by Jen Banyard
As the gooey yellow lake spread steadily around Will, a ball of fire inside him grew and grew until it threatened to shoot from his chest and torch straight through the lino and the wooden boards beneath.
Funny how three small seconds could make you hate someone forever...
Clenching his jaw, Will ignored the large hand that his stepfather was stretching out to him. He reached up and grabbed for the edge of the kitchen bench. Instead, he got the serving tray. It clattered down, the milk jug and jam pots bouncing off his head and splashing and crashing onto the floor beside him. Daisy water curdled with the batter. Petals once jaunty and blue were now limp and sullied.
Will tried to flip over onto his knees. Splat! Now he was face-down and coated in batter both sides like a raw fish fillet.
Hairy slowly backed behind the kitchen table.
On the stovetop, burning butter smoke curled towards the ceiling. His mum’s sleepy voice drifted down the hallway. ‘That’s not a Birthday Special I smell, is it, Will?’
Silence.
‘It’s torture! HB, tell my son you’re meant to be nice to people on their birthday!’
Hairy had reached the safety of the doorway. ‘Err ... Angela? You might want to get up, love. I’m thinking we might all duck down to the new cafe on the corner.’
‘But Will’s making a Birthday Special breakfast! Besides, what new cafe?’
‘Err ... the one next to the petrol station.’
‘You’re not talking about the one inside the petrol station, are you?’ Will could hear Angela’s footsteps padding up the hallway. Her voice was no longer warm and fuzzy.
‘That’s the one!’ said Hairy. ‘The Pickled Walnut is closed for painting. The boys reckon the coffee at this new one’s not bad!’
‘What are you on about? The petrol station? On my birthday? When Will’s making a lovely—’
As Angela reached the kitchen doorway an eerie silence fell, as though all the air had been sucked from the room. Will slithered in a last, lame attempt to get up. He twitched on his stomach on the floor like a hooked herring in a bucket, his eyes slit against the batter trickling down his forehead and off the end of his nose.
Angela looked at him and spluttered. Then chortled. Soon she was heeing and hawing, gripping the doorframe for support. ‘It’s the Creature from the Snot Lagoon!’ she gasped. Will held still, waiting for her to finish. His stepfather stood there, rubbing his nose and tugging his earlobes, saying nothing.
‘I think the petrol station is a brilliant idea!’ said Angela eventually, wiping her eyes with her singlet. Will watched, helpless, as she picked her way through the mess, retrieved the empty mixing bowl and turned off the flame under the frying pan.
She looked down at him, at the batter gluing his hair into clumps, and held out a hand. ‘Oh, Will,’ she sighed, ‘it’s wonderful that you were trying to keep up the tradition, but we might have to give the Birthday Special a miss this year, don’t you think?’
Will watched his breakfast oozing around the daisies and clots of jam into the cracks beneath the cupboards. So Hairy Butt planned to take his mother to the petrol station? On her birthday? He clenched his fists, batter squirting out like lava, and vowed revenge.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday 09:30
Will slumped on his bed, staring at a half-finished drawing on his sketchpad. It was better than staring across the petrol station table at Hairy Butt’s stupid big nose. Better than doing anything else in this dumb stupid town that he hadn’t wanted to come to in the dumb stupid first place.
He ran his fingers through his wet hair, which now smelled of herbal shampoo. He’d made the Birthday Special for Angela ever since he could remember. When he was a little kid, he’d stood on a chair at the bench, his dad, Clive, beside him showing him what to do. As he got older, Clive read the paper and ‘tested the goods’. It was what Will did on his mum’s birthday. His thing.
Since his breakfast had turned into a total, humiliating disaster, he’d said he wanted to stay home and draw something for Angela instead. But every time his pencil touched the paper, he expected Hairy to boom in his ear, ‘Well, well, well! What’s all this then?’ It was useless.
Will twirled his pencil between his fingers. At least at boarding school there were enough kids around that you could always find someone who felt like doing the same thing as you—kick a footy, go to the river. And he’d really liked the special art group after classes. In Riddle Gully there was nothing, just a school full of kids who seemed to have known each other since the beginning of time.
