The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2010 (volume 1)

by Paul Haines

“No I didn’t.”

  And then my sister’s face goes white and she grabs at her own hair. “Run!”

  Lilli jumps out of her chair and onto the table, I stumble out of my chair and see a little ruddy dirty face, a bulbous nose and nostril hairs protruding to his upper lip. It is the Mumacca and he’s not happy. In his hand, he has the chicken scissors.

  I scream and start running around the kitchen table. Lucky his stubby legs are a lot shorter than mine. I grab the kitchen stool to use as a mount to get to the top of the fridge. He catches my plait and pulls it really hard. There is the sound of a snip and a light feeling on the left side of my head as my plait falls to the floor. He’s cut my plait off! I make it up to the top of the fridge but he has forgotten me and moves towards Lilli. He hoists himself up on the table and tries to reach her long hair but she has rolled it tight into a bun on top of her head. She grabs the book, jumps down and runs around the table.

  I know I can’t withhold my knowledge anymore. “Give him a gift, Lilli! One of the junk mail things. Anything!”

  Lilli’s hair starts to unravel out of the bun as she runs towards the boxes of Nonna Elba’s unopened junk mail orders. She rips the nearest box open, while the little Mumacca is pulling at one of her long curls and snipping madly at the air. He opens the scissors to cut the long strands in his hand but Lilli has already handed him the bright orange colander still in plastic and says, “A gift just for you!”

  The Mumacca drops the scissors and grabs at the colander. You can see from the delight in his eyes, the gurgle of snot coming out of his nose and the big toothy grin that he loves the gift, just like the manual says. He plops himself down with his back against the stove and sits cross-legged with the colander in his lap and starts to count the holes in it. He puts a stubby finger onto each hole and counts, “Water go, Spaghetti Stop. Water go, Spaghetti Stop. Water go, Spaghetti Stop.”

  “It’s a colander,” Lilli says as she twists her hair back into a bun and backs away from him. I want to laugh but don’t want to distract the little man in case he decides to cut my other plait!

  Lilli reads the bits that I had kept to myself about giving Mumaccas a gift to placate them. I’ve managed to leave my chocolate fingerprint there.

  “Hey! So you already read the bit about the gift and decided to tell me only when he’s about to stab me with the chicken scissors!”

  “Well, I didn’t know he was going to appear so soon! Anyway, we seem to have distracted him now. Look at him! Each time he gets to twelve the poor little thing has to start all over again.”

  “We can’t get rid of the stove,” Lilli says to me while watching him totally engrossed in counting the holes in the colander.

  “Why not?” I ask. I’m pretty pissed that I have lost half a head of hair.

  “If we do, he’s going to be homeless. An elemental refugee so to speak. I can’t let him be homeless!” Lilli sighs. I know that sigh. It’s the same sigh she makes every time she walks past the pet shop when there are dachshund puppies for sale.

  “He’s probably been living behind the stove since 1966, helping Nonna with all cooking since then.”

  “I suppose that’s why everyone loves her food. She’s got a little helper. Every woman I’ve done a tarot reading for this week has said how lucky we are to have Nonna’s slow cooking.”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty now about eating junk!” I’m feeling a bit feral now and jump down off the top of the fridge and make my way to the bread tin and pull out a packet of salt and vinegar chips. The bag makes a popping sound and stops the Mumacca at number eleven. He lets out a screech, drops the colander and lunges towards me to seize the bag of chips.

  “Hey! They’re mine!” I yell at him but he isn’t scared. He yanks the packet out of my hand, throws them on the floor and stamps on the packet until it is nothing but foil and sawdust. Picking up the colander, he runs inside the pantry cupboard next to the stove. We hear the sound of rummaging and he comes out looking pleased as punch with a colander full of potatoes, pulls out a small knife from his faded blue overalls and starts peeling the spuds cross legged on the floor.

  “I think he’s making us real chips,” Lilli says. “I don’t think we should try and banish him now. I’m hungry.”

