My heart starts to beat faster and faster. I can feel the blood running beneath my skin. Sheer terror is washing within me.
The fearsome face has made itself in a panel. My awful reflection glares down at me through its wooden glasses. Its mouth opens and shuts without a sound. It is trying to say something. But what?
It is no use running. The face can turn itself into plaster and steel and glass. And wood. There is no escape.
A saying that I once heard is stirring in the back of my mind. What is it? I know. ‘The best form of defence is attack.’
Could I attack the face? It might grab me and pull me into the wall. Never to be seen again. But I can’t keep running. If I go outside it might appear on a tree. Or the footpath. There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to go. No escape.
I must beat it at its own game. Think, think, think. What is its weakness? It is my face. How can I outsmart it?
I am breathing so heavily that my glasses start to fog up. I give them a wipe. I can’t see a thing without my glasses. If I lose them I am gone.
The face still mouths silent words. And peers at me through its wooden glasses.
Okay. It is risky. It is a chance. But I have to take it. On hands and knees I crawl towards the grained face in the wood. Behind the sofa. Along. I must keep my head down. I must get close without it knowing what I am up to.
I crouch low behind the sofa like a cat waiting for a bird. I can’t see the face and it can’t see me. Unless it has moved.
Now. Go, go, go.
I fly at the face like an arrow from a bow.
Snatch. Got them. Got them. I can’t believe it. I have grabbed the wooden glasses. The face is horrified. Its mouth opens in a silent scream. Its eyes are wide and staring. It rushes blindly around the walls. Like a rat running under a sheet it shoots across the floor.
Its features change as it rushes to and fro. Glass, wood, plastic. It bubbles across the floor. Searching, searching, searching. Its mouth snaps and snarls. Its eyes gape and glare but without the glasses it cannot see. Oh, what will it do if it catches me?
Flash. A blinding light fills the room. What? I blink in the glare. Oh yes, yes, yes. The power has come back on. I have light. Now maybe the fiendish face will go back where it came from.
But no. In the light it is more fearsome than ever. More real. I am so scared. My knees are shaking so much that I can hardly move.
Suddenly from the lounge-room I hear – voices. A woman’s voice. And a child’s. They are home. ‘Mum,’ I scream. ‘Mum, Mum, Mum.’ I race into the hall towards the lounge and the face follows my voice. But I don’t care. They are here. Help has arrived. I am saved.
I rush into the lounge and then freeze. There are people there all right. But they won’t be any use to me. They are on the television. The television has come back on with the power. It is my favourite show – ‘Round the Twist’.
6
I run out of the room and up the stairs. The face follows the sound of my thumping feet. Now it is made of carpet. A carpet face flowing up the stairs after my footsteps.
I run into Mum and Dad’s room and slam the door.
Fool. Fool. What a mistake. The face heard the door slam. It bulges out onto the door. Staring. Searching. It knows I am in the room. I climb carefully onto the bed and try to breathe quietly. It can’t find me. Not without the glasses. Not unless I make a noise. Don’t move. Don’t make the bed squeak.
The face starts to search. Up and down each wall. Across the ceiling. Under the bed. Its lips are pulled down in an unhappy pout. It circles the bed like a shark around a boat. It knows where I am.
‘Listen,’ I yell. ‘I am sorry I told a lie. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?’
This is weird. I am telling myself that I am sorry.
The face suddenly smiles. It is happy. Its mouth is making silent words. What is it trying to say? One word. It is saying the same word over and over again.
It is hard reading lips. But suddenly I know what the word is.
‘Glasses,’ I yell at the face.
The face nods. Up and down with a limp smile.
What is it about these glasses? I take my own glasses off and carefully put the wooden ones on my own face. Straight away everything changes. The whole house is different. I can see through the walls and the ceiling. The house is a ghost house and I can see right through it.
Wires and building materials. Nails. Rubbish. An old newspaper. A drink bottle left by the builders. A rat’s nest underneath the dressing-table. A rat scurries away through a hole in the wall.
This is amazing. I can see into all the rooms from where I am standing. It is like X-ray vision.
