‘I would,’ says Jen. ‘Especially if it was Andy being eaten.’
‘Nonsense!’ says Dad. ‘You’d get bored. You wouldn’t want to go to the footy to see Carlton thrash Collingwood every week, even if you were a Carlton supporter. You need to give the underdog a bit of a chance to keep it interesting.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘but you’re assuming it’s a public spectacle.’
‘It’s not?’ says Dad.
‘No. Nobody’s watching. It’s just you and the lions. Or the ants.’
Dad looks puzzled.
‘Then what’s the point?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘but it doesn’t matter. The point is to answer the question.’
‘I’ve answered your question,’ he says. ‘I said I would rather the lions.’
‘Is that your final answer?’ I say.
‘Yes, as long as they’re efficient, I’ll take the lions.’
That’s not an answer—there’s no guarantee.’
Dad picks up the sauce bottle again, turns it upside down and starts slapping the bottom with the palm of his hand. A couple of red drops splatter onto the plate and the tablecloth.
‘You’ll end up with sauce all over yourself if you don’t watch out,’ says Mum.
‘Jen?’ I say.
Jen shoots me a mean look. ‘If you’re going to ask me whether I’d rather be eaten by ants or lions then forget it.’
‘I’m not going to ask you whether you’d rather be eaten by ants or lions.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart, hope to die, hope to stick a pin in my eye.’
‘Okay, what?’
‘Would you rather be eaten by lions or ants?’
Jen points her fork at me. ‘You just broke your promise.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did. Now you have to stick a pin in your eye.’
‘No I don’t.’
Jen gets up from the table.
‘Where are you going?’ says Dad.
‘To get a pin,’ she says. Jen turns to me. ‘Would you rather a long sharp one or a short blunt one?’
‘Nobody will be sticking pins in anybody’s eye at this dinner table!’ says Mum.
‘But he broke his promise,’ says Jen.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I say. ‘I promised I wouldn’t ask you if you’d rather be eaten by ants or lions.’
‘But you did,’ says Jen.
‘I didn’t. I asked you whether you would rather be eaten by lions or ants.’
‘Same thing!’ says Jen.
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Is so.’
‘Jen,’ I say. ‘Whether or not I broke my promise, and whether or not I would prefer a long sharp pin to a short blunt pin or a short blunt pin to a long sharp pin is irrelevant. The real question is whether you would rather be eaten by lions or ants.’
‘You broke your promise,’ she says. ‘And you made me pour sugar all over my dinner.’
There’s no point asking Jen. She’s too bitter. And Dad is too interested in the sauce bottle to give me a serious answer. That leaves only one person.
‘What about you, Mum?’ I say. ‘What would you rather?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘What don’t you know?’ I say. ‘It’s a very simple question. What more do you need to know?’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘Why is this happening to me? What have I done?’
‘It doesn’t matter!’
‘I think it does. If I’m going to be eaten by ants or lions, I want to know why.’
‘It’s the choice that’s important,’ I say.
‘But how can I make a sensible choice if I don’t know why I’ve been put there in the first place?’ says Mum. ‘Am I being punished or have I just been picked at random?’
I sigh. Mum can be very stubborn.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You’re being punished.’
‘What for?’
‘Mum!’
‘Well, I need to know what I’ve done. That way I can decide whether the ants or the lions are the more appropriate punishment.’
‘But how does it change things?’
‘Well, suppose I committed a whole lot of small crimes. I think the ants would be the best punishment. But if I did something really bad, something really big—then I think the lions would be the best.’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but suppose you did lots of small crimes and a couple of really big ones as well. What then?’
‘Then I think both ants and lions would be appropriate.’
‘No, but you have to choose one.’
‘But I would deserve both.’
‘But which one would you prefer?’
‘Prefer?’ says Mum. ‘I don’t like the idea of either option very much.’
Here we go again.
‘Cubs would be alright,’ she says thoughtfully.
‘Huh?’
‘Lion cubs. They would be nice. They’re very playful.’
‘But they’re still going to eat you.’
‘But they’d do it in a playful way.’
That does it.
I’m just asking a simple question!’ I say, slamming my fist down on the table. ‘Would you rather be eaten by ants or by lions? Why can’t anybody just answer the question?’
Everybody is quiet.
Everybody except for Dad. He’s busy whacking the sauce bottle like his life depends on getting tomato sauce right this minute.
Suddenly sauce explodes from the bottle. It splurts onto his plate, the tablecloth and his clothes. Down his shirt, onto his pants and all over the floor.
He looks at Mum.
‘Don’t say anything!’ he says.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she says.
I can’t help laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ says Dad, wiping sauce out of his eye. ‘Did you have something to do with this?’
Of course I did. But I’m not about to admit it.
‘It’s not fair,’ I say. ‘Why do I get blamed for every little thing that goes wrong around here?’
‘Because every little thing that goes wrong around here is your fault,’ says Jen. ‘Punish him, Dad. He gets away with everything.’