  We creep backwards out of the kitchen and watch him from the doorway peel the potatoes, slicing them into thick wedges. He drags the old fry pan out of the cupboard, places it on the old slow cooker and lights up the kindling with a click of his fingers. He puts lashings of olive oil into the pan and when it is sizzling he tosses in the wedges, sprinkling big flakes of sea salt on top.

  The aroma makes our stomachs rumble. He must have heard mine because he claps and jumps up and down with that toothy grin again and hands us the wedges on a plate.

  As we sit around the old slow cooker crunching into home cooked chips, the Mumacca opens the empty Nescafe jar with our collected junk food vouchers and throws them in with the kindling. And we don’t protest.

  He doesn’t do the same with Nonna’s Ezy Life Home Shopping Catalogue.

  We hear the front door open and Nonna’s Cuban heeled sandals walk up the hallway.

  “Aahh, so you’ve studied the manual, I see,” she says as the Mumacca has gone back to sitting back against the stove counting colander holes.

  “Do we have to banish him, Nonna?” Lilli asks.

  “We do if we get rid of the old slow cooker,” she says matter of factly. “I can’t chop the wood for the fire on my own anymore; you girls have to chip in too.” She opens her handbag and puts our exam registration forms on the table. “And if you keep eating all the junk, then there’s no point keeping the stove or the Mumacca.”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Well, one of you go and get it!” Nonna rolls her eyes. “Such lazy granddaughters!”

  I jump up and run down the corridor towards the door. I’m still pretty pissed at the Mumacca for chopping my hair but hey, it is the eighties and I just might get away with having half a head of long hair and a bob on the other. And he is pretty cute—in a dachshund puppy kind of a way.

  I open the door. A courier has left a parcel behind our screen door. It’s a vertical chicken roaster Nonna Elba must have ordered and a new roll of bubble wrap.

  I run back down the corridor with the vertical chicken roaster and hand it to the Mumacca. “A gift for you,” I say.

  He blows me a kiss and starts to play with the metal contraption.

  I suppose Nonna’s junk mail addiction might come in handy after all.

  That afternoon, Lilli and I re-wrap the electric stove in the fresh bubble wrap for the installation guys to take back on Friday. And Lilli swears she sees Nonna wink at the Mumacca and him wink back at her.

  Now just to study for those exams . . . .

  The School Bus

  Jason Fischer

  Nan said that Dad was at the wall tonight, keeping lookout for kangaroos. The sun was nearly at the treeline, so I rode there on my bike as quick as I could. Dad says only bloody idiots stay outside after dusk.

  The wall wasn’t a proper wall made out of bricks or stones. It was a junk wall— piled up truck tires and car bodies and sheets of rusty tin. Two and a half metres high, which is about how high the roos can jump. Nan says they used to jump much higher in the old days, so at least we got one thing to be thankful of.

  Dad was at the lookout spot facing the main highway, and he was testing the spotlights. They had a bunch of car batteries up there, connected with bent-out coat hangers and jumper leads.

  “Light,” he yelled out to Mr Wenham, who was the next lookout along. I leaned my bike against a broken TV set and climbed up the ladder.

  “Tom!” Dad said. “What the hell you doing here? Go home and get indoors before I tan your bloody backside.”

  “I got a note from school,” I said, and dug the paper slip out of my pocket. “If you don’t sign this, Mrs Hamilton says I’ll be in even more trouble.”

 
; “Gimme that.’ Dad squinted at the note. “Says you didn’t finish your homework.”

  “It’s stupid and boring. And Mrs Hamilton has only got one leg.”

  “You’ve got a bloody cheek on you. Respect your elders.” Dad had a nib of a pencil in his pocket and scribbled his mark on the slip.

  “We work hard to give you kids a school. If you keep mucking about in class, I’ll turf you over the wall and let the roos sort you out.”

  The sun was starting to sink through the scrub, and all I could see out there was the cracked black ribbon—the old highway. Beats me how they spotted the roos anyway, I reckon if the lights didn’t scare them off, the rifles would.

  One night, Billy Wenham and I snuck out to watch a roo attack. There were dozens of them, bright eyes shining as they ran from the searchlights. We saw a roo scrabbling to the top of the wall right near our hiding spot, its face all rotten and bits of bone showing in its tail. It nearly got over but Mr Richards shot it in the face. We didn’t dare sneak out again after that.

