by J A Mawter
‘Can I help you?’ a salesman interrupted. It was the one with the bow tie.
Gavin’s feet rose off the ground and he turned a deep red. ‘Just looking,’ he said, and grabbing at a dangling tag he pretended to inspect the price.
‘If you require assistance, all you need to do is ask,’ said the salesman, removing the tag from Gavin’s fingers and turning it the right way round.
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Gavin, thinking of what the man could do with his stupid bow tie. The salesman walked away. Gavin swung back to his surveillance with relief.
There was no sign of Mr Bellows.
Oh, no, thought Gavin. I don’t know if he’s left or still inside.
He glanced at his watch. Nine twenty. Mr Bellows should have been at the hospital by now.
Just at that moment the door opened and Mr Bellows came out. Gavin watched him repeat the sequence. Only this time he did not turn back at the gate but kept on, round the corner, along the fence and down the street.
Baby, here I come! thought Gavin.
Chapter Five
Gavin crossed the street, pushed open the gate and cruised into the garden looking as casual as he could, but his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it could be seen thumping through his jumper. Summoning up his courage, he made his way down the side path.
Phew! thought Gavin as he reached the back yard. I’ve made it.
He slunk over to a window and peered in.
If Thomas is right, this’ll be the kitchen, he thought.
Gavin’s heart lurched and swayed. Thomas was right! There was the fridge and the stove. And there was the mantelpiece. And there … He could see it! The baby. In a bottle, curled up, like it was sleeping.
‘It’s true,’ whispered Gavin, pushing his doubts aside and wondering if Lockie Gozzwell felt the same fizz of excitement as he did. Taking a deep breath, Gavin pushed at the back door.
Locked. As expected. Like the front one.
Typical, he thought. Mr Bellows wouldn’t make it easy.
One by one Gavin inspected the windows, pushing on each pane to see if they’d give. Like the doors, they were all securely fastened. All except a small one on the opposite side of the house to the street. It was open several centimetres.
Pulling a garden bench over to the wall, Gavin climbed up and gently eased the window. After placing his hands on the sill he hoisted himself up. With a quick twist and a wriggle he was in.
Gavin blinked furiously. He could tell he was in a bathroom but it was dark and he felt disoriented.
Hadn’t someone said there’d be a hall going right down the middle of the house and leading to the back?
Creeping through the bathroom he was relieved to find himself in a long straight passage. In the dim light he could see doorways left and right, some with arches over the top. Gavin squinted, trying to work out what was on the walls. Bug eyes, bulbous noses and projectile tongues.
Masks! All looking like they died in agony.
Maybe he makes a death mask of his victims, wondered Gavin with a shiver, like they did with
Ned Kelly.
Turning to the left, he could make out the kitchen at the end of the dark hall. Thank goodness!
Taking a deep breath, Gavin began to tiptoe down the hall, although why he was tiptoeing he didn’t know because he knew he was the only person in the house. Someone once told him that Mrs Bellows had died years ago and there were no little Bellows’.
It seemed to take forever to get to the end. Once, he bumped into something. It clunked and cold liquid sloshed onto his foot. ‘Hughhhh!’ whimpered Gavin, bending down to see what it was. It turned out to be a bucket — a heavy metal one. Gavin leant closer, trying to make out what was inside.
In a pool of fluid lay … an eyeball!
‘Aagh!’ Gavin leapt backwards, wondering if it belonged to the shrunken head. He decided to push on, relieved when he reached the kitchen door and could go inside.
The mantelpiece seemed to draw him towards it, as if it was a magnet and he a lump of metal.
On it was a large glass jar. Not a bottle. A jar.
And inside was something curled up, white. Its head was bent low — so low it seemed to disappear under the shoulder and you could not see it. Gavin wasn’t sure, but an arm (or was it a leg?) seemed to be folded in underneath.
The baby.
It certainly looks peaceful, thought Gavin. Maybe I should leave it in its resting place? But then he remembered the curse. He looked at his watch. Only two hours to go!
