We work fast, without thought. I swap my checked shirt for a black t-shirt, and find a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck and a navy beanie for Wildgirl. I pull my old bike out of the garage. It’s dusty and spotted with rust but it seems sound enough. While Wildgirl pumps up the tyres, oils the chain and rips off the reflectors, I put some things from the garage into my backpack: a coil of rope, a plastic sheet, octopus straps, pliers, gaffer tape, a shifter. I grab Dad’s old fishing knife and wrap it in a rag.
I feel like I’m watching myself do these things. If I don’t think then I won’t lose it, at anyone or anything. Wildgirl was supposed to take one look at Blake’s scars sixteen and reverse at a hundred miles an hour, but she didn’t even flinch.
From the kitchen I grab a packet of fun-size chocolate bars that I was given months ago for helping a friend paint his new squat. I’ve lost my taste for sweet things. I put the chocolate into a plastic bag then shake in a jar of Italian herbs to mask the smell.
Blake stays behind in the house—if things go badly with the Elf I don’t want her on the streets—and Wildgirl takes her bike. We have to put the seat up a bit but other than that it suits her fine. Blake is already asleep on the couch when we leave, her arms folded over her head.
We ride around the driveway a few times to check the bikes and then pull out into the empty street. I haven’t ridden in years. I can’t remember exactly when Paul and Thom and I stopped, but it was around fifteen, when all of a sudden being seen on your bike became desperately uncool. I breathe easier now that Wildgirl isn’t rattling around inside my house, touching things and asking questions, but I’m not a hundred per cent happy that we’re going ahead with this. We haven’t thought it through well enough.
‘I feel like I’m twelve again,’ Wildgirl calls out. Her handbag swings off one handlebar. She flaps her arms like a bird, riding around a roundabout until I’m dizzy. I tried to talk her into leaving her handbag behind, but she looked at me like I’d asked her to cut one of her arms off. She went through it and took out a water bottle, dog-eared book, mp3 player and sunglasses as a compromise. No amount of arguing would convince her to abandon the ukulele though, especially once she realised she could fit it inside her bag.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I say. It’s like she’s trying to draw attention to herself.
We should still be sitting in the chill-out room at Little Death with our faces nearly touching, the only two people in the world. Instead we’re playing bike bandits on the backstreets. Of course I want the lighter back but things aren’t as black and white as Wildgirl would have them. This isn’t a simple decision. I could be putting Blake in danger, or there might be other ways to get the lighter back that don’t involve breaking in to Orphanville. But we haven’t stopped to think about that. Wildgirl says I shouldn’t let people steamroll me, but that’s exactly what she’s done.
We hang a right into Oleander Crescent, a broad street with wedding-cake houses perched on withered lawns. Even though it’s just around the corner the houses here are worth twice as much as mine, on account of their river views. A faint haze hangs near the ground, and the street looks like an abandoned film set. I can go for weeks without seeing another person walking the streets near my house. Wildgirl slows down. A trick of the lone streetlight makes the shadows cast by our bike wheels elongate until they look like spiders zooming in our wake.
‘Who lives in these?’ Wildgirl points to the mansions, breaking the silence.
‘Most of them are empty.’ The rich people on Oleander Crescent were some of the first to leave Shyness. Most owned other houses they could run away to: beach houses or rental properties in other suburbs.
‘Why don’t people move in?’
‘They’re protected by armed security services, or electric fences. People hope things will change one day and they can come back. It’s impossible to sell them anyway. No one in their right mind would buy into this place.’
‘Do Paul and Thom live near here?’
‘What is this, twenty questions?’ My voice is sharper than I intend.
‘I don’t have to know if it’s a secret.’
I swerve to avoid a gaping pothole. ‘I’ll take you to see their house if we come out of this alive. It’s worth a look.’
Wildgirl doesn’t take the bait about whether we’re going to live or not. For some reason it’s enough for her that the Kidds did something wrong. Her eyes have an evangelical glint. I’ve seen the same look on godbods and social workers.
But Wildgirl gets to leave. I don’t. Even if we don’t get caught tonight, there’s always the chance that the Kidds will come for me later.
Oleander Crescent curves down towards the river and then flanks it all the way to the Avenue and the gates of Orphanville. I push my legs harder. The road banks steeply around the next bend—we used to race go-karts down here as kids—and I pump my brakes as I prepare to jump the gutter at the bottom of the hill. I don’t warn Wildgirl. If we’re gonna do this, she has to be able to keep up.
I hit the gutter harder than I intend and nearly fly off the bike, pulling on the handlebars to keep myself seated. We hurtle down a thin path between two houses. My back wheel sheers sideways on the gravel and I narrowly avoid a fence as I try to bring the speed wobbles under control.
I wait for Wildgirl at the end of the passageway, but she’s been with me almost all the way. Running behind the mansions to our left and right is the dirt path that Blake suggested we take. The path goes all the way to Orphanville along the riverbank.
