by , Sammy J;
Eliza scowled. ‘Is that why you made up the bus as well? To try and keep me here?’
‘I didn’t make that up,’ Justin mumbled, unconvincingly.
‘Well you’ve been lying to me about the bell. Why should I trust you now?’
Justin opened his mouth, but no words came out.
‘If this is how you treat your friends, Justin, I’d hate to see how you treat your enemies.’
Suddenly, Justin didn’t care about his detention, or the missing bus, or the principal’s evil plan. He only cared about losing his friend.
‘I’ll fix it.’ His voice quavered. ‘I’ll go and fix the bell. Right now. So you can go home.’
Eliza rolled her eyes then turned away. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘I promise.’
Justin spun around and headed towards the quadrangle.
In the movie of his life, he thought, this scene would be accompanied by a melancholy violin score signifying the death of his hopes and dreams.
But nobody makes movies about losers.
So it was, at 12.45 am on what was technically now his second day of high school, that Justin set off to ring the bell, free his friend, and sentence Mount Willow Secondary School to sports-based curriculum hell.
Justin gritted his teeth and marched towards the bell tower.
And he would have kept marching, too, if he hadn’t been distracted by the sound of a vehicle approaching.
And not just any vehicle.
A bus.
Justin stared at the headlights, threw his arms in the air triumphantly, then beckoned for the bus to follow him.
In the movie of his life, he thought, this scene would be accompanied by an uplifting orchestral score, and would probably be shown in slow motion.
The bus followed him up the path, bumped over the gutter and glided across the grass – a little too quickly – before skidding to a halt beside the tree. Justin cupped his hands together and called up to Eliza.
‘Now do you believe me?’
Justin’s vision was still a little blurry from the headlights, so he wasn’t able to see Eliza’s face.
Which was probably just as well, because it wasn’t a group of friendly nerds on the bus, as Justin had promised – it was Wade Turner’s Night Patrol.
‘She’s in the tree,’ one of them said, shining a torch up into the leaves.
‘Try that again,’ barked Wade, stepping down from the driver’s seat. His hair was still caked in plaster and pigeon poo.
‘She’s in the tree, Sir,’ said the Patrol student sheepishly.
Wade grunted and swung his torch into the branches, flooding Eliza in harsh yellow light. He turned to Justin. ‘Thanks for the help.’
Eliza’s voice trembled. ‘You … you led them to me?’
Justin shook his head furiously. ‘No! I thought it was—’
‘Don’t lie, mate.’ Wade slapped him on the back. ‘You said you’d help me find her, and ya did!’
Justin’s eyes had recovered. He glanced at the empty bus. ‘Where are my friends?’
‘They’re in custody. But I wouldn’t call them your friends anymore. Not since you and Peter helped us find ’em.’ Wade chuckled. ‘My troops followed that four-eyed freak right across the field.’
Justin screwed up his face in despair. What had he done?
Beside him, Wade was aiming his deodorant can up at Eliza. ‘Now, are ya coming down, or do we have to smoke you out?’
‘Save your ammo,’ she sighed, dropping to the ground in front of Justin. She stared at him strangely, as if trying to recognise someone she once knew.
‘I wasn’t lying,’ whispered Justin. ‘I’ll fix things, I promise.’
Eliza let out a strange, sad sort of laugh. Then she lowered her head and climbed onto the bus, stepping over the ornate wooden chess pieces that lay scattered on the floor.
The three-year-old game was no more.
Wade turned to Justin. ‘All aboard, loser.’
They say that the choices we make when we’re under pressure reveal our ‘true character’. Like parents who jump in front of vehicles to save their children, or pilots who manage to land a plane safely in an emergency. Of course, there are different types of pressure. In 1974 the Mount Willow Council faced a lot of political pressure when locals complained about the lack of water pressure. The council argued that fixing it would create financial pressure, but the mayor soon caved in to the emotional pressure and installed a giant water tower at the summit of Mount Willow. This was built, quite literally, over Lord Flugenheim’s dead body.
Justin Monaghetti was feeling an enormous amount of pressure, and it seemed his true character was someone who stood frozen to the spot, refusing to move.
‘Oi! Get on the bus!’ Wade yelled.
Justin kept his head down.
‘We’ll count to three,’ said Wade.
The Night Patrol formed a circle around Justin and held up their 48-hour-odour-protection-high-performance-testosterone-scented-anti-perspirant deodorant cans.
‘One.’
The Night Patrol shook their aerosols for maximum pressure.
‘Two.’
