The peak, p.2
The Peak, page 2
Then Mum lost her job, and suddenly we were stuck in Coppins Crossing. I’d been here long enough to develop a reputation, and for consequences to start catching up with me.
Leland was still talking. ‘Your teacher says you have a history of lying, theft, disobedience, et cetera.’
I sighed. ‘Look. If I’d stayed in my classroom like Mr White wanted, if I hadn’t stolen Vicki’s skateboard, if I hadn’t lied about my toy being a lighter . . . do you think you’d have those three criminals in the back of a van right now?’
Leland nodded slowly. Then she said, ‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘It’s risky.’
‘What is?’
‘OK,’ she said. It sounded like she wasn’t talking to me, but I couldn’t see a phone anywhere. ‘But for the record, I don’t like it.’
Then she turned around and started walking towards the van.
‘Are we done?’ I called.
Leland ignored me as she climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I watched as the van cruised through the gate, taking the three intruders with it.
I wondered if I had to go back to class or if I could just go home. I was still thinking about it when a sliding door opened behind me. A woman emerged from reception, accompanied by the principal.
‘Nolan,’ the principal said. ‘This is Detective Sasha Leland. She has a few questions for you about what happened today.’
The woman gave me a friendly, but slightly patronising, smile.
‘But . . .’ I whirled around.
The van was gone. I couldn’t even hear the engine noise over the wind.
The journey home was mostly downhill. I didn’t even have to pedal as I rode no-handed down Edward Street. I reached the foreshore and turned right, into our caravan park. Our place was close to Alcott River—too close, as it turned out: a flood earlier this year had threatened our caravan. Water had lapped at the wheels.
Chaining my bike to the tree out the front, I saw Mum on a camping chair under the shade-cloth awning, her feet on a folding table, a laptop on her thighs. Her black hair was tucked under a dusty baseball cap.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said.
Mum looked up and beamed, brown eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Hey, handsome. How was school?’
‘Good,’ I said, not wanting to have to explain everything again—though I assumed she’d find out eventually.
She took off her glasses and polished them on her purple T-shirt. ‘You study hard?’
I thought of scooting the toy skateboard along my desk. ‘Kinda.’
‘Make any friends?’ she asked.
I thought of Vicki, pointing me out to the police. There he is!
‘Working on it,’ I said. ‘How’s the job hunt?’
She gestured to the laptop. ‘You know. Making progress.’
I don’t think either of us fooled the other.
‘Cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Coming right up.’ I went inside and flipped on the kettle. Mum had bought the strangest tea she could find in every place we’d been, and now there were dozens of little bags in the cupboard. I selected a grape and ginger flavour which claimed to be good for the bowels, and took a mug out of a drawer.
The caravan wasn’t big, but it had everything we needed. Two beds, a sink, a fridge, a toilet and a shower, though we mostly used the bathroom facilities in the nearby concrete shack. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I took out my phone, navigating to YouTube and searching for this guy who did mad impressions. They weren’t exactly funny, but there was something hypnotic about them, because the mannerisms were so perfect. He didn’t seem to be impersonating celebrities—he seemed to be possessed by them.
But this YouTuber had deleted his account and all his videos about six months ago. Every day I checked if he was back, or if someone else had uploaded some content. But there was still no sign. How could someone so talented just disappear?
The kettle had boiled. I went to pour the water—and then froze.
Something was written on the wall behind the kettle. I was sure it hadn’t been there a second ago.
I whirled around. The caravan was empty.
The message looked like it had been traced with a fingertip. The steam must have made it appear. It said:
RISE GHOST FLEET
Goosebumps prickled on my forearms. As I stared at the words, my phone dinged. A text message, full of seemingly random numbers:
5 7 9 7 14 6 4 10 2 1 12
It took me a minute to work out the code. The writing on the wall had given me the letters, and the text message had told me what order to put them in. I started with the fifth letter, G, then the seventh letter, O . . .
Soon I had unscrambled the message:
GO TO THE FIRE.
It was a clever cipher. Simple to figure out if you had both halves, impossible if you didn’t. Three letters hadn’t been used, which made the code even more unbreakable.
As I watched, the words on the wall faded away. I boiled the kettle again, but the extra steam didn’t bring them back. When I checked my phone, the text message had somehow deleted itself.
I grabbed a book from beside my bed, then poured the tea and brought it out to Mum. Her camping chair had a little cup-holder—I slotted the mug in neatly.
She glanced at my face, and her mum-sense must have gone into overdrive. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Have you been home all day?’
She nodded. ‘Why?’
Because someone snuck into our caravan and wrote a message on the wall.
‘Just wondering if you’d had a chance to buy milk,’ I said.
Mum looked at the teabag. ‘I’m not sure milk goes with grape and ginger.’
‘Good call.’ I held up the book. ‘I’m a bit stiff from reading in bed. I might go read this by the fire.’
‘Of course.’ She wasn’t quite convinced. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
I nodded. ‘See you soon.’
