Suddenly I am not scared any more. I have seen that mask before. Simon bought it at the Show. He is trying to make me scream. He wants me to yell out. So that he can get the money. But it won’t work. I turn on the light and take out a pencil and paper. ‘Buzz off, Simon,’ I write in large letters.
Simon pulls off the mask and pulls a face at me. Then he leaves.
6
It takes me ages and ages but finally I fall off to sleep.
‘Ding, ding, ding, ding.’ What, what, what? Rats. It is the bed-wetting alarm again. Already. What a racket. It’s enough to wake the dead.
Dad comes in and turns on the light. He holds a finger up to his lips. ‘Don’t say a word,’ he says. ‘Remember the fifty dollars.’ He sure is taking this seriously.
I put on a clean pair of pyjamas and Dad changes the sheets. Then he goes off to bed. Brook must have gone home.
An hour ticks by. And then another. I just can’t get off to sleep. Too much has happened. I have wet my pants on the Rotor. Dad was cross because we came home early. Simon is a horrible worst-ever brother. Mr Grunge knows that I am on to him. My life is a total mess.
If only I was rich or beautiful or famous.
Outside it is dark. There is no moon.
Famous.
That’s it. Tonight is the night. I will sneak out into Mr Grunge’s garden. I will dig up his wife before he can come and get me. I will be famous. I bet there will be a reward. And it will be worth at least fifty dollars. Maybe more.
I get dressed, push up the window and sneak out into the night. Down to the shed for a shovel. Up over the fence. This is easy. It is dark. Very dark.
The garden is as silent as a graveyard. A little shiver runs up my spine. This is not easy. This is scary. Where is the grave? Where is the spot where Mr Grunge has buried Mrs Grunge? Where is Mr Grunge?
I feel my way around. Gradually my eyes grow used to the dark. There it is. Over there. Crafty. What a crafty devil. He has planted tomato plants on top of the grave. And tied them up to stakes. He is trying to make everyone think it is just a vegetable garden. But he can’t fool me. I know it is a grave.
Graves are spooky things. Maybe this is not such a good idea. What if Mr Grunge is nearby? Watching. Waiting. I peep over my shoulder. What was that? Nothing. Terrible thoughts enter my mind. If Mr Grunge catches me I will be history. What will he plant on my grave?
Run, run, run for it. No, stay. You will never sleep at night until this mystery is solved. I lean over the vegetable garden. I take a deep breath and rip out the little seedlings and the stakes. Then I start to dig.
It is slow, hard work. As I dig I start to think. What will I find? What if I suddenly uncover a horrible white hand? What if I hit a nose? What if there are staring, dead eyes down there? With dirt in them.
I dig more and more slowly. I don’t want to find Mrs Grunge. But I do, too. I am so scared. There is a rustle in the bushes. What was that?
‘Aargh,’ I scream. Eyes. Someone’s eyes. Staring at me from the bushes.
I drop my shovel and run. I scream and scream and scream. I am up and over that fence before you can blink. I am through that window and back into bed before you can snap your fingers.
I have my eyes closed. I want to fall asleep. And quickly. There is going to be big trouble. I can feel it in my bones.
7
There is a knock on the front door. I hear footsteps. I hear the front door open. I hear voices. Oh no. This is terrible. I have had it.
Footsteps approach my bedroom. Someone comes into the room and turns on the light. I pretend to be asleep but through my closed eyelashes I see Dad. He is carrying a shovel. He is looking at the open window. ‘I know you’re awake, Misty,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’
Dad pulls me out of bed towards the lounge-room. ‘Mr Grunge is here,’ he says. ‘Someone has gone and ruined his tomato patch. A vandal has dug it up.’
I pull my hand away from Dad and tear back to the bedroom. I grab a bit of paper and a pencil. ‘He murdered his wife,’ I write. ‘I was digging her up.’
