by John Larkin
Brendan woke with a start just before three. Cat was still throbbing away like he was battery operated but something wasn’t right. There was no wind, no rain and even the ocean seemed dead calm. It must have been the deafening silence that woke him up. He was about to close his eyes and try to get back to sleep when he saw a dim light coming from his bedroom window. His computer monitor was on again.
After freezing in terror for about ten minutes, he finally crawled out of his sleeping bag and crept towards the house like a postman approaching a home for stray dogs.
He slipped quietly into the laundry, slipped quietly into the hallway and slipped loudly on his skateboard. Fortunately he managed to grab hold of the telephone table before he fell. Unfortunately the telephone table wasn’t nailed to anything, so it fell down with him.
‘Is that you out there making all that racket, Brendan?’
‘Err no, Mum, you must be, err, having a dream.’ When it came to his mother Brendan was never much of a liar, but even by his own standards it was a pretty pathetic effort.
‘Well, pick up whatever you’ve dropped before I come out there and turn into your worst nightmare.’
Despite what horrors his mother could undoubtedly turn into in her Laura Ashley nightgown, it couldn’t have been anything compared to what was waiting for him in his room, surely.
He picked up the telephone table and cradled the receiver. He figured that rearranging the hallway might kill some time, but it was only a delaying tactic and his curiosity was starting to gnaw at him.
He opened his bedroom door and tiptoed towards the blue glow. He looked at the monitor. Written all down the left margin were the words:
> HELP ME!
> HELP ME!
> HELP ME!
> HELP ME!
> HELP ME!
Although Brendan’s hands were shaking like crazy he took a deep breath, sat down at his desk and somehow managed to tap out a reply.
> WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT?
A few seconds later a response appeared on the screen without the keys being depressed.
> I CAN HEAR YOU. YOU DON’T HAVE TO USE THE KEYBOARD.
Brendan shook his head and tried to take everything in. This was seriously weird, far too much to fit in his brain. Pretty soon stuff would start to spill out of his head—his Maths homework would go for starters. He was about to start looking for bits of algebra on the floor when some more words appeared on the screen.
> MY NAME IS NOT IMPORTANT.
‘What is it though?’ Brendan had decided that Brains was right and this couldn’t be happening. He’d had a nervous breakdown or was suffering some heavy teen angst, but he would play along with it until he woke up.
> NICK HOFFMAN.
‘What?’
> TOLD YOU IT WASN’T IMPORTANT.
‘What, err, do you, umm, want from us?’ It was a hard question to get out in case whatever-it-was wanted offerings, like dead chickens or something.
> BREAKFAST.
Well, that was a relief. Brendan was sure he’d read somewhere about the importance of dead chickens and their ability to appease ghosts. But he didn’t know where he’d be able to get any at this time of night—the nearest twenty-four hour KFC was in Manly.
‘You followed us back from York, didn’t you, err, Nick?’
> YES.
‘And you just want breakfast?’
> MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY, BREAKFAST. I ONLY EAT BREAKFAST. MIND YOU, I EAT IT ABOUT SEVEN TIMES A DAY. OR AT LEAST I DID WHEN I WAS ALIVE. BUT RIGHT NOW I NEED TO GET BACK MY STRENGTH. IT TAKES A LOT OUT OF YOU FLYING ALL THE WAY FROM PERTH, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU HAVEN’T GOT A BODY.
‘I know. I’ve been doing it twice a year for the past two years, and I’ve got one. Not a very good one. It’s a bit skinny, and white, and it’s got more pimples than you can point a tube of Clearasil at.’ Brendan had clearly lost the plot. He finally stopped his blithering and looked back at the monitor.
> CAN I GET A WORD IN?
> CAN I GET A WORD IN?
‘Err, sorry, Nick.’
> I MEAN, I HAVEN’T COMMUNICATED WITH ANYONE FOR ABOUT ONE HUNDRED YEARS.
‘I thought ghosts communicated through seances.’
> SEANCES! DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH. A BUNCH OF DRUNK YUPPIES HOLDING HANDS, AND TRYING TO CALL UP DEAR OLD AUNT FANNY TO TRY AND FIND OUT WHERE SHE HID THE FAMILY JEWELS. THESE ARE NOT THE SORT OF PEOPLE I WANT TO TALK TO.
