Spud

by Unknown

  The moon was brighter than we expected. Rambo whispered, ‘It’s too bright. We have to run fast. Fatty, move your arse!’ Then Rambo was running, sprinting! I battled to keep up and I could hear poor Vern snorting and wheezing somewhere behind me. Rambo didn’t stop until he had leapt over both the bog stream and the barbed wire fence and was in the thick bush on the other side. We waited about five minutes for Vern Vader and Fatty to grovel over the fence and collapse onto the grass in front of us. Rambo then split off by himself to find his connection.

  Mad Dog made sure that the coast was clear before leading us on through the long grass towards the looming forest ahead. The grass was wet with dew and my takkies were making an annoying squelching squeak every time I took a stride. We walked at a very slow pace because the ground was uneven and Fatty was close to a heart attack.

  We gathered at the foot of the Mad House tree and listened for any unusual sounds. There was nothing besides crickets, frogs and randy bulls mooing further up the hill.

  Unless you stood under the tree and knew where to look you would never think that there was a massive tree house just eight metres above your head.

  Soon we had all made it up the tree and were gathered around the glow of Mad Dog’s gas lamp, warming our hands while waiting for Rambo. After some time there was a shrill whistle from the forest below. Mad Dog whistled back and Rambo scuttled up the tree with a rucksack of illegal goodies. Cigarettes were lit and Mellowwood brandy was poured.

  After a few swigs of brandy everyone stopped whispering and began talking normally again. Fatty was totally convinced that we’d seen Macarthur in the chapel. Boggo reckoned it was Reverend Bishop. Rambo said he didn’t care about ghosts but for his money it was Macarthur. Boggo threw back another shot of brandy and said, ‘Why would a ghost be praying in the first place? He’s dead anyway. What a donk.’ Fatty took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a huge cloud of smoke out of his nose before saying, ‘He’s praying, Boggo, because he’s asking God for forgiveness for hanging himself in the chapel.’ Boggo threw up his hands and said, ‘But why would he give a shit?’ ‘Because,’ sighed Fatty, ‘unless God forgives him he’ll never go to heaven and have to be at school until the end of the world.’ We all agreed that Macarthur’s ghost was in a pretty shitty situation.

  Rambo took a drag on his cigarette and said, ‘I got a theory for you, Fatty.’ He then took a drag and blew a cloud of smoke in Vern’s face. Vern coughed violently and spat on the wall. Mad Dog called Vern a barbarian and asked him if he behaved like that in his own home. Vern wiped the spit off the wall with his sleeve and looked apologetic.

  Rambo waited for Vern to finish muttering something to Gilbert the Gnome before he went on. ‘My theory is that we see ghosts because we want to see ghosts. It’s all about believing in stuff. Like religion.’ He then told us a long story about some idiot who was locked in a freezer and died of hypothermia even though the freezer wasn’t even on. Fatty wasn’t impressed that Rambo’s stepmom/girlfriend had read this in the You magazine. Simon handed me his cigarette while he poured a drink and suddenly there was a bright flash of light.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Rambo. Nobody answered. Mad Dog turned off his gaslight and we all listened for noises in the darkness. Mad Dog said, ‘I don’t…’ but his voice trailed away as a strong beam of light shone up and over the floor of the Mad House. I could hear heavy breathing around me and could just make out the maniacal stare of the wildebeest head in the moonlight. There were now three distinct beams of torchlight shining around the floor and the walls. I was trembling and struggling to breathe. I hoped it was just a horrible nightmare that I was about to wake up from. But then there was a loud and distorted voice on a megaphone:

  ‘Crazy Eight! Please come down!’

  I heard sniggering and whispers of ‘Give it here! Give it here!’

  Then I heard Pike. ‘This is the forest police. We have you surrounded!’

  There was more sniggering and the breaking of twigs. I heard someone snatching the megaphone and then clearing his throat before blasting forth with: ‘Throw down your brandy bottles and come out with your cigarettes up!’ Emberton. There was more cackling laughter from below us. We heard Anderson telling the others to shut up and then he called up to us, without the megaphone this time. ‘Guys, I know you can hear me. Listen – you can either come down or we can come up.’

