They were all terrified.
Even Mr Birtle.
The appendix was leaping up and down inside the jar, banging against the lid. It sounded like bullets from a crazy machine-gun. The lid trembled under the strain.
Trevor rushed over and grabbed the jar. The appendix fell still. It circled quietly in its fluid. Content.
Trevor smiled at it. Happy. ‘You’ll never leave me,’ he said. ‘Never.’
Mr Birtle strode to the front of the class. ‘I’ll have to take that, Trevor,’ he said, snatching the jar. ‘Something strange is going on. This could be dangerous.’
‘Okay,’ said Trevor with a grin. ‘If that’s what you want.’ He turned and walked to the door. The class started to scream in panic as the appendix once again drilled away at the lid.
‘Come back,’ shouted Mr Birtle. He thrust the jar into Trevor’s hands.
‘Thanks,’ said Trevor. The appendix circled happily. ‘We must be together,’ said Trevor.
Just then the bell rang and the class headed out for lunch. ‘You wait here, Trevor,’ said Mr Birtle. ‘I’m going to get the principal.’
4
Trevor looked at his appendix. ‘They are going to take you away,’ he said. ‘They won’t let you stay with me, that’s for sure.’
The appendix bobbed up and down. It seemed to agree.
‘We have to get out of here,’ said Trevor. ‘We must always be together.’ He clasped the jar to his chest and sneaked down the stairs. He crept along the corridor and out of the back door.
Suddenly a hand fell on his shoulder. It was Mr Birtle and the principal.
‘I’ll have that,’ said the principal. He grabbed the jar from Trevor’s shaking hands.
Straight away the appendix began to drill up and down at the lid. It hammered so fast that it was just a blur inside the bottle.
‘Get it out of the school,’ yelled Mr Birtle. ‘It could attack the children.’
‘No,’ screamed Trevor. ‘Give it back. Give it back.’
Mr Birtle grabbed Trevor by the arms and held him tight.
‘Come back, come back,’ screamed Trevor. But it was no use. His appendix had gone.
The principal ran for it, carrying the vibrating jar in his trembling fingers.
He threw the jar onto the back seat of his car and sped out of the school gate.
The principal’s hands shook on the steering wheel. He looked over his shoulder at the appendix which was furiously attacking the lid of the jar.
At any moment the top might burst. What then? The whole thing could explode like a bomb.
He jammed his foot on the brake pedal. Then he grabbed the jar and placed it on the footpath.
Shaking with fear, the principal jumped into his car and hurtled down the street.
He stopped again and looked over his shoulder.
The jar suddenly exploded.
The appendix shot into the air. It turned over and over like a drunken bird.
The appendix was free.
5
Back at the school Trevor struggled to get away from Mr Birtle. But the teacher was too strong. Trevor fought like a wild thing but it was no good. He couldn’t slip out of Mr Birtle’s iron grip.
Suddenly his body slumped. Lifeless. He drooped like a rag doll in Mr Birtle’s arms. Mr Birtle lowered him to the floor. He placed his ear to Trevor’s chest. Then he rushed to the cupboard for a rug.
Trevor leapt up and sprinted out of the school. His trick had worked. He was free.
Free to find his appendix.
And the appendix was free to find him. It slithered along the empty footpath like a wet, foul mouse.
There was not a person to be seen. Only a cat. A large ginger cat. It saw the appendix and it liked what it saw. With one quick spring the cat jumped down from its perch on a fence.
It landed right in front of the appendix.
The appendix stopped.
The cat crouched low.
The appendix quivered. The cat dabbed at the wobbling shape. Its paw seemed to stick to the appendix.
The cat gave three terrified squeals.
‘Miaow, miaow, miaow.’
Then it vanished into the appendix.
Sucked up like a rag into a vacuum cleaner. It disappeared as easily and noisily as jelly slurped up a straw. The appendix shivered and continued its journey. It was no bigger. It was no smaller. But it had eaten the cat.
