Anna is pulling a terrible face. ‘Look,’ she says in horror as she points at the pillow.
Dad goes over and examines the plastic poo. ‘Don’t let a little thing like that worry you,’ he says. He picks up the plastic poo and pops it into his mouth. He gives a grin. ‘D’licioush,’ he says through clenched teeth.
‘Aargh,’ screams Anna. She rushes over to the window and throws up chips, sauce and Diet Coke. Then she looks at Dad in disgust.
Dad is a bit taken aback at Anna being sick. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, taking the plastic poo out of his mouth. ‘It’s not real.’ Dad gives a laugh and off he goes. And off goes Anna. She decides that she wants to go home to her own house. And I don’t blame her.
‘Dad,’ I yell after Anna is gone. ‘I am never speaking to you again.’
‘Don’t be such a sook,’ he says. ‘It’s only a little joke.’
It’s always the same. Whenever a friend comes over to stay Dad plays practical jokes. We have fake hands in the rubbish, exploding drinks, pepper in the food, short-sheeted beds and Dracula’s blood seeping out of Dad’s mouth. Some of the kids think it’s great. They wish their Dad was like that.
But I hate it. I just wish he was normal.
He plays tricks on Bianca.
And Yasmin.
And Nga.
And Karla.
None of them go home like Anna. But each time I am so embarrassed.
And now I am worried.
Cynthia is coming to stay. She is the school captain. She is beautiful. She is smart. Everyone wants to be her friend. And now she is sleeping over at our house.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘No practical jokes. Cynthia is very mature. Her father would never play practical jokes. She might not understand.’
‘No worries,’ says Dad.
Cynthia arrives but we do not watch videos. We slave away on our English homework. We plan our speeches for the debate in the morning. We go over our parts in the school play. After all that we go out and practise shooting goals because Cynthia is captain of the netball team. Every now and then I pop into the bedroom to check for practical jokes. It is best to be on the safe side.
We also do the washing-up because Cynthia offers – yes offers – to do it.
Finally it is time for bed. Cynthia changes into her nightie in the bathroom and then joins me in the bedroom. ‘The cat’s on my bed,’ she says. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I like cats.’ She pulls back the blankets.
And screams. ‘Aargh. Cat poo. Filthy cat poo on my pillow.’ She yells and yells and yells.
Just then Dad bursts into the room with a silly grin on his face. He goes over and looks at the brown object on the pillow. ‘Don’t let a little thing like that worry you,’ he says. He picks it up and pops it into his mouth. But this time he does not give a grin. His face freezes over.
‘Are you looking for this?’ I say.
I hold up the bit of plastic poo that Dad had hidden under the blankets earlier that night.
Dad looks at the cat.
Then he rushes over to the window and is sick.
Cynthia and I laugh like mad.
We do love a good joke.
Listen Ear
Tell one lie to your parents and you are history. One little fib and they won’t ever believe you again.
1
‘Brad,’ said Dad, ‘Never, ever, ever touch this.’ In his hand he had the most fantastic compass you have ever seen. Not the type that shows you where to go. The sort you draw circles with.
It was silver and had little metal bolts and a point as sharp as a needle. Instead of a pencil it had a little piece of lead held in by a tiny screw. I whistled. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I bet it’s worth a fortune.’
‘It is,’ said Dad. ‘And I need it for my work. SO DON’T TOUCH IT.’ He put it in the top drawer of the dressing-table in his bedroom and shut it before I could even get a good look.
Geeze, I longed for that compass. Just to hold it, I mean. Not to steal it or use it or anything like that. Just hold it. That’s all I wanted to do.
That compass called to me. ‘Brad,’ I could hear it saying, ‘come and get me. Aren’t I great? Pick me up. Look at me. Try me out.’
It didn’t really say that. But in my mind it did. All I wanted was a hold. One mingy little hold.
After tea, Mum and Dad and my little sister Sophie went into the lounge to watch TV. It was my turn to do the dishes. Rats. I hate doing the dishes. It is so boring.
