Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  Inside the pipe I could see grass and straw and bits of chewed-up paper.

  The rat had been protecting its nest. My heart slowed. The blood seemed to run backwards in my veins. I carefully moved the top layer of grass with my crowbar.

  ‘Please,’ I prayed. ‘Please don’t let there be…’

  It’s funny that moment when you realise you have just done something terrible. Something you cannot take back. A deed that you can’t undo. You remember. It burns into your brains. And stays there for ever. Somehow I just knew that the rat was a mother. I had just lost my own. I knew what it felt like to be motherless.

  I pulled apart the straw. There in the nest, was a helpless, hairless piece of living flesh. The eyelids were still unopened. Thin, veined membranes stretched across its tiny eyes. It moved one leg feebly. It reminded me of a tiny wind-up toy that can only make the same squirming movement over and over again.

  What do you call a baby rat? A rattling? I didn’t know.

  ‘Ratty,’ I said in a whispered voice.

  6

  I felt ashamed for killing Ratty’s mother.

  How could I make it up to this helpless creature? I knew what Dad would do. The tiny rat would not last more than a few seconds once he returned. Especially when he found out that the bilbies were dead.

  I cradled Ratty in the palm of my hand to keep her warm. I stumbled across the clearing to the house and rushed into my bedroom. I found a small cardboard box and filled it with fluffed-up tissues. Then I put Ratty inside.

  What do baby rats need? Milk. Mother’s milk. And I didn’t have a drop of it.

  I yanked open the fridge and grabbed some cow’s milk. It was cold. Too cold. I poured some into a cup and warmed it in the microwave for a few seconds. I searched in the medicine cabinet and found a small eyedropper. Just the thing. I hoped.

  I drew a few drops of milk into the eye dropper and placed the end in Ratty’s mouth. The tiny creature sucked. I couldn’t believe it. Even though she was blind and helpless, she could still suck.

  But how much should I give it? And how often? After a few drops Ratty seemed to tire of the effort. Milk ran down her hairless little chin. Goosebumps were standing out on her skin.

  I quickly covered her up with some tissues – to keep her warm.

  A friendly sound drifted across the clearing. Before I even realised what it was a feeling of dread ran down my spine. It was the putt, putt putting of Dad’s dinghy.

  I watched him tie up to the jetty and begin to drag a roll of wire towards the bungalow. Then he glanced towards the bilby hutch. He dropped the wire and started running.

  He burst through the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. ‘I thought I told you not to leave the hutch. What happened?’

  ‘A rat killed Breeze,’ I said with a shaking voice. ‘And ate the babies.’

  ‘Why did you leave her unprotected?’ said Dad. I could tell he was trying to control his temper.

  ‘My hat blew into the river,’ I said softly. ‘I had to go and get it.’

  There was a long, silent pause. Then he exploded. ‘Do you know what you’ve done? We have one bilby left on the mainland. One. This is the end of the line. There are not going to be any more Eastern Bilbies. All because of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. But Mum’s hat…’

  At that moment Dad lost it. He just freaked out. ‘Your hat. Your stupid hat. I’m sick of it. What about all the things I’ve given you over the years? Can’t you think about anything else? Breeze is dead.’

  His eyes fell on the cardboard box in my hand.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A baby rat,’ I said. ‘I killed the mother and then I found her in the nest.’

  ‘Hand it over,’ said Dad. ‘Now. You know what has to happen, Jason.’

  ‘Her name is Ratty,’ I said. ‘And you’re not getting her.’

  I turned and ran. Straight down the beach to the water’s edge. Dad was right behind me. He had me trapped. I turned to face him.

  7

  Behind me was the sea, grey and threatening. The choppy surface gave no hint of the terrors beneath. Or the beauty. Butterfly fish and rainbow eels. And sharks. And crocodiles.

  In front of me was my furious father.

  The wind tugged at my hat. I made a quick grab at the brim with one hand and pulled it further on to my head. I needed both hands to keep Ratty’s box from tipping and sending her into the water.