Dad reads the note and throws it onto the floor. Then he drags me into the lounge. ‘This is Mr Grunge,’ says Dad. Mr Grunge is sitting there on the sofa. He is not saying anything. He is staring at me with evil eyes. Why can’t Dad see it? Anyone would know that Mr Grunge was a murderer just by looking at him.
I open my mouth to speak. I open my mouth to tell Dad to call the police. That will prove it once and for all. They can dig up the vegetable patch.
But I do not get a chance to say anything. Dad goes on and on and on. Talk about trouble. Boy, do I cop it. I am a vandal. I am hopeless. I am mean. I am ungrateful. I will have to plant out a new garden. Just when Dad is starting to get some happiness in his life, I ruin everything. It seems like the lecture will never end. I start to cry. Silent tears run down my cheeks. In the end Dad feels sorry for me and sends me off to bed.
I hear Dad and Mr Grunge talking in the lounge. The front door slams. I look out of the window and see Mr Grunge walking down the front path. ‘Murderer,’ I think to myself. I just know that Mrs Grunge is dead and buried in the vegetable patch.
But no one will believe me.
Why doesn’t anything nice ever happen to me? Why does everything have to go wrong?
There is only one good thing about the whole episode.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even cry out loud. I am still in the running for the fifty dollars. I will get that fifty dollars and pay Simon back if it kills me.
Once again I try to fall off to sleep. More hours tick by but sleep won’t come. My mind is too full of misery.
Suddenly I hear something. A rustle outside. There is someone in the garden.
And my window is still open. Yes, MY WINDOW IS STILL OPEN.
The skin seems to crawl over my bones. I am shivering with fear. What is outside? Who is outside?
It is him. I just know it is him. It is Mr Grunge. My throat is dry. I am petrified with fear. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.
A dark figure appears at the window. A figure wearing a balaclava. The intruder puts a leg through the window. I open my mouth to scream out, ‘Dad, Dad, Dad.’
But I don’t call out. I don’t say a word.
My heart is beating like a million hammers. I am so scared. But I am not stupid. My mind is working overtime. Because of the balaclava I don’t really know who it is. This could be Simon again. It could be him trying to make me call out for Dad. So that he can get the fifty dollars.
Oh, what will I do? If it is Mr Grunge I will end up in the vegetable patch. But if it is Simon I will lose the bet when I call out. And he will get the money.
What will I do? What, what what?
I know. Suddenly it comes to me. I know what to do.
And I do it. Yes, I do it.
ON PURPOSE.
I wet my pants. Wonderful warm wee runs down between my legs.
‘Ding, ding, ding, ding.’ What a racket. It is like sirens from the police, the ambulance and the fire brigade all put together.
The intruder straightens up with a jerk, bangs into the window and slumps to the ground – out like a light.
Dad bursts into the room. ‘What in the …?’ he says. Then he sees the figure on the floor. We stare down. Who is under that balaclava? Is it Simon? Or is it Mr Grunge? Is it a man or is it a boy?
Dad bends down and pulls up the balaclava. We both stare with wide open eyes. It is not a man. And it is not a boy.
Just then Simon bursts into the room and looks at the burglar.
‘Mrs Grunge,’ he yells.
Yes, MRS GRUNGE. She is not dead. She is not buried. She is out like a light on the floor. Her diamond bracelet glints in the moonlight.
I am still sitting up in my wet bed. Okay, I was wrong. Mrs Grunge is not buried in the garden. She is not dead. I made a mistake. But I grin. Something good has happened.
‘You spoke first,’ I say to my rotten worst-ever, wet-bla
nket brother.
Simon looks as if his face is going to fall off. He is so cut.
Well, after that everything is fantastic. The police come and arrest Mr and Mrs Grunge. Then they dig up their backyard. They find lots of jewellery and watches and video recorders. ‘We have been looking for these thieves for a long time,’ says the police chief. ‘There is a big reward. Two thousand dollars.’
Yes, TWO THOUSAND.
So I get the reward. And the fifty dollars as well. And my picture is in the paper and I am on television. Dad and Brook and Mum are so proud of me.
