Then suddenly, there were bats! In their faces, in their hair — almost, it seemed, in their mouths. They screamed. Then just as suddenly, the bats were gone.
Megan’s heart was beating so hard she could hear it. ‘Ready to go on?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ replied Sophia, with a lump in her throat. ‘I think so.’
Sophia was the first one to see it. A face in the distance. A face without a body! She screamed as if her life were about to end. It had to be Jack Blair’s ghost!
Megan screamed too, but not for as long. ‘Who is it?’ called Megan.
No answer. Sophia started screaming again.
Quickly Megan repeated to herself, ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in ghosts!’ But the face appeared to move. Then it was gone.
Were they imagining it? Sophia had fallen to her knees, trembling, but Megan was determined to go on.
‘Boys would go on, wouldn’t they?’ Megan said firmly. ‘And we’re better than boys.’
‘What was it?’ asked Sophia.
‘It looked like a ghost,’ said Megan. ‘But it can’t have been. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Must have been a reflection or something. Sophia, we’ve got to go on. If we give up now, we’ll never try again. I know it.’
Shaking all over, poor Sophia nodded. Her mouth was too dry to speak.
Suddenly, the face appeared again. This time, making ghostly ‘ooh’ noises. Right in front of them! The girls screamed.
Then Megan realised something. Wait a minute, she thought to herself. If this really is a ghost, it wouldn’t be making ‘ooh’ noises. That’s just movie stuff. It’s someone trying to trick us. And that someone mustn’t want to hurt us, because they’ve had plenty of chances before now.
So, taking the deepest of breaths, Megan took a step forward.
‘Please, no!’ pleaded Sophia.
‘It’s OK,’ said Megan. ‘Trust me.’
‘Ooh,’ said the face again.
‘Ooh yourself,’ said Megan. Then she reached out and stuck her finger right up the face’s nose.
‘All right, all right,’ said the face. ‘You win! I am so sorry. It’s me, Clarry Brown.’
The girls had jumped back to see that it was indeed Clarry, holding a torch up to his face.
‘I feel so terrible doing this to you,’ said Clarry. ‘Really bad. But I had to do something. I’d heard rumours you girls were looking for poor Jack Blair and I decided to scare you off. Because I did throw him down here all those years ago. During our fight, he hit his head and died. It was an accident, but I panicked. I’ve felt so guilty all these years that it’s almost eaten me away. But you know what? I almost feel better. I’m finally going to tell the police and take whatever’s coming to me. At last, it’s all over.’
‘Why didn’t you just shift the bones?’ asked Megan.
‘I didn’t have the courage to go near them,’ replied Clarry, hanging his head. ‘Not the sort of courage you girls have got. Please let me say sorry again. And thank you. Thank you very much.’
Well, the local papers were full of the news that Megan and Sophia had solved a real murder. The two of them quickly became heroes. But what’s the use of being a hero when you’re grounded?
‘The two of you could’ve been killed,’ Megan’s dad yelled at her. ‘I warned you, so I’m afraid it’s no going out, no having friends around, no anything for two months!’
Try solving that one.
Roy Kline had always wanted to be rich. He wasn’t sure why. His parents had certainly warned him that money couldn’t buy happiness. That love and health and family and friendship are the keys to a good life, and that chasing money too hard can sometimes cost you all those things.
But what would oldies know? thought Roy. I love them, but sometimes Mum and Dad sound like a couple of real losers. I want a big house, a big car, a motorbike, an iPod, every Wii game known to man, a mobile phone, pay TV and fast food every day. And I’ll do anything to get it.
So Roy decided to set up his own business. Every night after school, he dropped notes in his neighbours’ letterboxes that said:
ROY THE DIRTY-JOBS BOY
NO JOB TOO SMALL
NO JOB TOO DIRTY
RING ROY KLINE
$5 PER HOUR
Roy’s dad said it was good that Roy wanted to work hard, but to remember what they had said and not to forget his schoolwork.