  Rambo was lying next to me staring up at the tree above us with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Or if you don’t choose to come down,’ continued Anderson, ‘and I don’t feel like climbing up, then I think I’ll go and wake up Sparerib and he can decide.’

  Boggo motioned to Rambo to say something, but Rambo shook his head and whispered, ‘He’s bluffing.’

  Then there was a loud scream from below and some thrashing around in the grass and then Devries’ voice saying that something had bitten him. Mad Dog sniggered and loaded another stone into his catty. Rambo pulled the catty away and told Mad Dog he was being an idiot.

  Anderson’s voice softened like he was offering us something tempting. ‘We have a photograph, guys. And I’m not bluffing about Sparerib. If you come down now maybe we can resolve this among ourselves.’ The game was up and we knew it. We were busted red handed in the Mad House with cigarettes and brandy. We climbed down the tree one by one to the sound of jeering and mocking. My whole body was shaking and I was close to bursting into tears.

  They were all waiting for us: Anderson, Pike, Devries, Death Breath, Emberton. All shining their torches and gloating. The seven of us marched back to the school like a herd of sheep, with our heads bowed and in absolute silence. We all knew that we were now at the mercy of these monsters that the school calls prefects, and there wasn’t a single thing any of us could do about it. Because I was too shocked to realize what was happening, I hadn’t really thought about what might happen to us. I just knew whatever it was it would be horrible. I marched along staring at the Nike logo on the back of Rambo’s takkies. I think I might have been a bit drunk.

  We have been confined to house bounds, which means we can’t leave the house except for chapel and meals. This will last until Anderson and the prefects have decided what to do with us.

  I lay on my bed with my mind doing somersaults and ideas and schemes shooting around like fire crackers. I prayed to God that Anderson would not tell Sparerib. I don’t care what terrible torture he uses on us.

  Saturday 7th September

  While the prefects locked themselves in the cop shop for a morning of debate, the Crazy Eight hung around the dormitory discussing every possible angle of the problem. Rambo reckoned the prefects would draw the whole thing out for as long as possible. Boggo kept whining on about how his dad would kill him if he gets expelled. He said he would rather commit suicide first.

  I refuse to think about my parents or my scholarship. I refuse to think about anything.

  20:00 We weren’t allowed to watch the movie. Not that I was really in the mood for Weekend at Bernie’s. Although it might have been nice to think of something else besides expulsion and punishment. Pike brought round his photographs so he could gloat. He had taken a whole series of pictures this morning from inside the Mad House! Then he showed us a photo of us all drinking and smoking. You can see that everyone has a glass in front of them and you can see I’m holding Simon’s cigarette and that I look as guilty as sin. Rambo and Boggo are dragging on their cigarettes and Vern is picking his nose and staring at the wildebeest.

  Sunday 8th September

  Mom phoned to find out how I was doing and to give me the latest Milton news. I nearly started crying on the phone but managed not to tell her about Friday night. I put the phone down, went back to bed and started crying under my duvet. I shoved my face deep into the mattress to hide the sound.

  15:00 Anderson reported us to Sparerib. Any hope that we might escape this one with just a brutal thrashing is now officially gone. Our final hope was for one last brilliant idea from Ra
mbo but all he could do was shrug his shoulders and start packing his trunk. I flicked on my Walkman and skipped to track five on The Joshua Tree. I wish my life also had a rewind button.

  Sweeter the sin

  Bitter the taste in my mouth I see seven towers

  I only see one way out

  You got to talk without speaking

  Cry without weeping and

  Scream without raising your voice.