Wade smirked.
‘Three.’
Justin dropped to the ground.
Thankfully, his true character also had a basic understanding of physics. Justin had correctly figured that if he removed himself from the middle of the circle, Wade’s army would end up spraying each other instead. The hiss of pressurised deodorant gave way to the sound of choking as the Night Patrol coughed and gagged in the perfumed haze. Justin held his breath and scrambled out between their legs.
‘GET HIM!’ barked Wade, but Justin wasn’t in the mood to be gotten. He leapt towards the sprinkler, swung his leg back and kicked it hard, sending a burst of icy water gushing over Wade and his army. Shortbread’s sprinkler trick had come in handy. So, too, had Mount Willow’s high-pressure water tower.
One of the army cadets ran straight into the tree, sending Eliza’s desk plummeting to the ground, which in turn knocked another Night Patrol kid face-first into a freshly formed puddle.
In the movie of his life, Justin thought, this scene would be accompanied by a rocking electric guitar solo with heaps of action close-ups. In fact, it would probably be the scene they used in the promo to sell the film.
By the time Wade had ordered his dazed troops back onto the bus, Justin was already halfway across the quadrangle.
He felt his heart pumping as he reached the bell tower.
He felt the broken glass crunch under his shoes as he ducked under the ‘HAZARD’ tape.
He felt his arm reach through the still-broken window and open the door.
He felt his legs race back up the wooden stairs.
He felt ready to make things better – or at least, slightly less worse.
Then he felt his ankle twist as he tripped headfirst over Brad Hestor’s body.
Justin clutched his ankle, gasping in pain.
The air was thick with the smell of wood and grease. He hadn’t noticed it on his first visit – he’d been a little preoccupied – but now it filled his nose and lungs.
Then, in the darkness, the body spoke.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Justin.’
Justin twisted around and pulled himself into a sitting position. The body did the same.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Buddy, we’ve already met.’
Justin fumbled for his torch and switched it on with a trembling hand, expecting to see a ghost.
Instead, he saw Shortbread the gardener.
‘You’re Brad Hestor?’
Shortbread scoffed. ‘I don’t use that name anymore.’
Justin blinked in bewilderment. His ankle was throbbing. ‘W
hy are you sleeping on the stairs?’
‘Not a lot of options in here, mate. Plus, it gives me something to focus on. Do you know how many steps you just climbed?’
Justin shook his head.
‘Two hundred and eight. I’ve slept on every one of them. Every week, I move up a step.’
‘You’ve been here for two hundred and eight weeks?’
Shortbread nodded, and pointed up the staircase. ‘Only three hundred and twelve steps to go until I’m free.’
Justin tried doing the maths, but it was too much for his exhausted brain.
‘That’s six years,’ said Shortbread, ‘if you’re wondering.’
‘I … I don’t understand. Why don’t you just leave?’
‘I can’t leave, buddy. Not until he leaves.’
‘Who?’
Shortbread lowered his head. ‘Wade Turner.’
Justin shuffled closer. He needed to know more. ‘Can you please tell me what’s going on at this school?’
‘How much time have you got?’
Justin glanced up the tower. His pawn wasn’t going anywhere. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
Shortbread leaned against the dusty wall, then pulled a packet of biscuits out from under his pillow and offered one to Justin.
He took one gratefully. ‘Thanks. Shortbread, I assume?’
‘No, butternut snaps, actually.’ Shortbread sighed longingly. ‘I’m allergic to shortbread.’
Justin lowered his biscuit. ‘But you said you love them?’
‘I do, buddy. I do.’ Shortbread lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair forlornly. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’
Justin assumed that living in a bell tower would be harder than living with a biscuit allergy, but he hadn’t experienced either, so it wasn’t his place to judge.
‘I wasn’t always allergic,’ continued Shortbread. ‘Used to eat them all the time as a kid. By five years old I was addicted. At primary school they were all I ate. Then, when I was nine, our school had a Christmas fete. There was a fundraising table full of baked goods. I snuck in and ate ninety-three shortbread biscuits in six minutes. Like an animal. Then I passed out. Had to be carried out, past all my classmates and their parents. My blood sugar levels were through the roof. The doctor said it was the first case of shortbread poisoning he’d ever seen.’
Justin, who had been waiting for the right time to take a bite of his butternut snap, took his moment. The crunching sound echoed around the tower, startling them both. There is never a right time to take a bite of a butternut snap.
‘Sorry,’ said Justin, wiping crumbs from his face.