I strolled up the dirt road like I had nothing on my mind, passing tents and vans and cabins, and soon reached the fire pit. By about six o’clock there would be plenty of people around, mostly travellers, mostly old. But right now the fire wasn’t lit, and the only person there was a caretaker I’d never seen before—a short man in a khaki uniform, sweeping ashes towards the pit. His bristly moustache looked like a miniature version of the broom he was using.
I sat on a log near him and opened the book to a random page. It was a spy novel I’d picked up for a dollar at the op shop in town. I didn’t actually read it—just stared at the words and waited.
I didn’t have to wait for long.
‘Good book, skipper?’ the caretaker asked, without looking up from his work.
I turned a page. ‘It’s not bad. It’s about a spy who’s disguised as a caretaker.’
The guy’s moustache twitched.
‘But he gets busted right away,’ I went on. ‘Because he’s got grey powder all over his hands, and the whole point of a fire pit is to keep the ashes in. He clearly sprinkled them around so he could pretend to sweep them up.’
The guy looked up at me and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Madame Zegen said you were good.’
‘Who are you, really?’
‘Call me Mr Karl,’ the guy said, and extended a hand to shake.
I ignored it. ‘Are you the fake detective’s boss, or is she yours?’
‘Neither. We both work for the Peak.’
The word sent a chill down my spine, though I couldn’t explain why. ‘Doing what, exactly?’
Mr Karl lowered his hand, and leaned on his broom. ‘I’m a teacher.’
I had the sudden paranoia that all the teachers I’d annoyed over the years had joined forces, and now they were going to assassinate me. ‘So the Peak is a school?’
Mr Karl acknowledged this with a slight tilt of the head.
‘I’ve never heard of a school called the Peak,’ I said.
‘That’s the idea, skipper.’
‘And it’s here in Coppins Crossing?’
Mr Karl looked around at the caravan park with distaste. ‘Absolutely not.’
I stood up. ‘Well, it’s been nice to chat. Have a good night.’
‘A key was hidden in the Year 1 room,’ Mr Karl said.
‘Those three students were supposed to retrieve it. It was an assessment task—a task you interfered with.’
‘Really? Gosh,’ I said. ‘I feel just terrible about that.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been identified as someone with potential,’ he said.
‘Potential for what?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You can’t tell me?’
‘That’s correct,’ Mr Karl said. ‘We’d like to offer you a scholarship—but not the kind you’ ll be able to put on job applications.’
I couldn’t tell if this was a prank, or a scam or what. ‘Tuition is free at Coppins Crossing Public School.’
‘And I’m sure it’s an excellent school,’ Mr Karl said drily. ‘Feel free to stay there. Not everyone is cut out for life at the Peak. Four out of five students don’t make it to graduation.’
He was using reverse psychology, which meant he really wanted me to say yes. I decided to push my luck.
‘I have one condition,’ I said.
When I returned to the caravan, Mum was dancing in the kitchenette, singing along to the radio. A saucepan of water was bubbling on the stove, and she was shaking a box of dry spaghetti like a maraca.
I watched her for a minute, then said, ‘I’m back.’
She whirled around. ‘Guess what?’
‘You’re mad and I’m not.’ It just slipped out. It was something Dad used to say.
Fortunately, Mum ignored me. ‘I got a job.’
‘Really?’
She pointed to an imaginary name tag on her chest. ‘Irma Hawker, Deputy Head of Cybersecurity Infrastructure at the Treasury.’
‘You’ll need a big name tag to fit all that on,’ I said.
‘It’s incredible! I hadn’t even applied. They contacted me out of the blue.’
‘That’s great, Mum.’ I tried to look happy, but my heart was racing. Mr Karl had been legit. And now that he’d held up his end of the bargain, I was locked in.
Congratulations, you’ve been recruited.
Mum tipped the spaghetti into the saucepan, added a pinch of salt and gave it a quick stir.
Without looking at me, she said, ‘Do you want to ride to the shop and get some ice cream for dessert? Any flavour you like?’
I knew what that meant. She was about to tell me we were moving again.
Someone knocked on the caravan door, and I jumped.
Mum laughed. ‘Relax! That’ ll be Shelley from next door.’
She opened the door. It wasn’t Shelley from next door. It was a woman in a polo shirt with frizzy hair and a lanyard.
She beamed. ‘Hello. Is this the residence of Irma and Nolan Hawker?’ She had a plummy British accent.
‘Yes . . .’ Mum said warily.
The woman’s eyes settled on me. ‘You must be Nolan,’ she said. ‘How marvellous to meet you. My name is Esther Wilford, and I’m from the Department of Education and Training.’ She held up her lanyard, which had a holographic seal and a lot of official-looking words.
Mum stepped protectively in front of me. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Nolan, you took a creative problem solving test a few weeks ago,’ the woman said. ‘Your whole year level did, right across the state. Logic, lateral thinking, et cetera.’
I suddenly realised this was the same woman who had pretended to be Detective Leland earlier today. Now her eyes were green instead of blue, and her hair was brown instead of grey. She was a few centimetres shorter, too. It was like looking at a different person.
Madame Zegen said you were good.