Coming here was a really bad idea, no offence to Angela. She’d decided they should all stick together after all. But when that meant moving in with a boof-head with an idiotic name and a big bent nose that didn’t know when to butt out, it sucked.
Crack! The pencil between his fingers snapped in two. Draw a picture for his mum? He had better things to draw! He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his old blue school backpack and stomped down the hall towards Hairy Butt’s toolshed.
The strip of trees and scrub at the edge of the high school oval hid him from the road. He laid his bike on the ground and looked around. No one. His mouth set in a tight grim line, he swung his backpack onto his shoulder and strode towards the school buildings.
Five minutes later, Will stood back, surveyed the cream brick wall and grinned broadly. He was good, if he said so himself. He’d got Hairy’s crooked nose and big ears with just a few sweeps. It looked just like him! It was amazing what could be achieved with a can of red spray-paint. He felt ten times better already!
He looked behind. Still alone. He turned back to the wall. Now for the finishing touch. He shook the can, the tink-tink-tink of the ball-bearing inside ricocheting around the brick walls and bitumen, cheering him on.
Sucking his bottom lip under his teeth, he held up the can and pressed the nozzle. The bright spray hit the bricks, dense at first, then tapering as he stroked downwards...
Sergeant Butt
He was smart enough not to call him Hairy or HB! He stood back to see where to start the next line. He wanted it nicely centred. He stepped up to the wall, sucked his lip under his teeth again, and pressed the nozzle...
is a pig’s
One more word and he was done...
bu
He leaned into the downward stroke of the final letter. But on the upward stroke that followed, the can began to splutter. And at the top, he had to do the curve twice. As he reached the bottom of the second downward stroke all that the can produced was a nasty, jeering hiss. Will stumbled backwards and stared in horror.
Sergeant Butt
is a pig’s bun
A pig’s bun? It was stupid! It was lame! It was all wrong!
Perhaps he could get rid of the last few letters altogether. Hairy could just be a pig. He stripped off his T-shirt, bunched it up and scrubbed. The T-shirt turned pink but all there was to show for it on the wall was a slight fuzzing around the edges of the letters. He looked at his hand. Each finger now looked like a party frankfurter.
At that moment, from the other side of the building, Will heard the low thrum of an approaching car. It slowed to a halt. Will froze. The sound of doors clunking shut and boys—a lot of them, laughing and yelling to each other—followed.
Will remembered. Cricket! The interschool finals! Principal Piggott had been saying that everyone should come and watch but he’d zoned out. He suddenly felt sick. Sick and very stupid. As the voices drew closer he stuffed his T-shirt and the spray can into his pack and scuttled for oblivion like a cockroach down a drain.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday 11:00
It was late morning by the time Pollo could escape her father’s veterinary clinic and get to Sherri’s shop—the Riddle Gully Second-Hand Emporium, Specialising in Maps, Curios and Local History.
She leaned her bike on the wall and pushed through the door to the familiar ding! of the old brass ship’s bell. Sherri was at the back of th
e shop, her feet on the desk, chuckling behind Pollo’s latest edition of the Riddle Gully Gazette, only the top storey of her pile of crimson curls visible. As Pollo wove her way towards her, Sherri’s budgie Bublé, behind bars on the desk, began dancing on his perch.
‘Why, Bublé!’ said Sherri, lowering the paper. ‘It’s the supersleuth herself. You’ve outdone yourself this week, kiddo! Mayor Bullock Hides Secret Under Rug! What a cracker! Listen to this, Bublé:
Citizens of Riddle Gully may be wondering why Mayor Bullock, who claims to be in his early forties, had such stubborn recollections of the 1950s in the final round of the recent Country Women’s Association quiz night [Refer to page 3: ‘Mayor Storms Out Over Quiz Night Defeat’]. The answer, dear readers, is in front of our eyes or, more precisely, on top of Mayor Bullock’s head.
