by John Larkin
‘Okay. A lot of new books and stuff. The gang all back?’
‘No. Calculus’s gone to some school for geeks.’
‘Would you like to go private? We might be able to afford it.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘Oh, I get it. No girls at private boys’ schools are there?’
‘Like you said, you got it.’
‘Did you see Helen at school today?’
Brendan gave his mother a look that would have snap frozen a chicken that had been in the microwave oven for an hour. ‘I told you that’s a taboo subject. But yes, I saw her.’
‘Still looking good?’
‘Still looking good!’
He sometimes honestly wished that she would take less interest in his life, or that she had a slight alcohol problem or something. Nothing major, just enough to keep her nose out of some of his stuff and her body out of the kitchen where she frequently cooked up the sort of dishes that even the makers of dog food commercials would be reluctant to use. A couple of Christmases ago she’d served up baby octopus for dinner instead of the standard turkey, her argument being that it might not be traditional, but at least everybody would get a leg.
‘Okay, mate, it’s time to get your mind on more pressing matters.’
‘I don’t have any homework yet.’
‘Who’s talking about homework? School swimming carnival next week? Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Yeah, it’s next week.’
‘Have you been training?’
‘I did a hundred laps of the pool when I got home.’
‘Are you training for the fifteen hundred or the one hundred?’
‘The one hundred! Only morons swim fifteen hundred.’
‘Then why’d you swim a hundred laps?’
‘To train.’
‘I’ve been reading up on it at lunchtime. Not much point being a librarian if you can’t make the most of it during your breaks.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your training. You’re doing it wrong. Fast swimming over short distances is all about speed and power. You have to train over short distances but train hard and fast. I bet Carl Lewis doesn’t run long distances.’
‘But he’s a runner, not a swimmer.’
‘Same thing. They’re both about being explosive. Now, hit the pool and give me ten quick laps. Then you can have a short break, then you’re going to give me another ten, then another. You’re going to do them quick and hard. Then we’ll have dinner.’
‘I’ve already cooked dinner.’
‘Oh, that’s right, you took Home Economics. What did you make us?’
‘A piece of dead animal in garlic sauce. I haven’t given it a name yet.’
‘Good thinking. Let’s see what it tastes like first, then we’ll name it.’
He wasn’t sure how or even if to tell her about what had happened with his wardrobe last night. But taking the bull by the horns was in one way a metaphor he felt comfortable with. ‘Mum? Does the house feel okay to you?’
Brendan’s mum looked at him as if he had a small olive tree growing out of his nose. ‘Feel okay?’
‘Yeah.’
She bent down and felt the carpet. ‘It feels hard and expensive. What did you expect it to feel like?’
Brendan wasn’t sure if she was taking the mickey out of him or not, but he definitely felt as if he was losing the thread of the conversation even before it really had a chance to get started. He also felt that his mum was having a bit of trouble holding on to reality. ‘No! I mean … Oh, I don’t know what I mean.’
‘Good! Well, that’s settled that. Let’s have tea.’ She was normally a very concerned parent and even once thought about joining the P&C association. But she was hungry, so concerned parenting would have to wait.
After he’d finished washing up, Brendan thought he’d try talking to her again. He took a deep breath. It was probably nothing at all, but still it was time to put his cards on the table. His gang once had a poker night, so he was familiar with the language. ‘Mum? You know what I was saying before about the house feeling okay?’
‘You know that I can’t take you seriously,’ she said looking up from her New Idea, ‘when you’re wearing that stupid apron.’
Brendan threw off his father’s bras-and-suspenders apron and tried again.
‘I think something followed us back from York. Something that’s neither alive nor dead. Something that might be evil. Something that wants something from us. Something … Well, that’s it really.’ Brendan was pleased to have got that much off his chest.
‘Congratulations. I think you just broke the world’s record for the overuse of the word “something”. So where’s this THING now?’
‘In my wardrobe.’
‘Let me get this straight. You think a ghost has set up house in your wardrobe?’
