She closed the lid. ‘Look here at the consignee’s address. Madame Tussaud’s waxworks. Waxworks. Didn’t I tell you that?’

I fought back a smile. Ravi had thought of everything.

‘Yes, you told me that,’ the other woman said. ‘Right after you fainted !’

‘Who’s it supposed to be?’ Clifford asked, and opened the lid again. ‘They make these sculptures of famous folk.’

‘Oh yeah! I see it! It’s Orlando Bloom!’ Candy squealed. ‘You know, that actor boy. I want to take him home with me and hug him and squeeze him and . . .’

‘Oh my sweet Jesus,’ Clifford said, again. ‘That’s not Orlando Bloom, it’s President George W. Bush. As a child. With a wig on. And no make-up. You know how it is with celebrities when they don’t wear no make-up, it’s like they’s another person and all.’

The other woman squinted and lowered her face to mine. I could feel her breath on my chin as she stared into my eyes.

‘Aagh!’ she shrieked, and everybody – including my pinky foot – jumped.

‘I know! I know who it is,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, it’s brilliant!’

‘Who?’

‘Why, it’s Michael Jackson.’

‘Oh my god, it is too!’ Candy yelled.

Clifford shook his head and closed the case. ‘That ain’t no Michael Jackson, it’s George W. Bush. Whoever it’s supposed to be, it ain’t no threat to national security. Where’s the tape? Candy? What did you do with that roll of tape?’

‘We ran out,’ Candy said.

‘Well, it’s time for a break. Maybe you could bring some down from the storeroom after.’

‘That I can do. Let’s get a coffee.’

I heard the three of them talking as they left Bay Twelve for a land more suited to morning tea.

The lid of the case had been closed but not locked and I put myself back together in seconds.

I stuffed my jacket pockets with the cash and supplies from the case and looked around. I had to get out of there. I needed something heavy. Something that weighed almost as much as I did. On the wall beside the door hung a red fire extinguisher. I sized it up and smiled as I realised it would fit perfectly in the case. It would be the perfect body substitute. I’d put it in the case and find another way out of the building, another way to get to Penny Silvania Avenue. I lifted the extinguisher off the hook and then saw the sticker on the wall.

WARNING

This fire control device is alarmed.
Removing it from its cradle will initiate
a fire evacuation procedure.

CHAPTER
10

BRRRRRRRIIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG
the fire alarm sounded, as promised. My head and one of my hands detached in fright, sending the extinguisher and parts of my body rolling across the floor.

I cursed.

I pulled myself together and abandoned the extinguisher plan. I slipped through the door to find myself caught in a tide of bodies that bumped and shoved me towards the exit. For a fleeting moment, I could imagine what it would be like being flushed down a toilet. Thankfully, the flush only lasted a minute and the torrent of bodies emptied onto the floodplain of a carpark where there was air and sunlight. American air and American sunlight. I smiled and drank in my surroundings – the palms that lined the exit road, the haze of smog, and in the distance the sound of sirens and a city skyline.

I’d made it. I’d actually made it. I wished Ravi and his mega smile were there with me to celebrate my triumph, to dance, to punch the air, to shout and sing . . .

‘Are you okay?’ came a voice.

I stopped dancing to see the man with the huge moustache – Clifford – squinting at me with puzzled eyes.

‘Ya didn’t get burned or nothing, did ya?’ he said.

‘No, I’m . . . I’m fine, actually,’ I said, and wished for the life of me that I sounded more like a local.

‘Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Clifford said.

I shrugged and began backing away. ‘Don’t think so.’

Clifford stepped after me. ‘Don’t you work down in Records?’

‘No, not me. Must have me confused with somebody else.’

My little foot felt loose and I knew that if I had to run, I’d be caught.

‘Kinda young to be working down in Records. How old is ya, anyhoo?’

‘I’m . . . I . . .’

At that moment, a hulking, fluorescent-yellow fire truck appeared at the entrance gate, with lights flashing but no siren. Clifford froze in his tracks. I kept backing away.

Clifford turned to the crowd. ‘It’s okay, people, the cavalry have arrived!’

Several people cheered. By the time Clifford turned around again, I’d almost made it to the Exit gate, striding and limping and whispering words of encouragement to my foot. ‘You can do it, little kicker, hang in there.’

