The Unforgettable What's His Name

by Paul Jennings

  To find out more about

  Paul Jennings and Craig Smith, visit:

  www.pauljennings.com

  www.craigsmithillustration.com

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2016

  Copyright © Text, Lockley Lodge Pty Ltd 2016

  Copyright © Illustrations, Craig Smith 2016

  The moral right of Paul Jennings and Craig Smith to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the United Kingdom’s Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Allen & Unwin – UK

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  London WC1N 3JZ, UK

  Phone: +44 (0) 20 8785 5995

  Email: info@murdochbooks.co.uk

  Web: www.murdochbooks.co.uk

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN (AUS) 978 1 76029 085 6

  eISBN (AUS) 978 1 95253 552 9

  ISBN (UK) 978 1 74336 928 9

  Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes

  To Mary-Anne Fahey.

  It was her idea. PJ

  For my unforgettable grandchildren,

  Tomi, Ivan, Marlo and Saskia. CS

  CONTENTS

  TWO DAYS THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

  THE FIRST DAY

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  THE SECOND DAY

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  AFTER ALL THAT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  ALSO BY PAUL JENNINGS, WITH ANDREW WELDON

  Even before all this happened I had never been like the other kids.

  I wanted to belong. Have friends. But I was scared and shy and lonely.

  At lunchtime I sat on my own, trying not to be seen. I didn’t talk to anyone. If I climbed a tree the kids would look up and not spot me. If I was hiding among the bins no one could find me. It was almost as if I was a bin and not a boy.

  Horrible Gertag would say, ‘Where’s What’s His Name?’ And I would blush.

  One weekend it worked. I got what I wanted. No one noticed me. No one even knew I was there.

  On the First Day I blended in with things. Whether I wanted to or not.

  But on the Second Day I changed. I mean, really changed.

  The two statues were exactly the same. The same boy with the same hair, the same face and the same lips. Yesterday there was only one statue. Someone must have copied him.

  Each boy squirted water out of his mouth onto a little bowl on a rock.

  I stood on the edge of the park looking at them. Everything was quiet. Just the way I liked it.

  For some reason the statues made me sad. One of the stone boys almost seemed alive. As if there was someone inside trying to get out. The more I looked the more real he seemed. Once I thought that his eyes moved. But they couldn’t have. He was just a fountain.

  The reason I was there so early on Saturday morning was to get away from horrible Gertag. She was coming for the weekend. And if I went home she would be there. Mum wanted her to hang out with me because she knew I was sad and lonely. But all Gertag ever did was tease and try to take Bad Bear, my best toy.

  And she called me ‘What’s His Name’. I hated that. I really hated it.

  Suddenly the thought was knocked out of my mind. A noise filled the air. A loud noise. A scary noise. At first I didn’t know what it was. But then I saw them.

  Motorbikes. It was a gang of bikies. They roared down the street towards me. They had black helmets. And tattoos. And beards. And earrings.

  They were rough and tough. And looked mean.

  The bikies were all different. But in a way they were all the same. They belonged to the same gang. They obeyed the same rules. They stuck together.

  No one could say a thing to a bikie. Everyone knows that. I felt a little tingle run up my spine. I shivered. What if the bikies looked at me?

  I started to pant. I went cold. Then hot. It was like I was drowning. I couldn’t get enough air. What was happening to me? I wanted to run away but my shoes seemed to be nailed to the ground.

  I pressed myself into a bush next to the two statues. I screwed up my eyes. I pretended I wasn’t there.

  The bikies passed by slowly, engines growling.

  ‘Please don’t look at me,’ I said under my breath.

  They didn’t. Not even one glance.

  I looked down. And screamed.

  I was GREEN. As GREEN as GRASS. My hands were GREEN. My skin was GREEN.

  The bikies disappeared around the corner. The sound of their engines faded away. I was safe.

  But I was GREEN. My clothes, my shoes. Everything. I couldn’t believe it. No wonder the bikies didn’t see me. I had blended in with the bush.

  ‘This isn’t happening,’ I said to myself. I felt like an idiot. But the bikies were gone and I began to relax. I felt a tingling in my body. I looked down.

  The green colour was starting to wash away. It was like a wave running out on the beach. I watched it sweep down my body and then it was gone. I was my old self again.

  I looked at my hand. It was the colour of skin. Normal.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I whispered. ‘That did not happen.’

  I hit my head with my hand as if to knock the silly idea out of my brain. I started to walk along the footpath, thinking about my weird life.

  A loud noise made me jump.

  ‘Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff.’

  It was a big, sand-coloured dog. It had no ears and was wagging its tail. One eye was blue and the other one was brown. I held out my hand and the dog began to lick it. He liked me.