  ‘Give me that rat,’ said Dad. ‘This is no joke, Jason. You’ve seen what a rat can do. You saw Breeze dead and stiff. Her babies eaten.’

  ‘Ratty is a pet,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep her in a cage. I’ll never let her out. I promise. Please let me keep her.’

  ‘That is not a pet, Jason. That is vermin. That rat will never be tame. It will grow up to be a killer like its mother.’

  I looked down into the frail cardboard box at the helpless creature squirming in the straw. It wasn’t a rat to me. It was Ratty. It had a name.

  ‘I love her,’ I shrieked. ‘You’re not getting her.’

  ‘Hand it over, Jason,’ said Dad. He took a step forward.

  I shook my head and began to walk backwards into the water. Quickly it covered my ankles and then my knees. Dad followed.

  This was crazy. The world was mad. Dad would do anything to save a bilby or a crocodile or even a snake. Because they were natives and they belonged. But he could kill a pig or rabbit or a cane toad because they didn’t.

  I knew he would kill Ratty. And deep down in my heart I knew he might be right.

  But I was only a boy and you can’t always do what is right. And maybe sometimes what seems right is really wrong. How can you be sure?

  I was trapped. If I fled out to sea Ratty and I would both drown.

  I put the small cardboard box on the surface of the water. For a minute it floated safely. But then the water began to soak through and I knew it would sink.

  I had to give Ratty a chance. I had a choice. A terrible choice.

  What is more important? A thing or a life? It is hard to decide, even when the thing has a million memories.

  I put the rat in the hat.

  Very gently I lowered Ratty onto the surface of the water. An Akubra hat floats. I already knew that.

  The breeze was blowing strongly off-shore. The hat began to move quickly out to sea.

  Mum’s hat, my beloved mum’s hat, began to bob out to sea.

  Okay, Ratty didn’t have much of a chance. The hat would probably tip over. Or a seagull or bird of prey might swoop down and eat the poor creature. Even if the hat washed up on an island there was no one to feed a blind, baby rat. But a tiny chance was better than no chance. Dad would kill Ratty like any other piece of vermin, that was for sure.

  Suddenly I heard a strangled cry. Dad looked as if he was about to choke.

  ‘You care that much,’ he whispered. ‘You’d give up the hat for the rat.’

  I nodded. I knew my eyes were filled with tears. Tears of love and hate and anger.

  Without a word Dad bent over and pulled off his shoes. Then he ripped off his shirt and dived into the water. He began swimming furiously out to sea, towards the distant hat. His arms churned like crazy propellers.

  ‘Come back,’ I screamed. ‘Come back.’

  I wanted to go after him.

  But I couldn’t swim.

  Suddenly Ratty didn’t seem to matter so much. Neither did the hat. Dad was risking his life in the crocodile-infested waters. Was it to save the hat? Was it to save Ratty? What? What?

  Now only one thing seemed to matter. My father. I imagined huge jaws and sharp teeth. Box jellyfish. Nameless horrors.

  Dad was a good swimmer. His splashing figure grew smaller and smaller until I could barely see him.

  ‘Come back, come back,’ I cried.

  I strained my eyes trying to understand the story that was unfolding.

  Yes, yes. He was coming bac
k. And what was that? Oh, he was wearing the hat. That’s why he had gone. To save my hat. He had tipped Ratty into the water. To drown.

  These are some things you have to face up to. A father is more important than a rat. Dad was still in danger. At any moment he might disappear beneath the waves. Pulled into the deep. Would he end up as just a brief red smudge in the ocean?

  I bit my fists until they started to bleed.

  Finally Dad staggered ashore. Water dripped from his sodden jeans.

  We stared at each other for seconds that seemed to go on for ever.

  ‘I saved your hat,’ said Dad.

  I nodded, sad and grateful. ‘It’s okay, dad,’ I said. ‘I understand. About Ratty, I mean.’

