Blacky Blasts Back

by Barry Jonsberg

  This would be like going on holiday with a pack of rabid dogs. Only more dangerous. I could do without it.

  But Blacky hadn’t given me a choice . . .

  I hate to give the impression I’m telling this story backwards, but can we go back to the Thursday before my pointless interview with Miss Dowling? I promise I won’t do it again, otherwise we’ll be finishing this story with my birth. Although that’s a pretty spectacular event from my point of view, I doubt you’d find it fascinating.

  Thursday evening. It hadn’t been the greatest evening, mainly because Rose had spent dinner repeatedly kicking me under the table. It is Rose’s mission in life to make mine miserable and she pursues it with enormous energy and considerable success. You might wonder why I don’t simply dob her in to my parents, show them the bruises and gloat while they give her a sound thrashing with a length of lead piping.

  Okay. A grounding, at least.

  The thing is, they wouldn’t believe me. As far as they’re concerned, Rose can do no wrong. If they discovered my sister disembowelling me with a rusty tin opener, they’d assume she was performing emergency lifesaving surgery and double her pocket money.

  It’s not fair.

  So I limped into my bedroom and had a go at my Maths homework.

  A man is filling a tank with water at a rate of 30 litres a minute. The tank is 3.5 metres long, 4.5 metres wide and 6 metres deep. However, the tank has a leak exactly halfway up and when the water reaches this level it escapes at a rate of 5 litres a minute. Bearing in mind that 1 cubic metre contains 1000 litres, how long would it take for the tank to overflow?

  I thought about it.

  ‘Never,’ I wrote, ‘because only a complete moron with a criminal disregard for water conservation would carry on filling a tank when it was spewing out 5 litres a second through a leak.’

  Satisfied I’d aced that one, I had a shower, brushed my teeth and got into bed. I was going to do some reading, but I was tired out from dinner. It’s exhausting having your shins hammered with steel-capped boots. So I turned off the lamp and snuggled down into my doona.

  I don’t know if this has ever happened to you. You drift into that cosy state of pre-sleep, suspended in warmth. You fall deeper and deeper into a blissful void. Your breathing relaxes into a peaceful rhythm.

  And then a cold wet nose is thrust into your ear.

  Okay. It must be just me.

  I yelled and jumped out of bed in one movement, like one of those vertical take-off military jets. I nearly scraped the ceiling. Just as well I’d only recently been to the bathroom. Otherwise I’d have been leaking at the rate of 5 litres a minute.

  I pressed back against the wall, peered through the darkness towards my bed and prayed I was in the throes of a nightmare.

  ‘Tickle my bum with a feather, tosh,’ came a voice in my head. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me, you twonk!’

  I took a step nearer the bed.

  ‘Blacky?’ I breathed.

  ‘Who were you expecting, bucko? Barack Obama?’

  I turned on the bedside light.

  A small, scruffy, dirty-white dog sat on my pillow. It looked at me through pink-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Wotcha, mush,’ said the dog.

  Now this is the bit you’ll find hard to believe.

  Blacky is a talking dog.

  Well, he can’t actually talk. He’s not in demand as an after-dinner speaker, and he’d flunk an English oral outright. But he can communicate. Only with me, though.

  It works this way. His voice appears in my head and my voice, it seems, appears in his. It’s called telepathy: the ability to talk to someone through their thoughts. According to Blacky, I am one of only four people in Australia to have this gift and there aren’t many animals who can do what Blacky does. Just thought I’d let you know that while you could spend hours talking to a pot-bellied pig, you’re unlikely to get anything out of it other than a headache and a reputation for being one snag short of a barbie.

  Blacky doesn’t turn up often, but when he does it’s because he has a mission for me. An animal somewhere needs my help. So far, I’ve successfully completed two missions. Or rather, me and Dyl have. Dylan is the only other person who knows about Blacky. We are an ecological double-act, tidying up messes that human beings have created. But you’ll understand more as the story goes on . . .

  ‘Blacky!’ I yelled in my head. ‘It’s great to see you.’