As Gavin reached for the baby he stopped. The unmistakable smell of vinegar filled his nostrils, making his nose tingle. He turned and spotted a row of shelves beside the mantelpiece. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
There were hundreds of glass jars — of all different shapes and sizes — row upon row. In each glass jar something was preserved. Permanently pickled. And they didn’t look like vegetables. They looked like fingers and toes, noses and tongues. One was full of eyeballs!
Gavin fought the urge to scream. He swallowed, vowing never to put himself in such a predicament again. So Mr Bellows is in the spare parts business, he thought with a gulp, then, I wonder where he gets his victims? Will I be next? Quickly he turned and reached for the baby.
Whack! A broom handle smacked across his knuckles, sending a shaft of pain right up to his elbows.
‘Aaagh!’ screamed Gavin, stumbling back, his heart whizzing in his chest.
‘Touch that and I’ll hit you again!’ Mr Bellows!
Gavin froze, nursing his smarting hand. Time ran amok. Minutes felt like hours, felt like seconds. To run or not to run?
Mr Bellows stood there, his broomstick poised threateningly, but his eyes on the baby. Gavin noticed that his eyes were all strange, misty.
Like he’s expecting it to come alive, he thought.
He wanted to run but something held him back. It was the look on Mr Bellows’s face. It wasn’t normal. It reminded Gavin of an axe-murderer who’s lost his favourite axe.
Was that a tear hovering in the corner of his eye?
‘Whose is it?’ Gavin asked, his voice barely a whisper. He pointed to the tiny folded body in the jar. ‘Is it yours?’ Tears started to stream down Mr Bellows’s cheeks. Gavin felt shocked. Mean old men who put curses on you don’t cry.
Finally, Mr Bellows spoke and asked in a gruff voice, ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Gavin.’ He hadn’t meant to answer. It had just slipped out.
‘Gavin who?’
Gavin pursed his lips. He shook his head. No way was he giving out any more information. He’d already said too much.
Swish! The broom handle slammed on the kitchen table, smashing him out of his silence.
‘Silini! Gavin Silini,’ he said before the handle came down again. His hand still throbbed from the first time.
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Not Dr Silini’s son?’
Gavin nodded miserably.
‘The Dr Silini who works at Bridgewater Hospital? The surgeon?’
Gavin nodded again. His mum would carve him up for this, even if Mr Bellows didn’t.
‘But she’s a wonderful woman! What’s she doing with a delinquent like you? I didn’t even know she had kids.’
‘She has. Two. Me and my bossy brother, Thomas,’ said Gavin. Then, deciding to change tactics he went on, ‘Why aren’t you at the hospital? Mum’ll be waiting.’
‘Missed the bus,’ said Mr Bellows, leaning forward. ‘Lucky — seeing as my home is being invaded.’ He emphasised the invaded, sending foul vinegary fumes into Gavin’s face. A fist of dread whammed into Gavin’s stomach.
‘I’ll tell Mum about the bus. She’ll understand.’
‘You’re too kind,’ said Mr Bellows sarcastically.
Gavin couldn’t help himself and blurted, ‘I’m sorry about your baby!’
Mr Bellows’s brows came together, so that there was one long hairy track across his face. ‘Baby?’
/>
‘Yes,’ said Gavin, pointing to the mantelpiece. ‘Your baby. The one in the bottle.’
‘My baby?’ Mr Bellows threw back his head. He laughed and laughed. To Gavin, it was the most evil sound he had ever heard.
Recovering from his outburst, Mr Bellows loomed over him and said, ‘Well, young Gavin Silini, let me tell you about my baby …’
Chapter Six
Arriving home, Gavin found Thomas sprawled on the lounge, dipping a banana in honey and shoving it into his mouth.
‘An hour to go,’ said Thomas, by way of a greeting.
‘What?’ asked Gavin.
Thomas dipped into the honey again, this time with his finger. ‘An hour before the curse comes good and I inherit your millions,’ he said. ‘Gavin Silini — R.I.P.’
Gavin burst out laughing. ‘R.I.P. not!’ Taking his time, Gavin sank into a chair opposite his brother, then said, ‘I’ve got it.’
‘Got what?’
‘The baby.’
‘What baby?’
‘The baby in the bottle, stupid.’
Thomas’s jaw hung open. He stared at Gavin, unaware that honey was pooling into his crotch. ‘Ya kidding!’
