The Hounded

by Simon Butters

And on and on she had ranted until my father shrugged at the nurse and quietly looked for the exit.

  My eyes came back into focus. The dog was still there.

  ‘Yes. I’m still here,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  The black dog narrowed its eyes and snarled, looking menacing for the first time. I realised if this were a feral dog, it could bite my face off before I even raised an eyebrow. That feral cat could move fast. Maybe this thing had decided toast wasn’t going to be enough and it was going to have me for breakfast instead. I backed away a little. The dog’s face softened.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ it chided. ‘Not unless you want me to.’

  The dog trotted to the kitchen door that opened to the rear yard. It batted the screen door open with one paw and turned around.

  ‘Take some eggs with you,’ it grumbled.

  Wow. I was just visited by a talking dog and that was it? Take some eggs with you! That’s all the wisdom I was going to get? It was clear that if I was going to gain any understanding of life, it wasn’t going to come from a talking dog. I watched it head out. The screen door slammed shut behind it like an abrupt full stop.

  Talking dog? Pathetic. Who needs it?

  I opened the fridge and stuffed my pockets with every egg I could find.

  Chapter Two

  Alias: @The Full Monty

  Date: Thursday February 14, 7.55AM

  When you’re dreaming, you think you’re awake, right? So when we’re awake, does that mean we are really dreaming?

  @Gutentag

  You tempt the absurd dream. Fate makes the riddle known to you.

  @The Full Monty

  Right … I can always rely on you to make things clear!

  *

  Our house was called the ghost house. There’s usually one in every neighbourhood, I guess. Little kids whispered stories about it as they went past. One of them would always get spooked and break into a run. It was odd to watch. To my knowledge nothing bad ever happened in our house. There had been no gruesome murders, no children snatched away in the middle of the night, no ghosts had ever rattled their chains, but the stories persisted. I could see why it attracted attention. It stuck out like a beacon of misfortune in an otherwise pretty street.

  The house was a weatherboard shack built over a hundred years ago, which kind of impressed me really. Who would think a house made essentially of sticks would last that long? It had an overgrown garden that probably looked amazing once. There were about a hundred different types of roses all matted together, like jungle vines. Most of the year the garden looked positively evil. The thorns threatened to pluck your eye out if you gave them so much as a sideways glance. But in spring, the entire place bloomed. I tried counting all the different colours one day, but by my sixty-fourth flower I got distracted, followed one of life’s tangents and found myself six blocks away trimming my nails with a razor blade.

  Razor blades interested me. I collected them out of old box cutters, the rustier the better. I used them for all sorts of things, from cutting paper, shaving pencils, to seeing how fine I could cut a single human hair. It was always my personal goal to slice a human hair right down the middle. So far, I hadn’t succeeded. Old people generally think razor blades are dangerous. They’re probably right. I sliced my fingertips clean off on more than one occasion, completely by accident of course. The blood that came out was thick and bright red. Redder than you’d expect. It’s not something I wanted to do again. Doing homework with peeling scabs on the end of your fingers was damn annoying.

  The rest of our street demolished their weatherboard shacks years ago and replaced them with modern two storey jobs that oozed warmth and wealth. You could hear the widescreen TVs and smell the gourmet cooking from the street. The sounds and smells would travel out, taunting me, hinting at a life unlived.

  I’d lift my nose and sniff out lamb roast, exotic curries and bubbling casseroles wafting from those lofty mansions. It’d make me so hungry I swear I was turning savage. Despite my best efforts to ignore nourishment, I secretly longed for this type of cooking. Any sort of cooking would do, really. The most I could hope for was some baked beans on toast. My parents let me fend for myself. If I were a wolf pup this would probably be a good survival strategy. For me, all it did was make me feel alone. Food is about sharing, comfort and human interaction. We had none of that in our house. We certainly didn’t have a widescreen TV, or any sort of TV. We had one once, but that was before my mother heard the Prime Minister swearing at her.

