Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  The whole thing was crazy. Hot, blue spit. I must have caught some terrible disease from the rat. I needed help. But not before I collected my three thousand smackeroos.

  I walked onto the Yarra River footbridge and looked down into the brown water. It was so peaceful. A bloke and his girlfriend were just passing under me in a small rowing boat.

  Suddenly I took a quick breath. I tried to keep my mouth closed. I gritted my teeth. I breathed in through my nose. But it was no good. I lost the struggle.

  Phshst… A hot, blue gob of spit dropped down towards the boat. Splot. It landed right in the middle near the girl’s feet.

  4

  In a flash a little stream of water began to squirt up inside the boat. It grew stronger and bigger. After a few seconds it was like a broken fire hydrant flooding up into the sky. And then, before I could blink, the boat was gone. Sunk. Sent to the bottom of the Yarra.

  The two rowers started to swim for the bank. The man looked up angrily at me and yelled out something. They were good swimmers. They looked fit and strong. They looked as if they could tear a thirteen-year-old kid into pieces without much trouble.

  I turned and ran for it. I just belted along without knowing where I was going. Finally I fell panting and exhausted under a bush in the Fitzroy Gardens.

  I dumped the Spitting Rat down and tried to gather my thoughts. This was dangerous.

  I had spat at a bike and punctured it. I had spat at a boat and sunk it. I never knew when I was going to spit next. It was out of my control.

  I had to get away from the rat. Maybe if I put some distance between me and it I would be cured. Maybe its powers wouldn’t work at a distance. I shoved the rat under a bush and headed for home.

  I was really worried. Even the thought of the winning lottery ticket didn’t make any difference. I had to spit when I didn’t want to. It was hot and blue and yucky and burned holes into things.

  As I walked I started to imagine things. The spit was powerful. What if a robber or burglar got hold of it? They could escape from jail by blowing a hole. Or put it in a bottle and use it to open a bank safe.

  But the spit was powerful stuff. It would probably eat through the bottles. All the crooks in the world would be after me to cough up for them. I would be forced to spit for them day after day. No thanks. No way.

  I hurried back to the commission flats and jumped into the lift. I pressed the button for the twentieth floor. The doors banged shut and I started to go up. I was alone in the lift.

  The floors whizzed by. Seventeen, then eighteen, then nineteen. Suddenly I took a quick breath. Don’t spit. Don’t, don’t, don’t. I put one hand on top of my head and the other under my jaw. I pushed as hard as I could, trying, trying, trying to keep my mouth shut.

  My mouth suddenly exploded. I just couldn’t stop it. Kersplot. A bright-blue bit of spittle sizzled on the floor. Like an egg in a frying-pan it spat and crackled. Suddenly a small hole opened in the lift floor and the spit disappeared.

  I could see right down to the bottom of the liftwell. Long cables clanked and clanged. My head started to swim and I felt sick. What if my spit had landed on a cable and eaten through it? I could have fallen to my death.

  I was a long way from the Spitting Rat. It didn’t seem to make any difference. I was still cursed with its spiteful, spitting spell.

  5

  I hurried out of the lift and ran to our flat. Mum wasn’t home but I wasn’t taking any chances. I banged my bedroom door shut and locked it. I needed time to think. A terrible thought was growing somewhere deep inside and I didn’t want to let it out.

  I tried to figure it out. The blue spit could eat through anything. And I didn’t know when it was going to happen. I couldn’t stop spitting no matter how hard I tried.

  But. And it was a big but. Would the spit have its terrible powers if I tried it on purpose?

  I looked around for something I didn’t need. A piece of rock that I used to keep the door open. I placed it on the floor. Then I worked up a bit of spit in my mouth and let fly.

  Yes. It settled on the rock and began to fizz, bright and blue. In no time at all the rock had gone altogether. There was just a little blue smear left on the floor.

  Suddenly I started to suck in, then – kersploosh. Another small blue bomb landed on my spelling book. It started to fizz and disappeared.

  I was taken with a spitting frenzy. I spat on everything. My skateboard vanished in a fizzing blue mess. And my photo of Mum. Everything was a target. My bed was riddled with bubbling holes. My desk was drilled right through. The light-shade vanished. My football collapsed with a bang.

