So Grotty!

by J A Mawter

  Doug doesn’t laugh. He waits for Banjo to return, rubbing his nose hard, so hard it makes a cracking sound.

  ‘I hear grinding!’ says Warren. ‘Cartilage on bone. Reminds me. Did you know that some bones don’t burn? You can hear ’em rattling around in the urn.’ Warren grins into the dim light.

  ‘Banjo’s taking his time,’ is Doug’s only answer.

  ‘Yeah-h-h,’ says Warren, then louder, ‘Yeah!’ Turning to Doug he says, ‘Hey. I’ve got an idea…’

  When Banjo returns he finds the bedroom empty. ‘Doug?’ he calls. ‘Warren?’

  He squints, his eyes unaccustomed to the poor light. ‘You guys. Give it up.’ He stops, his ears straining for a telltale sound. Silence clamps around the room when suddenly…

  ‘Boo!’

  One shadow tackles him from below. Another takes him down from above, in a head-high that would guarantee an ‘Off the field!’

  ‘Aaagh!’ screams Banjo, trying to kick out. But surprise and doubled strength defeat him. ‘Yellow!’ cries Banjo, waiting for the boys to get off and let him up. Hooting with laughter Doug lets go. Warren releases his grip, changes his mind, then gives Banjo a dacking.

  ‘No!’ screams Banjo, doubling over for privacy and desperately tugging up his pyjama pants. But he is too slow.

  Warren and Doug cop an eyeful of undies—demented undies.

  Banjo has lined his undies with toilet paper. Not just a few squares. He’s chucked in almost the entire roll! One square pokes out the leg.

  ‘Practising to look like a jock?’ snorts Warren.

  Yanking his pyjama bottoms up Banjo flings himself on his bed and hunches into a ball. ‘One more word,’ he growls, ‘and I’ll…’

  The threat hangs in the air.

  Poor Banjo, thinks Doug. He tries to pretend nothing’s happened and climbs into his bed, forcing a yawn. ‘Are we going to sleep, or what?’ He flings Warren a warning look.

  But Warren doesn’t see it. He is laughing so hard no sound is coming out—except for the odd wheeze and fart. ‘My,’ he gasps. ‘That toilet paper is well hung.’

  Banjo huddles under the covers.

  Warren goes on. ‘Why didn’t you use a sock, you idiot? Think of the environment.’

  Banjo stays huddled. Let Warren think he wants his penis to look bigger. Better that than the real reason. Whoever heard of a thirteen-year-old bed-wetter?

  It takes forever for the boys to settle. Doug does one last nostril scout before curling onto his side. Banjo glares at the ceiling, not blinking. Loud snores travel across the hall from Gran’s room.

  Warren talks over them. ‘This sleepover doesn’t count unless we really sleep with Grandpa,’ he says, sitting up. ‘So let’s go get ’im. Who’s coming?’

  ‘You’re on your own,’ hisses Doug into the darkness. ‘He’s your Grandpa.’ Banjo’s silence punches the air.

  ‘How ’bout all for one and one for all?’ suggests Warren.

  Doug frowns. He flicks his septum with his tongue. Banjo wriggles then presses his ears into his pillow to block out Warren’s voice.

  ‘What about it?’ wheedles Warren. ‘We’ll get the urn together.’ Despite his coaxing Warren has to go it alone. In no time at all he returns brandishing the urn like a trophy.

  ‘Where will you put it?’ asks Banjo, hoping against hope that Warren does not say, ‘On the windowsill’.

  ‘How ’bout there?’ asks Doug, pointing to a chest of drawers pushed up against a wall.

  ‘Perfect,’ says Banjo.

  ‘Fine by me,’ says Warren.

  ‘Good one,’ agrees Doug and he takes the urn to its new place of rest.

  Once again, the boys snuggle down for the night. Once again, Doug starts his nasal grooming and once again Banjo needs to relieve his bladder.

  Warren mumbles in his sleep.

  The urn glistens in the moonlight.

  Chapter Five

  Some time later, Doug wakes to a strange noise. He holds his breath thinking, What is it? It sounds like scraping. A wooden leg scraping on a stone floor. Doug’s breath comes in short spurts. His mouth is drier than a creek bed in drought. Worse still, his nostril is drier than a creek bed in drought.

  Scr, scr, scr-i-i-itch.

  Doug’s heart is hollering, demanding he move. Doug glances around the room, trying to figure out from what direction the sound is coming.