  You know I took the poison from the poison stream

  Then I floated out of here

  One by one we were called into Sparerib’s office for a gruelling inquisition. I wanted to shout out that the whole thing was just fun – it wasn’t like we’d killed anyone! Sparerib did his best to look upset and shocked but I knew he was secretly thrilled and excited. He’s been waiting to get back at the Crazy Eight ever since Fatty was caught in the chapel window last year and Sparerib ended up looking like an idiot for swallowing Rambo’s story at the time. (Of course Rambo shagging his wife didn’t help much either.) In fact Sparerib tried to force me to blame the whole thing on Rambo! He even told me that by telling the truth about Rambo I could lessen my own punishment and possibly save my place at the school and even my scholarship.

  I shook my head and said nothing. I wasn’t being brave. I just knew that if I opened my mouth I’d start crying.

  Then Sparerib handed me a printed piece of paper with a list of my crimes:

  Talking after lights out

  Being out of house bounds after lights out

  Bunking out (this means I went beyond the bog stream, dam and school fence)

  Night swimming

  Smoking

  Drinking

  I didn’t think the night swimming would make much difference in the end so I signed where it said CULPRIT’S SIGNATURE. Sparerib told me again how disappointed he was in me and that he was filled with an immense sense of waste. I said I was sorry. Sparerib snapped back saying it was too late for sorry and told me to call in Vern.

  Vern was waiting outside with red eyes and a dark patch in the crotch of his pants. He seemed to be on the verge of some sort of freak-out or epileptic fit, so I shook his hand firmly and said, ‘Don’t worry, Vern. Everything’s gonna be fine.’ Obviously, the handshake gave him strength because he marched into the office like he was ready to punch Sparerib’s lights out.

  22:00 Rambo called us to his cubicle and said, ‘Guys, I dunno what’s gonna happen to you but I think it’s game over for me and Mad Dog.’ Mad Dog told him they would be fine but it sounded hollow and he soon gave up his good cheer and went back to sharpening his hunting and filleting knife. Rambo stood on his footlocker and said, ‘In case this is the end for the Crazy Eight I just want to say that it’s been a hell of two years with you guys.’ He then started to choke up which made us all choke up. ‘Anyway, it’s been cool. And, hey, what can I say? The Crazy Eight went out with a bang, not a whimper!’ We all shook hands and paws and returned to our beds in silence.

  While the others slept I sat on my window sill and looked out at the main quad and Pissing Pete. The moon was out again tonight – this time not so full and not so bright. I had a head full of questions:

  What happens next?

  Can they really expel all of us?

  If we aren’t expelled, what will happen?

  Will The Glock deal with us or will Sparerib?

  Will The Glock say anything in assembly tomorrow?

  Will I lose my scholarship?

  If I do, can I still stay at the school?

  Surely they can’t expel Vern? He’s a simpleton!

  How do I break the news to my parents?

  Why did I get into this mess in the first place?

  Just had a thought about the barbarians in the Milton bloodline. Guess you can add another Milton name to the list.

  Monday 9th September

  08:00 The Glock marched into the Great Hall looking like he wanted to dismember someone. My legs were shaking like there was an earthquake under my chair. I was about to experience being on the wrong end of the Hitler that runs our school. Everybody knows the whole story by now but The Glock shouted it out in graphic detail anyway. He made it sound so bad – really bad. He even hinted that we were performing dark rituals with animals’ blood! After his tirade he finished off by reading out our names and telling us to report to his study immediately. Outside people were shaking our hands like we were heroes. There was even a chant of ‘Long live the Crazy Eight!’ but I could see the relief in their eyes that they weren’t the ones staring down the barrel of a loaded Glock.

  The Glock gave us a twenty-minute screaming to. My legs were shaking terribly and I couldn’t look at his face. He kept banging the table with his fist and ranting on about ‘silly season’ and what our vile behaviour has done to the school’s fine reputation. Finally, he ordered us back to the dorm and said he had to have a meeting with Sparerib and other senior staff. We shuffled back to our dormitory like a bunch of convicts with half the school hanging around the quad like a huge flock of vultures. Boggo has packed up his trunk and bags and seems all set to leave. He reckons if you expect the worst then you can never be disappointed.