  Breathe, spit. Breathe, spit. Breathe, spit. I couldn’t stop myself. I was out of control.

  Finally I fell to the floor exhausted. The spitting spasm had finished.

  For now.

  6

  I heard the front door slam. Mum was home.

  Mum.

  Now the terrible thought managed to surface. I had to face it. What if I spat at Mum? Oh, horrible thought. No, no, no.

  I was dangerous. I was a menace to society. Everything I spat at was destroyed. I could kill people.

  There was only one thing to do. I had to go away from human beings. Hide deep in the forest. Or find a deserted island. I would never see a person again. I couldn’t even have a dog because I might be seized with a spitting fit and accidentally kill it.

  Such was the power of the terrible Spitting Rat. A sad and lonely future stretched before me and I was only a kid.

  And what about Mum? What would she do without me? She wouldn’t have anyone to cook for. No one’s bed to make. No one to eat her cakes.

  The door-handle suddenly rattled. ‘Are you in there, Anthony?’ said Mum’s voice. ‘What are you doing? Playing with that rat, I suppose.’

  ‘I threw it out,’ I yelled through the door.

  There was a long silence. ‘Sometimes I could murder Bill,’ said Mum. ‘What was he thinking of? Giving you a dead rat for your birthday.’

  Her voice trailed off and I could hear her banging around in the kitchen. She always did the washing-up when she was angry. It made her feel better. She was a good mother. I had to get away before I hurt her.

  I took out a pencil and started to write a note. My last message to my mum.

  Dear Mum,

  I love you very much. For the safety of the world I have to go away and be on my own. Do not try to find me or your life will be in danjer. Here is a winning lotery ticket. I want you to have that hollerday up north in the sun.

  Your loving son,

  Anthony

  I folded up my letter and took out the lottery ticket.

  I could feel it coming. Sort of building up inside me. Don’t let it. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Too late. I snatched a breath and spat. Right on the Lotto ticket. It fizzled for a second and was gone. Disappeared. Totally destroyed.

  I hung my head on the drilled-out desk and let a tear run down my nose.

  Now my Mum would never get to Queensland.

  Why had Uncle Bill given me that rat? He had let us down. Put my life in danger. Still and all – he did tell me not to touch the rat. It wasn’t really his fault.

  Anger started to boil inside me. My life was ruined. My money was gone. All because of… Not Uncle Bill – no, not him. I wasn’t mad at him. It was all the Spitting Rat’s fault.

  The rage inside me made me think. There was a way I could pay it back. There was a way I could get even. I would get my revenge on the rat.

  I ran out of my room and out of the flat before Mum could say a word. Along the corridor to the lift. No way. Down the fire escape – the lift was too risky.

  Across the playground. Over the bridge. Up to the bush in the Fitzroy Gardens.

  It was time for the rat to get a bit of its own medicine.

  7

  I found two sticks and lifted the Spitting Rat out of the bushes by holding one on each side of its neck. I was careful not to touch it.


  ‘Now,’ I yelled. ‘You’ve ruined my life. But you’re not getting off free.’

  I snatched a breath. And spat. Straight at the face of the Spitting Rat. A little blue gob of spit sped at its victim like a bullet.

  But the rat was too quick. Without warning it opened its mouth. Fast like a dog snapping at a fly.

  Slurp. Swallow. The spit was gone. The rat had taken it back.

  Straight away the rat went back to normal. It stood there. Stuffed, still and slightly silly. Just as if nothing had happened.

  And I went back to normal too. My mouth felt different. I worked up a bit of moisture and spat on the ground. Normal, clear spit. No spitting and fizzing.

  ‘Okay, Mr Ratty,’ I said. ‘So I’m cured. But what about my luck? Are you still lucky for me?’

  I took out the dice and rolled them. A five and a two.

  The luck was gone. No more blue spit and no more money.

  I pushed the rat back under the bushes with the sticks and walked sadly home. Now my only hope was to win the spelling competition. Two free tickets to Queensland for the winner. I looked at my watch. I just had time to make it to the Town Hall.