Now that he’d said it he felt stupid. It was as if he was five years old again and frightened of the bogey man. ‘I know it sounds weird.’
‘If you were a ghost would you hang out in your wardrobe? I mean, the socks alone would drive away anything, alive or dead.’
‘Very funny.’ Brendan was having difficulty getting anybody to believe him. He’d finally asked Brains about it in Maths. Brains had said it was Brendan’s hidden desires to get his dad and Ducky back manifesting itself into something tangible. Brendan told him that he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but if he thought he was lying to come and stay the night to prove it. Brains wimped out. But tonight Brendan was staying awake. He was determined to find out what was going on.
‘Do you really think something’s in there?’
‘Something weird’s happening.’
‘You can sleep on the lounge tonight if it’s bothering you that much.’ All evidence of sarcasm had gone from her voice, but now she was back with an engrossing pictorial on Fergie’s Fashion Faux Pas.
‘Forget it! I’m going ghost busting.’
After Brendan had put the dishes away, they went for a walk along the beach. It felt good to be out of the house for a bit.
Brendan found some rocks and skimmed them along the water until some beach fishermen told him to bloody well nick off.
He liked walking with his mum. She was pretty cool for a parent. She wasn’t afraid to talk to him about sex and wet dreams and girls and stuff even though Brendan found it embarrassing. He couldn’t keep secrets from her. She knew everything. She was like those concerned mums in the American soapies—they worked all day, cooked tea, held the family unit together and still had time to help out charitable organisations in the evenings, all without getting a single hair out of place.
Around ten-thirty Brendan turned off his bedside light and crawled into bed. He had his camera and cassette recorder at the ready. He was going to catch this ghost, sight and sound. He was determined to stay awake all night if necessary.
Ten minutes later he was fast asleep.
Chapter 7
At exactly midnight, Brendan sat bolt upright and stared at his wardrobe. The room was engulfed in a deathly silence and something was wrong. Very wrong. The sound of his own heart pounding almost deafened him.
He looked over at Ducky’s bed. In the pale moonlight he could see that Susie and Cat were both fast asleep. Weren’t they supposed to be able to sense this sort of thing?
Brendan flicked on his bedside light and crawled out of bed. He tiptoed nervously towards the wardrobe like an elephant trying to sneak past an ivory gift shop. His skin wanted to leap off his body and go jogging round the block.
He reached for the handle, but before he could touch it the door started to open by itself. Brendan reeled back onto his bed and pulled his doona tightly around him.
A swirling mist rose out of the wardrobe and engulfed the room. Despite the fact that his bedside light was on, the room quickly became pitch black. Brendan held his hand up to his face. He couldn’t see a thing. This was probably because he had his eyes clo
sed. He opened them but it made little difference.
Slowly the mist started to clear. It swirled round and round until it was like a tornado. He held on to his bed as tight as he could. He didn’t fancy being sucked up by that force one bit.
The mist started swirling faster and faster. The force didn’t suck him up, but instead threw him against his bedroom wall. He was stuck in midair against the wall like he was doing work experience at NASA. He tried to scream but the pressure of the air on his lungs was too great. He couldn’t force anything out.
Then suddenly it stopped and he fell back onto his bed.
When the last of the mist cleared, Brendan’s bedside light switched itself off. He knew that his insides had turned to liquid because he could feel some of it running down his leg.
Ten minutes later he opened his eyes again and let them slowly adjust to the darkness. He could see that he’d left his computer monitor on. With his heart still pounding he crawled out of bed to turn it off.
This was good. He needed something to help take his mind off the horrible dream that he’d just had, and turning off his computer would do as well as anything else.
He walked over to his desk and sat down. There was something written on the screen that Brendan couldn’t quite work out. He adjusted his eyes and tried to focus on the flashing cursor.
> HELP ME!
Luckily Brendan’s computer was near his bed. It saved him from fainting on the floor.
