Wicked Bindup

by Paul Jennings

  Other books by

  PAUL JENNINGS

  Unreal!

  Unbelievable!

  Quirky Tails

  Uncanny!

  Unbearable!

  Unmentionable!

  Undone!

  Uncovered!

  Unseen!

  Tongue-Tied!

  Paul Jennings’ Funniest Stories

  Paul Jennings’ Weirdest Stories

  Paul Jennings’ Spookiest Stories

  Paul Jennings’ Trickiest Stories

  The Cabbage Patch series

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  The Singenpoo series

  (with illustrations by Bob Lea)

  The Gizmo series

  (with illustrations by Keith McEwan)

  The Deadly! series

  (with Morris Gleitzman)

  Duck for Cover

  Freeze a Crowd

  Spooner or Later

  Spit it Out

  (with Terry Denton and Ted Greenwood)

  Round the Twist

  Sucked In …

  (illustrated by Terry Denton)

  The Rascal series

  (illustrated by Bob Lea)

  Novels

  How Hedley Hopkins Did a Dare …

  The Nest

  For adults

  The Reading Bug … and how you

  can help your child to catch it.

  MORRIS GLEITZMAN

  Toad Rage

  Toad Heaven

  Toad Away

  Toad Surprise

  Bumface

  Water Wings

  Water Wings

  Second Childhood

  Teacher's Pet

  Gift of the Gab

  Adults Only

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Belly Flop

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  The Deadly! series

  (with Paul Jennings)

  Boy Overboard

  Girl Underground

  Worm Story

  Aristotle's Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Give Peas a Chance

  Once

  Then

  Now

  After

  Grace

  Too Small to Fail

  Pizza Cake

  Extra Time

  Loyal Creatures

  BOOK 1

  The Slobberers

  BOOK 2

  Battering Rams

  BOOK 3

  Croaked

  BOOK 4

  Dead Ringer

  BOOK 5

  The Creeper

  BOOK 6

  Till Death Us Do Part

  ONE

  They all reckon I’m a worm.

  A grub.

  A monster.

  I could tell from their faces as I ran out of the church. And from what they were saying.

  ‘You’re a wicked girl,’ hissed Mr Kinloch from the Wool Growers’ Association.

  I didn’t blame him. I’d probably think the same if I saw a kid do what I’d just done. Ruin her own dad’s wedding. Leave a church in uproar and a bride in tears and a minister in shock.

  I wish Dad had listened all those times I tried to talk to him.

  But parents don’t listen when love’s made them dopey. You just have to go along with their mad plans and hope everyone doesn’t end up in the poo. That’s what I was telling myself this arvo in church while Mrs Conti from the cake shop was playing ‘Here Comes the Bride’ on the organ.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I said in my head as Dad and Eileen stepped up to the altar. ‘We can get through this. Dad’s a really good dad even though his brain has turned to confetti, and Eileen’s not a bad person even though she does dribble a bit when she loses her temper. We’ll be right.’

  I wanted to believe it heaps. But it was no good. My neck was hurting. I always get neck tension when I try and lie to myself.

  I thought a curried-egg sandwich might help. I reached for the one next to me on the pew, the one I’d pinched from the caterers when we’d dropped into the Scout Hall on the way to the church to check that the glitter ball had arrived for the reception.

  I hoped the bread hadn’t gone too hard in the heat. Rev Arnott’s voice was pretty quiet and I didn’t want to disrupt the ceremony with crunching. I lifted the sandwich to my mouth.

  And froze.

  There was a slug sitting on the bread.

  Looking at me.

  It was more of a worm than a slug, slimy and sort of veiny. I’d never seen one like it before, and Dad’s a shearer so I’ve seen lots. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that crawl out of sheep’s bottoms.

  I glared at it and went to knock it off. That’s when I saw Rory glaring at me.

  You’d think grown adults would know better than to put two kids who hate each other side by side on the same pew. Even love-fuddled adults with new shoes that are hurting them a bit should know better than that. But Dad and Eileen were determined.

