Double Take by Kendall Talbot Page A

push the trolley off the rails and into the shed.”
    â€œSo you’ve been here before?”
    Dad huffed again. “Actually, I used to play under here just like you two. My dad was a boatie. We lived just down the road.”
    â€œYou never told us that. How come no-one’s here now?”
    â€œBack in 1974 a huge flood washed out most of this area. The boatshed was deemed irreparable and they pretty much abandoned it. It’s a wonder it’s still standing.” He slapped the side of the building and then dusted white, powdery stuff off his hands.
    Trent shrugged. “Looks pretty good to me.”
    Murray looked down at him and Trent noticed the blue vein running down his forehead. He’d never seen it before. An image of his mum flashed into his mind. At the end, in the final weeks before she died, spidery blue veins had popped out through her skin everywhere. The backs of her hands, her arms, even her face. It was as if even her blood was trying to escape the cancer. Trent dragged his eyes away from his father’s bulging vein and tried to shake off the memory. He much preferred to remember his mum how she looked before she got sick.
    He turned away and walked under the landing. His dad would have to duck his head to fit. He’d once overheard his mum bragging to one of her friends that Dad was over six feet tall. Trent hoped he’d get to be that tall, he only reached his father’s chest at the moment.
    The area under the shed was built-in with vertical planks spaced an inch apart. Between the landing and the stairs several boards had been broken, creating a hole only just big enough for Max to fit through. Max demonstrated this by practically jumping through the gap. Trent followed next. He, too, had little trouble. Their dad, however, did some kind of contortionist move to get his body through and, just when Trent thought he’d made it, caught his arm on the jagged edges of a broken plank. It ripped his jacket and grazed his arm as well.
    â€œDamn, I love this jacket.” Dad thumbed away the trickle of blood.
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad,” said Max, looking at the cut. “When we get famous for this you can buy another one.”
    â€œBeing famous doesn’t always mean you’ll be rich.”
    â€œOf course it does. Come on, Dad, who’s famous but not rich?”
    Murray thought about this for a bit and then said, “Mother Teresa, and Gandhi.”
    â€œWho’re they? I’m talking about real TV stars.” Max shook his head.
    They moved further under the shed and pretty soon Trent had to bow his head to fit. His dad was fully bent over. Ancient cobwebs hung from the splinters along the wooden beams like ragged threads. The smell of the damp dirt was so strong that Trent could taste it in his mouth as he breathed. Slivers of the setting sun shone in through the roughly spaced boards, creating pale yellow lines on the dark ground. For a brief second he thought they looked like prison bars. He hoped it wasn’t some kind of voodoo-omen thing and, as he quickly shrugged off the thought, he reached for his torch.
    He shone the beam ahead of them. “See our track, Dad?”
    â€œWhat?” Dad’s deep frown dragged his bushy eyebrows together.
    â€œOur track. This is where we race our cars,” Max said and he scrambled forward. “See, there are two tracks. How cool is it?”
    Once again Trent thought his dad was going to throw up. He hoped he didn’t. It would stink to hell down here for weeks. Not to mention the ants that’d take over. Max moved further along and lay flat on his stomach. Next second he was waving at them, with his arm threaded beneath a pile of planks. “Hi, Dad,” he yelled.
    â€œShhh. What’s he doing?” Dad whispered.
    â€œHe’s showing you the tunnel we made under the wood pile.”
    â€œJesus, boys, can we just get to the spot?”
    â€œOkay, but you