Chapter 8
Brendan took a seat on the bus next to Brains. It was qualifying day for the swimming carnival. Only kids who were entered in the events got to go today; they were all trying to get into the finals the following week, which was a big gala day when the whole school turned up.
Brains didn’t swim. Brendan reckoned Brains didn’t know how to swim. Even though Brains hated playing sport, he always turned up in some official capacity: timekeeper, towel bearer.
‘I’m telling you, Brendan, it’s just your imagination or you’re dreaming or you’re stressed out or something. I mean look, dude: your dad and Ducky left, Helen dumped you, you’re almost fifteen so your hormones are on the warpath. It all adds up, you know.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Anyway, you said yourself that you thought it was a dream. And how can you get thrown against the wall and all that, and Cat and Susie not even wake up?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it put a spell on them or something. So what about my PC? I never wrote that.’
‘Probably your mum playing a gag on you.’
‘Doubt it! She thinks a PC is a policeman. But Brains, if you’re so sure it’s my imagination, stay over tonight!’
‘Err, no, I can’t.’
‘That’s what you said last night. C’mon, Brains, do me a favour.’
‘No.’
After all Brains had just said, what could be the problem? ‘Why not?’
‘What if you’re right?’
They didn’t talk much for the rest of the drive to the pool. When they got there Brendan went to get changed while Brains went to find a watch to stop or a towel to bear.
Brendan had just taken his shirt off in the change room when the abuse started.
‘Hey, look at Fluoro-man, guys!’
Some of the guys started to laugh. ‘If you were any whiter, Fluoro-man, you’d be, err, umm, dead.’
‘That’s hilarious, Blow-wave. Did you write that one yourself?’
‘Be careful, Fluoro-man. Your faggot Greek friend Zervos isn’t here to protect you.’
‘If I told him what you just said, Blow-wave, he’d kill you.’
‘Huh. I can handle myself.’
‘Yeah. I heard you liked handling yourself. Spend half the night thrashing the old trouser trombone.’
Some of the guys started to laugh.
‘Shut up! Whose side are you on?’
And with Brendan unofficially declared a winner on points, he finished changing, went and sat on the grass bank and waited for his race to be called.
A short while later, Brendan lined up in heat three of the boys’ under sixteen one hundred metres. Blow-wave was in the centre lane of heat one.
‘Okay, boys.’ Mr Lewis the sportsmaster was Blow-wave’s private coach. ‘There are six heats. The winner of each heat plus the two fastest second place-getters will go through to next week’s final. Just watch how Barry does it, boys.’
Brendan wanted to puke. Wasn’t Mr Lewis supposed to be impartial or something when he was at school?
The gun went for heat one and in no time at all Blow-wave surged to a big lead. He ended up winning by about twenty metres. Brendan was impressed despite himself. He liked to see people swim fast, even if they were utter jerks.
Heat two came and went. Nothing too much to worry about there.
Brendan’s heat was eventually called up to the blocks. He was a bit nervous. He wasn’t sure how accurate his mother’s training tips were, and he was right out in lane eight. Being a right-sided breather at least meant he’d be able to see the whole field as they turned for home.
The gun went and they hit the water. The other kids in the race thrashed the water to foam. It looked like there were seven separate shark attacks happening at the same time. Brendan on the other hand stroked smoothly and powerfully. He turned for home about ten metres in front.
The rest of the field caught him quite dramatically in the last fifty but he had a big enough lead to hold them out.
Brendan got out of the pool and he could see Mr Lewis talking to Blow-wave. He hoped they’d seen how slowly he’d swum the last fifty.
‘Good swim,’ said Brains. ‘But you died in the last half.’
‘I know I did. But the question you’ve got to ask yourself is, did I die? Or, did I kill myself?’
‘Uhh?’
Brendan pointed over to where Mr Lewis was talking to Blow-wave. ‘Lewis probably thinks I died, and that’s exactly what I want him to think.’
‘But Blow-wave knows you’re a fast finisher. That’s how you beat him last year.’