  Slowly Dad took the hat off his head. There, tangled up in his hair was a tiny, squirming creature.

  ‘Ratty,’ I screamed.

  Dad straightened up and stepped backwards.

  ‘You know,’ said Dad. ‘When a rat kills a bilby it is not pleasant. Especially when it steals the babies and eats them.’

  ‘I already know all that,’ I shrieked. ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  ‘But I’m still going to let you keep it.’ Dad bent his head down and let me take Ratty from his hair.

  For a fraction of a second our eyes met. Using no words. But saying everything.

  I held Ratty in my fist, trying to warm her up.

  Dad opened my shaking fingers and stared at his enemy for the first time. He seemed to be going through some terrible struggle. His lips moved but no words came out.

  ‘You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’ I croaked.

  ‘Jason,’ he cried. ‘This isn’t a rat. This is the rat’s supper. It’s a baby bilby. And if we’re quick I think we can save her.’

  We both turned and ran back towards the house.

  I ran so fast that my hat flew off my head.

  I just let it go.

  Some things in life are more important than a hat. The hard bit is figuring out what they are.

  That’s what I reckon anyway.

  Sucked In

  The jar has something floating around inside it. Something awful. Something grey and fleshy. Something foul. Something not alive but not dead either.

  A shiver goes down my spine. I wish I could stop peering at the thing in the jar.

  But I can’t.

  The other kids are staring too. Every eye looks at the jar on the desk.

  ‘Okay,’ says the new teacher. ‘Write a story about this.’

  A groan goes up.

  The thing in the jar is just another way of getting us to write stories while the teacher cleans out the cupboard.

  He probably made it out of a bit of leather or something.

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ says Mary Jo.

  ‘Neither can I,’ says Helen Chung.

  I couldn’t think of anything either.

  Mr Denton gives a grin. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I will make up a story first. That will give you an idea of the sort of thing I want. Then you can have a go.’

  This sounds much better.

  We all settle down to listen to Mr Denton. But we don’t look at him.

  We gaze at the thing in the jar. It floats there, silently.

  Mr Denton begins his story.

  1

  Trevor knew that the man in the green coat was going to stick a knife into him. Well, a scalpel anyway. He was going to cut open Trevor’s belly and take out his appendix.

  ‘What do you do with them?’ asked Trevor as he lay on the operating table.

  ‘With what?’ said the doctor.

  ‘Appendixes and tonsils and things. After you cut them out.’

  ‘Burn them,’ said the doctor. ‘In an incinerator.’

  ‘I want to keep mine,’ said Trevor. ‘I don’t want you to burn it.’

  The doctor looked at the nurse from behind his mask. He wasn’t too sure what to say. The nurse nodded. ‘Okay,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll put it in a jar for you.’

  He pricked Trevor’s arm with a needle and the room started to spin.

  ‘Good,’ mumbled Trevor, just before everything turned black. ‘We must always be together – me and my appendix.’

  When Trevor woke up he had stitches across his belly. And a jar next to his bed with something grey and fleshy floating inside it.

  Even though his stomach hurt he gave a grin. His appendix might be out. But it wasn’t gone.

  He picked up the jar and stared at it. ‘You’re never leaving me,’ he said. ‘Never. We must always be together.’

  2

  When he got home from hospital Trevor put the jar in a safe place and went up to his room.

  He took off his dressing-gown and climbed into bed. Then he snuggled down and closed his eyes.

  He was just starting to drift off to sleep when a terrible scream came from the kitchen.

  Trevor hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could. He found his mother staring into the fridge.

  ‘What’s up?’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m not having that revolting appendix in there,’ said his mother. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  ‘It’s not disgusting. It’s part of me. Just like my eyes and brains and that. If you don’t like my appendix you don’t like me.’

  ‘What have you put it in the fridge for?’ she said.

  ‘So it doesn’t go bad,’ said Trevor.

  ‘It won’t go bad, Trevor. It’s in formalin. The liquid preserves it.’