And just to top it all off, I never wet the bed again.
Yes, NEVER.
Backward Step
If you went back in time and stopped your
grandparents from meeting each other you
would never have been born.
But then if you had never been born you
wouldn’t be able to go back and stop them.
Would you?
‘John,’ said Mrs Booth to her five-year-old son. ‘You just sit there and watch “Inspector Gadget” on the TV while I go down the street and get some milk. I’ll be back by the time it’s over.’
‘I love “Inspector Gadget”,’ said John.
Mrs Booth reached the front gate and then stopped. She felt a little guilty, leaving her son alone in the house. But she knew he wouldn’t budge. Not for another twenty minutes. Not until the show was over.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Booth,’ said a voice.
She jumped in fright and then stared into the eyes of a teenage boy. He thrust an old exercise book into her hand. ‘Read this. Please, please, please read it.’
‘I’m not interested in buying …’ she began to say.
‘I’m not selling anything,’ he said. ‘And it’s not a religion. This is important. This can save your life. You’re in great danger. Please read it.’
‘Now?’ she said.
‘Right away. Please, it’s really important.’
There was something about the boy. He seemed very nervous. And she felt as if she knew him. The boy’s hands were shaking. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Just for a second.’ She gave a little sigh and opened the old exercise book.
1
I am fourteen. Nine years ago I was also fourteen. And nine years before that I was fourteen too.
It is creepy. It is weird. But I think I have figured it all out. It makes sense to me now. It is the only explanation. No one will believe me, of course. They will just say I am crazy.
Look – I’ll try and explain it to you as simply as I can. I’ve put one and one together and come up with two. Or should I say I’ve put nine and five together and come up with five.
No, no, no, that’s just talking in riddles. I’ll start at the beginning. Or is it the end?
Sorry, there I go again. Look, have you ever wanted strange powers? You know, to be able to fly or read thoughts or be very strong? I’ll bet you think it would be great. But think again. It could be dangerous. You could end up hurting yourself. Like I did.
I am famous. Yes, there wouldn’t be too many people around here who haven’t heard of me. I’ll bet you think it would be great to be famous. Pictures in the paper. On television. People wanting your autograph. That sort of thing.
It’s not really that good. You never know whether people want to be your friend because they like you or because you are well known. And then there are kids who get jealous and give you a hard time and push you around. I would rather be ordinary and have ordinary problems.
I became famous at five. They called me the boy from nowhere. There was a great fuss. It was in the papers. A five-year-old boy just suddenly appeared sitting in the back seat of the class. Right next to a girl called Sharon Coppersmith.
That boy was me.
Sharon Coppersmith screamed and screamed when I arrived. Or appeared. According to her I just popped out of nowhere. One minute the seat was empty. The next minute there was little old me. Five years old, sitting next to her in a history class.
All the big kids crowded around. They were glad to have something break up the lesson. They laughed and offered me lollies and made a great fuss. The teacher thought that I had wandered in from the street.
I just looked up and started crying. I was only five but I remember it just like it was yesterday. Who were all these big kids? Where was my Mummy? Where was the nice big boy who wanted to help me?
‘What’s your name, little fella?’ said the teacher.
For a while I couldn’t get a word out. I just sat there sobbing. In the end I managed to say, ‘John Boof, Firteen Tower Street, Upwey, seven five four, oh, oh, six two free free.’
‘John Booth,’ said the teacher. ‘13 Tower Street Upwey. Phone 754 006233. Well done. Don’t cry, little fella. We’ll have you home in no time.’
2
The principal’s office seemed huge. He wore a pair of those little half-moon glasses and kept peeping over them at me while he spoke into the phone. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘754 006233. No John Booth? Never heard of him. How long have you lived there? Three years. Well, sorry to have troubled you.’
I just kept licking the salty tears that were rolling down my cheek and wondering how I got there.