‘But why me? And how come the computer? And what was all that about last night.’
> JUST TRYING TO GET YOUR ATTENTION. IT TOOK A LOT OF ENERGY OUT OF ME TO DO THAT. IT ALMOST DISPERSED ME. AND A DISPERSED GHOST IS ABOUT AS USEFUL TO HIMSELF AS A LAMPSHADE ON A MINKY WHALE.
‘Huh?’
> TELL ME ABOUT HELEN WONG.
‘How’d you know about her?’ said Brendan, who was becoming aware that there was more to this ghost than met, or didn’t, to be more accurate, meet the eye.
> YOUR GIRLFRIEND, RIGHT?
‘She used to be.’
> WELL, YOU STICK WITH ME AND SHE’LL BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND AGAIN.
‘Stick with you? I thought you just wanted breakfast. I was just gunna bring you in a bowl of Coco Pops tomorrow morning and, well, I thought that’d be it.’
> BREAKFAST WILL DO FOR STARTERS, BUT THEN I WANT MY LIFE BACK.
‘And I can help?’
> NOBODY ELSE CAN.
Suddenly things turned serious.
‘What do you want me to do?’
> I’M FEELING A BIT TIRED. I’LL TELL YOU SOME OTHER NIGHT.
‘What about breakfast?’
> NOT TOMORROW, BUT MAYBE THE DAY AFTER. BUT REMEMBER, YOU STICK WITH ME AND I CAN HELP YOU GET HELEN BACK.
The monitor went dead. Brendan felt a breath of cold air brush past him and disappear into the wardrobe.
He flicked off his monitor and his bedside light and crawled into bed. This was too much.
He’d have to call in Brains or North Sydney Ghost Busters or something.
He was confused. Ghosts didn’t communicate through computers. They hung around bell towers, graveyards and rattled chains and stuff. But still, he did say that he could help him get back with Helen. And when it came to that total babe, Brendan was prepared to accept help from any source, living or dead.
Chapter 10
The following day Brendan sat in his English class next to Brains. ‘If you really loved somebody, I mean really worshipped them, would you think it was wrong to have somebody or something put a spell on them to make them love you back? I mean …’
‘Sssshhh, Brendan. I want to watch Mr Williams perform.’
‘Get back thou foul beast!’ shouted Mr Williams, much to his students’ approval. ‘Thou wouldst dare bring thy diseases upon us.’
‘Go for it, Mr Williams,’ shouted Zervoid.
‘I’ll cut thee down and tear out thy foul heart.’ Mr Williams bent down, picked something up and tossed it out of the window. ‘There. Banished forever. If thou dost return; once, twice and thrice again wilt thou be cut down and hung from the highest pole as a lesson for like minded fellows that wouldst dare follow.’
The whole class erupted with a standing ovation. Brendan was a bit reluctant at first, but joined in the cheering eventually. It was an impressive performance.
Mr Williams bowed, turned to the class and said, ‘I hate blowflies, okay!’
Brendan looked at Brains. ‘He’s mad. He actually thinks he’s William Shakespeare. Why do we always get mad English teachers?’
‘I think you have to be mad to become an English teacher in the first place,’ said Brains. ‘Science teachers have to have their own brown corduroy flares, PE teachers have to have enormous egos and a degree in stupidity, and English teachers have to be out of their skulls.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Anyway, Brendan. What were you waffling on about before? Something about spells and love and that, wasn’t it?’
‘Forget it!’
‘I think he was. I’m finding it hard to tell the difference between dreams and reality at the moment.’
‘Brendan Stevens and Paul Simpson, be quiet or thou wilt find thyselves banished to detention.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ said Brains quietly.
At the end of the period Zervoid caught up with them in the corridor. ‘Isn’t Williams a fruit loop?’
‘Yeah, but he enjoys himself, and it’s kind of contagious,’ said Brains.
‘Don’t forget video night tomorrow,’ said Zervoid. ‘Everything okay with your olds, Brains?’
‘Yeah, they enjoy having you guys over.’