  Scr, scr, scr-i-i-itch.

  Doug gulps, does a loot ’n’ plunder up the left nostril. He wonders if Warren and Banjo can hear the noise, too. A quick check of Warren shows he’s sleeping as deeply as a bear in winter. Looks like a bear, too, with his muzzle open and teeth hanging out, a great dirty paw sticking out from under the covers.

  Scr, scr.

  There it goes again!

  ‘Banjo,’ whispers Doug, first softly then loudly, ‘Banjo!’

  At first Banjo does not answer. He’s too busy repeating ‘Chocolate raindrops’ over and over again in his head. He’s heard it is a good distraction from weeing.

  ‘Banjo!’ hisses Doug for the third time. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Chocolate raindrops,’ answers Banjo.

  That’s all I need, thinks Doug, climbing out of bed and sliding over to Banjo. Gently he shakes his shoulder. He leans in and whispers in Banjo’s ear. ‘The scraping. Hear it?’

  Right on cue the familiar scr, scr fills the room.

  ‘Chocolate raindrops,’ gurgles Banjo. And when that doesn’t work he moves on, ‘Chocolate puddles, chocolate streams, chocolate swimming pools.’

  Scr, scr, scr-i-i-itch.

  ‘Chocolate rivers!’

  Doug’s getting angry now. He thumps Banjo on the back hissing, ‘We’re about to be done in by an axe murderer…’

  ‘Chocolate lakes!’

  Banjo thumps Doug again. ‘…and you’re having wet dreams!’

  ‘Am not,’ gasps Banjo, doing a quick check of his pyjama pants. With great relief he feels the material, dry under his fingers. ‘Sweet dreams more like it,’ he grumbles.

  Scr, scr…

  Doug scrambles in bed with Banjo and spoons into his back. ‘What do you reckon it is?’ he asks

  The boys lie still, straining to hear.

  ‘Grandpa’s ghost?’ asks Banjo. His bladder feels about to burst.

  Doug gulps.

  Loud ah-hhhews escape from the room across the hall. Blood pounds in Doug and Banjo’s ears. The sinister scraping continues.

  By now Banjo feels like a giant is kneeling on his bladder.

  Scr, scr, scr-i-i-itch.

  Both boys start to tremble.

  How can Warren sleep through this? wonders Doug.

  ‘I’m gonna have to pee,’ exclaims Banjo.

  ‘Not again!’ Warren is miraculously awake. He breaks into a fit of giggles. ‘Sprinkler up your donger?’

  ‘Lay off him,’ yells Doug, still in Banjo’s bed. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it?’

  ‘Hear what?’ asks Warren.

  ‘That scraping sound,’ whispers Doug. ‘Like a skeleton on the roof of your car.’

  ‘Or a severed head,’ whimpers Banjo.

  Warren chuckles. ‘You two!’ he says. ‘Overactive imaginations.’

  ‘But we heard the noise again,’ hisses Doug with eyes wide open. He feigns a shiver. ‘It woke us up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Banjo, sitting up.

  ‘It’s coming to get us!’ Doug continues.

  ‘It’s going to kill us in our sleep!’ agrees Banjo.

  ‘Tear us limb from limb…’

  ‘And cut off our heads.’

  ‘And feed them to the sharks!’

  ‘Poor shark,’ interrupts Warren. ‘It’s in for a bad case of indigestion.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ says Doug.

  Warren pulls a face. ‘Either that, or it’s gonna have to put up with dunny roll between its teeth.’ Banjo clenches his own teeth. He chooses not to answer. ‘Or a mouthful of snot.’ It’s Doug’s turn not to
answer. And with that Warren leaps out of bed and jiggles towards the door. ‘Now, I’m the one who has to go,’ he says. ‘Weak bladders must be catching.’

  Banjo decides not to follow, unable to face any more Warren comments.

  Doug lies in the dark, ears pricked. Funny! he thinks to himself. That scraping has stopped. As Doug looks around the room his eyes rest on the urn. He frowns. It’s not where he left it. He put it at the far end of the chest of drawers.

  Doug’s skin prickles against his pyjama top. He eases back the blanket and creeps over to the urn when all of a sudden he sees it! A piece of string has been tied to the urn. Doug frowns. He touches the string with his finger then follows it down behind the chest of drawers, out the bottom, along the floor, up under the bedspread and—into Warren’s bed! Before he can tell Banjo Doug hears Warren’s footsteps in the corridor. Quickly he diverts the piece of string then jumps into bed.

