Tigers on the Beach

by Doug MacLeod

  Stanley Krongold is definitely playing at something.

  ‘This boy has been drinking,’ he says. ‘He’s only thirteen.’

  ‘Nearly fourteen,’ I say.

  ‘Book him,’ says Mr Krongold.

  ‘One mouthful. I had one mouthful.’

  ‘Book him for underage drinking and for being drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need,’ says the policeman. ‘But go easy, son.’

  ‘I saw him ravaging a girl on Tower Hill Road,’ says Mr Krongold, turning desperate.

  The policeman looks worried and turns to me. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘I was with my girlfriend,’ I say. ‘Mr Krongold interrupted our natural teenage urges.’

  Now the policeman looks confused. ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s against the law to have underage sexual relations on a carriageway,’ storms Mr Krongold.

  ‘We weren’t having sexual relations and we weren’t on a carriageway,’ I protest. ‘We didn’t even lie in the long grass. I wish we did, but we didn’t.’

  The policeman smiles. ‘Better luck next time, son.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Mr Krongold can scarcely breathe. ‘Is that how you keep law and order?’

  ‘Stop wasting our time, Mr Krongold,’ says the policeman. ‘You keep complaining about this Ponderosa place but your accusations seem baseless.’

  Mr Krongold slaps the counter. ‘You’re useless, you police. You never do anything.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ The policeman stands up straight. ‘At the moment one of us is booking your car for being illegally parked.’

  Mr Krongold turns around and looks out of the window to see that this is indeed happening. His face goes a redder shade of orange, as though his tie is too tight.

  We leave the police station. There are a lot of names that I want to call Mr Krongold. I even feel like taking a swing at him. But right now I need him to get me to Samsara.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Mr Krongold demands, as I head for the passenger door of his car.

  ‘Samsara,’ I say. ‘I want you to drive me there. After telling those lies it’s the least you could do.’

  ‘Piss off. Not you, Officer.’

  Mr Krongold snatches the parking ticket from the windscreen, climbs into the car and speeds off without me.

  I’m now stuck in Flanders with a flat phone, five kilometres from home on a Saturday afternoon. My brother is at The Ponderosa with gunpowder, some wire, a push-button and a plan to blow up our grandmother.

  The only person I know in Flanders is a strange man called Zebulon.

  ‘You have to help me. I don’t have much money with me, but I’ve got some at home. I’ll pay you whatever you want, only you have to drive me to Samsara right now. A grandmother’s life is at stake.’

  The man behind the counter of Purple Haze looks at me as though I’m a freak, which is really something when half his customers have noses full of jewellery or safety pins.

  ‘Can you please help me save my grandma’s life? I thought you liked grandmas?’

  I realise that everyone in the shop is looking in my direction.

  ‘Come on, man,’ says a huge long-haired guy who looks tough enough to bite through a bus. ‘If his grandma’s in danger –’

  ‘She is,’ I say.

  A girl with black lips and purple hair agrees. ‘I’d hate for anything to happen to my grandmother.’

  A lady wearing a dog collar and chains adds, ‘I am a grandmother.’

  ‘Okay,’ announces Zebulon. ‘I’m sorry everyone, but I’m going to have to close the shop for a while.’

  The only person who seems to mind is a guy who looks like Nathan, but from an alternative universe. He has the same face and the same dirty blond scraggly hair and beard. He is balding and wears his black pants too high. He is a sort of parallel Nathan. I figure that if ever this guy meets the other Nathan, the universe will collapse.

  Thanking him profusely, I follow Zebulon out of the shopping mall. His car is an old French rust-bucket that smells like unwashed jumpers in the rain. It starts only after three tries.

  ‘You’re really worked up about your grandma, aren’t you?’ says Zebulon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Relax. Everything will be okay. Only don’t lean too hard on the door. It’ll pop open and you’ll fall out and die.’

  Hastily, I put my seatbelt on.

  ‘Forget it, they don’t work,’ says Zebulon. ‘Where in Samsara are we headed, exactly?’

  ‘The Ponderosa. It’s the first thing you see when you drive into town. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘The Ponderosa, eh? Bonanza again.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘I like Bonanza.’

  ‘I figured that.’

  ‘Did you see that episode called The Greedy Ones, where an evil mining tycoon tries to buy the ranch from Ben Cartwright, but he refuses to sell it even for a million dollars because it’s where he brought up his sons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was a beautiful episode. Or what about A Matter of Fate? That’s the one where we first meet Jamie Hunter.’

  ‘I didn’t see that one either.’

  ‘It’s a very good episode, considering it’s one of the later ones. Everyone in Virginia City thinks that Jamie Hunter is useless. The only person who has any faith in Jamie is Ben. And since Jamie’s father is dead, Ben decides to let him stay at The Ponderosa. And Ben becomes like a father to Jamie.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not a big fan of the series. It’s too old.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, until I started watching it with my grandma. I’m a mammothrept, you see.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Strange word, isn’t it?’

  I don’t say anything, but the word sounds cult-like. Is there a dark religious sect devoted to the teachings of Bonanza?

  ‘It means my grandma brought me up,’ says Zebulon. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘How come?’