‘Oh no! We must have a really good reputation. Sorry, Brains, we’ll have to trash your house tomorrow night as an example to other olds who might “enjoy having us guys over”.’
‘Forget it, Zervoid! And besides, they’re going out.’
‘Slam dancing again huh?’
‘They call it ballroom dancing.’
‘Hey, Brendan—are you still gunna get revenge on Brains tomorrow night?’
Brendan shrugged. ‘Maybe, I don’t know, I’ll see how I feel. I’m gunna spend lunch in the library. I’ll see you guys later.’
‘What’s with him?’ asked Zervoid when Brendan was out of earshot.
‘Lovesick? Ghostsick? A combination of the two? I’m not real sure. Probably best to play along with it.’
‘What is it with this ghost stuff?’
‘He thinks his wardrobe’s haunted. Nothing to it really. You know his dad and brother left and Helen gave him the flick? He looked like he took it all in his stride, but it’s gotta affect you, hasn’t it? Anyway, I’ll see you later. I’m going to talk to him.’
‘I’m not spending my lunch in the library with you two geeks.’
‘No one’s asking you to. Why don’t you go and demand money with menaces from some Year 12 guys?’
‘Good thinking, Brains. Catch you later.’
Brains found Brendan in one of the study rooms. He was reading the paperback edition of The Amityville Horror.
‘You know what you were saying before, Brendan, about putting a spell on someone to make them love you back?’
‘Uhhm.’
‘Well, I reckon it’s okay.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So, if someone put a spell on Michelle Pender to make her feel the same way about you as you feel about her, it’d be okay?’
‘Are you using a hypothetical example here?’
Brendan didn’t know what “hypothetical” meant. But if it meant someone who undresses another person with their eyes every time that person comes into the room, then yes, he was using a hypothetical example.
‘You don’t realise it but when Michelle Pender walks into class, just about everybody looks at you for your reaction.’
‘Thanks for telling me, mate.’
‘Would it matter if I did?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘So let me get this straight, Brains. You’d let someone put a spell on Michelle Pender so she’d fall in love with you?’
‘Definitely!’
‘Wouldn’t you feel guilty?’
‘No way! As far as she was concerned the feelings would be genuine. She wouldn’t know of any outside interference.’
‘Yeah, but she’d soon get some inside interference, right, Brains?’
‘You know it, buddy.’
They both cracked up and were eventually removed from the library for making too much noise.
Chapter 11
At the stroke of midnight Brendan’s computer sprang to life. He crawled out of bed and went and sat at his desk. He still had his doona wrapped tightly around him. He was tired, it was cold, he wasn’t feeling too well and he wasn’t in the best frame of mind to be communicating with the dead, even if it was through a computer. But in the absence of a priest and a couple of crucifixes or a heavy duty virus scanner for his hard disc, how do you tell a ghost to nick off?
Suppose Brains was right and he had cracked and this was all part of his imagination? Well, then couldn’t he just imagine that it wasn’t happening? Apparently not.
‘What do you want, Nick? I’m tired.’
> WHAT EXACTLY HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER?
It wasn’t what Brendan was expecting. His father? He had a nervous breakdown, probably ran in the family, and bogged off to York. That was it really. No real drama. Not by twentieth-century standards anyway. ‘He was a software engineer. Do you know about computers and stuff?’
> I SPENT TEN YEARS HANGING AROUND THE BACKS OF LECTURE THEATRES AT THE UNIVERSITY OF WA LEARNING ABOUT QUANTUM MECHANICS AND COMPUTER PROGRAMMING, JUST SO I COULD COMMUNICATE WITHOUT A OUIJA BOARD.
‘Okay! Anyway, my dad and his brother had this idea for a range of software. It was marketed for small businesses. Dad did the programming and my uncle Peter looked after the other stuff: sales, customer service, that type of thing. Mum wrote the manuals. She’s good with words. She’s a librarian.’
> WHAT HAPPENED?
‘It was really successful but then Dad sort of went through a mid-life crisis. Took up sail-boarding, abseiling, parachuting, started wearing leather pants for no apparent reason and just kind of sat around getting depressed. Then he sold his share of the business and took up playing the bagpipes, which was completely weird.’
> BAGPIPES AREN’T THAT WEIRD.
