She can’t lie in a bed like a normal person. Being a contortionist, she finds it uncomfortable. All the bits that hold her together have lost their elastic, so she has to sleep folded up in a rum barrel, which amplifies every porky grunt and squeak.
In her youth, Candy was brown-eyed and slender with the silkiest, ice-blonde hair. She had a 23-inch waist and wonderful knees. Everywhere she went, she turned heads; now it’s just stomachs.
There are photographs to prove she was beautiful once. Strangely, there are none of Christa. Sam has never seen a photo of her mother. Given that Christa and Candy were sisters, she used to hope her mum looked as lovely as Candy did before the drink destroyed her.
Apparently not. Aunt Candy always insists that Christa was so hideous she broke the camera lens. She claims that Christa was such an ugly baby the midwife slapped her mother. Sam doesn’t believe it; every girl wishes her mother to be beautiful and she is no exception.
The snoring continues. While Aunt Candy is out for the count, Sam sits up in bed with Lola and studies the witch doctor’s notebook by the dawn light. It’s the first chance she’s had to look at it properly. The bulb in her bedside lamp broke years ago. Aunt Candy is too mean to replace it so it’s impossible for her to read after dark.
Unfortunately, even the brilliant sunrise fails to illuminate some of the words. The handwriting is faded in places and there are bookworm holes too. Among other things, she notices incomplete chants for luring goats into cooking pots, unfinished dance movements for raising storms and only half the ingredients needed to make a volcano erupt. Sam sighs.
“It’s so frustrating, Lola. Say we wanted to make Mount Etna erupt? Well, we can’t. It says here to grind the nose of a red kangaroo and mix it into a paste with Bogong moths baked in sand. Only I can’t see how many moths we need. The writing’s blurred and it’s no good trying to guess. Too few moths and the volcano might not even come to the boil. Too many and the universe could explode.”
Fortunately the Dark Prince of Tabuh had attached several sheets of fresh paper at the end of the notebook complete with his own notes written clearly in biro. As well as jotting down the three questions his father had given him, there are ideas for new tricks, sketches for magic box designs and a few personal scribbles, including a heart doodled with the initial C.
If the C stood for Christa, he must have loved her mother once. But if he wasn’t an Intrepid Explorer or the philandering Bingo Hall, why did he leave? Why would he abandon his motherless child? Did he really not want her, or was there some other mysterious reason that Aunt Candy had failed to mention? Sam is determined to find out.
She flicks through the book to see if she can discover the list of Very Important People the witch doctor wanted his son to visit. At first, she can’t find it – it’s hiding between the first page and the inside cover, which for some reason are stuck together.
Slowly, carefully, she prises them apart. She’s almost done it when suddenly, Aunt Candy screams in her sleep and Sam tears the bottom of the page. The last name on the list is obliterated for ever.
Ah, well. Perhaps she was never meant to read it; all the others are intact. Each one has a map and a thumbnail portrait next to it. There’s no room to show you here, which is a shame because the drawings are hilarious.
However, there’s no reason why you can’t see the list. It might not seem to be in any particular order – it’s neither alphabetical nor geographical – but there’s a magic order. The list is bewitched; the names shift positions when the book is closed. At certain times, certain names call attention to themselves, but only if they’re read by the intended person.
Here they all are, except for the last name, which, as you know, was torn. Make of it what you will. The names will crop up again and again.
We will now leap forward a week. With the aid of the magician’s notes Sam has built a false compartment into the orange crate she uses as a bedside cabinet. She’s hidden the witch doctor’s notebook and the goatskin pouch inside. Aunt Candy still hasn’t forgiven her for escaping from the attic. She’s thought of a devious way of getting rid of Lola while Sam’s at school today.
School is not a happy place for Sam. She has no friends. It’s not that the other children are deliberately cruel; they just think she’s odd and leave her alone. They huddle in little gangs in the playground and play games she doesn’t know the rules for. Or they talk about television programmes she knows nothing about. Aunt Candy has no TV. No radio. No computer.