  He cocked his head.

  ‘Of course it is, tosh,’ he replied. ‘You’re only human. Some would say barely human.’

  I wanted to throw my arms around him, but stopped myself just in time. Blacky doesn’t do affection. In fact, he’s the grumpiest, meanest, worst-tempered, rudest creature I’ve ever known. And I’ve spent my entire life with Rose, remember.

  ‘What’s the mission, Blacky?’ I said.

  ‘What makes you think there is a mission, tosh?’ he replied. ‘Maybe I’m just passing through and felt like chatting with an old friend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. You’re not an old friend. You’re a brain-dead bozo. Anyway, there’s a mission.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Blacky scratched an ear and gave his bum a quick lick. That reminded me. I knew something was different. Every other time I’d found Blacky in my room he’d been accompanied by a foul smell. You see, Blacky has a fart problem. Well, he doesn’t consider it a problem, but anything living within a two-kilometre radius does. I’ve seen flowers wilt, birds plummet from the sky and grown men weep and lose the will to live.

  ‘Changed my diet, tosh,’ said Blacky. I’d forgotten there was no such thing as a private thought with him around. ‘But, if you’re feeling nostalgic, I’m sure I could manage a small one . . .’

  ‘NO!’ I yelled. ‘It’s okay, seriously. Tell me about the mission instead.’

  ‘Ah, the mission, mush. ’Fraid I can’t tell you. That’s on a need-to-know basis.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a need-to-know basis”? If you’ve got a mission for me, don’t I need to know what it is?’

  ‘Only those who need to know, know. Those who don’t need to know, don’t know. You aren’t on a need-to-know basis, so you don’t know and I don’t need to tell you what you don’t need to know. You need to know this.’

  I let the words roll around in my head for a while, but it was obvious I wasn’t going to make any sense of them.

  ‘So who does need to know, then?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t need to know that. That’s also on a need-to-know basis.’

  I threw myself on the bed. I’d forgotten how annoying the smelly hound could be.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a mission for me, but I don’t need to know what it is? How am I supposed to complete it, then? And if you tell me that’s on a need-to-know basis, I should warn you I’m liable to insert my foot up your backside.’

  Blacky sniffed inside my head.

  ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘Why is it that humans resort to violence when they don’t get their own way?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ I replied. ‘That’s on a need-to-know basis.’

  ‘Be in Tasmania by the end of next week,’ said Blacky. ‘When you’re there, I will give you more information.’

  More information?

  I laughed.

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Blacky?’ I said. ‘You really have no idea how the world of humans works. Well, here is something you do need to know. I am twelve years old, tosh. I can’t throw a few clothes into a bag, book a flight on the internet using my credit card, order a taxi and take off to Tassie at the drop of a hat. I am forced to eat all the green beans on my plate, wear matching socks and wash behind my ears. Now, I have no idea why the dark side of my ears should get particularly dirty. Maybe that’s on a need-to-know basis. But I do it because I have to do what I’m told. I can’t go to Tasmania, Blacky. I’ve got to go to school and wash the dishes on Tuesdays an
d Fridays. This is my world. I can’t change it.’

  There was silence for about thirty seconds.

  ‘I understand one thing, tosh,’ said Blacky. ‘I understand your school is organising a trip to Tasmania. I even know your dropkick mate Dylan is going.’

  I was tempted to ask him how he knew, but I was worried he’d tell me I didn’t need to know. Anyway, he carried on talking.

  ‘This is the most important mission I have ever set you, mush. The other two are trivial in comparison. This one will alter history. So I suggest you find a way of getting on that trip. If you are serious about helping the world, you’ll be on that boat.’

  I was shaken. True, Blacky wasn’t above pulling the wool over my eyes. If he thought it would help him he’d shear the sheep and knit the wool himself. The last mission I completed was proof of that. But, somehow, I knew he was telling the truth. This mission was going to be the most important thing I’d done so far. I felt it in my bones.