Well, the phone rang hot. People had no end of dirty jobs that they were more than happy to hand to someone else. Raking up chook poo to spread on gardens, scrubbing the inside of toilet bowls, cleaning leaves out of gutters, dragging bits of food out of gully-traps, washing dog and cat bowls, shaking out stinky, flea-ridden rugs, finding dead rats that had carked it above ceilings or sometimes in fridge motors, and reaching up into dark corners to remove spider webs.
But one couple, Mr and Mrs Sloan, said they had so many jobs for Roy that they didn’t know where to start. They had bought a huge old house down the road and their plan was to fix it up and turn it into the beautiful mansion it once had been. Mr and Mrs Sloan would do all the finishing jobs like the painting and the tiling, and leave the yucky cleaning-type jobs to Roy. If Roy thought he could handle it, they had at least six months work for him. Possibly a year!
Roy jumped at the chance. ‘Two hours after school,’ he told his mum, ‘five nights a week plus, say, six hours on Saturday and Sunday equals a hundred and ten bucks a week. In a year, that’s five grand!’
‘What about school work and your friends and just relaxing a bit?’ asked his mum.
‘No worries,’ said Roy. ‘I can fit it all in. Easy.’
Roy worked his butt off. Cleaning bricks, scrubbing sinks, sanding wood, peeling off flaky paint, scraping mould and ripping out old carpets. The money was adding up and up and up.
When he’d done a week’s work, Roy asked about getting paid.
‘Thought we’d pay you once a month,’ said Mr Sloan. ‘That way you won’t be tempted to spend it on lollies and stuff.’
‘Good idea,’ said Roy.
In fact, Roy couldn’t have spent it the next month, either, because Mr Sloan seemed to have forgotten all about paying him.
Must be too busy to remember, thought Roy. Besides, it’s a great way of saving.
Then, a very strange thing happened. A man that Roy had seen deliver some new windows a few months before came and took the windows away again.
‘Excuse me,’ said Roy. ‘Mr Sloan isn’t here right now, but I think those windows are his.’
‘Then tell the mongrel to pay for them,’ said the man. ‘The filth bag doesn’t pay his bills. We’ve run a check and he does it all over the place. Same with another joint he fixed up in Queensland. Didn’t pay anybody. Sold the house and shot through.’
Didn’t pay anybody? thought poor Roy. Oh no. I’ve been ripped off!
Roy told his dad, who went berserk. ‘What a jerk,’ said his dad. ‘There are blokes like him all over the place. They owe people money and then just say, “What are you going to do about it?” It’s terrible, son — I’ll front him, of course, and speak to the police — but you might just have to call it a lesson. The first rule of earning a buck is to make sure you get paid.’
Oh, I’ll get paid all right, thought Roy to himself. I’m not worried about that. If this turkey thinks he can rip Roy Kline off, he’s got another think coming.
Roy had a plan. The very next day he was back there working again! Then a truck pulled up. It was some poor fool bringing another set of windows. After he’d gone, Mr Sloan said to Roy, ‘If anyone ever comes snooping around asking for me while I’m working inside, just tell them I’m out, would you? That way I’ll get more work done.’
‘Sure,’ said Roy. ‘No worries. Anyway, the harder you work, the quicker you’ll find it and the quicker I’ll get paid.’
‘Oh, you’ll get paid all right,’ said Mr Sloan. ‘I just haven’t had a chance to go to the bank yet. Hang on,
what was that you just said? About finding something?’
‘The money hidden in the house,’ said Roy.
‘What money?’ asked Mr Sloan.
‘But you must know,’ answered Roy. ‘Why else would you be pulling down old boards and ripping up the carpet and stuff?’
‘To make it look nice, of course,’ said Mr Sloan.
‘If you really don’t know, I suppose I should tell you,’ said Roy. ‘The old lady who owned this house used to be worth heaps, everyone reckons, but no-one ever saw her go to the bank. So they say she used to keep the money hidden somewhere. In a wall, maybe. Or under the floorboards. But no-one could find it after she died. I reckon they were all looking in the wrong room. That’s why everyone thought you bought it, though. To find the money.’