  Zebulon shrugs. ‘My parents didn’t want to do it. So they just sort of ran away and dumped me on her.’

  ‘Your parents ran away?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘Nope. And I don’t care. Do you realise there are more than 430 episodes of Bonanza? I reckon Grandma and I have watched them all. There was this great episode called The Decision where Ben Cartwright tells Hoss –’

  ‘We’re here,’ I say. ‘That’s The Ponderosa on the left.’ Zebulon squints. ‘It doesn’t look much like a ranch.’

  ‘It’s more just holiday cabins.’

  ‘You should put some wagon wheels out the front or something.’

  ‘I’ll tell my parents.’

  Zebulon pulls up. ‘Good luck with your grandma, Adam. I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Thanks, Zebulon.’

  I open the door of the French bomb, leap out and run as fast as I can up the driveway. Marika is sweeping.

  ‘Marika, has there been an explosion? Is everyone okay? Did anyone die?’

  ‘I’m going to have botox,’ says Marika.

  I charge into the office. Dad is handing over some keys to a family that has just arrived. The telephone receiver rests askew on its cradle.

  ‘Dad, you didn’t hang up the phone properly,’ I say.

  ‘Just a minute, Adam.’ Dad indicates the new arrivals.

  ‘This is an emergency,’ I say. ‘Has there been an explosion?’

  The mother and father of the visiting family look at each other nervously. The two kids are intensely interested.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There have been no explosions.’

  The kids are disappointed.

  ‘I’m upgrading you to cabin number five,’ says Dad.

  I nearly choke, I’m so desperate to get the words out. ‘Dad, listen to me. There could be an explosion at any minute.’

  The kids
are interested again.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about this,’ Dad tells the unnerved mother and father. ‘Could you please excuse me while I have a word with my son?’

  I don’t wait for Dad to slip the bolt on the counter to let me in. I leap over it and head straight for our bedroom. I push the door open. There is no sign of Xander. Dad is now angry.

  ‘Adam, could you tell me what the hell is going on?’

  ‘We need to find Xander.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s going to blow up Grandma.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  On the floor, amongst the socks and other mess, are the remnants of an opened package.

  ‘Tony Palin was here,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I can’t stand the boy.’

  ‘I think he sold gunpowder to Xander.’

  ‘Oh god,’ says Dad.

  We charge back the way we came and vault the counter. The family is still there, waiting to give a credit card imprint.

  Mum is chatting with a guest when she sees Dad and me screaming towards cabin number two.

  ‘Ken?’ she calls. ‘Ken, what is it?’

  The door is locked. I hammer on it.

  ‘Grandma, are you in there?’

  There is no reply. I hammer again. Dad fumbles through his multicoloured keys to unlock the cabin.

  ‘Grandma!’ I yell. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to the toilet.’

  Mum joins us, followed by a small procession of guests who have been lured from their cabins.

  ‘For pity’s sake, please don’t go to the toilet. Your life is in danger.’

  Dad keeps fumbling for keys and I continue hammering

  ‘I don’t want you to blow up, Grandma,’ I say through the door, ‘I’d never forgive myself.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ a kid asks. ‘What’s wrong with the toilet?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mum reassures the guests.

  Nathan appears, with Marika following behind.

  ‘There’s something wrong with the toilet,’ I hear a guest say to Nathan.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ Nathan asks me.

  ‘I’m worried it might explode,’ I say.

  Some of the adults gasp. ‘Why would a toilet explode? Are the toilets dangerous?’

  ‘Please, everybody calm down,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation. Our toilets are quite safe. They’ve never exploded before.’

  In his panic, Dad drops the keys. We hear the door being unlocked from the other side. It opens slowly. There is Xander, looking composed and calm.

  ‘Hello Adam,’ he says, looking away from me.

  ‘Xander . . .?’

  ‘What are you all doing here?’ a familiar voice demands from the back of the crowd.

  Grandma has arrived.

  ‘It’s that bossy woman again,’ whispers one of the guests.

  Grandma is holding a string bag containing a small package.

  ‘Grandma,’ I gasp. ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I just went to the shop to buy some Jaffa Cakes.’

  I’m so relieved, my brain stalls.

  ‘Jaffa Cakes?’ I say, stupidly.

  ‘Chocolate biscuits,’ says Grandma.

  ‘Thank god.’

  ‘For the biscuits? What’s the matter with you, Adam?’

  ‘You went to the shop and you came back again. Just like Grandpa.’

  ‘You’re being very strange.’

  ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding,’ Dad says to the guests. ‘We’re sorry to have disturbed you. I hope you continue to have an enjoyable, restful holiday.’

  Bewildered people shuffle off to their respective cabins. My parents obviously have a few questions they want to ask me. But there’s still a family waiting in the office. Mum and Dad hurry off to attend to them. These days, customers are more valuable than ever.

  ‘What is Xander doing in my cabin?’ Grandma asks me.

  ‘We’re . . . cleaning it,’ I say.

  ‘I thought you and that Greek girl normally did it? Where is she?’

  Marika steps forward and speaks. She avoids mentioning her eye infection or liposuction. It’s strange to hear her talk like an ordinary human.