‘Andy,’ says Dad. ‘I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to think very carefully about the answer. Tell me, would you rather lose your pocket money for one week or do double chores for two weeks?’
‘But you’re assuming I’m guilty,’ I say.
‘I’m not assuming you’re guilty—I know it! Now, which would you rather?’
Uh-oh. This is not right. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.
‘Dad, before I answer, tell me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’ he says.
‘If you had to be squashed, would you rather be squashed by bricks or feathers?’
He frowns.
‘Don’t answer, Dad,’ says Jen. ‘He’s just trying to get you off the track.’
Dad ignores Jen.
‘Probably feathers, I think,’ says Dad. ‘They’re softer.’
‘But there will still be enough to squash you,’ I say. ‘Why not choose the bricks? They’re not as soft, but they might be quicker.’
‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘That depends. Would they be dropped all together or one at a time?’
Jen pushes her chair back loudly and stomps off from the table. I don’t blame her. We could be here for quite a while.
URDER, BLOODY MURDER!’
I’m yelling at the top of my voice. So is Danny. I look at him. He looks at me. We nod. I take a deep breath.
‘MURDER, BLOODY MURDER!’ we shout.
Sooty joins in, barking and howling.
We wait. But nothing happens. Nobody comes. No police sirens. My neighbours don’t even bother sticking their heads over the fence to check out what the trouble is.
‘It’s no use,’ says Danny. ‘Nobody cares.’
I kick a divot out of the la
wn.
‘It would be too bad if we were really getting murdered,’ I say. ‘I bet they’d be sorry then. Let’s try one more time.’
‘Alright,’ says Danny. ‘Once more and then that’s it. I’ve got a sore throat.’
‘MURDER!’ we scream. ‘BLOODY MURDER!’
‘Would you idiots shut up!’ says Mr Broadbent. ‘I’m trying to work.’
Mr Broadbent is standing in our driveway. Mr Broadbent lives next door. He’s a university lecturer. He works in a little room right next to our fence.
‘How did you know that we weren’t really being murdered?’ I ask him.
‘Because you’ve been calling out for the last half an hour,’ he says. ‘But, I swear, if you don’t shut up I’ll come back and murder you myself. And your dog!’
Mr Broadbent turns around and stomps back down the drive.
Sooty slinks off into his kennel. Danny and I look at each other. We don’t say anything.
We’re too scared.
Mr Broadbent has just threatened to murder us.
‘Did you hear that?’ says Danny.
‘I think I did,’ I say.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Should we call the police?’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Dan. They’ll probably arrest us for pretending that we were going to be murdered in the first place.’
‘But we are going to be murdered!’ says Danny.
‘We weren’t then,’ I say. ‘And if we shut up, then there is every chance that we won’t be now.’
‘But how do we know for sure?’ says Danny. ‘He’s crazy. Did you see the look in his eyes?’
‘He did seem a little highly strung,’ I say.
‘Highly strung!’ says Danny. ‘That’s putting it mildly. He was ready to flip out completely. I know. I’ve had a lot of experience with these guys.’
‘Oh really?’ I say. ‘When?’
‘Just then!’ says Danny.
‘That’s hardly a lot of experience.’
‘I watch TV. I can recognise a psycho when I see one. He’s going to kill us . . . unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ I say.
‘Unless we strike first,’ says Danny.
‘What are you suggesting?’
Danny just stares back at me. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’
I cup my hands around each side of my mouth. ‘Earth to Danny! Do you read me—over?’
‘You think I’m crazy?’
‘I know it.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ he says.
‘I think if he’s as stressed as he seems then it would be a good idea to help him destress. Cut the problem off at the source.’
‘What have you got in mind?’ says Danny. ‘Elephant tranquilliser darts?’
‘I’ve got the next best thing,’ I say. ‘Meditation music.’
‘Meditation?’ says Danny. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘They’re not a band, you idiot,’ I say. ‘It’s just soft relaxing music. Jen’s got heaps.’
I bound up the steps of the porch, go into the house and head towards Jen’s room.
Jen is going through this huge New Age thing at the moment. Ever since she went to this New Age & Psycho expo, it’s been meditation, chanting, incense and soft music.
I’m sure she won’t mind if I just borrow one of her tapes. And even if she does mind she can just meditate and then she won’t be angry any more.
I open the door of her room.
I’m almost knocked backwards by the stench.
There is a stick of incense burning in a holder on her dressing table. It smells like cat pee.
But it gives me an idea. I grab a handful of incense sticks from the bowl beside the holder. They might come in handy.
I pinch my nose and walk over to her tape collection.
She has every type you can imagine: waterfall, bird-calls, rainforest, wind, breaking waves—you name it, she’s got it. The only thing she hasn’t got is breaking wind. I guess that’s because breaking wind is not relaxing. It’s too funny.
I choose a rainforest tape and head for the door before the smell of the incense makes me throw up all over her Yin and Yang rug.