‘The wrong room?’ said Mr Sloan, suddenly looking very interested in what Roy had to say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They all looked in the one where she used to sit alone in her rocking chair,’ said Roy. ‘But I reckon it’s in the other room.’
‘And which room might that be?’ asked Mr Sloan, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
‘Oh, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it,’ said Roy. ‘It’s sort of a local secret. Only people who live in this street know about it and we keep it to ourselves.’
‘But I live here now!’ said Mr Sloan.
‘Almost,’ said Roy.
‘By the way,’ said Mr Sloan, pulling out a large roll of fifty dollar notes, ‘I’ve got your money for you. What are we up to now? Three hundred? Three fifty?’
‘Six hundred and ten,’ said Roy. ‘Make it seven hundred!’
‘Seven hundred!’ said Mr Sloan. ‘Oh, all right. There you are. Now, which room was it? Which room’s got the money?’
‘Can’t remember,’ said Roy. ‘Anyway, time for me to go.’
‘You’ll remember, all right,’ said Mr Sloan. ‘Otherwise I’ll have that money back in my pocket before you can blink.’
‘Got to catch me first,’ said Roy. ‘Greaseball!’
Roy had prepared well. He had loosened floorboards, hammered in rusty nails so they were sticking up all over the place and done a great many other naughty things.
As Mr Sloan lunged at Roy, he stood on the ugliest of rusty nails and it shot through his shoes and straight into his big toe! He jumped back in pain, standing on a loosened floorboard that flicked up like a see-saw and bopped him right on the nose. Tears sprang to his eyes, which meant he had no hope of seeing Roy jump in to whack him on the shin with a hammer, and as he hopped backwards holding his shin, the power drill went straight into his butt. Lucky it wasn’t on!
As Roy moved in with a pair of pliers to squeeze Mr Sloan’s ear lobe, he saw his father though the window coming up the driveway with the police.
‘Help,’ called Roy. ‘Mr Sloan’s had an accident. In fact, a couple of accidents.’
Mr Sloan ended up going to jail. And Roy kept his seven hundred dollars. Was the bit about the old lady and the money true? Of course not!
Roy did end up making his millions. By buying houses, fixing them up, then selling them. But he always paid his bills.
One day, however, he just stopped. He sold everything, gave half to the Salvation Army and just worked quietly at home making furniture and stuff. Do you know why? Roy had his own kids by then and one day his little boy had asked him for a kick of footy.
‘Can’t,’ said Roy. ‘Love to, but I’ve got to go to work.’
But, as he drove away, Roy remembered that he was always too busy to have a kick of footy. And he realised, after all those years, that his own dad was right. If you chase money too hard, you can end up losing everything else. What is money if you haven’t got family or friends or kids that feel loved?
So, parents can be right. Sometimes. But you’d never tell them that, of course.
Mr Fleming, our teacher, was so angry he was shaking. He went straight up to Mr Singh during morning recess and said, ‘Is it me or is Richard Parsons a nightmare? He’d have to be the most difficult little monster I’ve ever had the misfortune to teach. Can there be a worse kid in the world?’
I was standing nearby and heard the whole thing!
On Monday, Richard threw a rock at Mr Fleming’s car. On Tuesday, he smashed a window and then threw broken glass at Sarah Blewett. On Wednesday, he flushed three kindy kids. On Thursday, he spat in my lunchbox. And on Friday, he dacked our PE teacher, Miss Fay.
Richard seemed to spend more time up at the principal’s office than he did in class. But it didn’t make any difference. If anything, he became worse. He must have had really rough brothers and sisters, too, because he always seemed to have bruises on his face.
The teachers spoke to his parents, but they didn’t seem to care.
‘You’re the teachers,’ said his mum. ‘You fix it.’
One day I heard that Richard’s dad reckoned he’d have a go at Mr Fleming if he didn’t leave them alone. I think the police had something to say about that, but I’m not sure what.
Our principal, Mrs Stacey, was a really nice lady and she wanted to keep Richard at our school. She probably could have kicked him out, but since Richard had to go to school somewhere, she thought it might as well be with us. With people that cared. I’m not sure that I cared too much.