  ‘She’s your step-sister,’ Eileen had hissed to Rory when we got to the church. ‘Sit next to her.’

  ‘Aw, Mum … ’ Rory had moaned.

  Dad had taken me to one side and given me a pep talk.

  ‘Dawn,’ he’d said, squeezing my shoulders. ‘I know it’s not easy, but we’ll all feel more comfortable with each other once we’re living together and getting to know each other better.’

  I opened my mouth to remind Dad that Rory and me have known each other for eight years and he’s hated my guts for five and I’ve been going off him in a big way for at least four and a half.

  Then Mrs Conti deafened us with the organ, and the wedding started.

  Two minutes later Rory was grabbing my sandwich.

  ‘That’s mine,’ I whispered, furious. ‘Hands off.’

  We struggled over the sandwich.

  ‘The worm’s mine,’ grunted Rory.

  He let go of the sandwich and grabbed the worm.

  I chewed my sandwich angrily. How’s anyone meant to like a person who keeps worms as pets? Specially when that person’s a year older than you and is meant to be setting a good example.

  Rory put the worm into a tin.

  I stared. Inside the tin was the little troll that Rory takes everywhere with him. The one with the wooden body and the dried apple for a head. I try not to make jokes about it ’cos his dad sent it to him and it’s the only present he’s had from his dad for ages.

  The troll’s shrivelled-up apple head had been dry and dead. Now it was alive. With worms. They were slobbering all over it and wriggling into the mouth and writhing out of the eyes.

  It was worse than anything I’d seen on a sheep, even in nightmares.

  I looked at Rory.

  He wasn’t gagging or looking revolted or anything. He was staring at the worms, fascinated.

  Then I saw something even more horrible.

  The tin.

  It was my tin. My Milo tin. The one Mum had given me to keep pencils in.

  I couldn’t believe it. Rory had taken it from my room without asking. The last thing Mum had given me before she died. And he’d put slimy slobbery revolting worms in it.

  I felt rage uncoiling inside me. Hot tears stinging.

  In the distance Rev Arnott was saying that stuff about how if anyone had a reason why these two people should not be joined together in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.

  Before I knew it I was on my feet.

  ‘I have,’ I shouted. I heard the pews creak as everyone stiffened. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me.

  ‘We all hate each other,’ I said. My heart was pounding
in my ears. Dad’s mouth was wider than a sheep chute. ‘Not Dad and Eileen,’ I continued, ‘cos they’ve got sex, but the rest of us.’

  Eileen’s face was crumpling and Rev Arnott was clinging to the altar. I ploughed on.

  ‘We pretend we like each other, but we don’t. You should see Rory go off when I catch him using Dad’s razor to scrape the fluff of his socks. You should see Dad when Rory has a nightmare and gets into bed with Eileen. You should see Eileen when I make friendly jokes about her bottom exercises.’

  ‘Thank you, Dawn,’ croaked Rev Arnott. ‘Why don’t we finish the ceremony and have a family talk afterwards.’

  I turned to appeal to the other guests. Rows of open mouths and big eyes. I pointed at Rory.

  ‘I try to be friendly with him and he lets his rat poo in my underwear drawer.’

  ‘I did not,’ shouted Rory. ‘It was a mouse.’

  ‘Dawn,’ roared Dad, storming towards me, ‘sit down.’

  ‘Second marriages never work,’ I yelled. ‘Specially when she’s more educated than he is and her son sneaks into his daughter’s room and takes precious things.’

  I grabbed at my Milo tin but Rory hung on and the tin spun out of our hands and crashed onto the tiles. The apple head bounced across the floor. Worms slithered everywhere.

  I turned and ran out of the church. Dad followed for a bit, shouting, then gave up. I wasn’t surprised. Eileen’s been more important to him than I have for about a year now.

  I suppose I was pretty dopey coming here to the old bus ’cos Dad knows it’s where I always come when I want to be close to Mum. When the ceremony’s over he’ll know where to find me.