Suddenly the appendix started squealing.
‘Miaow, miaow, miaow.’
The appendix copied the cat’s last cries. Down the street it went, squealing in a tiny voice.
‘Miaow, miaow, miaow,’ it squealed.
The appendix rounded a corner and stopped again. An angry dog barred the way. It yapped and flapped and circled the bit of slimy gut that quivered before it.
Suddenly the appendix moved. In a flash it leapt up and fixed itself to the dog’s ear. The dog yelped in agony. It tried to shake off the appendix.
‘Ruff, ruff, ruff.’
Too late it realised its mistake.
The appendix slurped.
And sucked up the dog without so much as a burp. The dog was gone. Vanished. And the appendix, still small and foul, slithered on its way.
‘Ruff, ruff, ruff,’ yipped the appendix. It copied its last meal’s voice. Over and over.
‘Ruff, ruff, ruff.’
It seemed to enjoy the sound of the dog it had eaten for dinner.
Across the road slithered the awful piece of slime. Under a car and down a drain. It seemed to know where it was going.
It did know where it was going.
It was heading for Trevor.
By now, Trevor had run a long way from the school. He panted and looked behind him. There was no one following. He had escaped. But he was out of breath. His head hurt. His hands were damp with sweat.
But he felt a little better.
Somehow he knew that the appendix was on its way. It would never leave him. He sat down in the gutter and waited.
Next to a drain.
‘Squeak, squeak, squeak.’ A tiny cry. The appendix slithered out of the drain, still imitating its last meal. A meal that it had met in the drain. A rat that had been just a little too curious.
Trevor smiled when he saw the appendix. ‘We must always be together,’ he said.
The appendix seemed to agree. It slithered up Trevor’s leg. Over his jumper. Up his neck. On to his chin.
Trevor opened his mouth very wide.
‘We must always be together,’ he said.
There was a gulp.
And they were.
‘And that,’ says the new teacher, ‘is the end of my story.’
A shiver goes down my spine. I wish I could stop peering at the thing in the jar.
All the kids in the class sit and stare in silence at the jar on Mr Denton’s desk. The horrible grey thing circles silently in the yellow fluid.
‘What do you think?’ says Mr Denton.
The kids are feeling a bit sick. It’s a good story but not one to cheer you up. Everyone claps politely just as the bell rings. The class files out for lunch but no one walks anywhere near the horrible grey thing in the jar.
I hang back until they are all gone. I want to talk to the new teacher about his story.
‘There is one thing wrong with that story,’ I say.
‘Yes?’ says Mr Denton.
‘If that appendix was swallowed by Trevor,’ I say ‘how come it is still in the jar on your desk?’
Mr Denton scratches his chin. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he says. ‘It is a bit of a weakness in the story. But I can’t tell you what really happened.’
‘Why not?’ I say.
‘It was too horrible,’ he says.
‘You can tell me,’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ says Mr Denton. ‘But you would never believe me anyway.’
‘It’s only a story,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ says Mr Denton.
He smiles at me and goes off for lunch.
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.
I decide to take off the lid and have a good look. The lid is on tight. I can’t budge it. I pull open Mr Denton’s desk drawer and find a rag.
I twist the top of the jar with the rag and it starts to move. I twist and twist until finally the lid is off.
I look inside the jar. The slimy bit of flesh does not move.
Not at first.
Then, slowly, horribly, it slides out of the jar.
It speaks in the words of its last meal.
‘We must always be together,’ it says in a tiny voice.
‘We must always be together.’
Clear as Mud
I’m undone.
Yes, I know. I’m a fink. A rat. A creep. Nobody likes Eric Mud and it’s all my own fault.
But I don’t deserve this.
I look in the mirror and see a face that is not a face.
I peel back my gloves and see a hand that is not a hand.
I pull off my socks and see feet that are not feet.
I look down my pants and see… No, I’m not going to describe that sight.