  ‘When I was a little girl in a mountain village in the Peloponnesus, my yiayia taught me to look for the good in everyone,’ she says.

  ‘What’s a yiayia?’ asks Grandma. ‘Sounds like a pet monster.’

  ‘It’s Greek for Granny. My yiayia told me that even if you can’t see the good in a person, you must try harder. And if you still can’t find the goodness in them, after looking as hard as you possibly can, then you should give them the evil eye.’

  ‘What sort of nonsense is that?’

  ‘It’s a powerful Greek spell that will bring you bad luck for the rest of your life. I feel ashamed to say it, but I’ve given it to you,’ says Marika. ‘It’s because you accused me of being a thief. I would never take anything that doesn’t belong to me. It is one of the worst things you can say about a person.’

  ‘I never called you a thief,’ says Grandma.

  ‘I heard you speaking to Adam about your memory stick.’

  Marika has been more observant than I realised. I’m amazed to hear her having a proper conversation. Now I know how Jane Goodall must have felt when the apes started communicating with her.

  ‘The reason I feel ashamed is that your family sees goodness in you,’ says Marika. ‘For your family’s sake, there’s something I must do to lift the curse.’

  Marika hurries from the scene. Nathan shakes his head in wonder. ‘Even the great clouded leopard of South Asia,’ he whispers. ‘Marika is a thousand times more beautiful.’ I bound into the cabin, standing alongside Xander and barricading the doorway. ‘Please come back in ten minutes,’ I tell Grandma. ‘The cabin will be ready for you then.’

  I close the door.

  ‘Talk,’ I say to Xander.

  Xander points at the old black-and-white photo of Grandma and Grandpa at the seaside, the one we put on the wall when Grandma moved in.

  ‘Look,’ says Xander. ‘I look like Grandpa.’

  ‘Xander, I don’t want to talk about this.’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I worked it all out. You dismantled the torch to get the battery and the wire. You bought gunpowder from Tony Palin.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Show me the toilet.’

  ‘You want to see the toilet?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It isn’t very interesting.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Xander shrugs and leads me into the bathroom. It smells of bath beads. The toilet looks harmless enough, but the seat is down. The gunpowder and wiring are no doubt hidden underneath.

  ‘Dismantle it,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Make it safe. So it doesn’t explode when anyone sits on it.’

  ‘You think it’s a booby-trap?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Xander pushes me aside dramatically. ‘You’ll never take me alive,’ he cries.

  He plonks himself on the toilet. I drop to the floor, waiting for the explosion that will surely come, horrified to think of my little brother blasting himself to bits.

  But there’s no explosion. All I hear is a peculiar laughing noise. It’s a squawky, electronic laugh that plays over and over. Slowly, I get to my feet. Xander remains seated. The squawky laughter continues. Soon Xander bursts out laughing, too. He stands, lifts the lid, and proudly shows me the little device that he’s rigged up. It’s a laughing toilet-seat gadget, the kind that you can buy from Purple Haze for twenty dollars. Knowing Tony Palin, he probably charged Xander double.

  We walk out of the bathroom and into the main part of the cabin.

  ‘Did you really think I’d blow up Grandma?’ says
Xander.

  ‘Of course I did. You had it all planned.’

  ‘But you told me not to.’

  ‘Since when has that stopped you doing anything?’

  ‘It was just an idea. I wasn’t going to do it.’

  ‘I can never tell with you,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit upset about this, Xander. And I’ll be even more upset if you put my penis on the internet.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only on my Facebook page.’

  ‘Xander, you have two thousand Facebook friends, which is probably why you don’t have any real ones.’

  ‘Let me show you something.’ Xander leads me to the computer. ‘There’s lots of stuff here about Grandpa.’

  Xander points to the screen. I read a paragraph about The Port Argus Naturalist Society. There are scans of old photos of people bushwalking, looking at nature and attending protest rallies. I read aloud from the screen.

  Today we are determined to save the mangrove swamps. The people at the oil refinery assure us that the swamps won’t be harmed, but we don’t believe them.

  ‘What are mangrove swamps?’ asks Xander. ‘Are there mangrove swamps around here?’

  ‘I think they might have been destroyed by the oil refinery,’ I say, reading on.

  The document is called ‘Reginald’. It’s nearly 10,000 words long.

  When we reach Herring Island, Reginald and I head for the prime nesting spot, on the side that faces away from Samsara. We see the refinery on the opposite side of the bay, with its fire that blazes on top of the high tower. The fire isn’t dangerous, the refinery people tell us. They say they care about the environment. We don’t believe a word.

  We come across a new tern’s nest with three chicks. Reginald takes out his book and makes a note of it. As we have our lunch, the chicks have theirs. The mother bird sicks up some food for them. Reginald laughs at me for being revolted.

  After lunch we do our regular site inspection. There’s a shag soaked in oil, quivering between the mussel-covered rocks. When Reginald tries to pick up the bird, it pecks at his arm and squawks. Reginald tells it to relax. He’s a friend who wants to help.

  The bird stops struggling, and we take it to the hut, the little bird hospital we’ve made on the island. Together we sponge the oil from the shag’s wings.