  Chapter Six

  Doug lies doggo. Gently he nudges Banjo whispering, ‘Oi! Axe-murderer alert.’

  ‘Wha—?’ asks Banjo, blinking and struggling up on his elbows.

  ‘You’ll see.’ It doesn’t take long for Doug to start up.

  Scr, scr…

  Banjo sits bolt upright asking, ‘Did, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ whispers Doug, smiling into the darkness.

  A snuffle comes from Warren’s bed, then a ‘Heard nothing!’

  Scra-a-ape!

  ‘There!’ exclaims Banjo. He turns to Warren. ‘Heard that one, didn’t you?’

  After a long silence there comes a timid, ‘Yea-a-ah.’

  ‘Might be your Grandpa,’ says Doug.

  ‘Might,’ agrees Warren.

  ‘Might be the axe murderer,’ says Banjo.

  Scr, scr. Scrape!

  ‘The axe murderer sharpening his axe,’ adds Doug.

  An audible gulp comes from Warren.

  Doug stifles a giggle.

  Scra-a-a-pe.

  ‘He’s getting closer,’ gasps Banjo. His bladder is full, so full it’s burning.

  Doug can hear the tremble in his voice. ‘Real close,’ he agrees.

  ‘Times like this I wish I was with Grandpa.’ Warren’s voice quivers.

  ‘I’m sure Grandpa wishes he was with you, too,’ agrees Doug. Just then, he gives the cord a good yank.

  Clunk!

  The sound is near, near enough to rattle in Warren’s head. ‘I was Grandpa’s favourite, you know.’

  ‘Good old Grandpa,’ says Doug.

  Banjo leaps out of bed, contorted with pain. His legs are crossed and he is doubled over. ‘You don’t think he’s trying to contact us, do you? Talk to us, like in them séance thingummies?’

  ‘Probably,’ agrees Doug. ‘Hey Warren, better say hello.’ Doug’s eyes are shining. He fights to hold back a laugh. Banjo whimpers and begins to sidle towards the door. He can’t hold on much longer.

  In a small high voice Warren says, ‘G’day, Grandpa.’

  Doug gives the string another good tug—scr-plunk! clunk! adding, ‘G’day Warren, m’boy!’ in a quavery voice.

  Warren grunts.

  Banjo jerks with fright, releasing a valve which in turn releases…Banjo clutches at his pyjama fronts. He tries to jump over Warren, hoping to reach the bathroom. Too late! The warm liquid spurts out, like a fluffy duck fountain, all over Warren. It soaks into his pyjamas, warm on his body.

  ‘Sod off!’ yells Warren trying to fling himself out of the way.

  Doug gives another tug.

  The urn topples off the chest of drawers, flips once, twice, and lands…

  Clonk! Splat!

  Warren is coughing and spluttering and spitting and splattering. His head is coated in ash. His body is coated in ash. As he staggers to his feet a piece of blackened bone falls off his chest and rolls onto the floor. Little whimpering noises escape from Warren’s lips.

  ‘Hey, Warren,’ says Banjo. ‘Grandpa’s paying a visit.’

  ‘After all,’ adds Doug, clapping Warren on the back. ‘You are his favourite.’

  All That Glitters

  Chapter One

  ‘Check out those legs,’ Malachi whispered to his friend, Teb. ‘They are so-o-o long.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like stilts,’ replied Malachi, gulping at the natural beauty before him.

  ‘She moves like a moviestar,’ said Teb then added, ‘Like she’s performing for a camera.’

  The boys watched as one lean leg crossed over the other, stretched, then crossed back again, before easing into a half-bent position.

  ‘Reminds me of Xanthe,’ said Malachi and a huge sigh fluttered from his lips.

  ‘Xanthe!’ echoed Teb.

  Silence descended, each boy lost in thought. The only sign that they were thinking about the same thing, the same girl to be more precise, was that they both wore the same insipid smile.

  ‘You know it’s her birthday on Sunday,’ said Teb, ever practical.

  ‘Whose?’ asked Malachi, blinking as he was wrenched from his private stash of thoughts.

  ‘Xanthe’s, you mush-for-brains.’ And then, as if to make sure there could be no misunderstanding Teb repeated, ‘Xanthe.’ Suddenly, Teb’s eyes flew open, his pupils constricting. ‘Omigod!’ A curl fell over his forehead and he flicked it away.