Oh, merciful heavens. Please, please. I don’t deserve this.
Do I?
1
It all began with Osborn. The nerd.
See, he was a brain box. He always did his homework. He played the piano. He collected insects. The teachers liked him. You know the type.
I spotted him on his first day at school. A new kid. All alone on the end of the bench. Trying not to look worried. Pretending to be interested in what was inside his bright yellow lunch box. Making out that he wasn’t worried about sitting by himself.
‘Look at it,’ I jeered. ‘The poor little thing. It’s got a lovely lunch box. With a bandaid on it. Has it hurt itself?’
The silly creep looked around the schoolyard. He saw everyone eating out of brown paper bags. No one in this school ever ate out of a lunch box. Especially one with the owner’s name written on a bandaid.
Osborn went red. ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘I’m Nigel Osborn. I’m new here.’
He even held out his hand. What a wimp. I just turned around and walked off. I would have given him a few other things to think about but my mate Simmons had seen something else interesting.
‘Look,’ yelled Simmons. ‘A parka. There’s a dag down on the oval wearing a parka.’
We hurried off to stir up the wimp in the parka. And after that we had a bit of fun with a kid covered in pimples.
A few days went by and still Osborn had no friends. Simmons and I made sure of that. One day after school we grabbed him and made him miss his bus. Another time we pinched his glasses and flushed them down the loo.
I never missed a chance to make Osborn’s life miserable. He wandered around the schoolyard like a bee in a garden of dead flowers. Completely alone.
Until the day he found the beetle.
2
‘A credit to the whole school,’ said old Kempy, the school Principal. ‘Nigel Osborn has brought honour to us, to the town. In fact to the whole nation.’
I couldn’t understand what he was raving about. It was only a beetle. And here was the school Principal going on as if Osborn had invented ice cream.
Kempy droned on. ‘This is not just a beetle,’ he said. ‘This is a new beetle. A new species. It has never before been recorded.’ He waved the jar at the kids. What a bore.
Everyone except me peered into the jar.
‘It is an ant-eating beetle,’ said Kempy. ‘It eats live ants.’ He looked over at me. ‘Eric Mud, pay attention,’ he said.
I just yawned loudly and picked my teeth.
At that very moment the beetle grabbed one of the ants that was crawling on the inside wall of the jar. The beetle pushed the ant into its small mouth. It disappeared – legs twitching as it went.
Osborn stood there staring at his shoes, pretending to be modest. What a nerve. He needed to be put back in his box.
But that would have to wait. Old Kempy was still droning on. He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘This species will probably be named after Nigel Osborn,’ he said. ‘Necrophorus Osborn.’
‘Necrophorus Nerd Head,’ I whispered loudly. A few kids laughed.
Kempy when on with his speech. ‘This is the only beetle of its type ever seen. An expert from the museum is coming to fetch it tomorrow. Until then it will be locked in the science room. No one is to enter that room without permission. It would be a tragedy if this beetle were to be lost.’
My mind started to tick over.
A tragedy, eh?
Well, well, well.
3
It was midnight. Dark clouds killed the moon. I wrapped my fist in a towel and smashed it through the window. The sound of broken glass tinkled across the science room floor.
Once inside I flashed a beam of light along the shelves. ‘Where are you, beetle? Where are you, little Nerd Head?’ I whispered. ‘Come to Daddy.’
It was harder than I thought. The science room was crammed with animals in bottles. Snakes, lizards, spiders. There were so many dead creatures that it was hard to find the live one I wanted.
But then I saw it. On the top shelf. A large jar containing a beetle and some ants.
I reached up and then froze. Somewhere in the distance a key turned in a lock. The security guard. Strike. I couldn’t get caught. Old Kempy had already warned me. One more bit of trouble and he would kick me out of the school.
I scrambled out of the window. A jagged piece of glass cut my leg. It hurt like crazy but I didn’t care. Pain never worries me. I’m not a wimp like Osborn. I ran across the oval and into the dark shadows of the night.
