Money Bags

by Leanne Davidson

  ‘No, unfortunately, I didn’t. But whoever it was also spray-painted graffiti on my concrete path. And that’s not all! When I went to school this morning, someone had spray-painted graffiti on one of the buildings.’

  ‘What? That’s a criminal act, Jeebs. Have you reported it to the police.’

  ‘No, Brain, I didn’t. I couldn’t.’

  ‘You couldn’t? Why not?’

  ‘Because the graffiti on the school building was exactly the same graffiti, with exactly the same message, and in exactly the same coloured paint as the graffiti on my concrete path.’

  ‘That’s terrible, Jeebs, but I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.’

  He pulls something out of his pocket.

  ‘Here,’ he says, as he hands me his phone. ‘I took a photo. Up in the right-hand corner, what do you see?’

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ I tell him. ‘It looks like a squiggle.’

  ‘Look more closely,’ says Jeebs.

  I strain for a better look.

  ‘They’re initials,’ says Jeebs. ‘Yours.’

  ‘What?’ I gasp.

  I look again. Jeebs is right. They are initials. And they do say ‘BD’.

  ‘They must be someone else’s,’ I tell him. ‘Because they’re not mine. I didn’t graffiti anything!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Jeebs. ‘I believe you. That’s why I’ve already cleaned it. I don’t see the point in involving anyone else.’

  ‘But why would someone do that? Why would they graffiti your house, then do the same thing to the school? And why would they put my initials on both?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Jeebs. ‘But I think whoever it is, is trying to frame you.’

  It was around midnight when Prescott Heath pulled to a stop just around the corner from Milne Street. He stepped quietly out of his car and locked it carefully.

  He took a deep breath of the cool evening air, and exhaled it slowly, enjoying the moment. Milne Street was quiet, just as he’d hoped it would be.

  He moved quickly and silently to his intended destination – number twenty-five – crouching down at the front gate.

  The Davis household was in darkness, as he’d expected it would be. But it wasn’t the house he was worried about. It was the garage.

  That was where the mangy mutt would be. And that was where he needed to go.

  The garage door was partially open, but he had no doubts the useless excuse for a dog was inside. He’d thought of that, though. He’d thought of everything!

  He pulled a small rock out of his pocket and juggled it in his hand, then he threw it with all his might and watched as it landed somewhere deep in the backyard.

  Seconds later a dog came barrelling out of the garage and headed straight for the place where the stone had fallen, disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘Stupid mutt,’ hissed Prescott Heath, then he smiled as he stepped easily over the gate, and crept into the garage.

  Once inside he pulled out a torch and flicked it on. Then he looked for a suitable place.

  He padded silently past the two parked cars and over to the neatly stacked workbench. He surveyed it for a moment, before placing the can of spray paint on one of the shelves.

  ‘Perfect,’ he whispered, and he almost laughed out loud.

  He was just about to head for the door when a noise startled him. As he turned, the breath suddenly caught in his throat.

  There, waiting for him, teeth bared and a low growl rumbling in its throat, was the dog.

  It is just after midnight on my bedside clock when Mother Nature calls and I have a sudden urge to pee.

  I throw the doona off and traipse down the hall to the toilet, sighing with relief as a great, golden arch of pee hits the water. Bullseye. I am just about to shake off the excess when I hear Mischief’s unmistakeable growl through the little toilet window.

  ‘Oh Mischief, it’s only me,’ I say out loud, but then the growl turns nasty and I hear a shriek.

  I race out of the toilet, fumbling for the light switch as I go. By the time I reach the front door and yank it open, I am just in time to see a dark figure run off down the street with Mischief barking menacingly at the front gate.

  I flick on the porch light and as soon as she sees me she hurries over and drops something at my feet.

  ‘Mischief, what’s this … Ooh yuk! It’s got blood on it.’ I quickly drop it.

  ‘Mischief? What happened here?’

  Mischief stares up at me, tail wagging, looking extremely pleased with herself.

  I pick up the piece of material: cotton, by the looks of it, but now smeared with blood.