Gavin shook his head. ‘No.’ He leant towards Thomas and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve got the baby. And I want you to help me bury it.’
An hour later, they were standing in a clump of trees at Stanley Park.
‘Here’ll do,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ve walked far enough.’ He flung the shovel he was carrying onto the ground.
The others stopped. Gavin held a sack but Leo and Marty held nothing.
‘S’pose it’s as good a place as any,’ said Gavin, looking around. He turned to Thomas then nodded at the shovel. ‘Aren’t you going to start digging?’
‘Me?’ exclaimed Thomas. ‘I carried the thing.’
‘Here,’ said Marty, reaching down. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Stop.’ Thomas stepped on the shovel. He looked at his watch. ‘Why bury this baby?’ He turned to Marty and Leo. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see my brother cursed? By my calculations, in just over half an hour, he’s history.’
In answer, Gavin plucked the shovel from under Thomas’s foot and pressed the tip into the soft ground.
Thomas chuckled, stood back and watched his brother work.
In no time at all, the grass was replaced by a gaping brown hole.
Gavin wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘That was hard. But it’ll be worth it.’ He bent down, picked up the sack and reached for the drawstring tie. ‘And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for …’
Leo and Marty came closer but kept a respectful distance.
‘Shouldn’t we say a prayer?’ asked Marty, who’d been to a funeral before.
‘I’ll say one,’ interrupted Thomas.
‘Little baby soft and sweet
Looking like a pickled beet
In a jar all safe and sound
Quick, let’s stick it in the ground.
Amen’
His chuckle turned into a cackle.
It reminded Gavin of Mr Bellows. A shiver went down his spine. ‘You’re sick, Thomas.’ He pulled a white pillowcase out from under his jumper. ‘We’ll use it like a coffin,’ he said in explanation. ‘It’s better than a bottle.’
Leo and Marty nodded solemnly.
Gavin turned to Thomas. ‘I need your help getting the baby out of the jar and into the pillowcase.’ He eased open the neck of the sack and held it out to Thomas.
Four pairs of eyes watched as Thomas reached in.
Thomas whistled, Marty crossed himself and Leo said, ‘Omigod!’
Gavin unscrewed the lid of the jar but did not remove it. He pushed it towards Thomas. ‘You pull it out and …’ he opened up the pillowcase, ‘put it in here.’
Thomas didn’t hesitate. With a broad grin on his face he flicked off the lid and thrust his hands into the jar.
A stench strong enough to bruise your nostrils filled the air.
‘Gross!’
‘Feral!’
‘Festy!’
Marty and Leo took several steps back. Gavin did too, covering his mouth with his hand.
Thomas, however, held his ground, although he did start to cough a bit. ‘Wusses,’ he said. He peered closer, examining the swollen mass he held in his hands. It was almost white, and covered with lots of red squiggly veins. It was lighter than he was expecting, and more spongy. A frown creased his forehead. He looked at the others, saying, ‘Can’t see no head.’
‘That’s because it doesn’t have one,’ Gavin said, quietly.
‘Like a headless chook!’ exclaimed Leo, his eyes lolling in their sockets. ‘Yuck!’
Marty crossed himself again.
‘The old geezer must’ve cut it off,’ said Thomas, bending to admire the handiwork.
‘No,’ said Gavin. ‘He didn’t.’
Leo and Marty turned to him, questioning looks on their faces.
‘Whaddya mean?’ grumbled Thomas.
‘There is no head,’ said Gavin. ‘Mr Bellows told me. It doesn’t have one.’
Thomas stopped in his search.
‘You mean,’ asked a gulping Leo, ‘it was born without a head?’
‘No wonder it’s cursed!’ gasped Marty.
‘No,’ said Gavin. ‘That’s not what I mean.’ He put on his most serious voice. ‘This doesn’t have a head …’ He took his time, looking from Leo, to Marty, to Thomas, enjoying his moment of suspense. ‘Because … it’s not a baby!’
‘What is it, then?’ whispered Leo.
‘Yeah,’ spat Thomas, peering so close that his nose was touching the skin. ‘What is it?’