  ‘What?’ asked Malachi.

  ‘Omigod,’ said Teb again.

  Malachi pulled Teb’s sleeve demanding, ‘What’s the matter?’

  Teb’s face looked as though he’d unearthed something evil. ‘I’ve just realised,’ he wailed. ‘That makes her a Taurus!’

  Malachi thumped Teb’s shoulder, the sound falling flat in his ears. ‘So-o-o?’ he asked.

  ‘So nothing,’ said Teb with a shrug. ‘Unless you like your women bull-headed and strong.’ He shuddered at the thought.

  Malachi’s laugh tickled the air. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘You’re a fool and I’m not.’

  ‘Taurus’s are big trouble,’ warned Teb. He shuddered and drew his jacket closer. ‘She’s trouble with a capital “t”. ’

  ‘Nuh-uh,’ answered Malachi. ‘She’s beauty with a hint of danger, not trouble.’ He gestured towards the object of their previous fascination. ‘A bit like that tarantula.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Teb. ‘But I don’t want to hear, “You didn’t warn me!” when things start to go wrong.’

  ‘You won’t. Promise. Besides,’ Malachi grinned at his best friend as he added, ‘nothing could go wrong with Xanthe.’

  As if on cue, Xanthe strode into the playground, her legs devouring the distance between them.

  ‘Ssh,’ whispered Malachi. ‘Here she comes.’

  ‘Hi Xanthe,’ called Teb, earning a poke under the ribs for his trouble.

  Either she didn’t hear him or she chose to ignore him but the end result was the same. Xanthe glided past, pulling up only when she came to her friends. After a group hug her laughter rose, hung for a moment, and then descended gracefully like a hot air balloon.

  ‘What do you think I should get her?’ Malachi asked Teb. ‘For her birthday, I mean. I want it to be something special.’

  Teb thought for perhaps, oh, a millisecond. He shrugged, then waved his hand dismissively. ‘Flowers, I guess.’

  ‘Too corny,’ answered Malachi.

  ‘Chocolates.’ suggested Teb.

  ‘Too sickly.’

  ‘What about writing her a poem? You know, roses are red, violets are blue…’

  ‘Keep this up, and I’ll need the loo,’ Malachi finished for him. ‘It’s gotta be something different. Something original. Something totally mad!’

  Teb pretended to be deep in thought. In reality he was wondering if he could scrounge the money for a meat pie. His stomach was reminding him it hadn’t eaten breakfast.

  Another burst of laughter came from Xanthe’s lips.

  ‘Sounds like she’s pretty happy,’ said Malachi.

  The laughter swelled into a guffaw.<
br />
  ‘Sounds like she’s on happy gas,’ said Teb with a snort.

  ‘Oh, to be the cylinder she sucks from,’ said Malachi, pursing his lips and inhaling, so deeply that for a second he did feel lightheaded. ‘Xanthe, Xanthe, Xanthe,’ he repeated in a helium voice.

  ‘Idiot!’ said Teb with a laugh, and he gave his friend a none-too-gentle shove.

  Malachi staggered but not wanting to bring attention to himself quickly straightened up. ‘Cut it out,’ he hissed.

  ‘You look like a goat with Mad Cow Disease,’ said Teb with a voice so loud it bounced and tripped across the playground like a stone across a lake.

  Xanthe looked up. She frowned.

  She’s looking straight at me, thought Malachi. He didn’t know whether to look back or look away. Which one would be more cool?

  Xanthe frowned again, scowled more like it, shook her head then went back to yakking with her friends.

  Malachi had regained his balance, but his composure? It had gone walkabout. His face and body were five degrees warmer, his hair stuck out like bristles on a pig’s back and his school shirt had parted at the lower buttons, heralding to the world that not only was he pigmentally challenged but his six pack had packed up and left. ‘Do that again and I’ll bust you,’ he hissed at Teb through ventriloquist lips.

  Teb threw back his head to laugh but as he did so the tarantula, flattened against the tree, caught his eye. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘I know what you can get her!’

  ‘What?’ asked Malachi, still smarting.

  ‘A pet!’ Teb crossed his arms and leaned back, smugness written all over his face.

  Malachi’s eyes narrowed. He stood poised, waiting for the next round of humiliation. ‘Waddya mean? A pet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Teb threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Something cute, I guess.’