‘The tests have now been graded,’ said the woman I suspected was Madame Zegen. ‘You scored 100 percent— in fact, you were the only student in the state to do so.’
Mum gasped. ‘Oh my goodness! Nolan!’
I wondered if I should be offended by how surprised she was. ‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Come in,’ Mum said, ushering the woman inside.
The woman watched in barely concealed pity as Mum folded up our beds so we had room to sit. I bristled. Everyone says people are too materialistic, and that the most important thing is spending time with your family. But when they see me and Mum living together in a caravan without a TV, they are horrified.
The woman recovered. ‘I wanted to pass on the news that Rothwell Grammar School has offered you a place. They don’t know who you are, of course—the test results are confidential—but when they heard that a student had scored 100 percent, they immediately extended the invitation. I assume you’ve heard of Rothwell Grammar?’
‘No,’ Mum said.
‘Yeah,’ I said, playing along. ‘It’s the fancy private school, right?’
A tinkle of laughter. ‘Around half of all ASX-listed companies are helmed by Rothwell graduates, and they’ve all made significant donations to the school. So, yes, it’s fancy. It has also produced three prime ministers.’ Perhaps sensing Mum’s feelings about prime ministers and company directors, she quickly added, ‘Several graduates have also founded global charities. To benefit the poor.’ She glanced around our caravan again.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we can afford—’
‘Nolan,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t say that. We can find a way.’ She leaned close to me so the woman couldn’t hear. ‘I just got a job I didn’t even apply for. How hard could it be to get a second one?’
Just like that, she’d decided she would work herself to death to make this happen. It was like a rolling pin across my heart.
‘No, no,’ the woman said, right on cue. ‘It’s a full scholarship. Accommodation, meals, classes, transport to the school, et cetera.’
Mum looked stunned. ‘Are you serious?’
The woman nodded seriously. ‘Your son has great potential.’
There was that word again.
‘Wait, accommodation?’ Mum said. ‘It’s a boarding school?’
‘Oh, yes. Students are expected to live on campus.’
Mum turned to me, trying to gauge my reaction.
‘Cool!’ I tried to sound excited. ‘It’ll be like skipping straight to university!’
‘It will be quite a lot like that, given the very advanced things you’ll be studying,’ the woman agreed. ‘Human biology, cutting-edge technology—’
‘Wow,’ I said, before she could say et cetera again.
I knew Mum had worried that she might never be able to afford to support me through university, or that no institution would be willing to take me with my record.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’ But I could tell she was keen. She just wanted to make sure I knew what I was signing up for.
I didn’t, but I couldn’t let her lose her new job.
‘When do I start?’ I asked.
‘If you accept?’ the woman said, knowing full well that I didn’t have a choice anymore. ‘You’ve missed the beginning of the academic year, so there’s not a moment to waste. A car will be here at dawn.’
‘Car’ didn’t do the vehicle justice. It was a limousine, sleek and polished—and as out of place in the caravan park as an alien spaceship. Our neighbours gawked through their flyscreen windows.
It was probably supposed to impress Mum, but for the first time she looked uneasy. Last night she’d been over the moon, not just because I’d got a place at a fancy school, but because I actually wanted to go. She’d spent ages looking up facts about Rothwell Grammar on various websites and reading out quotes from graduates about how it had changed their lives. Now, as the limousine eased to a halt near our front door, she held my hand tightly.
‘I’m sure this will be great,’ she said, probably to herself more than me.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’ I adjusted the heavy backpack on my shoulders. I’d packed everything I thought I might need—protein bars, a water bottle, a little cash, warm clothes, raincoat, pens, paper, scissors, a power pack for my phone and even an inflatable pillow. But I still didn’t feel prepared.
The limo driver stepped out. She was compact, and wore a neat suit. Her fingerless gloves made her look like a backup dancer in a nineties music video. Her chin was a mess of scar tissue, and her cap was pulled low so I couldn’t see her eyes. She said nothing as she opened the passenger door for me.
I hugged Mum, and she kissed the top of my head. I felt a raindrop trickle into my hair, then realised it was probably a tear.
‘I’ll see you in the holidays,’ I said.
Mum nodded. ‘I love you.’
‘You, too.’
I climbed into the soft, leather back seat. As the driver closed the door, the bird noise from outside was immediately silenced. The limo was soundproof. I couldn’t even hear the engine as the vehicle started moving. I waved to Mum, but the windows were tinted—I don’t think she could see me.
I dropped the act. ‘You guys are supposed to be sneaky, right?’ I said.
The driver didn’t reply.
‘Pro tip,’ I went on. ‘Driving a limousine into a caravan park is the opposite of sneaky. I think you got the attention of every single person here.’
The driver jerked a thumb at the back seat. I looked down at the envelope next to me. Apparently it was for me.
As soon as I tore it open, it burst into flames. I flinched, but the fire was cold. It consumed the paper in my hands until nothing was left but the contents: a small, pink lump, like chewing gum.
The driver tapped her ear, twice.
‘It’s not a good idea to put strange objects in your ear,’ I said, repeating what Mum had told me when I was five, after she’d used tweezers to remove a tiny building block.