  Trevor looked at the appendix jar. ‘It’s best to be on the safe side,’ he said. ‘It’s part of me. I can’t let anything happen to it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going in the fridge,’ said his mother. ‘Someone might think it’s a pickle and eat it.’

  Trevor nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We couldn’t have that. Are you sure it won’t go bad?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said his mum.

  ‘Good,’ said Trevor. ‘I’ll be able to take it to school with me then. Me and my appendix. We must always be together.’

  His mum just sighed and shook her head.

  3

  So the appendix went to school.

  Trevor dumped the jar down on his desk. Everyone stopped talking.

  Every eye looked at the jar. Some kids gasped. But most kids just stared. They stared and stared and stared. None of them could stop looking at it.

  The jar had something floating around in it. Something awful. Something grey and fleshy. Something foul. Something not alive but not dead either.

  A shiver went down every spine. Every spine except Trevor’s.

  ‘It’s my appendix,’ he said. ‘Where I go it goes.’

  The class was amazed. No one had ever seen an appendix before.

  ‘You’d better leave this on my desk, Trevor,’ said his teacher, Mr Birtle. ‘No one seems to be able to stop looking at it. We’ll never get any work done this way.’

  Actually it was Mr Birtle who couldn’t stop looking at the jar. He seemed to be mesmerised by it.

  ‘Are you sure this is an appendix, Trevor? I could swear that it was alive. I thought I saw it move.’

  Everyone stared at the appendix. It swirled slowly in the yellow liquid.

  ‘Go down to the library, Trevor, and ask for an anatomy book,’ said Mr Birtle. ‘I want to see just what an appendix looks like.’

  Trevor didn’t really want to go. He didn’t want to leave his appendix behind.

  As he walked slowly down the stairs his hands began to feel sweaty. His heart thumped loudly. His head hurt.

  He wanted to turn around and run back to the class. He wanted to grab his jar and hold it close to his face. ‘We must always be together,’ he said to himself. He hurried to the library and started to search for an anatomy book.

  Back in the classroom Mr Birtle gasped. The appendix was definitely moving around. Like an angry goldfish, it circled inside the jar.

  And in the library Trevor also circled between the shelv
es like an angry goldfish.

  Finally he found what he was looking for. He grabbed the anatomy book and rushed back to the classroom.

  Mr Birtle looked up as Trevor entered. ‘It’s angry,’ he said to Trevor. ‘It’s swimming around and around.’

  Trevor rushed over to the jar and peered in. The appendix just floated there. Hardly moving.

  A strange look came over Mr Birtle’s face. ‘It was moving,’ he said. ‘It stopped when you came back. Go and stand outside the door, Trevor.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Trevor. ‘I don’t want to leave it. We must always be together.’

  Mr Birtle tightened his lips. ‘It doesn’t want you to leave either,’ he said. ‘Go and stand outside the door – it’s only for a moment.’

  Trevor did as he was told.

  He left the room and stood outside. His hands were sweaty. His head hurt. His heart pumped heavily.

  He stared in the window and gasped.

  The appendix was rushing around inside the jar. It was leaping out of the yellow formalin like a trout on a fisherman’s line.

  The students all took several steps backwards. They were scared. Something weird was happening.

  Trevor rushed back in and grabbed the jar. Straight away the appendix calmed down and simply floated in the formalin.

  ‘We’ll give it one more try,’ said Mr Birtle. ‘Trevor, I want you to go outside, cross the road and go into the milk bar. Count to twenty and then come back.’

  Trevor put down the jar and walked slowly out of the door. He trembled as he made his way across the road. The further away he got the worse his head hurt. He wrung his wet hands together. He put his hand on his thumping heart. With shaking legs he walked into the shop and closed the door behind him.

  A roar came from the school as thirty people screamed out together.

  Trevor didn’t even feel his feet touch the ground. He almost flew back to the classroom.

  ‘We must be together,’ he screamed.

  He fell into the room. Everyone was out of their seat. Backing away from the appendix in horror.