Finally, I pushed through the pedestrian turnstile and on to the roadside. At last I was . . . I was . . .

I watched the cars streaming past on the road in front of me and felt incredibly small. Now what? I didn’t know which way to go or where to even start looking for directions. I felt hopelessness settling on my shoulders, threatening to drive me into the ground, threatening to crush me into embarrassingly small pieces.

A yellow taxicab mounted the kerb and skidded quietly on the grass by my feet. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door.

‘You look like you need a cab,’ she bawled over the traffic noise. She wore dark glasses and her hair looked as though it had been styled with high doses of static electricity.

I leaned towards the open door. ‘I’m not exactly sure where I . . .’

‘Get in,’ she said. Her smile was warm but there was no room for negotiation in the tone of her voice.

I did as I was told.

The cabby leaned across me and slammed my door.

‘Now, where are you headed, little man?’

‘I’m not exactly . . .’

‘Give me something to work with here. You’re going home?’

‘No. Not exactly . . .’

The woman sighed. ‘Not exactly. I guess that’s a start. So you’re going to school? Where?’

‘I don’t have any American money. I only have Australian dollars.’

I drew the wad of notes from my jacket pocket.

‘Whoah!’ the cabby said. ‘That’s okay, I’m sure we can work something out. Where to? That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question.’

‘The Lost Head Diner. Do you know where that is?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t know that one. Got a street address?’

‘One thousand five hundred Penny Silvania Avenue.’

The cabby squinted for a moment. ‘Nope.’

‘Carcass Springs.’

The cabby squinted again. ‘Nope.’

‘In Arizona.’

The cabby’s head clunked against her window in surprise. ‘Arizona?’

I nodded.

‘Even that fat roll of notes in your pocket wouldn’t cover the fare for me to take you to Arizona, little man. That’s two day’s drive. You’re in LA. California.’

She took a map from beneath her seat and unfolded it over the steering wheel. ‘We’re here,’ she said, and pointed to a spot on the bottom left corner. ‘And you want to go here.’ She scrunched the unfolded map into her door until Arizona – the Grand Canyon State – appeared over the steering wheel.

‘That’s a long way,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise . . .’

‘The way I see it,’ the cabby went on. ‘I can either turn and drop you at the airport right there and you get a United flight to Tucson, or I can take you across town to Union Station and you get yourself a ticket on the train. What’s your preferred mode of transport?’

I shrugged. ‘I . . .’

The cabby leaned close. ‘Do you have a passport or any sort of photo ID?’

I shook my head.

‘Then I’ll be recommending the train. You buy your ticket and you climb aboard, no questions asked. Okay?’

I nodded tentatively. ‘Okay.’

‘Union Station, here we come. Belt up, little man, this could get bumpy.’

I put my seatbelt on and noticed that the cab was a mirror image of the taxis back home, with the driver on the left and the gearshift operated with the right hand.

The cabby slammed into gear, mounted the island between lanes amid blaring horns and shouts of abuse, and then pointed her car towards the city. Some things were exactly the same as at home.

I gripped the door handle with one hand and the side of my seat with the other.

‘You talk funny, little man. Where you from, Connecticut?’

‘No, I live near Sydney.’

‘You’re having me on. Sydney Ohio?’

‘No, Sydney Australia.’

‘Oh,’ the cabby said. ‘I haven’t heard of that one. Is it pretty there?’

‘Yes, I guess so.’

‘Do you have a mom and a dad?’

‘One of each.’

Well, last time I looked. I had a sudden urge to write them a postcard, just to let them know I was alive.

Dear Mum and Dad, Camp Wobblybutt is great. The rides are great.

The food is great. I accidentally set off the fire alarm. It was great.

Love, John.

‘Do they have McDonald’s where you live?’

‘Yes, there’s one in the next suburb.’

‘So Sydney is quite close to civilisation, then?’

I frowned. ‘You could say that, yes.’

We were silent for a minute as the cabby zipped through the cars ahead as though they were witches’ hats.

I held tight.

‘Anyway,’ the cabby said between death-defying lane changes. ‘I’m Kerry. Kerry DeLorenzo. Welcome to LA.’