‘Come and hold me,’ called the compass. ‘Brad, Brad, Brad.’
I had to go. I just had to. All I wanted was a look. That’s all. Just a look. With the tea-towel still in my hand I crept up the stairs. ‘Click’, I turned on the bedroom light. Softly, softly I tiptoed across the room. Gently, gently I pulled open the drawer. There it was. Dad’s compass in all its glory. It sparkled. It twinkled. It was great.
‘Pick me up,’ it called. ‘Pick me up. Just once.’ I rubbed my glasses with a dirty finger and stared down at the compass.
It was more than flesh and blood could stand. I put the tea-towel down on the floor and picked up the compass with trembling fingers. It was much heavier than I expected. I opened it up and pretended to draw a little circle in the air.
Just then I heard a sort of scuffling noise. It was almost as if someone was watching. Oh no. Dad would kill me if he caught me with the compass. I dropped the compass into the drawer. Then I turned and ran.
As it turned out no one was coming. Mum and Dad and Sophie were still watching TV. Maybe the noise was a rat or something.
I walked into the lounge and sat down with the others. ‘Bedtime,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll finish the dishes.’
I snuggled down into bed. Something was wrong. The compass was going to cause trouble. I just knew it was. I couldn’t get to sleep no matter how hard I tried. I always seem to break things. I mean it isn’t my fault. Mostly it is bad luck.
But parents don’t understand about accidents. They still think it’s your fault. That’s why Dad didn’t want me to touch the compass. But what could go wrong? I mean I didn’t break the compass, did I? It was safely back in the drawer.
I tossed and turned for a couple of hours until something terrible made me jump up. A yell filled the air. It was Dad. I could hear every word even though he was upstairs. ‘The compass,’ he screamed. ‘It’s gone.’ I could hear footsteps coming my way quickly. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Maybe they would leave me alone until morning.
Fat chance. Dad ripped the covers back off the bed. ‘Don’t try that one,’ he said. ‘I know you’re awake.’ Boy was he mad.
‘Brad,’ he said. ‘This time you’ve really gone too far. Where’s my compass?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘I haven’t touched it. Sophie must have taken it.’
‘Sophie would never take it,’ said Mum.
‘Neither would I,’ I said.
Mum and Dad both looked at me in silence. I knew they were remembering all the bad things I had done. Like eating Sophie’s chocolate Easter bunny one night. Well, she didn’t want it. It was five months old and starting to turn white. You know what it’s like. You just start by nibbling a tiny bit off the ear where it won’t be noticed. Then, before you can blink, the whole ear has gone. So then you might as well scoff the lot because you are going to get caught anyway.
‘Did you go in our bedroom?’ said Mum.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Did you open the drawer?’ asked Dad.
‘No,’ I answered.
‘The drawer was open when we went up to bed,’ said Dad.
They both looked at me with cold eyes. I felt sick in my stomach. I must have forgotten to close the drawer.
‘And you didn’t go into our room?’ Mum asked again.
‘No,’ I said. I know I shouldn’t have lied but someone stole the compass and it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to get the blame for something I didn’t do.
‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘
if you didn’t go into the room how come this was there?’ She held up the wet tea-towel that I had been using to dry the dishes. I suddenly went cold all over. Now they would never believe that I hadn’t taken the compass.
Well, talk about trouble. They went on and on and on. They wouldn’t believe me. Just because I told one little lie. I was grounded until the compass was returned. They wouldn’t even let me go to the movies with them the next night. Even though they had promised to take me. And the worst of it was that Sophie got to go. And it must have been her who took the compass.
That’s how I happened to be home on my own. Late at night.
2
‘The baby-sitter will be here in half an hour,’ said Mum.
‘I don’t need a baby-sitter,’ I said. ‘I’m not scared. And anyway, she just sits on the phone talking to her boyfriend all night.’
‘Where does he live?’ said Dad. He was always worried about people making long-distance calls.
‘Darwin,’ I said.
‘He does not,’ said Mum. ‘He lives right here in Melbourne.’