I had been watching ‘Inspector Gadget’ on television. I remember the man saying something like, ‘a brand new episode’. Then a big boy was talking to me. He just popped out of nowhere. He was nice. I was holding his hand and then ‘poof’, he was gone and there I was sitting in this school-room full of big kids. With everyone looking at me and wondering where I had come from.
‘Look,’ said the principal to his secretary. ‘Pop him in your car and see if he can show you where he lives. If he can’t find the place you’ll have to take him to the police station. His parents will come for him sooner or later.’
I knew that I didn’t have a father. But I didn’t know that my mother had died nine years earlier.
The secretary was nice. She strapped me into the seat next to her and gave me a little white bag with jelly-beans in it. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said. ‘We’ll soon find Mum. You just show me the way to go. All you have to do is point.’
She drove around for a bit and I thought I recognised some of the houses and places. But they were different. Looking back I can describe it as like being in a dream. The streets were the same but different.
‘There,’ I suddenly yelled. It was the water tower. I could see it in the distance. It was right next to our house.
‘What?’ said the nice lady. ‘The water tower? You couldn’t live there, love.’
‘Neks door,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’
There was only one house next to the water tower and it was my house. At least it was like my house. It had the same rock chimney and the same fountain in the front yard. But it was painted green instead of blue. And the trees were huge. And the chicken shed had gone. But it was still my house.
‘Mummy,’ I shouted. I had never been so happy in my life. I didn’t stop to think that you can’t paint a house in one day. And that trees can’t grow overnight. When you are five you think adults can do anything. I pelted up to the front door and ran inside. Then I just stopped and stared. Our furniture had gone. There was no television. My photo wasn’t on the wall.
‘Mummy,’ I screamed. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.’ I scampered into the kitchen. A very old lady looked down at me. Then she looked at the secretary who had followed me in and started to scream.
The old lady thought we had come to rob her.
After all, we had just walked into her house without even knocking.
3
Well, after a lot of talking, the secretary managed to calm the old lady down. They had a cup of tea and the old lady gave me some green cordial. ‘Mummy,’ I said. ‘I want my mummy.’ I didn’t know what this old lady was doing in our house. I didn’t know where my toys had gone. I didn’t like the new carpet and the photos of strange
people. I wanted everything to be like it was before. I also wanted to go to the toilet.
I ran upstairs, through the big bedroom and into the little toilet at the back. When I came back I heard the secretary saying, ‘How did he know where to go?’
The old lady just shook her head. None of us knew what was going on.
The secretary took me out to the car but I didn’t want to get in. I didn’t want to leave the house that was supposed to be my home. But the secretary was firm and she put me in the front seat. As we drove off she checked the house number. ‘13 Tower Street,’ she said to herself with a puzzled look.
The police were puzzled too. ‘We’ll look him up on our computer,’ said the sergeant. ‘His parents have probably reported him missing by now.’
He tapped away for several minutes. Then he scratched his head and just sat there staring at the screen. ‘There is a John Booth missing,’ he said. ‘He disappeared nine years ago, aged five. That would make him fourteen by now.’
‘Well, this little boy is not fourteen,’ said the secretary. She squatted down and looked into my eyes. ‘Are you, John?’
‘I’m five,’ I said.
The sergeant tapped for a while longer. ‘The missing boy lived around here,’ he said. ‘13 Tower Street.’ He crouched down and patted me on the head. ‘Where were you when you lost your mum?’ he asked kindly.
‘Watching “Inspector Gadget”,’ I said.
‘Is that still on?’ said the secretary.
The sergeant rummaged through a newspaper. ‘No channel has “Inspector Gadget” on,’ he said. ‘Not any time this week.’
‘Maybe he’s from another state,’ said the secretary.
The sergeant went off for a while and the secretary tried to read me a story. But I didn’t want it. I only wanted my mother. Finally the sergeant returned. ‘I rang Channel Two,’ he said. ‘ “Inspector Gadget” is showing in fifteen countries but nowhere in Australia. The nearest place is New Zealand.’
‘Maybe he’s a Kiwi,’ said the secretary.
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