My mind starts to turn over. Somewhere in all this is the answer to a puzzle. The rat’s nest. I stare and stare at the rat’s nest. All of this started with rats scuttling around in the wall. I stare into the nest. Then I smile.
So does the face. It is happy too.
I do not know if the face is my conscience. Perhaps it is the best and the worst of me. It has chased me around and made me feel guilty. And now it has helped me out.
I step down from the bed. I walk over to the grinning copy of myself and put the glasses on its cheeks. It blinks. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You can go now.’
Slowly, slowly with just the hint of a smile, the face melts back into the wall. I know that it is happy.
Downstairs a door bangs. ‘Mum,’ I yell. ‘Dad. Sophie.’ I rush happily down the stairs.
‘The baby-sitter rang the cinema,’ says Mum. ‘Her car broke down. And the phones weren’t working. Are you okay?’
‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘You are not going to believe this.’
They sit down and don’t say a thing while I tell them the story. I tell them everything and don’t leave out one little detail.
I am right about one thing though. They do not believe me.
‘It was a dream,’ says Mum.
‘It was a lie,’ says Dad.
They think I am still lying. They won’t believe me. ‘It’s the truth,’ I yell. ‘It is, it is, it is.’
‘There is one way to prove your story,’ says Dad. ‘We will move the dressing-table and see if there is a rat’s nest underneath. Then we will know for sure.’
We all walk up to the bedroom and Dad tries to move the dressing-table. It is very heavy so the whole four of us join in and help. In the end we lift it into the middle of the room.
There against the wall is a rat’s nest. There is no rat in it. It has run away because of all the noise. There is no rat. But there is a compass. Right there where the rat carried it.
‘Now do you believe me?’ I say.
I look at Mum and Dad and Sophie. Their mouths just open and shut but no sound comes out.
No sound at all.
Picked Bones
Uncle Sam’s dead body.
I can sort of picture it in my mind.
He is stretched out on the desert sand. Wild animals have torn his clothes. Birds have pecked at him. There is nothing left except his skeleton.
And the box – clutched in the bones of one hand. And a rusty nail clasped in the other.
1
Poor Uncle Sam. It was a horrible way to die. All alone in the outback with no friends. And no one knowing what happened.
Uncle Sam was a birdwatcher. He loved native birds and he hated feral cats. ‘They get out in the outback and breed,’ he used to say. ‘They don’t belong in this country. The birds have no defences. One cat will eat over a hundred birds a year.’
Uncle Sam had done a lot for the native wildlife in Australia. But now he was gone. Dad arranged for the bones to be brought back and we had a funeral. I watched sadly as the coffin went down into the grave. We were alike were Uncle Sam and I. Two greenies trying to save the world. And now he was gone. It was the saddest thing ever.
As we walked out of the cemetery Dad wiped his wet eyes and handed me the box. It was made of carved wood and on the top was scratched: FOR TERRY.
KEEP AWAY FROM K … The writing trailed off. Uncle Sam must have died while he was scratching the message with the nail.
‘What’s in it?’ I asked Dad.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t have a lid. Anyway, I wouldn’t open a present with someone else’s name on it. It was meant for you.’
That’s the sort of guy Dad is. He wouldn’t even read your diary if it was left open on the desk. Still, he looked worried. ‘Uncle Sam was a bit weird,’ he said. ‘Heaven knows what’s in that box. You be careful with it.’
After the funeral everyone came back to our house for the wake. There was lots of drinking and laughing. It didn’t seem right to me. ‘Why is everyone having a good time?’ I said to Mum.
She looked at me and smiled. ‘Uncle Sam would have wanted it,’ she said. ‘We’ve said goodbye to him at the graveyard. That was the time to cry. Now we have to get on with life. That’s the way it is.’
I still didn’t like it. I went up to my room and shut the door so I couldn’t hear all the noise. I put the box on my bed and had a good look at it. The wood had steel bands around it. There was no lid and no keyhole. I would have to get a saw to cut it open. But I didn’t want to do that. It was too good. And I might break what was in it.