‘But it seemed really odd. I mean, we’re not Scottish, not even way back. Mum did a family tree to see if we were.’
> BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE SCOTTISH TO LIKE BAGPIPES.
‘Yeah, I know, but he’s never been interested in music. He’s only got one record and that’s by The Seekers.’
> THEY STILL AROUND?
‘I think they might be. But this one was when they had all their own hair and teeth.’
> OKAY, THEN WHAT?’
‘Out of the blue Dad left us. He took a bit of money, but not much. Somehow though he managed to get enough money to open a gift shop in York. About six months after that, Ducky …’
> DUCKY?
‘My older brother, he’s eighteen. His name’s Mark but he was obsessed with rubber ducks when he was a kid and it’s kinda stuck.’
> SOME WOULD SAY HE STILL IS A KID. NEEDS HIS MUM AND ALL THAT.
‘Anyway, Ducky and Mum had a huge fight. Ducky blamed Mum for Dad leaving, but it wasn’t her fault. Out of all the stuff that he did, she only complained about his wearing leather pants under his kilt.’
> SO DUCKY WENT TO LIVE WITH YOUR DAD?
‘Yeah. I miss them heaps. But there doesn’t seem to be much more we can do. Mum and I go over there a couple of times each year to try and get them to come home, but Dad’s gone totally weird and Ducky’s just stubborn because of what happened with Mum.’
> THINGS MIGHT TURN OUT TO BE OKAY YET.
‘What do you mean?’
> YOU STICK WITH ME AND I’LL SEE YOU’RE RIGHT.
Stick with him? Brendan just wanted his life back. He wanted his dad back, Ducky back, and Helen back. The last thing he reckoned he needed was a computer-literate ghost threatening to stick with him. ‘Can’t I just give you breakfast and then point you in the direction of a deserted graveyard or something?’
> I’M AFRAID NOT. I NEED YOU, AND IT LOOKS LIKE YOU NEED ME. AS FOR BREAKFAST, WHAT DAY IS IT TOMORROW?
‘Saturday,’ said Brendan between some heavy duty yawns.
> THEN I’LL TAKE YOU UP ON YOUR BREAKFAST OFFER. CALL ME AT NINE.
The monitor went dead and Brendan got angry. ‘Listen to me, Nick! I don’t care if you’re real or whatever. But I can tell you this, buttlick—I’m not doing wake-up calls for ghosts. I do not get up till ten on Saturdays!’
Yeah, that was telling him. It was time to lay down some ground rules around here. He didn’t care if he had flipped, he was not gunna be playing housemaid for any
body, regardless of their mortal status.
The monitor flicked back on.
> TEN WILL SUFFICE.
It flicked off again.
Brendan turned off his bedside light and crawled into bed. He pulled his doona up around his head in an attempt to shut out the world and the after-world for a bit.
He’d seen documentaries on ghosts before, he’d read books on them, but never had he heard or seen any evidence of ghosts using the word ‘suffice’. Then again he was fairly sure that very few ghosts would have been called ‘buttlick’ before either.
Chapter 12
At nine o’clock the following morning Jimmy Barnes came screaming into Brendan’s room and was yelling something to the effect that the last train out of Sydney had almost gone.
Brendan’s highly trained left arm emerged out of the doona and, appearing almost to be acting independently of the rest of his sleeping body, hammered down the snooze button on his clock radio.
For the next hour various recording artists entered Brendan’s room by way of the FM band and each was quickly sent the way of Jimmy Barnes. This was how Brendan usually achieved consciousness on Saturday mornings.
It was just after ten when he finally emerged from doona downs zzzzzzz zone, as he called it.
‘Okay, Nick!’ said Brendan in what could only be described as plonking himself down at his desk. ‘What’s the deal with this breakfast thingy? Do I just pour some orange juice and a bit of Fibre-plus into the keyboard or something?’
> NO! I NEED A BODY.
‘What?’
> YOU’VE HEARD STORIES OF GHOSTS ENTERING PEOPLE’S BODIES SO THEY CAN EXPERIENCE THINGS LIKE ALCOHOL, SEX, EXCITEMENT AND SO FORTH.
‘The only thing that I could give you out of that list is “so forth”.’