My back was pinned to the seat. ‘John Johnson.’

Kerry took evasive action, dodging an old Dodge, flying around a green Beetle and roaring past a big black Hummer. A pen slid across the dash and onto my lap.

I didn’t know how much more of Kerry’s driving I could take before my body became a pile of limbs in the footwell. I never went on those wild amusement rides at Luna Park for the same reason. It’s one thing to lose a handful of coins or your mobile phone but something totally different to misplace your foot or your head. All I could do was hang on and hope. And hold my breath.

Half an hour passed before she stopped at Union Station. Half an hour had also passed since I’d last taken a breath.

‘There we are, John Johnson. Union Station. That’s twenty-seven dollars US or . . .’

She took a little calculator from the console. ‘Say thirty-two dollars Australian.’

I unrolled a fifty-dollar note, my fingers jittery and unco-operative. ‘Please. Keep the change.’

‘Why, thank you, John. You have a nice day now.’

Kerry started the car moving before both of my feet were on the pavement. The force of acceleration slammed the door and sent me spinning. I regained my balance and took stock of my body – all limbs and appendages present and accounted for. I shook my head – gently – and entered the station.

CHAPTER
11

T
HE MAN
at the information counter had a smile as wide and bright as Ravi Carter’s, and I felt a pang of homesickness.

‘How may I be of assistance?’ the man’s teeth asked.

I blinked hard. ‘I’m trying to get to the Lost Head Diner. It’s on Penny Silvania Avenue in Carcass Springs, Arizona.’

The man tapped his chin. He took a pen and wrote as words exploded from his mouth like machine-gun fire. ‘You can’t get straight to Carcass Springs on the train but you can get to Maricopa by purchasing a ticket on train number four-two-two, the Texas Eagle, eastbound, departing from Platform Eleven at two-thirty p.m. Take that train all the way to Maricopa, Arizona, then you want to go south on the Maricopa Road, all the way to Route Eighty-four, where you’ll turn left then right into Stanfield Road. Go straight over Route Number Eight and along the edge of the Sonoran National Monument until you reach your turning. Penny Silvania Avenue is a short service track off the Stanfield Road. You can’t miss it.’

‘I’m sorry . . . which train did you say I . . .’

The man handed me a slip of paper. He winked at me. ‘Took the liberty of writing that down for you. Have a nice day.’

‘But I don’t know where to buy a ticket and I only have . . .’

‘The money exchange is next to the ticket counters on Level One. Have a great day.’

‘But . . .’

‘Next, please.’

I was buffeted aside by a man in a large white cowboy hat. Did I say large? That hat was big enough to reduce global warming where he stood. Big enough to be seen by aliens in deep space. It could have carried three refugee families and all their worldly possessions halfway around the planet.

I made my way to Level One and found the currency exchange booth next to the ticket counter, as the man at the information desk had promised. I swapped my roll of Australian dollars for a slightly smaller roll of greenbacks and stepped next door to the ticket counter. The one-way trip from Union Station to Maricopa would cost sixty-four dollars.

‘How long does the trip take?’ I asked as I handed over the money.

The ticket master fingered a chart on the wall beside him. ‘Seven hours and thirty-seven minutes.’

‘Are there any . . . toilets on the train?’

‘Yes sir, fifteen toilets, a restaurant and a snack bar.’

I took the ticket, smiled and marvelled at how luxurious transport can be when you actually pay for a ticket.

It was 1.36 p.m. when I found Platform Eleven: almost one hour before my scheduled departure. I sat on a cool metal seat and started to shake. What was I doing here, half a world away from home trying to find a needle in a haystack? A girl-type needle in the gargantuan haystack of America. What if Crystal was no longer at the Lost Head Diner? What if the kidnappers had made their ransom demand, Crystal’s mum and dad had paid them and Crystal was already back home safe and sound? How on earth was I going to get back to Australia without Ravi’s special case?

Then my thoughts moved to doughnuts.

Doughnuts?

A kid walked past on the platform scoffing a big lump of sugary doughnut. All of a sudden I remembered how hungry I was. I skittered to the kiosk and loaded up with two iced doughnuts, a packet of chips, a can of Pepsi and a hot dog. With mustard.