The shady figure pictured above with the owner of the Maloola Pharmacy last Saturday is none other than our very own Mayor Bullock. This reporter overheard our leader complaining of a scaly rash on his scalp from the tape he has been using to affix his toupée. So the rumours are true. Mayor Bullock’s youthful locks are, sadly, fake.
Investigations since have revealed that Mayor Bullock is, in fact, fifteen years older and much closer to retirement than he claimed in his election campaign two years ago. Could this be why he has pushed the Diamond Jack Experience Tourist Centre at the expense of the skate park and the youth work experience program? It seems that Mayor Bullock’s scalp is not the only thing about him that is scaly.
Sherri looked at Pollo and beamed. ‘It’s wonderful, Pollo! How on earth did you do it?’
‘Dad and I went to Maloola for an early-morning swim,’ said Pollo. ‘I spotted Mayor Bullock wearing that terrible disguise and so I just had to follow him. I was tucked in behind the sunglasses stand when he started talking to the chemist about his little problem. I nearly knocked over the whole display when I heard him!’
‘Lucky you had your camera with you,’ laughed Sherri.
‘You bet! Anyway, Sherri, I need to ask you something. The man in the long black coat yesterday—’
‘And this piece on Principal Piggott and her dog! I know it’s only a little fellow, but she still needs to pick up after it. She should go on litter duty for a week.’
‘Totally! She’ll have it in for me now too, I suppose. Aah well, it’s the price I pay for reporting the truth. Now then, you know that stranger—’
‘Speaking of dogs,’ said Sherri, ‘how’s Joe? He’s a lovely man, your dad. A customer the other day was saying what a gem he was when her old mutt swallowed a chop bone. We both think you should do an article on him.’
Pollo smiled. ‘It’s not exactly cutting-edge reporting though, is it? An article on how great my dad is?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sherri with a shrug. ‘That kind of thing has its place. So anyway, which stranger were you talking about?’
‘That creepy guy who barged in after closing time yesterday,’ said Pollo. ‘What did you find out about him?’
‘Creepy guy? Barged in? Find out?’ Sherri flushed. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pollo. ‘It came out wrong. I mean, what can you tell me about your customer last thing yesterday?’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Sherri, leaning back in her chair. ‘I admit I’m curious too. It’s funny, but I feel I know him from somewhere. He had the same feeling. I can tell you that he has delightful old-fashioned manners and that his name is Viktor...’ She riffled through some invoices on a metal spike, carefully tore off one and read it. ‘...Viktor-with-a-K von Albericht.’
‘Von what?’ gasped Pollo.
‘Albericht,’ repeated Sherri. ‘It’s a doozy of a name, isn’t it?’
Pollo grabbed the invoice from Sherri and stared. Albericht, with an ‘i’. Only one letter different from the Last Slayer’s evil uncle.
‘He’s staying out at the old ranger’s hut,’ said Sherri.
‘The old ranger’s hut!’ Pollo yelped. ‘On Diamond Jack’s Trail? What’s he up to out there in the middle of the forest?’
‘Settle down, Pollo! Don’t let this scoop on the mayor go to your head. Viktor seems like a very nice person.’ Sherri’s eyes twinkled. ‘Very nice indeed. He had a perfectly good reason for being at the ranger’s hut. What was it now?’ She twirled an earring then chuckled. ‘I have to admit, I had trouble concentrating. He has the most deliriously deep brown eyes!’
‘Urgh!’ said Pollo, rolling her own.
‘I remember,’ said Sherri. ‘He’s with the environmental something-or-other. He’s looking for bats.’
Pollo went cold all over. A shiver ran down the back of her neck and she sank onto Sherri’s desk. Everything about this von Albericht pointed to it. But there weren’t any in Australia, were there? In the twenty-first century? They were only in books, weren’t they? Books like the one she was reading now...
Sherri was looking at her strangely. ‘You’ve gone all glassy, kiddo,’ she said. ‘Is anything wrong?’
CHAPTER SIX
Saturday 11:30
From a tiny kitchen tucked behind an oriental screen, the telephone rang and Sherri sprang to answer it. Pollo was straining to overhear when the ship’s bell clanged wildly and the black shape of Mayor Bullock filled the doorway. He spotted Pollo. ‘There you are, you gutter rat!’ he boomed, striding towards her.