  It only takes one roo getting over the wall and we’re all dead meat.

  “Tell your Nan that I said you get no supper,” Dad said. “And you can attend to Miss Stewart on your way home.”

  “Aw Dad! She’s really gross.”

  “Just feed her boy, don’t go doing any of the other stuff. Understand?”

  “What other stuff?” I really didn’t know what he was talking about. Everyone was really weird whenever I asked about Miss Stewart.

  “No backtalk. You can feed the pigs in the morning too.”

  I slid down the ladder and rode towards Miss Stewart’s house. No supper and two extra chores. Stupid Mrs Hamilton.

  By the time I got to Miss Stewart’s house, it was well into dusk, and I felt a bit nervous. I should have gone to see Dad in the morning, like Nan said. But I figured he would be cranky after pulling an all-nighter.

  The door was open. I’m always getting told to mind my manners, and even though Miss Stewart isn’t one of the grown-ups who can get me in trouble, I knocked.

  There are men coming and going all the time to see her. I guess they take pity on her on account of her situation. Sometimes they even queue out the front door, waiting to pay their respects.

  “Come in,” she said. Her voice was all weird and quiet. She never sounded happy or sad or anything. Dad says there’s no point being miserable. He says there’s no room in this town for anyone who wants to whinge and whine.

  She slept in the front room of the house. There was nothing in there but an old saggy mattress and some newspapers laid out across the floor. We used to have to change the newspaper every week or so but we stopped doing that a while ago. It smelled really bad in there.

  “Hello, Tom,” she said, and I nodded hello. I know she can’t help it, but it’s really disgusting. She doesn’t have arms or legs, and she’s missing all of her teeth too. She’s just a torso and a head.

  “I’m glad you came, I’m really busting.’ I find the rusty saucepan that they’ve given her to use as a potty. The next bit’s a little tricky, but I found that the best way was to sit on the edge of the mattress, resting her across my lap like a big baby. She’s not allowed to wear clothes anymore, and it’s weird to be able to see her boobs and everything. Some of the other boys laugh about it.

  So the trick is to point her bottom end at the pan, and then she goes. The Council said all of our toilet pans are needed for the town garden, especially this year because it’s heaps dry. Dad caught me peeing on the back fence once and he gave me a right belting.

  When Miss Stewart is finished I help her wipe up with a bit of paper from the floor. She gets a bath twice a week, which was Nan’s idea. I don’t see why she’s so special, I only get one bath each Sunday and I have to share the water with Dad and Nan.

  “You’re a good boy, Tom,” she said, and I put her back on the mattress. It’s going to be a cold night tonight, so I fetch her two blankets from a pile by the door. They don’t allow Miss Stewart a fire.

  There’s a couple of crates of baby food in the kitchen, and a plastic tub full of rainwater. I pull out a few jars and scoop an enamel mug into the tub for her to drink out of.

  “Here’s your dinner, Miss Stewart,” I said and sit her up on some pillows. I spoon her the apple one first, I know it’s her favourite.

  “How was school today?” she asked, and so I told her all about the stupid book report and how I got in trouble for not doing my homework.

  “I remember reading Picnic at Hanging Rock when I went to school,” she said, her gummy jaws working on the baby mush. “I thought it was a very boring book, but that’s only because they made me read it. I tried it again, when I was all grown up, and you know what Tom?”

  “What’s that, Miss Stewart?”

  “I still didn’t like it.”

  Miss Stewart isn’t from around here. She came in a few years ago, with a bunch of out-of-towners. Before everything went bad, she was actually a famous lady and an actress on the television. They showed us a video of her show once, but they don’t play the videos anymore because all the batteries are needed for the town lights.

  The grown-ups put posters of her all over the wall. It’s weird to see pictures of her with arms and legs, and her hair all pretty. She’s smiling in the pictures, but I can’t remember ever seeing her smile. “Alison Stewart—star of Outback Glamour!” one of the posters says.

