The Cartographer Read Free Page B

bloke had looked up and was looking straight at me. His face was red and kind of round, his hair was short and black and his eyes were blue and twinkly. His nose was a bit on the small side, I thought, but maybe that was only because all the grown-ups in my family — on both sides — have the kind of conks you see in a cocky’s cage. He did not look like a murderer, more like the kind of bloke you see walking up and down in the city, wearing a suit. Even when he saw me, he didn’t seem startled, but quickly pulled his pants up. All the while I could see that the wheels in his head were turning flat out.
    For some reason I couldn’t pull my head back; I just stared at him as if he was a snake getting ready to pounce. I must have looked like one of those fish Granddad once caught by throwing a stick of gelignite into Mordialloc Creek. Suddenly, he took a step towards me, then changed his mind and headed for the door.
    The escape route! It was still there. I tried to take a step down the ladder — I didn’t want to be next — and I realised with a cold stab in my throat that I would never make it to the bottom before he got to me. When I reached the first-floor window, I heard him thundering down the stairs inside, so I swung myself onto the window ledge like Jungle Jim and hopped into the fireplace room. I slipped behind the door, which was open — as good a hiding spot as any.
    I heard him run down to the back gate then return and go around to the front of the house, then through the front door and back up the stairs. He went straight to the Death Room and ransacked it. I knew he wouldn’t find what he wanted, but I wasn’t so sure any more about getting out of this alive, and I asked God to give me a hand: ‘Please, God, make that bloke have a horrible accident, maybe shoot himself or fall down the stairs or have a heart attack — I’ll leave it up to you.’ It was the best I could do on the spot, but Granddad would have liked it. I don’t know about Tom. He probably would have yelled to the bloke that he was the police and he had the place surrounded. He liked taking chances, like on that last day, at Rooney Park.
    But the bloke gave up looking and made a roar like a man who’s just put his shirt on a very promising mare in a distance event, only to watch her jockey take her out too early. He was running out of time now that he’d lost me; he had to get out of there before I came back with the police. So, deciding that the Death Room had nothing more to offer, he came back down the stairs, and I knew he was going to come into the fireplace room. I was at the window in a flash, and swung back onto the ladder and out of sight of the window, but I only got down a few rungs before I felt it slide sideways a few inches. I couldn’t move for fear the ladder would slide right over; all I could do was wait while he gave the place the benefit of his gentle touch, then left — thankfully by the front door, and onto what I guessed was Kipling Street.
    I thought it would be a simple matter then to climb down, but the whole situation suddenly caught up with me with the force of a brewery truck, and I found I was frozen to the ladder. I couldn’t move my hands or my feet. To make matters worse, I had wet myself without even noticing, and my shoesand socks were soaked in pee. It got worse: my throat was totally blocked, and I felt as if I was going to suffocate. When I started to shake, I almost fell off the ladder. Suddenly it had got cold. And there I was: stuck, shaking, unable to breathe, wet, and wondering if I was going to be next. The man with the white bum was gone, but he had seen my face, and he still hadn’t got what he came for, whatever that might be. I should have read the comics more carefully. I should have listened to Tarzan more closely. Larry Kent had known. I had no place here. The murderer could be anywhere: he could reappear at the