Organ Music by Margaret Mahy

‘Look!’ said Harley.
    â€˜What?’ said David.
    They had come to a standstill under a streetlight between the smudgy brick walls and broken windows of Forbes Street. An upstairs window suddenly shone out like a jagged star of dirty gold. Looking up at the stab of light, David saw the bricks below it were striped with graffiti. The same few words were scrawled on top of one another, but in different colours. Where’s Quinta? someone was asking, over and over again. The senseless question staggered from wall to wall.
    It was Harley’s fault they were picking their way through such a dangerous part of town.
    â€˜It’ll be cool,’ Harley had said. ‘Forbes Street’s really wild. Glue sniffers are scared to go there. Even the police are.’
    But Forbes Street was not wild – just poor and dirty. It was people who made a city dangerous, and Forbes Street was deserted. Yet there must have been someone around somewhere, because Harley, standing under a street lamp, was staring at a car – an ordinary, battered, smeary, blue car.
    â€˜Might belong to a drug dealer.’ David’s voice was sarcastic.
    â€˜No! Look! There! ’ Harley hissed. ‘They’ve left the keys in it.’
    Sure enough, dangling from the ignition was a round silver ball on a silver chain. It seemed to wink at David.
    â€˜Twinkledandory!’ said David.
    â€˜Stop it,’ said Harley. ‘You sound such a nerd.’
    â€˜I like words,’ said David. ‘I like inventing them.’
    â€˜Well I don’t,’ Harley said. ‘Skip it. Look at the keys!’
    Over the last six months – ever since his mother, the school music teacher, had run away with a jazz guitarist – Harley was more and more intent on living dangerously. The trouble was that he wanted David to come along for the ride.
    â€˜Forget it!’ said David, staring at the swinging silver ball. It winked at him.
    â€˜Why not?’ Harley persisted. ‘Whoever owns this car is so stupid he deserves to lose it. It would be good for him; he’d take more care of it next time. After we’d had a turn with it, that is.’
    â€˜Forget it!’ David said. ‘Anyway, who’d drive?’
    â€˜Well, you wouldn’t have to,’ Harley said scornfully. ‘I would. I’ll bet I could drive this thing, and the crate it came in.’
    â€˜Yeah, but any cop who sees us will know we’re only kids,’ said David, immediately irritated with himself for sounding so cautious – so dull. Though he knew so many fierce words, somehow he was always cautious when it came to actual adventures. But no way would he say that he wanted to go straight home – that his mother would already be worrying. Harley, with his hair sticking up like the crest of an excited cockatoo, was ready for anything – reckless and free.
    â€˜My uncle showed me how to drive,’ said Harley. ‘He said that I could drive better than most of the guys he knows.’
    â€˜You could be the best driver in the world,’ said David. ‘But some cop’d still stop us. You’re only fourteen and you look about eleven. Not ’cause you’re short. It’s the way your hair sticks up and your ears stick out. You’re an earocomic!’
    â€˜Yeah, sure,’ mumbled Harley, trying to flatten first his hair and then his ears. He hated being reminded that he was small. ‘If we’re cruising along, not breaking any rules, no cop’ll even look at us.’
    He ran around to grab the handle on the driver’s side. The door opened so obediently that it frightened David all over again. Things just weren’t as easy as that in real life – or they shouldn’t be.
    â€˜See?’ said Harley, sliding sideways into the driver’s seat.
    â€˜Stupidodorous!’ muttered David, but he couldn’t help following. So what if they did get into the