As Pollo reeled, Sherri bustled back into the shop, pointing the receiver like a laser sword. ‘Sir, please watch your manners while you’re in my shop or you’ll be out on your ear!’
Mayor Bullock looked aghast. ‘You misunderstand, madam,’ he said. ‘Butter fat! I was warning the young lady here not to eat too much butter fat!’
Sherri shook her head and steered the mayor by the elbow to a hard narrow chair. She placed a hand on top of his now-famous head and sat him down. ‘I take it you’d like a word with my visitor.’
Mayor Bullock checked his hairline with manicured fingers. ‘If I may,’ he said. With the starched yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth. He straightened the sleeves of his jacket with two tugs, and allotted a smile to Sherri. ‘As you would both be aware, I regard the youth of Riddle Gully as its lifeblood. Not only do I embody youth and forward vision myself, but since taking office it has been my mission to support our youngsters in every wholesome endeavour.’
‘Huh! Like closing down the skate park because it woke you up on weekends?’ said Pollo.
‘However,’ Mayor Bullock pressed on, ‘in light of your abuse of the privilege granted you by my ... err ... the town council and your lack of integrity, Miss di Nozi, I have no option but to put a stop to this nonsense of yours, once and for all.’
‘Nonsense? Lack of integrity?’ Pollo jumped off the desk. ‘It’s all true and you know it!’
The mayor raised his finger. ‘Aah, but therein lies the lesson, young lady! Truth and the public interest—not always the best of friends.’ He smiled sideways at Sherri. ‘It’s something one learns with experience.’ Fishing a black-and-white-striped humbug from his trouser pocket, he popped it triumphantly into his mouth.
‘But it is in the public interest if you’re going around pretending to be a lot younger than you really are, and telling everyone that you’ll steer Riddle Gully into the future!’
Mayor Bullock levered himself from his chair and, his back to Sherri, leaned so close to Pollo that she could smell the peppermint humbug on his breath. ‘That’s enough,’ he snarled. ‘I’m allowing you one last issue, its purpose being a full apology for the scurrilous report on today’s front page.’
Pollo gasped. Only one more issue? He couldn’t do that to her! She had the backing of the town council. She opened her mouth to protest but Mayor Bullock, standing to his full height, got in first.
‘And don’t think you can go running off to the council to object. I’m not a man to let a little red tape get in the way of what’s good for Riddle Gully!’ He st
arted for the door, but paused. ‘I have friends in high places,’ he added, ‘the editor-in-chief of the Coast news network among them. I hear you’re thinking about that Youth Reporter cadetship. I want a full apology, Miss di Nozi, or I’ll see to it that the editor-in-chief runs a mile at the mention of your name.’
Pollo’s throat was clamped like a clam.
Mayor Bullock wrapped a hand around the doorknob. ‘While you’re at it, you can do something useful and discover who is responsible for the graffiti at the school this morning. The Graffiti Kid, they’re calling the perpetrator, as though the scoundrel is some kind of hero. The youth of this town! Humph! Ungrateful layabouts the lot of you. I’ve half a mind to have a word with the editor-in-chief whether you print that apology or not.’
He pasted on a smile and turned to Sherri. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, madam. I’m sure you appreciate, it sometimes takes a strong hand to rein in a wild horse. Good day to you. It’s always a pleasure catching up with my townsfolk.’
Mayor Bullock clanged through the door and out onto the footpath, bumping into old Mr McNutty, who was shuffling home with his shopping. As the elderly gentleman’s fruit and vegetables rolled towards the gutter, the mayor dug a humbug from his pocket. Lifting his polished shoe to let an onion pass, he pressed the lolly into Mr McNutty’s hand, patted him on the back and strode towards his glossy black car.
Sherri dashed out to help Mr McNutty. When she returned Pollo was hunched on the desk, staring at the floor, Bublé, on his perch, doing the same. ‘Come on you two,’ said Sherri. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ She sat down next to Pollo.