Sam can never bring anyone home in case they tell the rest of the class about her drunken aunt and her poky bedroom. Then there’s the problem of her clothes. Although Sam dresses in the correct school colours – red and grey – her uniform is by no means standard; it’s made from chopped-down versions of Aunt Candy’s old circus outfits. All the other girls wear plain red-wool blazers, but Sam’s is made from silk and shot through with glitter. None of the teachers comment on her uniform, but the children do. Not to her face; they’re afraid of her in the way that some of us are scared of spiders no matter how many times we’re told they mean us no harm.
Sam isn’t bothered about being friendless; she’s used to it. She enjoys her lessons, but the subject she really likes to study is People. She watches them constantly and makes notes, such as these:
a) When people like something, their pupils dilate.
b) People often scratch themselves when they are lying.
c) Tugging the earlobes means people are nervous.
She has been observing body language since she was a baby. Aunt Candy hardly ever spoke to her, and when she did, she slurred. Lola can’t talk human, so Sam learnt to read facial expressions instead, partly to make up for the lack of conversation, but also for self-defence.
If the muscles in Aunt Candy’s jaw twitched, it meant she was about to scream. If the vein in her temple throbbed, it was a three-second warning that she was about to throw a vase at Sam’s head. Being able to predict this gave her a chance to duck out of the way.
Sam can read people’s emotions even if they try to disguise them. Body language always gives them away: a scratch of the head, a twitch, a slightly unnatural grin. She notices and can calculate their state of mind with frightening accuracy.
It’s morning break now, and she’s in the playground observing a group of children. Without hearing their conversation, she can tell they’re concerned about something they’ve found under the rose bushes by the art block. They don’t want to touch it; whatever it is must be dead. And it’s a small creature because they’re crouching over it. They look sorry for it, so it must be an animal that looks sweet in death, rather than a dried frog or a squashed rat. As they keep looking up at the window, she guesses it’s a bird that crashed into the glass pane and broke its neck.
She’s right. It’s a sparrow. One of the smallest girls is stroking its head with a pencil. She doesn’t like to touch it with her hands.
“Aw, poor little fing. Wot a shame. Wish I could bring it back to life.”
“Do you?” says Sam.
The girls turn and look up at her, not quite sure why she’s there. They didn’t hear her coming.
“Go away, you. It’s our dead bird,” says Smallest Girl.
Sam kneels down and studies the bird.
“I could bring it back to life if you like.”
Smallest Girl stares at Sam and pulls a face.
“No, you can’t. It’s dead, look!” She prods it with her pencil again. “It’s gone stiff.” She rolls the bird over in the dust, its eyes glazed, feet in the air.
“Yeah, it’s stiff,” says her friend. “You can’t bring it back to life, unless you’re Jesus.”
“Or a magician,” says Smallest Girl.
Sam scoops the dead bird into her hands. It weighs almost nothing.
“Ugh, dead birds have fleas. My nan told me,” says the friend of Smallest. Sam smiles.
“I can make it come back to life.”
“You’re l
ying,” say the girls in unison. “Liar, liar.”
They dance around her in a ring. Other children stop what they’re doing and wander over; they want to know what Sam Khaan is lying about. She reckons she can bring that dead bird back to life? Yeah, right! Like to see her try. Go on, Khaan, prove it!
“All right, I will.” She puts the bird in her lunchbox.
“Ugh! She’s gonna eat it!” interrupts Smallest.
Sam ignores her and tells everyone present to meet her under the birch tree after lunch. “I will make this dead sparrow fly.”
No one believes her but they all want to see her fail, so Smallest Girl, all her friends and all their friends spread the word: the weirdo in the funny uniform is going to perform a miracle. She’ll probably just chuck the dead bird over the fence and say it flew, pretend it came alive. Yeah, that’s what she’ll do. Not like she’s Jesus, is it? No.
By lunchtime, the whole of the lower school has heard about it. They are all meandering down to the birch tree at the bottom of the field, trying not to arouse suspicion among the staff on playground duty. “No, we’re not up to nuffing, miss!” “We’re not going anywhere, sir.” “Down to the birch tree? No, sir!”