  The names were shocking, foul-mouthed curses; the sort of names truck drivers and wharfies mutter to themselves when they think nobody is listening. The sort of names that if spoken to a mother like mine would send her into utter hysterics. Which, of course, it did. Dad and I listened but all we could hear was the Prime Minister droning on about the economy. Still, my mother was adamant it was all directed at her. She ranted on about the Prime Minister being out to get her until my dad simply nodded and put his foot right through the middle of the screen. That was the last TV we ever had.

  The other reason kids called our place the ghost house was that it did look remarkably like an angry face snarling at you. The rotting weatherboards curled around like a deep, furrowed brow. A pair of glowering eyes consisted of two large windows. The front door was, of course, the nose. The varnish had peeled off giving it a cancerous appearance. A small porch out front made up the mouth. The exposed beams looked like bared fangs ready to devour passing children. If you got too close, legend told, the ghost house would swallow you whole and add your bones to those we supposedly had stored underneath.

  To me, the house was just in a terrible state of disrepair. I imagined it was once clean and ordered, the weatherboards straight and painted a fresh coat of white, the windows warm and inviting, and the garden tended and flourishing. Children would play in the street, friends would come together for weekend barbeques, parents would chat over low fences, songs would be sung around the piano, hot roasts would be carved and families would tell each other they loved them.

  I crept out of the house and the eggs in my pockets clunked together, threatening to crack and leak their gooey remains all over the insides of my pants. I began to walk carefully, taking each step in slow motion like I was walking on the moon. Either that, or people would think I had just pooed my pants. I must have looked ridiculous. And ridiculous people gain attention.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  It was Eliza.

  Eliza Robertson lived at the far end of my street in one of those designer homes that consumed houses like mine. She was about half a foot taller than me and a whole head wiser. We were the same age, but Eliza Robertson was wholly a woman. She had made the change and grown up long ago. This happened in the blink of an eye over the summer holidays last year. One day she was a little kid, riding her bike with pink tassels on the handlebars, the next she was a towering beauty, summoning the dark forces of sensuality. Eliza Robertson held the quiet confidence reserved only for those educated in life’s ultimate mystery.

  I froze in her commanding presence. Authority came naturally to her. Her kind never spoke to mine, so this was unusual. There was nobody else around, so I guess she felt she could entertain herself with me for a while. Eliza stood atop the hierarchy at our school. Boys became stupidly extroverted in her presence, driven mad by her sullen beauty. Girls followed her every move, desperately hoping that some of her allure would rub off on them. She never said much. She didn’t need to. Her eyes were dark green jewels and when they locked on to you, you had nowhere to hide. She could peer into the very depths of your soul, could Eliza Robertson.

  Eliza’s school clothes were always clean and fresh, ironed so crisp I swear you could hear them crackle with electricity when she moved. She always wore white cotton shirts that were just transparent enough to allow a tantalising glimpse of lace underneath. Her silky brown hair draped down over her shoulders and finished in fine twirls just above her brea
sts. And those breasts? They were like coconuts. I always wondered why guys said that about girls. Breasts like coconuts? Not a bowl of jelly? Or a ripe mango? No. Always coconuts.

  ‘Stop staring,’ she said. ‘You’re giving me the creeps.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about coconuts.’

  She seemed to get the meaning straight away, and smiled curiously as if she understood the secret boyhood code for coconuts. Either that, or she could read my mind. I tried to test her. Guess what’s in my pockets, I thought.

  ‘What’s in your pockets?’ she asked.

  I gasped. She seemed to sense my fear. I told myself it was a simple coincidence and showed her the eggs. She nodded as if she understood, which of course she didn’t. Maybe.