  8

  There were hundreds of kids in the Town Hall. We were all sitting at desks that had big spaces between them so that no one could cheat.

  ‘Pick up your pens,’ said the Spelling Master.

  The hall was filled with the sound of two hundred pens being lifted at the same time.

  I crossed my fingers and hoped for luck. I hoped the words would not be too hard.

  ‘The gangster fired a bullet. Spell bullet,’ said the Spelling Master.

  ‘Easy,’ I lied to myself. I wrote each letter carefully. B-u-l-l-i-t.

  ‘I went through the door. Spell through,’ said the Spelling Master.

  Oh no. This was a tough one. How did you spell through? T-h-r-e-w? Nah. T-h-r-o-o? No way. I couldn’t get it. I just couldn’t work it out. My head was spinning. Everything was going wrong. I had another try. I slowly wrote down the letters and stared at them. T-h-r-o-u-g-h. That was it. Yes, ough says o o. Like in zoo. I scratched my head and wondered.

  ‘Aghh,’ I suddenly screamed at the top of my voice. I flung my pencil on the floor and ran out of the door. Everyone stared. They thought I was crazy.

  9

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  ‘Last call for Qantas Flight QF 628 to Brisbane,’ said the announcer’s voice at the airport. ‘This flight closes at 3.50 p.m.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Mum. ‘Let’s go.’

  We hurried onto the plane. Outside the Melbourne rain was falling softly on the runway. ‘Sunshine, here we come,’ I said.

  Mum headed down towards the back of the plane.

  ‘Not that way,’ I said. ‘These are First Class tickets.’

  We sat down among the business people wearing suits and balancing computer laptops on their knees. The flight attendant brought us fresh orange juice.

  Mum was really curious. ‘Come on, Anthony,’ she said with a smile. ‘I know you couldn’t have won the spelling competition. You’re no better at spelling than Uncle Bill. So where did you get the money?’

  I grinned. ‘Spitting Rats are extinct,’ I said. ‘There are none left alive. A man from the zoo gave me three thousand dollars for it. Just the right amount.’

  ‘The zoo?’ said Mum. ‘Why the zoo?’

  I took out the little note pad that they give you in First Class and wrote a word.

  ‘Zough rhymes with zoo,’ I said. ‘Like through. Uncle Bill wanted me to take the rat to the zoo. He knew it would bring us luck.’

  Mum gave the biggest smile ever. She was so happy to be going on a holiday.

  ‘I like Bill,’ she said. ‘But he’s a bit nutty. I’m glad he lives over two thousand k’s away.’

  The plane started to speed along the runway.

  ‘Yahoo,’ I yelled.

  ‘Where are we going, anyway?’ Mum said. ‘You can’t keep it secret any longer.’

  The plane lifted into the air.

  ‘Brisbane first,’ I said. ‘Then on to Darwin to see Uncle Bill.’

  Mum started to laugh like crazy. It was good to see.

  Nails

  Lehman’s father sat still on his cane chair. Too still.

  A hot breeze ruffled his hair. He stared out of the window at the island. But he did not see. He did not move. He did not know that Lehman was alone.

  But the boy knew. He realised he was trapped. Their boat had sunk in the storm. And their radio had gone with it. There was not another soul for a thousand miles. Lehman was rich. The house was his now. The whole island belonged to him. The golden beach. The high hill. The palms. And the little pier where their boat had once bobbed and rocked.

  He had no more tears. He had cried them all. Every one. He wanted to rush over and hug his father back to life. He wanted to see that twisted grin again. ‘Dad, Dad,’ he called.

  But the dead man had no reply for his son.

  Lehman knew that he had to do something. He had to close his father’s eyes. That was the first thing. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What if they wouldn’t move? What if they were brittle? Or cold? Or soggy?

  And then what? He couldn’t leave his father there. Sitting, stiff and silent in the terrible heat. He had to bury him. Where? How? He knew that no one would come. The blue sea was endless. Unbroken. Unfriendly to a boy on his own.

  Lehman started to scratch nervously. His nails were growing. More of them all the time.

  He decided to do nothing for a bit longer. He sat and sat and sat. And remembered how it was when they had come to the island. Just the two of them.