Dad looked at me with a bit of a smile but he soon lost it when Mum opened up. ‘Brad, I really thought you’d have learned not to tell lies by now,’ she said.
‘It was just a joke,’ I said.
The three of them hurried out to the car and drove off.
I locked the front door and stared out of the window. It was growing dark. And it was raining. The clock ticked loudly in the hall. It felt as if I was the only person in the world. I started to feel sorry for myself. It wasn’t fair. Okay, I did tell a couple of porkies but I didn’t steal the compass. I really wanted to go to the movies and now I was being punished for something I didn’t do.
I went over and looked at my face in the lounge-room mirror. My reflection stared back at me. My face looked mean. I just stared and stared into my own eyes. Suddenly I got the creeps. It was as if the reflection wasn’t me. As if it was someone else. I gave a shiver and turned on the television.
Where was that baby-sitter? She should be here by now. Outside it was black and cold. I tried to watch the television but my mind just wasn’t on it.
Boomp, scroffle, scraffle. What was that? A sound upstairs. Rats. The rats were in the roof again. Or were they? A little shiver ran down my neck.
Maybe the baby-sitter had crashed her car. I decided to ring up and see if she was okay. June, that was her name. But what was her other name? Dalton. That was it. June Dalton.
Suddenly something terrible happened. The picture on the television zapped itself into a tiny square and disappeared. At the same time the lights went out. Oh no. A power failure. The lines were down again.
I ran to the phone. Nothing. Just a low whistling noise coming down the line.
The house was silent. Where was the baby-sitter? I knew deep inside that she wasn’t coming. It was going to be a long night.
Boomp, scroffle, scraffle. There was that noise again. This time from downstairs. Rats. Of course it was rats. No one would want to get in and get me. Would they? The hairs started to stand up on the back of my neck.
There was only one thing to do. Go to bed and fall asleep as quickly as possible. I couldn’t spend all night in the dark scared out of my wits. I felt my way along the hall and into my bedroom.
I pulled off my shoes, took off my glasses and jumped into bed with my clothes on. Then I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come.
3
So here I am, surrounded by the sounds of the night.
Houses make a lot of noise when you are the only person in them. Squeak. Creak. Rustle. Rumble. What was that? Nothing. Don’t be silly. You are alone. Aren’t you?
Who would want to get you? Just a boy. Just an ordinary boy. Okay, so I told a couple of lies. But I’m not really mean. I don’t deserve to die. I’m quite a nice person really.
What if there was someone under the bed? What if a hand slowly started to pull the blankets down. Until I was uncovered? A horrible cold hand with grey fingers. Go away. Go away if you are there. Leave me alone. I won’t tell any more lies, God. I promise. And I’ll do the washing-up on my own. Every night.
Well, nearly every night.
Where did that shadow in the corner come from? It looks like a man with a hat. Standing. Staring. Who’s that breathing so loudly?
Me, of course.
Only me. I am alone. I hope. I try to breathe softly. Just in case there is someone creeping around looking for me. They won’t know where I am. Unless I make a noise.
The room starts to become lighter. It’s funny that – how you can see better in the dark after a while. It is not a man in the corner. It is just my dressing-gown hanging on a hook.
But what is that lump on the wall? That wasn’t there yesterday. A small bump in the plaster. It must be my imagination. I can’t see a thing without my glasses. I reach out and put them on. Then I take another look. Yes, it is a lump on the wall. Where did that come from? It looks like a table-tennis ball half buried in the wall. I stare and stare at it.
It’s weird how your mind plays tricks on you. I could swear that the lump is bigger than before. I could swear that it is growing.
Aaaaaaaaargh. It is growing. I can see it wobbling and moving. I can’t take my eyes off it. I am hypnotised by it. A horrible, swelling growth on the wall.
‘Mum,’ I want to scream. But I am too frightened. The word is frozen in my throat.
I am trembling with fear. I am too scared to run. And too scared to stay. Help. Help. Someone. Anyone. Please. Make the lump go away. Come and save me.
I need help.
It is wiggling. The ear is wiggling.
The ear?