  I had often imagined myself to be Eliza Robertson, transforming overnight on a full moon. I’d tear at myself and scratch out my eyes in agonising pain. I’d howl at the moon and shake off my old body, like a wet hound after a rainstorm. The old bits of me would fly away and splat against the walls of the old house. I’d be renewed. I’d be clean and fresh and smelling of a sweet salty breeze. I’d stand before my mirror and admire my long silky brown hair and perfect white teeth. And those coconuts …

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your eyes are doing that weird thing again. You know, when they roll back in your head.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  She looked past me now, like she was hoping to find someone else to talk to. Bored I guess. I would be too, if I was talking to someone like me. She checked her phone and thumbed out about sixteen instant messages in quick succession. That was the usual sign that you were too excruciating to endure anymore and should quietly slink away.

  Eliza Robertson was on everyone’s friends list. SpeedStream constantly listed her as someone I’d like to connect with. I wanted to send her an invitation, but couldn’t. I was stuck with Gutentag. I didn’t mind. He was an oddball, but an interesting oddball. I liked that.

  ‘You going to egg the teacher’s car or something?’

  She looked up at me, interested now. Despite her pleasing visual appearance, Eliza Robertson held a dark and menacing heart that fed on other people’s misfortunes. Most people couldn’t see the evil streak in her, dulled into submissiveness by her beauty and all. But I could. I could see past her outer shell. I could see the coldness inside; her hunger to watch as someone else suffered. I knew that it somehow made her feel better about herself. That didn’t scare me though. I actually liked the fact that I knew something about her that nobody else on this earth could possibly understand.

  ‘I was thinking of Mr Rooney,’ I lied.

  She smiled appreciatively. Mr Rooney was our science teacher and was about 400 years old, I swear. He looked like a leathery old toad in safety boots. He sniffed and ­shuffled and stank of mints and alcohol. We all knew he drank before class, in a little room containing all the ­chemicals at the back of the classroom. He was a hard man and gave no quarter to slackers and misfits. He enjoyed making everyone’s life a misery by constantly forcing us to sit old tests from the sixties and recount the entire periodic table from memory. He was also a huge perv and spent most of his time staring at coconuts. Eliza despised him. Most girls quit science after just one year, sick of having his eyes ­constantly down their tops.

  Eliza narrowed her eyes at me, summing me up like a cat does prey. I felt her sense the lie. I had no idea why I had the eggs. What was I supposed to tell her? A talking dog had visited me on my birthday and told me to take some eggs to school? She’d think I’d gone mad. Maybe I had but, in my bubble, I just hadn’t noticed it yet. She looked past me again, as if communicating with some silent force.

  ‘Do it, Monty. I’d like that,’ she said.

  I smiled and the king zit popped on my nose. That zit had waited until the worst possible moment to discharge its horrors. It exploded into a little ball of pus right in front of Eliza Robertson. It was involuntary, I swear; I had no control over it, but it was as if my body had secretly done this on purpose.

  Eliza grimaced and stepped away. I could see the disgust catch in her throat. She was saved as the school bus arrived, spraying us with dust and diesel fumes.

  I didn’t like taking the bus. It went on such a circuitous route, winding through suburban streets and cul-de-sacs, that my mind almost always drifted away. I would end up riding that bus all day if I wasn’t careful. A couple of times I missed getting off at school, only to realise I was still on it at lunchtime. By then, I was miles away and had no choice but to ride it all the way home. But that presented the exact same danger. On the way back, my mind would eventually slip away once more, and I’d miss my stop all over again. I’d come back to consciousness just in time to watch the sun go down.

  The door slid open and Eliza hurried onboard, welcomed by the shrill greetings of all her school friends. She looked back to me as if to check if I was getting on too. But the driver knew all about me, and my tendency to ruin his bus schedule, and quickly shut the door in my face. Eliza took her rightful place among her adoring friends, holding court like the queen that she was. The bus drove away and a thick film of dust settled over me. I knew what I had to do.

  Rooney’s car was a blue, sporty two-door thing. It was old though. I’d heard someone say it was a classic. I liked the look of it. It was decorated with shiny chrome bumpers and had side mirrors that poked out like those clipped ears on expensive show dogs. The car sat at attention, listening for its owner’s whistle. I hunkered down low beside the car and waited for the bell to sound. I was often late to school so that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. I waited until everyone went to class so I could act unseen. Finally, the bell sounded. I had my chance. I lifted my first missile. Mocking laughter echoed out behind me. The sound made my skin crawl.