  ‘Where’s your collar, boy?’ I said. ‘Where’s your tag?’ He didn’t have a name.

  He was What’s His Name. Just like Gertag called me.

  At school I didn’t want to be different so I pretended to be like all the other kids. If they ran I ran. If they wore red socks I wore red socks. If they ate Burp Bombs I ate Burp Bombs. But I didn’t burp and laugh afterwards like they did.

  In class, I never put my hand up. I just sat up the back daydreaming about my father. And wondering where he was. And what he looked like. And if he loved me.

  The dog was a loner too. I wished he was mine. I made up a name for him.

  ‘Good boy, Sandy,’ I said. ‘Good boy.’

  I gave him a pat and walked away from the park. Sandy ran along after me.

&nb
sp; I knew I would be in trouble if I took him with me. Mum went crook last time I went home with a stray dog. She said we already had two mouths to feed and that was enough.

  ‘Go home, boy,’ I said.

  I yelled and shouted at Sandy but he just kept following me. I didn’t really care. Everyone was out with their friends. I was all alone. Sandy made me feel more normal.

  After a bit I came to the pub.

  And there they were. Lined up in a row.

  Motorbikes.

  About thirty of them.

  The bikies had parked their bikes on the footpath and gone inside.

  I peeped in the window. The bikies were all talking loudly and laughing. They sure looked tough. Each one wore a black leather jacket with their name on it. There was a group near the window. I screwed up my eyes and tried to read the names.

  The biggest was THE CHIEF. He was talking to a skinny bloke called SHARK. There was another one named METAL MOUTH who kept grinning and showing off a big silver tooth. Next to him was MAGGOT. He had a sort of lopsided smile and did a lot of listening but not much talking. They wore badges and studs on their jackets. All of them had beards and tattoos of snakes and skulls and other creepy things.

  None of them were looking out of the window.

  I stared at the motorbikes. They were black and silver and shiny. They sparkled in the sun. One long row of mean machines.

  There was a sign on one of them. It said:

  DO NOT TOUCH THE BIKES

  I wanted to touch one. They were wonderful. They were marvellous. They seemed to talk to me.

  ‘Touch me, touch me, touch me.’

  I could hear the gang inside the pub. The noise seemed to grow louder and louder. There was yelling and shouting and laughing.

  I heard the sound of glass breaking. Maybe a fight was starting.

  No one knew that I was outside looking at the bikes.

  I held out my hand. I reached out with one finger. I touched the first bike. A Harley-Davidson. It felt so good. So smooth. So powerful.

  But then … but then …

  It moved. It moved and jiggled. Just a little bit. I pulled my hand away as if I had touched a flame.

  Too late.

  No, no, no.

  The motorbike fell.

  Crash.

  It fell onto the second bike.

  The second bike fell onto the third bike.

  The third bike fell …

  One after the other they fell onto each other. Crash, crash, crash, crash, crash, crash.

  Every bike was on the ground. All thirty of them. Some were scratched and dented. One had a mangled mirror. A light globe swam in a little lake of broken glass.

  No, no, no. What had I done?

  I looked up. A face glared out of the window. It was Metal Mouth. He was staring straight at me and Sandy.

  Sandy jumped around barking with joy. He was having fun.

  ‘Shh,’ I said.

  Another face appeared at the window. It was Shark. He pointed his finger straight at us.

  ‘Catch him,’ he yelled. I turned and ran. Sandy ran after me. He thought it was a game.

  I heard voices.

  ‘He’s getting away.’

  ‘Grab him.’

  ‘Quick.’

  They were after us.

  I ran.

  And ran.

  And ran.

  Behind me I heard the sound of engines. The motorbikes growled and spat and sputtered into life. The shouts of the bikies were drowned by crackling engines.

  People in the street stopped and stared. Cars screeched to a stop as they gave way to the roaring machines. A kid fell off his skateboard. People backed into shops to escape the din.

  I raced down the street as fast as I could go. I had to get away from the bikies. I looked around for somewhere to hide. Anywhere to be alone. To be safe. To be unseen.

  I ran along the footpath with Sandy following. He was loving it. The road was wide and the bikies were sweeping down like a black river. They would catch me at any moment.

  I ran as hard as I could.

  I reached the main street. As I ran my reflection also ran in the shop windows. Something weird was going on. I was filled with fear. I started to pant. I went cold. Then hot. It was like I was drowning. I couldn’t get enough air. I stopped outside the barber’s shop and looked at myself. It was me and it wasn’t me. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

  ‘Aargh,’ I yelled.

  I was covered in red and white stripes like the barber’s pole.

  Behind me I heard the terrible roar of motorbikes. I ran on.

  The colours of my clothes and skin changed as I went along. I seemed to be blending in with my surroundings. Flickering pictures danced on my clothes and skin.