Yes. Oh horrible, horrible, horrible. The lump is in the shape of an ear. A wiggling, disgusting, plaster ear on the wall. It is listening. Listening. Listening.
It is the ear of the house. I bet it heard me tell Mum lies. It is the ear that hears all. Knows all. Understands all. Sneaky. Snaky. Snoopy. It is looking for liars.
Well, listen, ear. Just see what you think of this. I take a deep breath. I fill up my lungs. I am terrified but I must be brave. I yell as loud as I can.
‘Nick off, ear.’
The sound echoes around the empty rooms. But the ear does not nick off. It just wiggles a little bit. Like a worm on the end of a hook.
4
All is silent again. Tick, tick, tick. Rustle, rustle. Breathe in. Breathe out. Silently. Quiet.
Wiggle, wiggle. There it goes again. Don’t annoy it. Don’t shout. Don’t even look. Pretend it is not there.
The ghastly ear on the wall.
Oh, oh, oh. No. It isn’t. Not another lump. It can’t be. I sneak a look through half-closed eyelids. Another foul lump is swelling out of the plaster. Yes, oh yuck. Another ear. A pair of ears wiggling on the wall. Stop, stop, stop.
Be a dream. Be a nightmare. Don’t be real. Please don’t be real.
I look at the wall. But the ears are still there. This is not a dream. This is real. The ears are still there in the wall. One of them has an earring. Just like mine but made of plaster. The ears are living, wriggling plaster.
There is more movement. It is as if the plaster is growing a mole. Or bubbling like thick soup in a dark pot. Bits are boiling and growing.
Oh, what’s this? A nose. And eyes. And a chin. A face grows like a flower opening on fast forward.
A face in the wall. The plaster eyes roll around. The nose twitches. The mouth opens and closes but it says nothing. It is like the television with the sound turned down. The eyes stare at me. They see me hiding there under the covers, trying not to look.
I have seen this face before. But where? Whose face is this?
What can I do? I can’t stay here with the fiendish face. I will run for it. Down to the kitchen. I will wait in the kitchen until Mum and Dad come home.
The face is still boiling and bubbling. What? It has grown glasses. They are just like mine but made of plaster.
I stare at the face. It stares back at me. Blinking with plaster eyes.
I know where I have seen this face before. I have seen it in the mirror.
It is my face.
I scream. I jump out of bed. I race along to the kitchen and slam the door. I fall panting to the floor. I am never going in that bedroom again.
Oh Dad, Mum, Sophie, baby-sitter. Where are you? Come home, come home, come home.
I can’t bear to look at the walls. Or go near them. So I sit on the floor with my back against the fridge. It is cold on the tile floor but I am going to stay there until someone comes home.
I lean my head back on the fridge door and close my eyes. The metal is cold and hard against my head. And it is moving. Like worms crawling in my hair. For a moment I just sit there, frozen. Then I scream and scramble across the floor.
The face has erupted in the door of the fridge. Only now it is a horrible, horrible steel face with shiny white skin and lips and eyes. Its glasses are also white steel.
The face, my face is trying to talk. Its lips are moving but nothing is coming out. What is it trying to say?
It is me. I know that it is me. It is my own conscience. Telling me not to tell lies.
‘Leave me alone,’ I scream. ‘Leave me alone.’ I bolt into the lounge and crouch behind the sofa.
But it has followed me.
There it is on the window. Now the face is made of glass. I can see right through its dreadful, moving lips. Is it calling me a liar? What is it trying to say? What is it doing? Why is it after me? Why? Why? Why?
I jump up and roar out of the room. I am running away from myself. No one can do that.
5
I bolt into Dad’s study. The walls are all made of wood. The face can’t get me here. I am safe.
Outside the rain has stopped. The moon is playing hide and seek behind the clouds. How I wish I was on the moon. I stare up but then look away. Even the moon has a face.
The moonlight shines on the dark wooden panels. The grain makes strange shapes like whirlpools in a rotting swamp. The lines begin to swirl and run like a crazy river.
Uncovered! Page 4