  You can see wet gummy marks from where she’s tried to pull down the posters on the lowest bit of the wall. I’m not sure why they put the posters there. If it’s meant to cheer her up it does the opposite. I know I wouldn’t want to look at my old pictures every day if I had lost my arms and legs.

  Dad won’t let me take the posters down, and told me not to mention it ever again.

  It was getting really late, and I was so hungry I even snuck a bit of the baby food when Miss Stewart was finished eating. When she had sipped enough water I tucked her in and left.

  Whoever had come here last hadn’t shut the door, so I made sure it was closed. If a roo got over the wall, it could get into the house, and there would be nothing she could do to defend herself.

  Someone painted the word “SLUT!” across the door, in thick red letters. I asked Nan what it meant, but she made me wash my mouth out with soap.

  I got home just after dark. Nan had fallen asleep in her armchair. She’d left the oil lamp going again, and if Dad was home he would have yelled at her. There was an empty bottle of brandy on the coffee table, between her and Dad they’d polished it off within a day. That had to be the last of the grog. Dad won’t be happy.

  Nan must have heard me come in.

  “Your dinner’s in the stove,” she slurred.

  There were still some coals going, so I threw a few split logs into the stove to keep the house warm. Dinner was a casserole with meat and baked beans. I decided not to tell her about having to miss supper, because she was too drunk to even notice me cutting a slice of peach cobbler.

  Putting a rug over her knees, I left Nan snoring in her chair. I took the oil lamp to my room, ignored Picnic at Hanging Rock and read my Biggles book instead. When I went to sleep, I dreamt that the town had a plane, and that I stole it and flew away forever. Everything else was dead meat, but I was safe and nothing could touch me up there.

  A rifle shot woke me, and when I went back to sleep I didn’t dream about anything.

  * * *

  Nan gave me cold casserole for breakfast, and a bucket of scraps to add to the pigs’ wheelbarrow. I had to hurry—school always started at 8.30 am sharp.

  The piggery was just outside the town wall, so we didn’t have to put up with the smell. Don’t know why, but the dead things won’t touch a pig. They’re perfectly safe out there. They’d built the new piggery down by the creek so that when there’s water in it the pigs can drink. It’s just a muddy trickle most of the time, so I don’t know why they bothered.

  When I rolled the barrow down to
the piggery, I saw Billy and Eric throwing rocks at Billy’s older brother, who was in with the pigs.

  Danny Wenham got bitten by a roo a couple of years ago, and the bite went bad. They knew what was coming, so Dad and Mr. Wenham wired his mouth shut with barbed-wire, wrapping it around the top of his head and under his chin even while he was kicking and screaming. They wound it tight with pliers, so there’s no getting the wires off. He can’t open his mouth at all.

  “Cut it out, guys. That’s not funny,” I told Billy and Eric. Billy landed a rock right in Danny’s face and he looked up at us, confused as hell.

  “He’s dead, Tom. He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  I told them I’ll see them at school, and opened the gate to the main sty. Danny tried to bite me, his eyes all veiny and bulging out, and reached for me with fingers that looked like bruised fruit. I pushed him away, and put the shovel back into his hands. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. He was just confused.

  “Stop mucking around, Danny.”

  He smelled worse than the pigs, and his skin had gone a rotten bluey-green colour. I know you’re not meant to feel sorry for the ones that have turned, but Danny must have gotten lonely out here, night after night with nothing but pigs for company. He did what he was told though, scooping the manure out of the sty with great concentration. He worked very slowly, but he never had to rest. The town had tried to get him to do other chores, but Danny was just too simple now.

  Piggery started when the Council were worried that us kids weren’t getting enough protein. Some grownups got a truck working and went to the next town. That old fatty Mr. Gunderson didn’t come back (they never told us kids what happened to him), but Mr. Wenham brought back a breeding pair— an old boar and a sow. We had trouble getting the piggery started, some disease took the first litter of piglets so they didn’t let us eat those. Now there are six pigs, grown to nearly full size. If they stay healthy, folks say we could slaughter some next year.

  Others say to slaughter a pig now, but Mr Wenham keeps calling them impatient fools.