Strangely, a few weeks went by without anything really bad happening — and then Richard suddenly became worse. He came to school with a huge bruise over his eye and I could tell he was really angry. He went straight up to Gavin Spencer’s desk and just chucked all his books on the floor. Next, he grabbed me by the jumper and yanked it till it ripped, and finally, just as Mrs Stacey went past, he did a full moonie.
As usual, Mrs Stacey took Richard into her office and gave him a good talking-to, but by lunchtime he was at it again. He blocked up the boy’s toilets, threw Angelo Rossi’s marbles on the road, gave Daniel McDonald a Chinese burn and tipped a rubbish bin over Fiona Tyer’s head.
I tried talking to Richard once. I said, ‘If you hate us all so much, why do you come to school? Why don’t you just nick off to the park and bang your head against a brick wall for a while?’
I wish I hadn’t. He stuck a banana down my dacks and gave me a five-minute wedgie. Can you imagine the mess?
And then came the day. The worst day of my life.
For some reason, Richard’s mum decided to have a birthday party for him. Maybe she thought it would make him nicer. Richard didn’t want to have the party but his mum said he had to and that was that. What’s more, he had to ask the whole class.
Guess who was the only one stupid enough to turn up?
You can imagine how embarrassing it was. All this food, all these silly party hats, heaps of balloons and no people. Just me and Richard.
Richard said he was glad because the other kids were jerks anyway. But I knew he wasn’t glad because later I saw him crying behind a tree. And then it got even worse.
Richard’s dad came home and I could tell he was drunk. He burst through the door into the kitchen, and Richard’s mum screamed, ‘Sorry!’
And then the worst thing I have ever seen in my life. Richard’s father staggered outside and grabbed Richard by the ear. He swore at him for keeping the party a secret, screamed, ‘I’ll teach you to lie!’ and slapped Richard really hard right in the face.
Richard reeled backwards and fell to the ground in terrible pain, bleeding from his nose. I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, shaking, and then threw up against a tree.
Later, when I told Mum and Dad what had happened, they called the police.
The police came straight away and also a lady from community services. They’re people from the government who keep checking to make sure everyone’s OK.
The community services lady said they had thought for a long time that Richard was being hit by his dad, but it was hard to prove. Now they had a witness. Someone who actually saw it happen. Me. I felt sick all over again.
I won�
��t go into all the stuff that happened after that, but it turned out Richard’s dad had done a lot of other wrong things and he went to jail for a while. Poor Richard, when the police asked why his dad had hit him, Richard said it was because he was naughty. As if it was his fault.
Richard is a much better kid these days but still not as happy as he deserves to be. One good thing has happened, though. At least now he’s got a friend. A friend who knows what he’s had to put up with. A friend who feels so lucky that he’s got a normal mum and dad that he’s going to stick by Richard for the rest of his life. Me.
I don’t want to sound like a hero, because I’m not. Richard’s the hero. But I think I might have helped him a bit. He had long ago given up all hope of being anyone’s mate, let alone a best one. And now we’ve got each other.
Three years later, Richard’s dad was let out of jail early for good behaviour. As he walked out of the gates, he looked around. Although he knew he didn’t deserve it, he somehow hoped that one of his mates might be there to greet him.
But there was no-one, except a couple of kids staring from across the road. One of them happened to look like his own boy, Richard — only much bigger.
Richard’s dad had cried a lot in jail. And now he was crying again. You see, the kid that looked like Richard was coming towards him. And the kid was saying, ‘Hi, Dad.’
Forgiveness isn’t the answer to every-thing. But it’s a very good start.
Spider Summers had challenged Snowy Seward to a dim-sim eating competition, and the rest of us could hardly wait.
The two of them had been carrying on for months about how many dimmies they could wolf down in one go, and it was time to sort things out. The challenge was to take place on a Friday after school at the Top Food Take-away shop, and the rules were simple.
One dimmy each every two minutes, and the first one to spew was the loser.
For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of eating a dim-sim, I had better describe one to you. It was originally, though not exactly, a sort of Chinese sausage roll with pork and vegies.
The Crazy Dentist and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls Page 2