  Of course, knowing this didn’t mean I was any closer to getting on the trip. The greatest drawback of having a dirty-white dog as your main informant is the difficulty of getting anyone to take you seriously. ‘I need to go to Tassie, Miss Dowling. A small, farting dog told me I was going to change history.’ Plus, I was aware the trip was only for the special boys unit. But, then again, I was resourceful. It wasn’t impossible, particularly if the stakes were as high as Blacky reckoned.

  I turned to tell him all this, but the pillow was empty. I could see my window, open about thirty centimetres.

  ‘Blacky?’

  Nothing.

  I went to the window and raised the sash. The air outside was chilly. The stars were sharp in the sky.

  ‘I’ll try, Blacky,’ I yelled in my head. ‘I can’t do any more than try.’

  There was no reply. I watched clouds drift like smoke against the bone-white moon.

  ‘I’ll try, Blacky,’ I whispered to the night.

  At least I don’t have to go any further back in time, which is cool. I was starting to confuse myself.

  It was Tuesday morning and I felt depressed. Not even a good kicking from Rose could stir me up. The trip was the day after tomorrow! I sat at the breakfast table, my head down. Concentrating. There was no way now I’d be joining Dyl as part of the official school expedition, so I needed to come up with alternative strategies.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

  Perhaps I’d have to arrive at school on Thursday and stow away on the school bus going to the ferry. Maybe I could pack myself into Dylan’s suitcase. Or I could hitch a ride to Tassie. Pretend to be a dwarf and join a travelling circus. Make my own hot-air balloon. Tie a whole bunch of material together and get Blacky to fart into it.

  Hopeless.

  When the going gets tough, Marcus loses it.

  I dragged myself to school. Depressed. Tonia Niven was waiting at the school gates, mouth full of metal, face splattered with freckles and red pigtails sticking out of her head at alarming angles. She gave me a sickly-sweet smile and my mood, not good to start with, plummeted.

  I ran.

  Another sound reason to get to Tasmania. Though with Tonia you felt Tassie was never going to be far enough away.

  The Principal was prowling the schoolyard like a guard dog. I nearly ran her over in my haste to get away from Tonia. She grabbed the straps of my backpack. For a moment my legs and arms were going in a blur while the rest of me stayed still.

  ‘Marcus,’ she said. ‘Whoa there. Do you still want to go on the camp to Tasmania?’

  I allowed my legs and arms to come to rest, like a fan winding down.

  ‘What? Yes, Miss. Yes, I do.’

  ‘A boy has dropped out, which means there is a spare place. Come to my office and I’ll give you the necessary forms for your parents to sign. But you must get them back to me by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No problem, Miss. Thanks. Thanks a lot.’ I didn’t want to risk asking, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Miss? You said this was only for boys with behavioural problems. So why are you letting me go?’

  ‘Well, Marcus,’ said Miss Dowling, ‘it is true that the camp is mainly to help some boys with their social skills. But after the way you’ve behaved recently – the volunteering to garden for our senior citizens, your heroism in the Science lab – I think you will be an excellent role model for those boys. Show them it’s okay to be responsible and caring. Plus, the Education Department has already paid for that place.’

  I felt like jumping into the air and yelling. Just when things had appeared impossible, a way had been found. It was fate. Fortune was smiling on me now, instead of pooing in my back pocket. I was so happy I could have kissed Tonia. Luckily, I stopped myself.

  ‘This seems like a tough camp, Marcus,’ said Dad.

  It was Thursday and the family was sitting down for breakfast. My bags, all packed, were on the floor next to me. Dad was re-reading the information Miss Dowling had given me about the Wilderness Camp.

  ‘I mean, it’s a fabulous opportunity,’ Dad continued. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Camping, kayaking, abseiling, fishing, rock-climbing, whitewater rafting. And in a place of such natural beauty. Amazing. But it also says you and the other kids will be responsible for looking after yourselves. Cooking, cleaning, washing. Reckon you can cope with that? I mean, your mother and I do everything for you here. It’s a wonder you manage to wipe your own bum.’

  Rose sniggered and kicked me under the table. Mum rose to my defence.