  ‘Good girl, Mischief. Whoever it was, it looks like you got ‘em good.’

  I give her a gentle pat on the head.

  The night is still, and the street is quiet now. For a moment I wonder if the person I saw running off down the street was just a figment of my imagination.

  But it wasn’t.

  There was definitely someone here.

  But who?

  CHAPTER 19

  Jeebs felt uneasy as he entered his office on Friday morning.

  Outside the birds were singing, and there was nothing but blue sky and sunshine. There was no reason to think it was going to be anything other than a perfect day. Still, something niggled at him. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

  There had been no more incidents of stone-throwing or graffiti. Even so, things like that had a way of unsettling a person; made you feel vulnerable.

  He poured himself a glass of spring water from the office water cooler, then sat down at his desk and checked his diary to see what things required his undivided attention for the day. After that he made several phone calls, signed a few cheques and attended to the paperwork that had been left for him.

  ‘Sorry the mail’s a bit late,’ said Connie, when she poked her head in around 11.30. ‘Mechanical breakdown at the post office, apparently. Shall I leave it on your desk?’

  Jeebs nodded.

  ‘Great, Connie. Thanks.’

  When Connie was gone, Jeebs picked up the pile of letters and absently flicked through them until a yellow, A4-size envelope caught his attention. Something about it bothered him, but he couldn’t think what.

  Then, suddenly, it hit him. The writing. It was eerily familiar.

  He ripped it open and pulled out the piece of paper within.

  The colour drained from his face as he read the words:

  Come along and watch the fun

  There’ll be lots to see for everyone!

  Something else fell out with it: a ticket to Money Bags.

  Jeebs gulped, and his hands suddenly felt clammy.

  ‘Prescott,’ he breathed. ‘He’s back.’

  ‘At least there’s one good thing about Money Bags – we get to leave school early,’ says Ted as we wait for his mum to pick us up at lunchtime.

  I didn’t tell Ted about the graffiti incident. When he’d asked what Jeebs wanted I told him he just wanted to wish our school good luck. I figured it was for the best. Ted has enough to think about without adding the graffiti mystery to the list.

  ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ asks Mrs Dimple as soon as she pulls up. ‘Money Bags is only a few hours away now.’

  ‘I’m trying not to think about it,’ says Ted as he jumps in. Then he closes the door and stares out the window.

  We are driving home minding our own business when Mrs Dimple suddenly points.

  ‘Oh, would you look at that!’ she says, as she slows the car down. ‘Somebody has painted graffiti all over that fence. It’s vandalism, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Ted absently.

  ‘Why would someone paint something that doesn’t make sense?’ says Mrs Dimple, shaking her head. ‘It seems so pointless to ruin someone’s fence like that.’

  I stare as we cruise past, and an uneasy feeling engulfs me. It looks exactly the same as the graffiti in the photo Jeebs showed m
e. Same coloured paint. Same message:

  N I 4 N I

  And there are even the squiggly little initials in the top right-hand corner:

  B D

  My initials!

  N I 4 N I

  What a ridiculous thing to graffiti.

  N I 4 N I

  Hang on!

  N I 4 N I

  Suddenly I have a thought! Maybe the letters aren’t supposed to be letters at all? Maybe they’re words!

  Of course!

  N … I …4… N … I – An eye for an eye.

  Why didn’t I see it before?

  Then another thought hits me, and I feel a chill run through me.

  What if the graffiti message wasn’t meant to be from me?

  What if it was meant to be for me?

  Why would someone want to target me in a graffiti message? It doesn’t make sense.

  And as if that’s not bad enough, when Mrs Dimple drops me off, the first thing I notice is Mum and Dad’s cars both parked in the driveway.

  What would Mum and Dad both be doing home at this time of the day?

  Mischief just about does back flips when she sees me, she is so excited.

  ‘Sorry, Mischief, today’s out of the question.’ I give her a quick scruff and head inside.

  As soon as I enter the house muffled voices filter out from Dad’s study. I close the door quietly and sneak up to my bedroom while the going’s good, then I get changed into something more respectable, ready to accompany Ted on his big Money Bags quest.

