Free The Tunnels of Tarcoola by Jennifer Walsh Page A

hitch?’
    â€˜Just the faintest possibility that the developer can’t prove ownership. This guy, Harold Buckingham, is supposed to have inherited the property, but he can’t produce any paperwork. It’s all deliciously Dickensian. Original title deeds, signed and sealed with wax. Haven’t been seen for sixty years.’
    â€˜So he can’t go ahead?’
    â€˜Oh, he’ll find them eventually, I suppose. But it gives us a bit more time to get our case together, and with luck get a preservation order on the house.’
    â€˜Are they really going to wreck the house and the garden?’
    â€˜I’m afraid that’s their plan. We’re arguing that they should keep the garden and restore the house, turn it into apartments. But I think greed will prevail. He’ll make a staggering amount of money.’
    David pictured the precious document, yellow and tattered, rolled up into a scroll and tied with faded ribbon. Places like the Haunted House had secret passages and sliding panels. Maybe it was there, hidden somewhere. If he found it he would make sure Buckingham never got hold of it. Of course, he could never tell his mother. She was very strict on the law.
    â€˜David?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜I said, how did you go with Martin today? Weren’t you helping him with his maths?’
    â€˜Oh! Sure, he’s fine. We hung out a bit in the park, too.’
    â€˜Good. Nothing like a bit of fresh air.’
    David thought guiltily of the musty smell in the tunnels and the foul air in the shaft. Deeper down it smelled damp and earthy, like mushrooms. Most of all, he remembered the smokiness of Andrea’s candles as he jumped.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was good.’

ANDREA sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, copying Kitty’s notes into an exercise book. It was cloudy outside, and not much early-morning light found its way into the room. She tried turning on her bedside lamp.
    â€˜Aarrgghhhh!’ Celeste half sat up, platinum hair sticking out, and waved a protesting hand. She had come in noisily just before dawn, smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and Andrea hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.
    Andrea turned off the lamp and took her things out to the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled high on the bench and in the sink. Her mother was at the table, reading yesterday’s paper and tapping cigarette ash into a half-empty coffee cup.
    â€˜Hello, love. I was just going to make some toast. Want some?’
    â€˜Okay. Thanks, Mum.’
    Andrea slipped her books into her schoolbag, which lay on the floor by the door.
    â€˜I’m glad you’re up, sweetie. We need to get stuck into that bathroom. It’s a pigsty.’
    Andrea sighed. Her mother hadn’t stirred, so she dug out some bread and put it into the toaster.
    DRESSED in leggings to cover her bruises and an old baggy jumper that she had found under Celeste’s bed, Andrea helped her mother do a quick house-clean. As soon as they had finished she mumbled an excuse and left the house.
    It was cold outside, with a biting wind. She slipped through the fence of the Haunted House and followed a faintly discernible brick-paved path through the overgrown garden, ducking her head to avoid overhanging branches.
    The path led to a semi-circular walled garden filled with thorny rosebushes and edged with trees. In front of the trees was a broken pedestal on which stood a white stone statue of a naked woman, her long hair flowing around her shoulders, her eyes downcast. There were piles of rubble around the base of the pedestal, but the woman was intact.
    Andrea folded her hands and looked down, unconsciously imitating the statue’s pose.
    Faintly, in the distance, she heard the town hall clock begin to strike.
    She found her way through to the big stagnant pond and stopped some distance from it. David was sitting on its edge, skimming stones over the greenish water. A huge