  ‘That’s not fair, Michael,’ she said.

  ‘You mean he doesn’t manage to wipe his own bum?’ Dad laughed.

  Rose spluttered into her Weet-Bix.

  ‘You are soooo funny, Daddy,’ she chortled.

  ‘Marcus can look after himself, can’t you dear?’ said Mum. ‘He does the dishes twice a week. And remember the time he cooked us a meal on our anniversary?’

  ‘Remember?’ said Dad. ‘I’ve been trying to forget. Pasta and custard.’

  ‘I thought that was a cook-in sauce,’ I said. Boy, was I never going to be allowed to forget that? Actually, I’d thought it was kinda yummy.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Dad. ‘It should be the making of you. Like a boot camp. Maybe when you get back you’ll keep your bedroom tidy.’

  I was going to point out the pigs flying past the window, but decided against it.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Marcus,’ trilled Rose, her shoe thudding with unerring accuracy into my shin. Mum and Dad smiled at each other. It’s possible that cartoon hearts rose up from the table and popped in midair.

  Yeah, I thought. My shin is really looking forward to you missing me.

  ‘I’ll miss you too, Rose,’ I said.

  Like a poke in the eye with a burnt stick.

  ‘You’re dead meat, Mucus,’ said John Oakman as he kicked me in the shin. ‘Hey. Geddit? Mucus. Slimy stuff. Your name’s Marcus. Mucus. Geddit?’

  The school minibus had travelled about two hundred metres on our journey to the ferry. This wasn’t the best possible start to the trip.

  I rubbed my shin and looked John up and down, which took a bit of time.

  The first thing to strike you about John (apart from his boot into your shin) is his height. You get a crick in your neck just trying to make eye contact. I’ve known shorter telegraph poles. He’s a hazard for low-flying aircraft. Sometimes his head disappears into clouds. Occasionally, his shoulders become crusted with snow.

  He’s tall, okay?

  I considered his friendly attempts to strike up a relationship. Mucus? A kick in the shin? These were the trademarks of Rose, the sister from hell. For a moment, I wondered whether John was Rose in disguise. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to be separated from the object of her torture for a week, and had undergone cosmetic surgery to get on this trip. I wouldn’t put it past her to have a sex change just to make my life miserable.

  Or maybe she’d possessed John. Like in those horror flicks when demons take over someone’s
body, live inside them and force them to commit acts of evil.

  Rose was evil enough, and there was enough room inside John. For Rose and a couple of mates standing on her shoulders.

  Then I thought it through and decided that it was just coincidence. Fortune was pooing in my back pocket again. However, I was going to be spending the next week with John, so I needed to get to know him.

  ‘Why am I dead meat, John?’ I asked him in my most reasonable voice. ‘I’ve not done anything to you.’

  He mulled this over. John isn’t known for the quickness of his mind. Maybe it’s something to do with his brain being starved of oxygen at high altitude. If he ever had a thought, it would die of loneliness.

  ‘Have, Mucus,’ he said finally. ‘You exist. Me don’t like it.’

  He was about to kick me in the shin again. I could see his brain struggling to send the message to his leg. But it didn’t happen, and not just because of the distance the message would have had to travel. Dyl came between us.

  ‘Hey, John,’ he said in a friendly voice. ‘Just so you know, Marcus is my mate. Anything happens to him and I take it personally. Get my meaning?’

  This was very complicated for John, and he took his time processing the information. Finally, comprehension struggled into his eyes.

  ‘Sure, Dyl, mate. Got yer.’

  Everyone is scared of Dylan, which makes him a useful friend to have. I really don’t know why. He’s built like a pencil and isn’t much taller. John, on the other hand, is built like a skyscraper. Put them side by side and Dylan wouldn’t be able to touch his kneecap. Yet it was obvious who was top dog. Nonetheless, I’d have to keep my eye on John. Not that that was difficult. He dominated the landscape.

  John went to the back of the minibus where the rest of the kids were mooning cars on the freeway. I hoped he wasn’t going to join in. If he bent over, he’d headbutt our driver.