It was sort of spooky to look at the scratched writing on the lid. The last words of Uncle Sam. Written to me – his best mate. He died at the very moment of scratching out these letters. I shivered and put the box under my bed. Then I went down to join the party.
By now everyone had had too much to drink. They were drowning their sorrows. Laughing and arguing and telling jokes and stories. Mum was even speaking to Aunt Marjory. I couldn’t believe it.
They hadn’t spoken to each other since Aunt Marjory gave me Knuckles for Christmas. Mum had to let me keep Knuckles seeing that he was a Christmas present. She said that Aunt Marjory only gave him to me because he was a horrible cat and she wanted to get rid of him. Pet cats are okay if you keep them away from the native animals. But Knuckles was mean and sneaky. He yowled and scowled. He spat and hissed. He scratched our sofa to pieces. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him. He was the king of the neighbourhood. All the other cats disappeared when Knuckles was around. And I just couldn’t keep him in at night. He would always manage to get out and go hunting for birds.
Knuckles was my only pet. I used to have guinea pigs – two cute little black and white ones. Until Knuckles got into their cage one night and ate them both for supper. Now I had no pets except Knuckles. Not that you could call Knuckles a pet. A crocodile would have been more fun.
That got me to thinking. Knuckles. Where was he? Nowhere to be seen. That was strange. Normally he would be up on the table licking the best food. Then no one would eat anything and I would be in trouble for letting him inside.
I prowled around the house hunting for Knuckles. I looked in the kitchen. Under the tables. Behind the fridge. In the laundry basket. All the usual places. But he was nowhere to be seen.
I went upstairs to my room and caught sight of something strange. Through the window. Outside. On the porch roof. Knuckles was standing there. And when I say standing that’s what I mean. Standing on his two back legs. And flapping his front ones up and down like chicken wings. He was staring into my bedroom window and waving his front legs about like a crazy chook.
2
Something strange was going on. Something really weird. There was Knuckles. Outside. On the window ledge trying to get in. He was screeching and yowling something terrible. He clawed at the glass with vicious swipes. I tapped on the window. ‘Buzz off,’ I said. ‘You’re not getting in until dark. No way.’
Suddenly, as if a clever thought had just crossed his mind, Knuckles turned and jumped down to the ground.
I picked up the box and examined it. What was inside? And how could I open it?
I gave the box a gentle shake and held my ear up to it. Nothing. Not a murmur. This was driving me crazy. What could be inside? I read the scratched words again. KEEP AWAY FROM K …
Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones. I thought about that last word that Uncle Sam had been scratching on the lid. KEEP AWAY FROM K … He had been about to scratch a word starting with ‘k’ when he died. There were lots of possibilities. Kangaroos. Kookaburras. Kids. I looked around the room. There was a bunch of keys on my shelf. It could even be them. Just to be on the safe side I picked them up and threw them into the hallway.
I made one final check and couldn’t see anything else that started with ‘k’. I wasn’t too good at spelling but I thought I had found everything. There was nothing left starting with ‘k’. All I needed now was a saw.
Suddenly I felt nervous. There could be something dangerous inside. Maybe I should go and ask Dad to saw the box open.
Downstairs the party was getting louder and louder. I looked out of the window. People were staggering around out on the back lawn. Uncle Russell was having a pee behind some bushes. Another group were arguing about whether the women should have been allowed to carry Uncle Sam’s coffin. Mum was saying they should. ‘Women are not strong enough,’ I heard Aunt Marjory say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not as if he weighed much. He was only bones.’
They were all off their faces. No, none of the adults would help.
I stared at the box. So did Knuckles.
Knuckles.
He was inside the house. He was inside my room. He had sneaked in while the drunken mourners were going in and out. Knuckles had a strange look in his eyes. A wild but gentle look. He pounced over to the box and started purring. Purring, do you mind. Knuckles had never purred in his life. He looked like a cat that had just eaten the cream. Knuckles was purring at the box.
He was staring at the box and licking his lips. It almost looked as if he was reading the writing on the lid. Uncle Sam’s last words so to speak. KEEP AWAY FROM K … Of course. That was it. Why didn’t I see it before? KEEP AWAY FROM KNUCKLES.