  ‘Thought you’d sneak by us, did you?’ says Mum as I attempt to raid the kitchen cupboard unnoticed.

  She is in one of her serious moods; not the sort of mood you can warm to easily, take it from one who knows!

  ‘I thought you and Dad were having a deep and meaningful and I didn’t want to interrupt,’ I joke.

  But Mum doesn’t joke back. She doesn’t even smile.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum? You don’t look it.’

  Suddenly Dad appears from the study, a look of concern etched on his face.

  ‘You’d better sit down, Brain,’ he says solemnly. ‘There is something we need to sort out.’

  ‘What! The police think I’m responsible for the graffiti around Daramour! Are they for real? I mean, seriously!’

  Mum and Dad both stare at me. I feel their eyes boring into me.

  ‘All we know is the police have been here asking questions,’ Dad informs me. ‘They wanted to know your whereabouts every night this week.’

  ‘I’ve been here!’ I shriek. ‘At home!’

  ‘That’s what we told them,’ says Mum.

  ‘They must have me confused with someone else.’

  Dad lets out a big sigh. ‘They said they have reason to believe it’s you.’

  ‘But it’s not!’

  ‘Apparently they have proof,’ says Mum.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. What proof could they possibly have?’

  ‘Well,’ says Dad. ‘According to the police, six cans of green spray paint – the exact same paint used to graffiti several fences in Daramour – were booked out at Harris Home and Hardware in your name.’

  ‘What? And that’s all they’ve got to go on?’

  ‘They also mentioned some sort of call sign,’ adds Mum. ‘Initials, they said. BD. They’re your initials, Brain.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen them.’ And I pull out my phone and show them the photo Jeebs texted me.

  ‘What? You’ve taken a photo of it?’ shrieks Mum. ‘And you expect us to believe you didn’t do any of this?’

  ‘Jeebs took the photo, not me.’

  ‘Maxwell Jeebs? He’s a part of this, too?’

  ‘Mum! Dad! You’ve got this all wrong. Jeebs didn’t do anything and neither did I. As if I’d put my initials to something like that! How stupid would you need to be? I didn’t do it. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘There’s something else, Brain,’ says Dad, and I watch as he heads to his study and returns moments later with a can of spray paint.

  ‘What do you need spray paint for?’ I ask him.

  Then I realise. It’s green spray paint. The same colour used in the graffiti.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,’ he replies. ‘I found it in the garage.’

  ‘What? Our garage?’

  I am speechless. My head is spinning.

  The uneasy silence is suddenly broken by the phone’s shrill rings.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get it,’ says Mum crossly. Seconds later she says, ‘Brain, it’s for you. It’s Maxwell Jeebs.’

  With my head still reeling, I take the phone.

  ‘Jeebs? Is everything okay?’

  Jeebs sounds agitated.

  ‘Actually Brain, no, it’s not.’

  ‘Join the club,’ I sigh.

  ‘What do you mean? Has something happened?’

  ‘You could say that. The police think I’m responsible for all the graffiti around Daramour. Apparently several cans of the same spray paint were booked out at Harris Home and Hardware in my name. And to top things off, Dad is now holding one of them in his hand. Can you believe he found it in the garage?’

  ‘I knew it,’ says Jeeb.

  ‘And about the graffiti, Jeebs. I’ve worked it out! It’s meant to be: an eye for an eye. And another thing … I think it was meant for me, even though whoever did it has made it look like it’s from me. I think you were right. It looks like someone is trying to frame me.’

  ‘I don’t think you are being framed,’ says Jeebs. ‘I know you are being framed. And what’s more, I know by whom.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘There is only one person who would go to such lengths.’

  My throat is suddenly dry.

  ‘No … you don’t mean … Not Prescott Heath?’

  ‘That’s exactly who I mean,’ says Jeebs. ‘He’s back, Brain. And he’s back for revenge!’

