The Hiding Place

Chapter 1-2

Saturday morning. The house was a hive of activity. The washing machine was going and so was the vacuum cleaner, somewhere in the house. When the vacuum cleaner stopped Bryan could hear an orchestra of cicadas and a far-away lawn mower. None of them were pleasant sounds in themselves, yet there was something comforting about them. Something mundane and safe.

“Where’s my footie shorts!” Dean yelled from his room.

No-one answered.

Bryan rolled over in bed and wished he could fall back asleep, but he was wide awake now. The gates to Dreamland had been shut and locked. He threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. For a moment he stood staring into space. Somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind he was considering his options for the day.

He padded down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen. His father was sitting at the table reading the paper. Neither acknowledged the other. He made some toast and Vegemite, and a cup of tea, but rather than join his father at the table, he ate his breakfast standing at the counter. Without a word spoken, he left the kitchen, showered, and dressed. Still he hadn’t decided how his day would be spent. There was studying that needed to be done. There was always studying. But he wasn’t going to spend the whole day buried in books.

“Where are you going?” asked his mother as his hand reached for the knob on the front door.

“Going for a ride,” he replied pulling the door open.

“What about your homework?” His mother was pulling the vacuum cleaner back towards the cupboard where it was kept.

“I’ll do it later, Mum,” he snapped back. “Jeez!”

The small exchange had turned his whole mood dark. He grabbed his bicycle and wheeled it up the driveway to the road. Frowning and with no destination in mind, he climbed onto the bike and started pedalling. House after house flashed by. No sign of their inhabitants. A dog came to the fence but by the time it began barking, Bryan was around the corner. He rode and he rode until he came to a hill. Standing up on the pedals he pushed himself hard, working his legs like pistons to get to the top. Going down the other side was fun. He flew down the gradual decline like a swooping hawk, his eyes on the bushland at the edge of town. Just before he reached the bottom of the hill he began to pedal hard to maintain the momentum and propel himself towards the trees.

The Reserve, as it was known, was Bryan’s sanctuary.