I held the beetle jar above my head. I had done it.
Back home in the safety of my bedroom I examined my prize. The beetle sat still. Watching. Waiting. It was covered in crazy colours – red, green and gold – with black legs. It was about the size of a coat button.
I looked at the ants. They didn’t know what was in store for them. Beetle food.
They were queer-looking ants too. I had never seen any like them before. They were sort of clear. You could see right through them. The beetle suddenly grabbed one and ate it. Right in front of my eyes.
It was funny really. This was the only one of these beetles that had ever been found. This could be the last specimen. There might be no more in the world. And in the morning I was going to flush it down the loo. What a joke.
But the next day I changed my mind. There was no hurry. I shoved the jar in the cupboard and went to school.
I played it real cool. I didn’t tell anybody what I had done. You never know who you can trust these days.
Old Kempy was not too pleased. In fact he was as mad as a hornet. He gathered the whole school together in the assembly hall.
‘Last night,’ he said slowly, ‘someone broke into the science room and stole our beetle.’ His eyes roved over the heads of all the kids. He stopped when he reached me. He stared into my eyes. But I just stared back. He couldn’t prove a thing. He was just an old bore.
But his next words weren’t boring. Not at all. ‘The School Council,’ he said, ‘is offering a reward of two hundred dollars for information which leads to the arrest of the thief. Or two hundred dollars for another specimen. Nigel Osborn’s beetle was found in the National Park. Any beetle hunters should search there.’
Old Kempy looked at Osborn. ‘You needn’t worry, Nigel,’ he said. ‘We have photos. The new species will still be named after you.’
Rats. The little wimp was still going to be famous.
I walked home slowly. An idea started to form in my head. What if I kept the beetle for a few weeks? Then I would pretend I found another one in the Na
tional Park. No one would know the difference. And I would be famous. They might even name it after me. Necrophorus Mud.
I raced home and grabbed the jar. The ants were gone. Eaten alive.
I tipped the beetle onto the table and picked it up. Its little legs waved helplessly at the ceiling. This was the beetle that was making Osborn famous. I didn’t like that beetle. I gave it a squeeze.
And it bit me.
4
I yelled and dropped the beetle on the floor. I was mad. ‘You rotten little…’ I said. I lifted up a boot to squash the stupid thing. Then I remembered the two-hundred-dollar reward. I scooped the beetle up and put it back in the jar.
I jumped into bed but couldn’t sleep. My finger throbbed where the beetle had bitten me. I had a nightmare. I dreamed that I was the pane of glass in the science room window. And that someone with a towel around their fist punched a hole right through me.
I screamed and sat up in bed. It was morning.
My hand throbbed like crazy. I held it up in front of my face. I couldn’t believe what I saw.
A cold wave of fear grabbed my guts. My legs trembled. My heart missed a beat.
I could see right into my finger. From the middle knuckle right down to the tip of my nail was clear. Transparent.
The bones. The tendons. The nerves and blood vessels. I could see them all. It was as if the flesh of my fingertip had changed into clear plastic.
I rubbed my eyes with my other hand. I shook my head. This was a nightmare. ‘Let it be a dream,’ I moaned. I rushed to the sink and splashed my face with cold water. Then I looked again.
It was still there.
I was a freak with a see-through finger. I felt faint. The room seemed to wobble around me.
No one in the world had a see-through finger. Kids would laugh. Sneer. Joke about me. People are like that. Pick on anyone who is different.
I couldn’t tell a soul. Not my old man. Not my old lady. And especially not Simmons. I couldn’t trust him an inch. He would turn on me for sure.
Breakfast was hard to eat with gloves on but I managed it. Then I headed off for school. I stumbled along the road hardly knowing where I was going. I was so upset that I didn’t even feel like stirring Jug Ears Jensen. And I hardly noticed the sheila with the pimples. I didn’t even have the heart to give a bit of stick to the kid in the parka.
Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories Page 14