  Tony Papadopoulos had a head the size of a pumpkin and a nose with a peculiar shaped mole perched right on the end of it. I swear it looked as if that mole had made its way from some other part of his body, in sheer disgust at being part of him, and was going to end it all by throwing itself off. Sometimes, during science class, I’d secretly goaded the mole to do it.

  ‘Go on. Jump!’ I’d whisper to that mournful looking mole. ‘Nobody would blame you. End it now while you still can!’

  This would usually end in Tony looking at me kind of strange and punching me in the kidneys. Tony was Greek. He grew up playing football, going to the gym and eating copious amounts of salty cheese and dried meats. He was enormous. He held the school record for most things sporting and could bench-press a hundred kilos. He shaved for real and his armpits stank of yeasty bread. He oozed testosterone. Meaty pheromones hung about him in a grey fug. He was a frightening predator, ready to devour innocents like me.

  His two friends were grey, tepid reflections of him. They wanted to be like Tony so much, they almost appeared like caricatures of him. They ate the same food, wore the same clothes, and hit the same people. These two morons didn’t have what it takes to pull it off though. On their own, they’d be nothing. Jordan and Rhys were their names. They were inconsequential and they knew it.

  My guts bellowed as the first punch hit home. The wind inside me gushed out and I couldn’t suck it back in. A tight cramp wound itself around my chest as my lungs went down for the count, paralyzed. I was winded. It was a feeling I had become accustomed to; a beating from Tony Papadopoulos was a common experience for me.

  This part of a beating I didn’t actually mind. Being winded was an experience I almost actually enjoyed. I think it has something to do with lack of oxygen to the brain. If you forgot about the crushing pain in your chest and focused your mind, you began to float. The air in front of your eyes would solidify and fall like snowflakes. Pretty soon your mind dripped downhill and you found yourself watching the rest of the beating from afar, feeling no pain whatsoever. I imagined this other self put his feet up and grab a bowl of popcorn to watch the game.

  ‘Go on. Kick him i
n the guts one more time,’ I’d shout. ‘I can’t feel a thing!’

  It must have been a reflex action, I’m not sure, but somehow all my eggs found themselves mashed up in Tony’s face. He stood there, stunned, with creamy yellow goo dripping down the front of his designer soccer shirt. I had come back to my body just in time for him to murder me. But the weirdest thing happened. He looked down at his shirt and squeaked.

  ‘Dad’s going to kill me,’ he gasped.

  Tears threatened. He suddenly looked pudgy and young. The fat around his cheeks congealed, making him look like a chubby little eight-year-old. For a second I imagined he was going to call for his mummy. I took in some fresh air and resisted the urge to daydream about this delightful prospect. Tony wasn’t the forgiving type. I took my chance and ran.

  *

  Eliza would have to wait another day for her revenge on Mr Rooney. It was my first real encounter with her since we were kids, and I had failed. That was going to be it, I was sure. The next time we would pass each other by and she’d politely snub me with the silence I deserved.

  Alias: @The Full Monty

  Date: Thursday February 14, 9.00AM

  I just made a big mistake. Got any advice on how to avoid a beating?

  @Gutentag

  If you fear losing control, you have already lost yourself to blame.

  @The Full Monty

  Actually, that’s the first thing you’ve said that makes sense!

  Chapter Three

  My father, if you haven’t guessed by now, was the strong and silent type. He worked for a local mechanic shop and spent long hours under the bonnet of every sort of car you could imagine. To this day, I don’t really know if he actually liked cars or loathed them. If you were driving around with him, going to the shops or something, he’d point them out. Not directly to you, or even to himself really. He’d just point them out.

  ‘Toyota Camry, corroded master cylinder,’ he’d mumble. ‘Ford Mondeo, new fuel injector.’