I mustn’t let Knuckles get near the box. Whatever was inside could be damaged by cats. Even now Knuckles’ very presence could be ruining something valuable. It could be treasure of some sort. Melting away because a cat was in the room.
‘Get out,’ I yelled. ‘Go on. Buzz off, Knuckles.’ I had to shoo him out before he ruined everything.
Knuckles turned around slowly. He crouched down and the fur on his neck stood up like a necklace made of poisoned needles. His eyes were filled with hate. His muscles quivered, ready to spring. I had never seen an animal with such a vicious look in its eyes. I don’t mind telling you I was scared. Scared of a cat.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘okay. Take it easy, Knuckles.’ I took a few steps backwards to show that I meant no harm. Knuckles relaxed and turned back to the box. Then he did something weird. He started licking the box. Licking and purring at the same time.
Amazing. A cat licking a wooden box. It was strange. But not as strange as what happened next.
Click. The lid of the box sprang open.
Imagine that. Knuckles’ spit had released the catch. Crazy but true. Now I could find out what was inside. I was dying to know. I took a silent step forward.
Hiss, spit, hiss. Knuckles crouched low, hate in his eyes. I backed slowly away. ‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t go off your brain.’
Knuckles relaxed. Then he suddenly leapt. Not at me. Not at anyone. He jumped onto the top of the open box and curled up. Straight away he began to purr. He reminded me of a dragon curled up on its pile of jewels and gold.
What was inside the box? What was it? I just had to know. I couldn’t handle this on my own. Knuckles might ruin everything. KEEP AWAY FROM KNUCKLES. That’s what Uncle Sam had been writing. It was time to bring in the big guns. I went off to get the adults.
3
Most of the guests had called taxis and gone home. Their cars were still parked in the drive. They would probably come back and get them in the morning. When they felt a little better, if you
know what I mean. Anyway, Dad and Mum and Aunt Marjory were still there. So was Uncle Russell. They all stared into my bedroom. Knuckles was still curled up on the box. Purring.
‘He’s a lovely cat,’ said Aunt Marjory. ‘He just loves me, you know.’
‘Why did you give him to Terry then?’ said Mum.
‘A sacrifice,’ said Aunt Marjory. ‘I had to make the sacrifice. All children need a pet.’
‘He won’t get off the box,’ I said. ‘Knuckles isn’t allowed near the box. I can’t get him off. He’s the meanest cat in the world.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Aunt Marjory. ‘He’s as quiet as a lamb.’ She walked over and bent down to pick up Knuckles.
Swish. Swipe. Snarl. Knuckles struck out. Quicker than a snake’s tongue.
‘Aargh.’ Aunt Marjory fell back with a terrible scream. Thin red lines of blood ran across her face. Aunt Marjory scrambled to her feet and ran into the corridor. She rushed to the hall mirror. ‘My face,’ she yelled. ‘My beautiful face.’
Uncle Russell tried not to laugh at that.
Aunt Marjory looked at me in fury. ‘You’ve ruined that cat,’ she yelled. ‘He had a beautiful nature before.’
‘Perhaps you’d like him back,’ said Mum.
‘Now, now girls,’ said Uncle Russell. ‘No need to argue. I’ll get the cat. I’m good with animals.’
He was brave, was Uncle Russell. There’s no doubt about that. Raw Australian courage. He had heaps of it. He just strode across the room and grabbed the cat. Just like that. Bent down and picked up Knuckles by the scruff of the neck.
And just like that Knuckles twisted out of his hands. And fixed himself to Uncle Russell’s face. Knuckles was so quick you could hardly see him move. He wrapped his legs around Uncle Russell’s head. Uncle Russell’s face was buried in Knuckles’ trembling body.
‘Mmff, ggg, mnnff.’ Uncle Russell fell onto the bed. We couldn’t hear what he was trying to say. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating. Knuckles was killing Uncle Russell. He pulled and pulled at Knuckles but the horrible animal had its claws sunk into his neck.
Uncovered! Page 5