Sam is waiting for them; she knows the resurrection chant off by heart. If it doesn’t work, she has Plan B up her sleeve. She arranges the dead sparrow on a pad of grass inside her lunchbox in preparation.
The first group of kids arrives. Smallest Girl and friends sit at her feet like disciples. Some boys arrive. They don’t want to sit down but Smallest Girl whines at them, “Sit down, will ya? Else I can’t see!”
“Yeah, sit down!” yells the crowd.
They gather and gather. Sam didn’t think there’d be quite so many.
“Get on with it,” says Trevor Randle from Year 9. “Or I’ll kick your lying butt.”
“Watch!” commands Sam. She removes the lid from her lunchbox and throws it into the air – it vanishes. Already their eyes and their brains are confused; they were expecting one thing, but something else happened. Now they don’t know what to expect, and Sam has their full attention.
Everyone stops messing around. What has she done with the lid? It can’t have just disappeared – or can it? They are so busy worrying about the lid, they can’t catch up with what she’s doing next. They’re always a few seconds behind and that’s all the time she needs. She shows them the contents of the box.
“See the poor sparrow! It is dead. It is cold and stiff. I would like a volunteer to touch it to prove that it is not merely asleep. Any fool can wake the sleeping, but I can wake the dead.” No one in the audience moves. Sam fixes her eyes on Trevor Randle. “You believe it’s dead then?”
“No, but I ain’t touching it. It might have fleas.”
Smallest Girl pushes herself up.
“Oh, I’ll do it. I want fleas. You get a day off school.” She strokes the bird’s head with her finger and shudders slightly. “It’s dead all right, poor fing.”
Sam nods. “It is dead … but not for much longer.”
She cups the broken corpse in her hands, lowers her voice and begins to chant in Motu. She thought they might heckle, but they don’t; they’re still looking for the lunchbox lid. Now she’s chanting in an ominous language they don’t understand. The resonance and rhythm lulls their minds to the point of numbness.
Suddenly, she opens her hands and the sparrow flutters into the sky. There’s a collective gasp. Some of the girls shriek. No one was expecting that, least of all Trevor Randle. For all his jeering and bravado, he doesn’t like it at all; it frightens him.
“No way did that happen. That’s sick.”
Smallest Girl brushes grass from her skirt “Wassup, Trev? I fink it’s nice. I’m glad the sparra’ came back to life.”
The boy is riled. “What are you saying, little mad girl? Things don’t come back from the dead.”
“Forget it, Trev,” says his mate. “It’s a trick. It wasn’t dead, it can’t have been.”
“Was dead,” mumbles Smallest Girl.
Trevor shoves his friend hard in the chest. “It was dead; now it ain’t!”
“P’raps it’s gone to heaven,” says Smallest, which only makes Trevor angrier.
“Shut up! Unless you want to go to heaven an’ all … do ya?” He points angrily at Sam. “You’re evil, man. I want you out of this school. I’m gonna grass you up, pikey!”
Two other lads hold him back, but he catches one of them on the chin. A fight breaks out. All the boys bundle in, feet and fists flailing. Blazers rip. Eyes are poked. Buttons pop. First a resurrection, then a ruck; it’s a lot more exciting than double Maths.
Smallest Girl runs off to fetch a teacher before someone gets maimed; she knows she’ll get house points for Telling. Sam steps back, retrieves the lid from the inside of her blazer and puts it back on her lunchbox; no one notices.
Seconds later, a red-faced teacher arrives to break up the fight. He marches Trevor Randle by the collar to the headmistress’s office and it is there that the boy grasses on Sam. “It was Sam Khaan started it, miss. She brought a dead bird back to life. Ask anyone.”
Every pupil confirms his story so the headmistress has no choice but to phone Sam’s carer, Miss Candy Khaan, and ask her to come up to the school. The phone rings while Candy is in her rum barrel; she is furious at being woken.
Aunt Candy arrives at the school on her rusty old bike with her wig on backwards and totters into the headmistress’s office. “What have you done now?” She screams at Sam.