‘But Lewis doesn’t. He wasn’t at our club championships, and Blow-wave’d be too stupid to realise I was playing possum.’
‘That’s great. You mean you deliberately swam slow for the last fifty?’
‘Brains—I think we’ve got to get you a new nickname.’
Brendan and Brains sat down the front of the bus on the way back to school. There were too many offerings being made at Blow-wave’s altar on the back seat for their liking, and since they’d hit the hot dog stand pretty hard after Brendan’s swim, they both wanted to keep their lunch down.
When the bus arrived back at school they were met by Zervoid. It was lunchtime.
‘Word got back to school that Blow-wave was awesome, you were average. Died in the arse, somebody said. Year 12 guy’s offering odds of ten to one against you winning. Blow-wave’s at unbackable odds. What d’you reckon, Brendan? You worth a bet?’
Brendan fished in his pockets. He pulled out five dollars worth of coins. ‘Here, put this on me.’ He turned round and walked off.
‘Where you going?’ asked Zervoid.
‘Babe hunting!’ shouted Brendan across the quadrangle. Normally to shout out something like that would have brought instant death embarrassment. But he was feeling pretty pleased and confident with himself after his swim, and with last night temporarily put out of his mind, he didn’t give a rat’s arse what anybody thought about him at the moment.
He managed to track Helen down to one of the study rooms in the library. He hid behind a journal stand that was full of untouched sciency mags.
His hiding spot was momentarily interrupted when somebody came and took a couple of magazines from the stand.
‘Will you nick off, Brains! I’m trying to do some serious perving.’
‘I’m just trying to get—’
‘Look!’ said Brendan, thrusting a couple of magazines and journals in Brains’ face. ‘Here’s a couple of back copies of G
eek Weekly.’ Brendan knew that he was being pretty slack. But friends were friends and babes were babes and most times the two just did not mix.
‘Oh cool, I haven’t read these. Thanks, Brendan.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Helen Wong no longer hung around Blow-wave’s group. She’d apparently been kicked out of the gang after giving Blow-wave the shove.
She looked great all alone there in the study room. After his confidence-building swim, Brendan thought about marching right in there and asking her if they could get back together. But the combination of the bell going for the end of lunch and him being surrounded by a bunch of miniature Year 7 science geeks poring over the journals ruled this out. And besides, he wanted to end the day on a good note, and the swim would do for that. Obviously if she said that she’d go out with him again, the day would end on an unbelievable note. But there was always a chance that she’d tell him to nick off.
The rest of the day went by fairly smoothly. Helen was in Brendan’s Home Economics class, so that was good for a ‘visual feast’ as Brains called it. But Brendan kind of spoiled it a bit by drooling in Zervoid’s pot roast while he was gazing at Helen’s legs.
Chapter 9
Peter Garrett, from Midnight Oil, wailing on about his bed being on fire, woke Brendan up a couple of minutes after ten that night. He’d gone to bed at around nine and set his alarm, knowing that his mother went to bed at exactly ten just about every night, when she wasn’t reading a movie on SBS that is.
After getting his sleeping bag out from under his bed, Brendan crept quietly out of his room, slipped out the back door and went and lay down on an old air mattress next to the pool. Imagination or not, no way was he spending another night in that house of horrors.
A short while later, when he was just about to fall asleep, a huge ball of vibrating fur leapt onto Brendan’s stomach, almost giving him a heart attack. When the thumping in his chest had slackened off a bit, he realised it was just Cat coming to keep him company. As soon as his nerves had stopped fraying at the edges and his hands were functional again, he zipped up the old moth-eaten sleeping bag around himself and Cat. At least Cat was happy with the sleeping arrangements—the purring he was doing was shaking Brendan’s body like he was a hyperactive jackhammer operator at a disco. And with the surf pounding away in the background, Brendan finally drifted off to sleep. He might have even had a pleasant time under the stars if it hadn’t rained most of the night.