  This was terrible. Horrible. I was a freak. I didn’t know which was worse – being caught by the bikies or blending in with the background. As I ran on I kept changing. Once my clothes were covered in pictures of little fairies the same as those in a dress shop.

  Next I blended with a shelf of pies and cakes.

  Then I blended with a display of shop dummies.

  And dead fish.

  And … and … it just went on and on. I must have been hard to see, but not invisible.

  I kept hoping that I would wake up. That this was a dreadful dream. A nightmare.

  But everything told me that I was still in the real world. The smell of the fish in the shop. The small stone in my shoe. The shiver that ran up my arms. All of these things were real. You don’t get them in dreams.

  Sandy didn’t like it. He gave a yelp and ran down a lane.

  I heard the sound of the bikes slowing. I heard their engines rumbling. I screamed and pressed myself against a brick wall. I closed my eyes.

  ‘He’s here somewhere,’ said a voice.

  The engines continued to rumble. Then the noise grew louder and I heard them move off. They hadn’t seen me. Why? Why? Why? Oh, no.

  Now my clothes and skin seemed to be painted like rows of bricks.

  I ran even faster until I was past the shops and surrounded by houses and open grassland. In the distance I could see a group of high trees. A head was peering over the top. Way up high. It was chewing. On leaves. I knew at once what it was.

  A giraffe.

  I stopped to catch my breath and examined myself. I was back to normal. The crazy images had gone from my body. But behind me I could hear the motorbikes. They were coming, they were coming, they were coming. I ran on, clutching my aching sides.

  I needed somewhere to hide.

  And I knew just the place.

  I had been to the zoo hundreds of times. Kids got in free if they were with an adult. Mum took me there all the time to fill in a weekend when I was feeling lonely.

  I staggered up to the gate of the zoo and saw a man and woman and three kids walking in. I tagged on behind and followed them through.

  The gatekeeper didn’t say a thing. She thought I was part of the happy family. I was in. And I was safe. That’s what I thought anyway.

  ‘Oy,’ shouted a voice. It was the gatekeeper. ‘You can’t bring a dog in here.’

  Oh, no, Sandy had followed me in.

  ‘Scat,’ I said. ‘Shoo.’ Sandy’s tail drooped. He saw the keeper coming and started running down a path.

  I went belting after him but he crawled through a hole in a fence and disappeared. I stopped outside a building that had a picture of a lizard on the wall. The sign said:

  REPTILE HOUSE

  It brought something to mind. Something very interesting.

  I was thinking about some lizards I had heard about. They changed colour to fit in with the background. It was how they hid from birds and snakes. They didn’t want to be noticed. Like me.

  What were they called? Think, think, think.

  Chameleons. Yes, that was it. Something told me to go and check them out.

  It was warm and dark inside the reptile house. There was a long passage w
ith windows on each side. I walked slowly, looking into each window.

  Snakes. I gave a shudder. There were five or six different types. And crocodiles. And alligators.

  And all sorts of lizards: frill-necked, blue-tongues and many more. Finally I came to a window with the word I was looking for in big letters on the wall next to it.

  CHAMELEONS

  At last. I stared through the glass. There were a lot of tree trunks and twisted branches. But nothing moved. There were no chameleons.

  ‘What a pain,’ I said under my breath. ‘I came in here for nothing.’

  I looked into the glass cage again. There was not one chameleon to be seen.

  Or was there?

  Of course.

  Why didn’t I think of it?

  They were all hiding. They were wearing their camouflage. I looked more carefully.

  Yes. There was one on a branch. I could see the outline of its body. It looked like a piece of bark. But I could just make out legs and the shape of its tail.

  And there was another one among some leaves. It was green and had bulging eyes. Each eye looked in a different direction. They were weird, like two marbles rolling around in bowls.

  A terrible thought entered my mind. What if I got stuck when I was green or some other colour? What if I couldn’t change back? What if I stayed blended with a tree for ever? Or a brick wall? Or something worse?

  I wanted Mum. I had to get home where I would be safe.

  I peered at the chameleon with the rolling eyes. A long tongue shot out and caught a fly.

  Boy, I was glad I wasn’t a chameleon. I did have a long tongue myself. But I would never eat flies. Yuck.

  I decided to get out of the zoo. There was nothing there that made me feel better.

  I stepped out of the passage into the sunlight and found Sandy sitting waiting for me. There were no keepers in sight.

  ‘Where have you been, Sandy?’ I said. ‘Come on. Quick, we have to get out of here before they catch you.’

  At that very moment I heard a yell.

  It was Shark.

  ‘There he is,’ he shouted.

  They were after me. The terrible bikies. I could see black helmets and bristling beards bobbing around all over the zoo. I couldn’t let them catch me.