As hard as he tried, Gavin could not stop the grin that was spreading across his face. ‘You, Thomas, are in possession of … a haem-orr-hoid!’
‘Aaaaaagh!’ yelled Thomas, throwing it up in the air, and prancing up and down. ‘Aaaaaagh!’
‘Believed to be of record-breaking proportions.’ Gavin doubled over with laughter. He thwacked his thigh, he held his tummy and the earth shook. ‘It’s a haemorrhoid!’ he shrieked into the air.
Thomas began running around the park in circles, flapping his hands out from his sides and screaming as he searched for a tap.
Marty started to laugh, first a snuffle, then a huge side-splitting hoot. Soon he had joined Gavin, rolling around on the ground in convulsions.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Leo, scratching his head.
Gavin pointed to the swollen, veiny mass. ‘One haemorrhoid. Also known as? Piles. Previous owner? Mr William Bellows.’ He started to giggle again. ‘Hung lower than a baboon’s bottom. Expertly removed by? Dr Tina Silini. From where? I believe the correct medical term is … his anus!’
Death-breath and the Lie-detectors
Chapter One
We find the body at dawn, twisted looking, under the swings.
Its head is thrown back, eyes shut, mouth open — wide. The legs stick out at weird angles, like a Christmas tree decoration past its use-by date. The arms are caught up underneath. A hand nestles in the sand, fingers curled like a baby’s, heavy with sleep.
We stand — frozen. There is red on the wrenched-up shirt, a belly exposed. A fly hums about its business, cruising round the nose and eyes before landing on the tongue.
Jonnie sprays the trees with cornflakes.
Andy faints.
Laura screams so loud I can see her tonsils. And I start to laugh.
Not that I’m a sicko or anything, it’s just that Lowie has won his challenge.
I look at Jonnie, sea green and packing it, and Andy, laid out on the grass.
What a bonus!
You’ve sure got to hand it to Lowie.
‘Gotcha!’ shrieks the body, reincarnating as Saxxon Lowe — or Lowie — and grabbing Laura by the ankle.
‘A-a-a-a-a-agh!’ That’s Laura, again.
Lowie starts flapping his arms, saying, ‘Bwarrrk-bk-bk,’ and doing the
chicken walk. Laura thumps him hard, so Lowie bwarrk-bk-bks harder.
This started on the first day of camp. It’s been downhill from there.
We’re at Camp Pollen Tree (Camp Purgatory we call it), sent here to keep us out of trouble in the school holidays. Swimming, tennis, canoeing, the leaflet said. Well, it’s swimming in the lake and the lake’s bunged up with weed, too bunged up for canoes even, and the tennis courts are overgrown — another weed problem — so we’re scratching for something to do.
‘One of life’s little challenges,’ said Miss Reynolds, our camp commandant, when we discovered the killer weed. Then, she called this meeting …
‘Let’s see if we can use our imaginations to keep busy,’ she says, writing KISS on this big notice board.
We don’t need imaginations for that. I do the old nudge-nudge wink-wink routine with Andy, thinking maybe this camp’s going to be all right.
But I’m wrong.
KISS stands for, ‘Keep It Simple Stupid’.
Simple, explains Miss Reynolds, means that we’re on a budget — a very tight budget. She suggests things we can do on the cheap: long walks (puke), a sing-along (double puke) and maybe, if we’re really lucky, a talent quest (puke, puke, puke).
So we sat around on that first day, mad with our parents for packing us off to this prison and trying to work out how we were going to do the time.
Lowie’s the one who saved us. ‘Let’s have a Pollen Tree Cup,’ he says.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s a series of challenges, Toby. One for each of us. If you pass your challenge you go into the draw. On the last day we find out who wins.’
Totally desperate, we agree.
‘The catch is, you’re not allowed to set your own challenge,’ continues Lowie. ‘The gang sets it for you. And it’s not a cup, exactly.’ Lowie whips out a drink can and starts scratching ‘Pollen Tree Cup’ on it with his pocket-knife.
After a while I ask, ‘Why did you draw a lollipop on it?’
‘It’s a pollen tree, stupid.’
It’ll do.
That first night we sat around thinking up our challenges.