The headmistress describes the incident on the school field; the bringing back to life of the dead sparrow. The school doesn’t allow resurrections; it mustn’t happen again.
Aunt Candy stamps her feet in irritation. “It’s a trick. An illusion. Search her!”
Sam shifts uneasily. Aunt Candy glares at her, the vein in her temple throbbing. “Come along, Spam! Show Miss Looney what you’re hiding.”
The headmistress fiddles with her glasses nervously. “Langley. My name is Miss Langley.” She’s fond of Sam and not in the least bit fond of Aunt Candy, but she has a duty to get to the bottom of this, so she asks Sam to turn out her pockets.
Sam places the contents of her top pocket on Miss Langley’s desk; a biro and a coin. She empties the bottom pocket; there’s nothing in there except a pack of cards. Miss Langley tries to make light of things. “Not gambling, I hope.”
“No, miss.”
“Good girl.”
Aunt Candy bangs her fist on the desk and screeches. “Good girl? She’s a liar! A cheat! Check her inside pockets. Let’s take her blazer off!” Without warning, she marches over to Sam, yanks her blazer off, turns it upside down and shakes it.
Miss Langley panics. “Miss Khaan, I really don’t think that’s appropria—”
A very dead sparrow drops out of Sam’s pocket onto the carpet. Another second and she’d have managed to hide it behind a cushion, but the attack was too sudden.
“See?” shrieks Aunt Candy. “There was no resurrection! The brat pocketed the dead bird and released a live one hidden in her blazer. Cane her, Miss Looney!”
“Oh, no, we don’t have a cane.”
Aunt Candy looks very disappointed. “Don’t have a cane? Well, what do you have? Got any thumbscrews?”
Miss Langley shakes her head.
“No thumbscrews?” yells Candy, “No wonder there’s no discipline! And I have to say the hygiene in this school is appalling, Miss Looney.”
“The hygiene?”
“There is a dead bird on your rug. I’m not keeping my niece at this filthy, feeble school a day longer. Come, Spam! We’re leaving.”
“But, Aunt Candy, I don’t want to leave.”
Despite Miss Langley’s pleas for calm, Aunt Candy grabs Sam’s hand and drags her outside. Then she sits on the bike, puts her feet on the handle bars and refuses to pedal. “You can push me all the way home, Spam, then you can have your surprise.”
It is S
am’s birthday today. The occasion is never celebrated, but today is her thirteenth. Ever the optimist, she wonders if Aunt Candy might have bought her a card for once. Or a small gift. Or baked her a cake.
But what are the chances of that happening?
HOW TO SPOT A LIAR
If someone is lying, their body language is sure to give them away. Here’s how.
1. They avoid eye contact.
2. They touch their face, throat and mouth a lot.
3. They scratch their nose or behind their ear.
4. They wear a false smile (if it’s a real smile, the eyes become squished).
5. If they say, “I love it!” after receiving a gift and only smile after they’ve said it, they’re lying.
6. A guilty person gets defensive.
7. A liar may unconsciously place objects (books, coffee cup, etc.) between themselves and you.
8. A liar uses your last words to answer questions: “Did you hit John?” “No, I did not hit John.”
9. A guilty person may speak too much and add unnecessary details to convince you.
10. If you think someone’s lying, change the subject. They’ll instantly relax, whereas an innocent person will want to go back to the previous subject.
EFFIE RAY
Lola has gone. Sam searches everywhere, but an orang-utan isn’t easy to lose. She isn’t on the roof or in the attic or sleeping in the trees of the communal gardens in St Peter’s Square. Sam calls her name over and over, but she doesn’t come.
“Surprise!” snorts Aunt Candy. “Lola’s not here. She’s never coming back. Get over it.”
Sam’s stomach sinks. Her eyes prickle with tears but she refuses to let them fall. “What have you done with her?”
Aunt Candy is walking around on all fours with her back arched like a demented crab.
“I’ve sent her to a lovely zoo. You can’t keep an orang-utan in a little flat, it’s cruel. An orang-utan needs to be with its hairy friends, doing monkey things.”
Shamanka Page 3