  In fact I can hear someone crashing through the bush now.

  Whoever it is, I’m history.

  If it’s Dad, he’ll kill me for ruining his wedding, and if it’s Rev Arnott to tell me I’m forgiven, I’ve still got to live with Worm Boy.

  So either way my life’s over.

  TWO

  Big Bad Dawn. Everything is big about her. Big muscles, big head, big mouth. Worst of all she’s my sister. Well, step-sister to be exact. It’s not the same. A real sister wouldn’t have made a fuss in church over a Milo tin. A real sister wouldn’t have nearly let my grubs escape. A real sister wouldn’t have …

  Oh, what the heck. I knew where she was hiding.

  Everyone from the wedding was looking for her. Fancy standing up in church and objecting to the marriage. What a hoot. I have to give her full marks for that. I wished I’d thought of it myself. I didn’t want Mum to marry Jack any more than she did.

  The bus. That’s where she would be. That was her hideout.

  I tucked the Milo tin under one arm and walked along the side of the creek for a while. Then I took the short cut through Dead Cow Clearing. I reached the fence of the wrecker’s yard and peered in. There it was. A rusting hulk right in the middle of the yard. Broken windows. Grass sprouting out of the petrol cap. Not a speck of paint left. A tree growing right through the bonnet. And the whole thing leaning drunkenly to one side.

  The bus had carried its last passenger, that was one thing for sure.

  Last passenger. What was I thinking about? I was the last passenger. I had my crook leg to remind me of that.

  I climbed through Dawn’s secret hole in the bent iron fence. ‘I know you’re in there, Dawn,’ I said under my breath.

  Inside the yard I crept past the remains of a ’68 Ford and round a pile of dented hub caps. I didn’t want Dawn to hear me so I picked my way-forward carefully.

  I reached the bus and hopped quietly onto the first step. I stopped. I didn’t want to go in. I’d been on that bus when it crashed. That terrible crash that I still couldn’t remember anything about. But there was no time for that now.

  ‘Gotcha.’ I jumped up the next two broken steps into the back of the bus.

  Dawn was sitting in the driver’s seat with tears in her eyes. ‘You,’ she spat out. ‘Worm Boy. Where’s your rotten apple-man?’

  She shouldn’t have said that. Like I was feeling a bit sorry for her sitting in the very seat where her mother had drowned. But when she rubbished my apple-man I could feel my face burning with anger.

  ‘My Dad gave me that apple-man,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t you – ’

  She wouldn’t even let me finish. ‘Your dad, your dad. Don’t give me that. Where is he then? What sort of dad goes off and never writes? Never sends a present. Not even a Christmas card. My dad gives you stuff all the time. The only thing you’ve ever got from yours is a rotten apple.’

  I ran down the aisle between the sagging seats and put my face up close to Dawn’s. I shouldn’t have said what I did. Not when she was sitting right where it happened. But I was really mad. ‘What about your mum?’ I yelled. ‘She wanted to get away from you so bad that she drove the bus off the cliff into the river and drowned. And nearly killed me too.’

  Dawn just about exploded. I had really pressed the right buttons. She jumped out of her seat and shoved me onto the floor. The Milo tin rolled down the aisle and the lid popped off. My little apple-man spilled out and lay there like a wizened corpse.

  Dawn sat on my chest and pinned my arms to the ground with her knees. I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. She was much stronger than me. And she knew it.

  ‘I’m going to get your rotten apple-man,’ she said. ‘And flush it down the dunny.’

  I squirmed and heaved but I just couldn’t move her. If she wanted to, she could do whatever she liked. I knew that if she ran off with him, I’d never catch her. She was just too fast. It would be the last I’d see of my apple-man.

  It’s amazing how they make those little apple faces. They get an extra-big apple and let it slowly shrivel up so that it’s all wrinkled and dry. Then they sew it so that it has little eyes and a mouth and a chin. They make a wooden body and, hey presto – a great little troll with an ugly face.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ I screamed. ‘I’ll kill you.’ I bucked like a horse but she just pressed down harder with her knees.