  Of course! Now the pieces of the puzzle are slowly starting to fit! And I have a pretty good idea who it was running down the road the other night, not to mention whose trousers the bloodied piece of cotton cloth came from.

  ‘What’s going on, son?’ asks Dad as soon as I’ve hung up the phone. ‘And what’s Maxwell Jeebs got to do with it, and Prescott Heath?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to know that myself,’ says Mum.

  My head is beginning to throb. I don’t know how long I can withstand the parental pressure. Mum and Dad can be pretty unrelenting when they want to be.

  ‘It’s not a good time,’ I tell them. ‘Ted will be here any minute. Tonight’s his big Money Bags appearance, remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry, son,’ says Dad. ‘But unless this situation is resolved, you won’t be going anywhere.’

  ‘Your father’s right, Brain. We need to settle this now. By the looks of it, things are already way out of hand.’

  ‘But … it’s complicated.’

  ‘We’re your parents, darling,’ says Mum in the sweet, sympathetic, understanding voice that always gets round me. ‘We only want to help.’

  ‘The sooner you let us know what’s going on, son, the sooner we can sort this whole thing out.’

  I take a deep breath and try to remain calm, but it’s difficult under the circumstances.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s going on,’ I tell them. ‘Well, not yet, anyway. That’s the truth.’

  ‘You’ll tell us what you can then,’ says Dad firmly. ‘As your mother said, we are your parents. We need to know.’

  ‘But what about Money Bags? Ted needs me for moral support and everything. Besides, I promised him.’

  ‘Sorry Brain,’ says Mum. ‘But Ted will have to do without you this time.’

  ‘What? But …’

  ‘No buts.’

  There is a knock on the door and Ted suddenly pokes his head in.

  ‘Hi Mr Davis, Mrs Davis,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Brain? You ready?’

  I look at Mum and Dad pleadingly, but I’m met wit
h daggers.

  ‘Brain, don’t you dare try to get out of this,’ says Dad.

  ‘Me? No way,’ I tell him. ‘So … Mum? Dad?’

  Mum rolls her eyes. Dad just shakes his head.

  ‘Oh go on, then,’ he sighs. ‘But don’t think this conversation is finished, because it’s not. Not by a long shot.’

  Prescott Heath stuck the photo of Jeebs on the wall beside the bathroom mirror, then pulled the newly purchased items out of the paper bag and placed them on the vanity.

  First, he started with the wig. He grabbed the scissors and trimmed a bit off the length, then touched it up around the sides, until it resembled the hairstyle in the picture.

  Then he put it on his head. And smiled.

  ‘Perfect,’ he crooned, as he tilted his head this way and that, admiring his reflection. ‘Well, almost.’

  Next he picked up the kohl pencil, and ran it along his eyebrows to darken them, before adding a bit along each eyelid.

  ‘And now for the final touch.’

  He put back the kohl pencil, reaching instead for the tiny container next to it. Lifting the lid, he revealed a set of brown contact lenses, which he gently inserted, one by one, under his eyelids.

  He gasped when he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

  The transformation was complete, and the likeness, amazing.

  Even he felt as though it was Jeebs he was looking at!

  ‘Yes!’ he shrieked, and he danced around the room excitedly.

  When he’d calmed down sufficiently, he took another look. Then he smiled again. It was impossible not to.

  ‘Prescott, you are a genius,’ he said silkily.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  He headed out to the kitchen to ring himself a taxi.

  CHAPTER 20

  This is it. The moment of truth.

  We are at the studios of Top Stuff TV. In less than fifteen minutes the whole of Australia will be watching my best mate, Ted Dimple, on Money Bags.

  I’ve got my fingers crossed for him. Not to mention my toes. As well as my arms. And my legs. My feet too. There’s nothing left to cross. I just hope that’s enough.

  I’m sitting in the audience, in the part reserved for the contestants’ family. I know I’m not technically family, but I am Ted’s best mate, and Mr Dimple had to work, so I’m keeping Mrs Dimple company. You know, lending some moral support. Actually, I think she’s a bit nervous. She’s bitten off three fingernails already.