Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Fifty steps each.’

  We trudged on. This time I only managed forty-seven steps. I just couldn’t go one more. My arm felt like it was falling off.

  Pepper looked at this watch. ‘Four o’clock,’ he said.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yep. We’re never going to get to the station by six. We’re not even half way.’

  The moon peeped out for a second and we stared down into the bucket. The crayfish was moving very slowly. Very slowly indeed.

  ‘We’ve only got two choices,’ I said. ‘We can cut across country. That will save at least an hour. We can still make the train by six.’

  We both looked into the black forest. There were strange noises. And rustling. You couldn’t see more than a couple of metres at the most.

  ‘What’s the other choice?’ said Pepper.

  I looked him full in the face. All I could see of his eyes were two small points of light. ‘We tip out some of the water to make the bucket lighter.’

  3

  The bushes were so close together that we had to push through with our legs. Soon we were scratched and bleeding. We were down to ten steps each with the bucket. It seemed to get heavier by the minute. But we couldn’t tip any water out. We just couldn’t.

  ‘They get oxygen from the water,’ said Pepper. ‘When it’s all used up it will die.’

  I couldn’t see into the bucket because it was so dark. But I just had a feeling that old crayfish wasn’t moving much at all.

  On we went. Up and down. Round and round. Sore feet. Aching arms. Stumbling, mumbling and moaning. The sun started to colour the morning sky. I was glad because it meant that we could see where we were going. But I was sad because it meant something else, too.

  ‘We’re not going to make it,’ I said. ‘It’s ten to six.’

  ‘Yes we are,’ yelled Pepper. There were tears of anger in his eyes. ‘I’m not going to let it die. Not after all this.’ He grabbed the bucket and started to run.

  ‘Don’t,’ I yelled.

  But it was too late. He stumbled and fell. The bucket lurched and splashed and fell from his hand. Pepper grabbed at it and sat it up straight. But it was too late. Nearly all the water was gone. There was just enough to cover the back of the crayfish. One feeler waved gently. That was the only movement that it made.

  We both flopped down onto the dry ground. We knew it was hopeless. We would never get to the station now. And there was something else, too. Something very bad.

  ‘We’re lost,’ I said to Pepper. ‘Lost in the bush.’

  4

  The summer sun rose high in the sky. The three of us lay still in the shade of the drooping gum trees. Me, Pepper and the crayfish. We were on the side of a hill. All around was thick bush except for one spot. A rock jutted out like a bald patch on the top of a monk’s head.

  ‘There’s only one rule to keep when you’re lost,’ I said.

  Pepper nodded. ‘Stay put,’ he said. ‘Wait until they come and find you.’

  Blowflies buzzed. Cicadas sang their chirping songs. The minutes and hours crawled by. A thought kept coming into my mind. I pushed it down but it kept coming back. I wondered if Pepper was thinking the same thing.

  He was. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he said.

  We both looked at the bucket.

  ‘We can’t,’ I said. ‘We just can’t. It would be murder.’

  Pepper just nodded his head and flopped back against the tree. He didn’t look too good. His eyes were rolling around in his head.

  I looked into the bucket. It was hard to tell if the crayfish was alive or dead. Its little beady eyes seemed to stare up at me from the ends of their stalks. One of its legs moved feebly. ‘Don’t,’ it seemed to be saying. ‘Please don’t.’

  Another hour went by. My tongue was like a piece of dry stick in my mouth. My lips were cracked. The day grew hotter and hotter. Flies buzzed around the bucket. Pepper lay stretched out, hardly breathing. I picked up the bucket and took it over to him. ‘Drink,’ I said.

  Every fifteen minutes we scooped out two handfuls each. It was the crayfish or us. We had no choice.

  In the end there was no water left. The crayfish lay still in the empty bucket. I picked it up. ‘It’s warm,’ I said. ‘Dead as a doornail.’

  I pulled a branch from a tree and dropped leaves down over the crayfish so that we couldn’t see its lifeless body.