‘Shit!’ Wildgirl puts a foot on the ground to steady herself. Her shoulders are heaving. She uses the beanie to fan her face. ‘I’m really unfit.’
‘You ride well.’ She didn’t hesitate on the curb, and she knows a bit about bikes too. I wasn’t expecting Blake and her to bond over them. I still feel slightly out of place on mine. The handlebars are too low and the pedals are unreasonably small. I’d be almost as quick on foot.
‘We’re not going to be seen, are we?’ Wildgirl asks.
‘Not if we do our job properly.’
‘No, what I mean is, no one’s going to see me wearing this, are they?’
She looks down at her outfit with distaste. I can’t believe this is her main concern right before we go into enemy territory. The black turtleneck doesn’t hide her off-the-chart body, but I’m not in the mood to reassure her.
‘You look okay. I suppose.’
She gives me the finger. I guess I deserve it.
‘So we take this path all the way?’
I haven’t been down to the river since I stopped school. The riverbank used to be densely wooded, but now there’s only a labyrinth of dead shrubs and trees. The moon has climbed high into the sky and shines down on the ribbon of water, making the surface look slick and glossy. The river is higher than I remember. In front of us is a wooden bridge.
‘I’ve got a better idea. Come this way.’
My bike shudders across the uneven timber slats of the bridge. We’ll take a slightly different route. My old school, St Judes, is on the other side of the river and there’s an identical path on the other bank. I used to ride this way to school every day for almost five years.
The path is further away from the river’s edge and unlit. I let rip. Wildgirl, for all her claims of being out of shape, manages to keep up. We cycle down into a dip, leafless twigs grasping for our arms and faces. I ride with one arm shielding me until the path climbs higher. On our right the ground drops sharply towards the river, and to our left it falls away gradually into a wide plain. The moon throws off enough light to see in all directions: the black river, the silvery plain and ahead the lights of Orphanville. I lower my head and pedal.
‘Slow down,’ Wildgirl calls. ‘I want to look at where we’re going.’ She’s pulled her beanie back on and she looks remarkably like a cycling pixie.
We slow right down until we barely have enough speed to keep us upright. Wildgirl gets her breath back in gulps, her attention fixed on the towers ahead. Orphanville looks solid and majestic from a distance, the towers sequined with specks of light. There’s an orange flare at the top of one tower—someone must be having a bonfire.
Wildgirl rides closer and grips my handlebars. I reach for hers so that we’re cycling along linked by our crossed arms. ‘I thought I’d be scared by now.’
‘I thought you’d be scared already too.’ I’m enjoying the way her arm pushes against mine but I’m also annoyed that I’m swayed so much by her. Thom’s words from Little Death come back to me. You gonna give up this opportunity
’cause one hot chick pays you a bit of attention?
The dead trees thicken around us once more, masking the river and the plain. Several times I think I glimpse figures standing in the bushes, schoolboys in maroon blazers, but when I look at them directly there’s no one there. If anyone’s getting spooked it’s me. There are parts of Shyness where dreams and memories come thicker, and it must be this way close to the river. I wonder if Wildgirl feels it too. I have to keep talking.
‘How come you know so much about bikes?’
‘I used to be a real tomboy. Mike and I rode everywhere when we were kids. We’d go as far along the beach paths as we could, for kilometres and kilometres, on our own. We’d disappear for whole days.’
I tighten my grip on Wildgirl’s handlebars. We’re getting good at this tandem riding. I’m finding it hard to stay mad at a cycling pixie.
‘Who’s Mike?’
‘He was my best friend. He lived in the apartment below us.’
‘Was your best friend?’
‘He moved away when I was twelve.’
I let my grip loosen a little. The path dips once more and our bikes gather speed. If we keep going along this path we’ll reach the remains of a car dealership, some sports fields, and then see the spires of St Judes.
‘Is that the bridge Blake was talking about?’ Wildgirl points and our bikes wobble violently. I let go and we break apart.
A wooden bridge arches over the river to our right, between two large rocks. Someone has spray-painted faces on them. We must be directly behind Orphanville now. I peel off and skid to a halt at the foot of the bridge. There’s a shower of dirt behind me as Wildgirl brakes.
The bridge is falling apart; almost every third plank of wood is missing. One safety rail has broken off completely. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to do this one by foot.’ I hop off my bike and lift it so the crossbar rests on my shoulder. Pieces of splintered wood litter the bank below. A layer of mist shifts on the surface of the river. The moon has disappeared behind an armada of clouds and everything is dark and still.
I stand close to the edge of the bridge where it looks sturdiest, and grasp the remaining safety rail with my free hand. Wildgirl does the same. The bridge curves steeply enough that I can’t see what lies on the other side once we start crossing. We’re just past the apex when three figures step out from under the bridge.
This is not good news.
Wildgirl lets go of her bike and keeps walking forward as if she’s in a trance. I grab the bike before it falls to the ground. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to act.