  2

  ‘Is that where we live?’ said Lehman.

  They both looked at the tumbledown hut on top of the hill. ‘We’ll fix it up in no time,’ said Dad. ‘It’ll soon be like it was in the old days. When I first came here. As good as new.’

  And after a while it was. It was home. Lehman became used to it. Even though he was lonely. Every morning he did his school work. Dad told him which books to read. And how to do his sums. Then he left Lehman alone with his studies. And disappeared along the beach.

  Dad searched the shore. But he never let Lehman go with him. He took his camera and knapsack. And his shovel. He peered out into the endless sea. He dug in the golden sand. And every lunch time he returned with rocks and strange objects from the sea.

  ‘One day I’ll hit the jackpot,’ he said for the thousandth time. ‘Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find one. Tomorrow will be the day. You’ll see.’ Then he grew sad. ‘There were plenty here once.’ He dumped his sack in the corner. It thumped heavily in the floor.

  ‘Let’s see what you’ve got,’ said Lehman.

  Dad shook his head. ‘When I find what I’m looking for, you’ll be the first to know.’ He picked up the sack and took it into his room. He shut the door with a smile.

  Lehman knew what his father was doing. He was putting his finds into the old box. The sea chest with the heavy brass lock. Lehman longed to take a look. He wanted to know what his father was searching for. But it was a secret.

  He began to scratch his fingers. Just as Dad came out of his room. ‘I’ve told you not to do that,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m itchy,’ said Lehman. ‘On the fingers. And the toes.’

  ‘Eczema,’ Dad told him. ‘I used to get it when I was a boy. It’ll go when the wind changes.’ But he didn’t look too sure. He examined the red lumps growing behind Lehman’s fingernails. Then he stamped out of the hut.

  3

  Lehman stared around the silent bungalow. He was lonely. Dad was good company. But he was a man. Lehman wanted friends. And his mother. He picked up her photograph. A lovely, sad face. Staring at him from the oval frame. ‘Where did you go?’ whispered Lehman. ‘I can’t even remember you.’

  The face seemed to say that it knew. Understood. But it was only a photo of a woman’s head. A woman lost in the past. In her h
air she wore a golden clip set with pearls.

  During the day, Lehman kept the photo on the kitchen table where he worked. And at night he placed it on his bedside table. It watched over him while he slept.

  Lehman sighed and closed his book. He looked up as Dad came back carrying some potatoes from their vegetable patch. ‘I’m going early in the morning,’ he said. ‘Just go on with the work I set you today. I’ll be back at lunch time.’

  ‘Let me come with you,’ pleaded Lehman.

  His father looked at him in silence. Then he said. ‘When I find what I’m looking for. Then I’ll take you.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ shouted Lehman. ‘I’m all alone here. Every morning. You owe it to me to tell me what you’re looking for. I don’t even know what we’re doing here.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ said Dad slowly. ‘Not yet. Trust me.’

  That night, in bed, Lehman’s eczema was worse. He scratched his itching fingers and toes until they hurt. He dreamed of dark places. And watery figures. Faces laughing. And calling. Voices seemed to whisper secrets from inside his father’s sea chest.

  In the morning he stared at his itching fingers. And gasped. At first he couldn’t take it in. He had ten fingernails. On each hand. Another row of nails had grown behind the first ones. Clean, pink, little fingernails.

  He tore back the sheets and looked at his toes. The same thing had happened. A second row of toenails had burst out of the skin. They pointed forwards. Lapping slightly over the first row.

  ‘Dad,’ he screamed. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad. Look. Something’s wrong with me. My nails. I’ve got too many nai…’ His voice trailed off. He remembered. Dad was down at the beach. On another secret search.

  4

  Lehman had been told never to go down the path to the cove. Dad had told him it was dangerous. And out of bounds.

  But this was an emergency. Lehman stared in horror at his hands. He pulled at one of the new nails. It hurt when he tugged. It was real. It was there to stay. He staggered as he ran down the steep track to the beach. Tears of fright and anger streamed down his cheeks. His chest hurt. His breath tore harshly at his throat.