  Two hours later a plane circled overhead. We waved and yelled and shouted from the bald rock. Something fell from the plane. A tiny speck that grew larger as it tumbled towards us.

  ‘Run,’ I screamed. We bolted for cover under the tree just as the package thumped down onto the rock.

  We undid the straps and tore away the plastic cover. There was water, and chocolate and tins of fruit and a huge piece of cake. And a note. ‘DON’T MOVE,’ it said. ‘WE WILL COME AND GET YOU.’

  There were five bottles of water all together. After we had drunk as much as we could I went over to the crayfish. I looked up at Pepper and he nodded. I sprinkled a little water onto the crayfish’s back. But it was no good. There’s no coming back from the dead. Not for a crayfish, anyway.

  ‘I feel guilty,’ said Pepper.

  I nodded my head. I knew exactly what he meant.

  5

  Well, the rescue party arrived. Dad was there. So was Pepper’s mother. It was a tearful reunion. There was a lot of hugging and kissing and crying. Especially when we told them about how we had been trying to save the crayfish.

  Dad just shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. ‘You donkeys,’ he said. ‘You soft donkeys.’

  It wasn’t far back to the road. We had done the right thing by staying put.

  Pepper and I jumped into the back of Dad’s Land Rover and we headed for town.

  We went straight past the fish shop. Straight through town. And out into open country. ‘Where are we going?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve talked to Pepper’s Mum,’ said Dad. ‘And we’ve both agreed. We’re taking that crayfish back to the sea.’

  ‘But it’s dead,’ I said.

  Dad smiled. ‘We’ll take it back anyway,’ said Dad. ‘It’s only right.’

  Four hours and three ice-creams later we stood on a lonely beach. The water lapped the golden sand gently. The sea was blue and welcoming. Dad took the crayfish out of the bucket. He looked at it and pulled up a bit of its shell.

  ‘Don’t,’ I yelled.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Dad. He fiddled around for a bit. Then he put the crayfish down on the sand. Suddenly it started to crawl towards the sea. Its legs went like crazy. It was really going for it. In a second it had reached the shore and vanished into the salty water.

  I put down the diary and stare at Dad and Gramps.

  It was a good story.

  But.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ says Gramps.

  ‘It couldn’t be true,’ I say. ‘There is something that does not make sense.’

  They both smile at me.

  ‘What?’ says Dad.

  ‘The crayfish went back into the sea. Right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So the water in the bucket must have been salt water. Crayfish need salt water. So you and Pepper couldn’t have drunk it. And anyway. The crayfish was dead.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Gramps. ‘I didn’t tell your dad the truth for a long time. Not until he grew up. The crayfish was made out of plastic. It was a shop decoration. A toy. I just put a new battery in it.’

  I stand up. ‘Well,’ I say to Dad. ‘At least you know how I feel about the axolotl. It doesn’t have a battery. And it’s all alone in the pet shop. I’m going down to buy it. The poor thing.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ says Dad.

  ‘And then I’m taking it back where it came from.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ says Dad.

  ‘Promise?’ I say.

  ‘Promise,’ says Dad with a smile. ‘
I don’t want you running away like I did.’

  I head for the door.

  ‘Wait up,’ says Dad. ‘Where do axolotls come from anyway?’

  I give him a big grin.

  ‘Mexico,’ I say.

  The Spitting Rat

  ‘What’s a zuff?’ I said to Mum.

  ‘No such thing,’ she answered. She took the letter from my hand and read it.

  Dear Anthony,

  I hope you like the Spitting Rat. Take it to the zough and it will bring you good luck. But whatever you doo, don’t tutch it.

  Love and Happy Birthday,

  Uncle Bill

  Mum looked hard at the word zough and frowned. ‘Bill can’t spell for nuts,’ she said. ‘I think he meant tough or maybe rough.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

  ‘Bill never makes sense,’ said Mum. ‘Fancy giving you a dead rat for your birthday.’

  The rat stood there stiff and still inside a little glass dome. Its mouth was open in a sort of snarl.

  ‘It’s cute,’ I said. ‘Uncle Bill always gives me great presents.’