On my way back outside I go to my room and get my ghetto blaster. It’s getting old, but it does the job. I just hope the batteries are up to it.
Danny is pacing up and down the backyard lawn.
‘Where have you been?’ he says. ‘You’ve been gone for ages! What if Mr Broadbent had come back?’
‘Relax, Danny, I’ve got a rainforest tape. By the time we’re finished the only thing Mr Broadbent will be coming back to do is to hug us for making him feel so good.’
‘Yuck!’ says Danny. ‘I don’t think we should make him feel that good.’
I set my tape player up on the porch. I insert Jen’s tape and press play.
The music comes on. A long, low synthesiser note. It sounds like bird noises over the top, although it’s hard to tell. It could be just the squeaking of the tape player’s motor.
‘Louder!’ says Danny. ‘It’s too soft.’
‘It’s meant to be soft.’
‘Yeah, but Mr Broadbent will never hear it. Turn it up.’
Danny’s right. I turn the volume up. It makes it louder alright, but kind of distorted as well.
‘It doesn’t sound very rainforesty,’ says Danny.
‘I know, but it’s better than nothing.’
‘Hey,’ says Danny, ‘what if we sprayed the hose onto Mr Broadbent’s roof? That might help.’
Why not? Rain on the roof is a very relaxing sound. How is Mr Broadbent going to know it’s not real?
I cross the yard to the tap. The hose is not actually going to reach over to the fence because it’s in a huge tangled knot from the last time I used it. And this is no ordinary knot. This is a knot that will take forever to untangle. And we haven’t got forever. Mr Broadbent could come rampaging up the driveway any second.
I turn the tap on full blast and drag the hose as far as I can before the knot threatens to cut off the supply. The water makes it over the fence but not onto the roof.
‘It’s not going to work!’ I yell.
‘Tighten the nozzle!’ calls Danny.
I screw the nozzle tighter. That’s better. Especially if I point the hose up higher. It makes a perfect arc of water right onto the roof above Mr Broadbent’s office. A few minutes of rain on the roof combined with the rainforest tape will mellow Mr Broadbent for sure.
It’s risky, though. If the water pressure drops, the water will hit Mr Broadbent’s office window. He might think we’re doing it to annoy him.
Danny gives me the thumbs up.
We’re almost out of trouble.
But I don’t want to take any chances.
Not when our lives are at stake.
I’ve still got the incense sticks.
I wave to Danny.
He comes over.
‘Danny,’ I say. ‘I need you to light the barbecue.’
‘You can eat?’ he says. ‘At a time like this?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry. I want to use it to burn some incense. We can waft the smoke across to Mr Broadbent’s house. The smell will help to calm him even more.’
‘Anything is worth a try,’ says Danny. ‘What do I do?’
‘Here,’ I say. I give him the incense. ‘Light the fire and then chuck these on top. If we burn them all at once it will be really intense.’
‘Where’s the barbecue?’
‘In the carport. But you’ll need to wheel it closer to the fence.’
Danny wheels the barbecue—half a forty-four gallon drum mounted on a frame with wheels—down to the other end of the drive away from the hose spray. He grabs a branch full of dead gum leaves from the garden and puts it in the top of the drum.
‘Got a match?’ says Danny.
‘Your face and a monkey’s bum.�
��
‘Don’t joke! This is serious.’
‘I’m not joking,’ I say.
Danny shakes his head. He falls for it every time.
‘Just tell me where the matches are.’
‘They’re under the barbecue.’
He pulls the box out and lights a match. He drops it into the middle of the dead leaves. A thin white strand of smoke rises almost immediately.
‘Quick!’ I say. ‘Put the incense on top!’
Danny throws the incense on.
The leaves burst into flame, but the blaze is too strong. The smoke is going straight up into the air.
‘It’s not working, Danny. You need to fan the smoke across the fence.’
‘How?’ he says.
‘I dunno—use your shirt or something.’
Danny pulls his T-shirt over his head. He starts flapping it wildly. The smoke billows around him. He coughs.
‘Is it working?’ he says. ‘I can’t see a thing.’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘You’ll have to fan harder.’
Danny goes into fanning overdrive.
The smoke starts heading towards Mr Broadbent’s office.
‘That’s it, Danny! Keep going!’
I can just imagine Mr Broadbent. He’s probably sitting back with his feet on the desk. Arms behind his head. Eyes closed as he listens to the calming music and the relaxing rain. Taking deep breaths of soothing incense. Forgetting all about his work, his problems and, most importantly, his threat to murder us.
Danny is piling more leaves onto the barbecue.
‘Hang on, Danny, I think that will do,’ I say.
But Danny doesn’t hear me above the crackling of the fire. He keeps piling on more leaves. Showers of sparks fly into the air. The ends of half-burnt branches are falling to the ground. Danny keeps fanning.
‘Danny! Stop it!’
His fanning is sending a torrent of sparks towards the fence. There’s smoke everywhere.
Uh-oh. Just as I feared.
Just Annoying! Page 6