  10:30 We returned to the headmaster’s study to hear the verdict. On The Glock’s desk stood the bottle of Mellowwood which was now nearly empty. (Guess what the prefects were doing in the locked cop shop on Saturday morning!) Covering just about the rest of the desk was the wildebeest head. The poor gnu, who had looked so splendid hanging on the wall of the Mad House, now looked rather idiotic sitting on a desk next to large sign that read HEADMASTER.

  The Glock stood up and placed his hands on the back of his chair and glared at us with his nasty little smouldering eyes. ‘Gentlemen, after discussions with your housemaster, relevant teachers and senior heads of department, I have come to a decision on punishment for your reckless misdemeanours and complete disregard for this school and its rules.’ He took a breath and glared angrily at the wildebeest head like it was somehow responsible.

  My mind drifted to Julian charging through the dormitory shouting ‘A moose! A moose!’ I wished he was here – he would have supported us and given us advice. We were lucky to have had him and Luthuli, Earthworm and the others. They were good people who had tried to make the house a better place.

  ‘Your punishments are as follows: Vern Blackadder, Simon Brown, Alan Greenstein, Sidney Smitherson-Scott and John Milton – you shall be suspended from school for a period of two to three weeks or however long your housemaster deems sufficient. In addition you shall be beaten six strokes with a light cane and be placed on final warning. You are gated until the end of the year. In other words, you may not leave the school grounds unless it is for an official school requirement. This includes the long weekend.’

  I hardly had time to digest the news before The Glock dropped his next bombshell.

  ‘Robert Black and Charlie Hooper – I regret to inform you that you are no longer students of this institution. You have been expelled.’ The Glock’s eyes flicked around the group. ‘Your parents have already been notified and you will all be off the school premises by sunset today.’

  Rambo and Mad Dog left the office without saying a word. They were too shocked. The rest of us had to line up. As usual I was the second last one ahead of Vern. The Glock grunted with every swing of the cane. He smashed harder than Sparerib and took an age between each stroke. All the while I was gazing into the demented eyes of the poor dead wildebeest. For the first time in days I’ve found someone who’s worse off than me. The thought that I’m still alive and kicking and haven’t had my head chopped off was slightly soothing, but then my bum caught fire and I found myself sprinting around the school rose garden rubbing myself like a lunatic. This time there were no cheers or people shaking my hand. I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like a coward and a fool and no longer welcome here.

  The scene in the dormitory was bizarre. Boggo was unpacking his trunk while Rambo and Mad Dog we
re packing theirs. Fatty said he was going to sue the school. I don’t think Vern actually knew what was going on because he looked to be settling in for an afternoon nap. I told Rambo and Mad Dog that I was sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I went to my cubicle and started packing my own bags.

  The door creaked open. It was Sparerib. Without saying a word to anyone he beckoned to me with a crooked finger. I followed him out and closed the door behind me. The door wasn’t thick enough to hide Rambo’s shout of ‘Gotcha!’

  Sparerib led me to his office without saying a word. He closed the door and ordered me to sit down. He then slapped his hand against his filing cabinet, making a huge sound. No doubt it was part of his cunning plan to intimidate me with a few loud bangs before kicking off with his interrogation. I stared at him with no emotion and no sign of fear.

  ‘Milton, for an intelligent boy you’ve been bloody stupid. How many times have I warned you about these influences, this ridiculous Crazy Eight gang which seems to impress everyone? Well, I can tell you it doesn’t impress me.’ Sparerib was so excited that he was starting to foam around the mouth. He sat back in his chair looking smug and said, ‘The Crazy Eight is no more. You’re now just John Milton, and you’re on your last chance. Now I’ve spoken to your parents at length and they’re bitterly disappointed. They will be here within an hour.’

  I thought about Mom and Dad being bitterly disappointed. It didn’t seem right. My folks don’t deal in bitterness or disappointment. They shout and explode and throw things. But then I felt a happy thought: I may be going home in disgrace, but I’m still going home.