  Mum gave a sort of snort. ‘Bill’s up in Darwin getting into all sorts of foolishness. He knows we’re dead broke. And what does he give you? Shoes? Books? A new school uniform? Something useful? Not on your Nelly. He gives you a stuffed rat, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I like him,’ I said.

  ‘I like him too,’ said Mum. ‘But I’m glad he’s in Darwin and we’re down here in Melbourne. Fancy giving you a dead rat. He probably got it for nothing.’

  I could understand why Mum wanted me to have clothes for my birthday. Life was tough for her. She had been working hard. Too hard. She needed a holiday and I was trying to arrange it.

  All I had to do was get three thousand dollars for the two of us to go to Surfers Paradise. I had been saving for two weeks and already had one dollar fifty. Only two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars fifty to go.

  When Uncle Bill made it big he was going to send us money. But at the moment he was broke too. Sometimes Mum called her brother ‘Silly Billy’. But I liked him a lot. He was always having adventures.

  I read the letter again. ‘The Spitting Rat brings good luck if you take it to a zough,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Anthony,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’ll test it out,’ I said. ‘Maybe the luck works without a zough – whatever that is.’ I went over to the cupboard and fetched a pair of dice from a game of Ludo. Then I shook them up and threw them on the table.

  ‘Two sixes,’ I yelled.

  ‘A fluke,’ said Mum with a laugh. She walked out of the kitchen, shaking her head and not even waiting to see what happened.

  I threw the dice again and stared. I couldn’t believe it. Another two sixes.

  The stuffed rat glared out from its glass cage. Was it bringing me luck? I threw the dice once more. They both rolled off the edge of the table and under the sideboard that Uncle Bill gave me last year. I couldn’t see if they had thrown up sixes or not. I lay down on my stomach and peered into the dusty space where the dice had stopped. There was something there. A piece of paper sticking out of my cupboard.

  I reached under and pulled the dice and the paper out. It wasn’t just any old piece of paper. It was a fifty-dollar note.

  ‘Wow,’ I screamed. ‘Bonus. What luck.’

  Just for fun I threw the dice again. Two sixes. Yes, yes, yes. The rat was a lucky rat that was for sure.

  I showed Mum the money. ‘If the Spitting Rat had not arrived we would never have found this fifty dollars,’ I said. ‘It brings luck. Now we only have to find another two thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight dollars fifty and we can have that holiday up north in the sun.’

  Mum gave me a kindly smile. ‘It’s a lovely thing you are doing, Anthony,’ she said. ‘But three thousand dollars is too much for a boy to save all on his own. I’d be just as happy if you did the washing-up now and then.’

  Poor Mum. Fancy thinking that me doing the washing-up was going to make her happy. No – I had to get the three thousand dollars. Then she could relax next to a pool in Surfers Paradise. And neither of us would have to do the washing-up.

  I sat down and wrote a letter back to Uncle Bill.

  Dear Uncle Bill,

  Thanks for the Spitting Rat. It is grate. By the way, what’s a zough? I am going in a speling compatition today. The prize is a free trip to Surfers Paradice. If I win I am going to take Mum. She needs a rest.

  Lots of love,

  Anthony

  The spelling competition was on that very day. At five o’clock in the Town Hall.

  ‘I’m pretty good at spelling,’ I said to Mum. ‘I might win the competition.’

  Mum read my letter and smiled. ‘You’re so much like Bill,’ she said with a smile.

  I could see she didn’t think much of my chances. I don’t know why. I was a good speller. Still, I had to have a fall-back plan. An idea started to form in my mind. Yes. It was a good idea. I would use the money to make money. Invest it wisely.

  I put the fifty dollars and the dice into my pocket and picked up the rat’s dome. ‘I’m going out for a while,’ I told Mum. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  2

  We lived on the top floor of the high-rise commission flats. I made my way to the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. The lift was covered in graffiti and the wall was covered in spit. I hated the look of spit. Yuck.

  I stepped out of the lift and made my way to the nearest newsagency. I tucked the rat under my arm and held the glass cage tightly. I wanted to give the rat every chance of passing the good luck on to me.