  ‘It’s got worms,’ she said. ‘Horrible little slobberers.’

  I knew that. I twisted my head sideways and looked at them. I was a bit worried when I first saw them. What if they ate the whole apple-head off the doll? Dad would be sad if his present got ruined. The funny thing is, though, the apple-man never changed. The slobberers must have eaten something, but what? They couldn’t have been eating the apple or there’d be none left.

  My arms were starting to tingle with pins and needles. Dawn’s knees were knobbly. ‘Give in, Worm Boy,’ she said.

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  So we just stayed there on the floor of the bus. I stared up into her ugly mug and she glared down into mine. I decided not to look at her so I fixed my eyes on a seat where the skeleton of a dead goat sat like a ghostly passenger from the past. How the heck did that get there? It must have wandered in and died.

  The image of the skeleton sort of locked itself in my head.

  Suddenly Dawn gave a scream and jumped up. She was looking down the aisle at the slobberers. Typical girl. Tough as an ox but scared of a few little grubs. Then I looked a bit more closely. Oh no. I scrambled up and backed off. The skin of the apple-man had begun to boil. A huge grub erupted from a wrinkled scar on the apple-man’s face. It wormed itself out, wriggling, wriggling, wriggling. Tiny veins and purple blood. Little pinpricks of glowing green eyes. Wet fangs and three or four slobbering, sucking tongues coming out of its mouth.

  I hadn’t seen a slobberer like this before. Maybe they were changing. It crawled towards us, followed by another and another and another. Each one the same. It was weird. They slimed out of the apple-man’s eyes and ears and hair. Soon there were twenty or thirty. They advanced towards us in lines like an army of little snakes.

  ‘I’m out of here,’ shrieked Dawn.

  Suddenly the slobberers stopped. They reared up as one and seemed to look about. Then they turned and slithered in panic towards
the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled. ‘Come back. She won’t hurt you.’

  It seems funny to say this but I didn’t want to lose them. Since they had been living in the apple-man I had come to like them even though they were pretty yucky. They were a bit like tenants renting a house. They lived in the apple-man and they didn’t really do any harm. And no one else had anything like them.

  I grabbed the apple-man and ran outside the bus. The slobberers were lined up some distance away. They stared at the bus and seemed to be making frightened, slurping noises. Their little tongues flickered in and out. Weird. It wasn’t Dawn they were frightened of. She had run out and was already climbing through the hole in the fence. Heading for home as quick as her legs could take her. What a chicken.

  No, the slobberers weren’t scared of Dawn. It was something to do with the bus. To be honest, I thought it was a bit spooky myself.

  I walked up close to them and put the apple-man down on the ground. ‘Come on, guys,’ I said. ‘Come home. Come home to Daddy.’

  In a flash they streaked across the ground towards the apple-man. They wormed and wriggled and fought each other in their hurry to get back inside. There was a bit of a traffic jam at the nostrils. After a few seconds they were gone. Everything was back to normal. For now anyway.

  I picked up my apple-man and headed back to the bus. I went inside and put him back in the Milo tin. No point taking risks. I couldn’t take the chance that my little slobberers might escape again. Things were weird enough already.

  I jumped out of the bus and walked towards the hole in the fence. I was glad to be leaving. The slobberers didn’t like that bus.

  And neither did I.

  THREE

  Before the wedding I’d been scared three times in my life. Really scared. The sort of scared where people sit you down. Give you hot drinks. Say ‘take deep breaths, Dawn’ and peek to see if you’ve wet your pants.

  The first time was when I saw Dad crying just before he told me Mum had died.

  The second was at Mum’s funeral when I heard Mrs Lecter from the newsagents whispering to Mrs Gleeson the librarian. Whispering that Mum had killed herself on purpose.

  The third was when Gramps told me that a rotting beam at the Wilsons’ place had crushed a shearer and I thought he meant Dad.