  I put the rat on the counter. ‘One five-dollar scratchy please, Mrs Filby,’ I said.

  Mrs Filby shook her head. ‘You have to be over fifteen to buy Lotto tickets, Anthony,’ she said.

  ‘It’s for Mum,’ I said.

  It wasn’t really a lie. It was for Mum’s holiday up north. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  Mrs Filby wasn’t sure but she took the five dollars and gave me the scratch lottery ticket.

  I walked over to the playground and sat inside a painted drainpipe with the Spitting Rat and my scratch ticket.

  You had to get three numbers the same to win that amount of money. There were four different panels to scratch away and reveal the amounts of money.

  I uncovered the first panel. $10,000, $25, $15, $10,000 and… wait for it, wait for it, stay calm. Oh, rats. $10. Jeez, that was close. I almost won ten thousand dollars.

  I tried the next group. $100,000, $250,000, $250,000, and, and, and… $250,000. Yahoo. I had won. Three lots of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Awesome. Magic. My heart was pumping like crazy.

  Hang on, hang on. Oh no. One of them was twenty five thousand not two hundred and fifty thousand. I felt like someone who was on the end of the queue just as McDonald’s closed for the day. No hamburger. Nothing.

  I quickly uncovered the third panel. No luck. Rats.

  One last window to go. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I did them all quickly without really looking. And then I saw it. Oh yes. Three lots of three thousand dollars. There was no mistake. I blinked and blinked and pinched myself. I had won three thousand dollars.

  The Spitting Rat was the lucky rat. That was for sure. I jumped up and banged my head on the top of the concrete pipe.

  ‘Oh, wow, arghoo.’ It hurt like crazy. I fell down backwards and smashed into the glass dome of the Spitting Rat. And broke it. It just smashed to pieces leaving the rat standing in the not so fresh air.

  What had I done? Would the rat still bring luck? Would it get mad at me?

  ‘Sorry, Ratty,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  I patted the still, stuffed rat on its head. As if to make it feel better.

  3

  That’s when it happened. Right when I touched the rat. That’s when all my troubles started. I still can’t believe that it actually
happened, but it did.

  The rat took a sharp breath. I heard it quite clearly.

  My mouth fell open in surprise.

  Yes, the dead rat spat. Right into my mouth.

  Oh, yucko. Gross. Foul. Disgusting. I could feel the rat’s spit on my tongue. Hot, sizzling, terrible.

  I tried to spit it out but I couldn’t.

  Something took hold of my mouth muscles and I swallowed the rat spit right down into my stomach.

  The rat just stood there as if nothing had happened. Silent, stiff and dead as a stone. Its beady eyes stared ahead as if they were made of glass. What am I talking about? They were made of glass.

  I shook my head in disbelief. Maybe it was a dream. A day-dream. Maybe I had just imagined that the rat spat.

  Anyway, it didn’t really matter. I still had my Lotto ticket. A three thousand dollar payout was heading my way. And Mum and I were heading for the sunshine. I was stoked. Now it wouldn’t matter if I won or lost the spelling competition. I had my three thousand dollars and the forty-five dollars change from the fifty.

  I picked up the rat and headed back to collect my prize.

  As I crossed the street a kid came whizzing past me on a bike. It was Michael Smeds, a boy I knew from school. Suddenly I drew a breath. A sharp little intake of air. My mouth just seemed to have a mind of its own. I didn’t want to take that breath. I had no choice.

  And I had no choice in what happened next.

  I spat.

  A little blue bit of spit (yes, blue – and hot) went shooting through the air and hit the front tyre of the bike.

  Smeds lost control, started to wobble and crashed into a lamp-post. I went over and helped him. He wasn’t hurt but his front wheel was buckled. And it had a flat tyre.

  ‘You spat at me,’ he yelled. ‘It made me fall. What did you do that for? I’ll get you for that. Just you wait.’ He started to wheel his bike along the footpath, heading angrily for home.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I called out. ‘I didn’t mean to slag at you.’