‘You’re alright, buddy,’ said Shortbread, taking an equally loud bite. ‘Anyway, after that, my body started reacting badly. Breaking out in a rash anytime I had shortbread. So the doctor banned me from eating it, and put me on a new diet and exercise regime.’
Justin glanced anxiously towards the clock. He’d wanted to hear The Mystery of Wade Turner. Instead, he was getting The Nutritional History of the Gardener.
‘I started playing footy after school to get fit. And it turned out I was pretty good at it. Like, really good. My teacher said I might make the AFL one day if I set my mind to it. So I trained even harder. Playing football took my mind off shortbread biscuits. Something about being out on the field … I dunno … it made me feel invincible, if that makes sense?’
Justin shovelled the last bit of biscuit into his mouth and tried to think of a polite way of ending the conversation.
‘Soon it was time for high school,’ Shortbread continued. ‘Dad heard Mount Willow had a new sports program, so we enrolled here. Mr Atkins was the coach, but he didn’t seem to know anything about footy. Kept saying we needed to play ‘in tempo’, whatever that meant. Anyway, at the end of our first training session we had a goal-kicking contest to work out who’d be captain of the team. Everyone else missed, and soon there were just two of us left. Me, and Scott Turner.’
Justin swallowed hard. Now things were getting interesting.
‘As in Wade Turner’s brother?’
‘Yep. The eldest of the three. I’d seen him that week, thumping a kid behind the canteen, but the teachers didn’t seem to care. Anyway, he lined up next to me, gave me the finger, and kicked the ball, but it went flying off to the side. All I had to do was kick a goal to win. But I decided to make things more interesting. I took the ball and ran backwards across North Field, until I was eighty metres away. Then I took a run-up, kicked the ball and put it right between the posts. The crowd couldn’t believe it. They all came over to shake my hand. Everyone except Scott, that is.’
Shortbread paused. ‘Want another biscuit?’
‘Thanks.’ Justin was paying more attention now.
‘So the following Monday I turned up to training, and I was in the change room about to head outside when I looked in my gym bag and spotted something. A brand new, unopened packet of shortbread biscuits. I don’t know who put them there. I knew I wasn’t meant to eat them. But I’d been training hard, and behaving myself. One biscuit wouldn’t hurt. Or ten biscuits, as it happened. In fact, I finished the whole pack. Then I passed out. Woke up in the sick bay with a rash all over my body. That’s when the principal, Featherstone, came to visit. He gave me a detention for missing training. But he scheduled the detention for after school the following Wednesday, which meant I missed footy again—’
‘And got another detention!’ said Justin.
‘Exactly! The cycle went on, and before I knew it I was stuck in eternal detention. Couldn’t play footy, and couldn’t escape my punishment. All because of a packet of biscuits.’
Justin’s mind was reeling. ‘Who put the biscuits in your bag?’
Shortbread shrugged. ‘Buddy, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be sleeping in a bell tower.’
‘And what happened to Scott Turner?’
‘Well, he became captain of the footy team, of course. Every Wednesday I’d sit in detention and watch him out the window. He was actually a pretty good player. But then in Year Twelve he broke his leg skateboarding down a contaminated quarry. The doctors said he wasn’t allowed to play footy anymore. The police said he wasn’t allowed to skateboard down contaminated quarries, either.’
‘But … if that was ten years ago … shouldn’t you be out of school by now?’
Shortbread chuckled sadly.
‘You’d think so. But the Year Twelve graduation ceremony happened while I was in detention, so I never actually finished high school. And since I was still technically a student, the school rules said I had to keep attending my detentions. That’s when Featherstone gave me the gardening job, to help pass the time.’
‘So … are you ever going to leave?’
‘Featherstone says he’ll let me go once the final Turner kid leaves the school.’
This story was raising more questions than answers.
Shortbread took a final, ear-piercing bite of his biscuit.
‘That’s the first time I’ve told anyone the truth. Keep it secret, won’t you?’
Justin peered up the staircase and thought of Eliza. She was also stuck at school – but at least she had a way out. If only Justin could get to the bell. ‘I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I broke the clock. Put a chess piece in it.’
Shortbread raised his eyebrows. ‘Wow. Not a bad effort for your first day.’
‘Well it backfired, big time,’ said Justin. ‘That’s why I’m here. I want to fix it.’
Shortbread narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I promised my friend I would.’
Shortbread got to his feet.
‘Look buddy, I’m not supposed to let anyone up there,’ he said. ‘Principal’s orders.’
Justin stood up as
well, wobbling on his bad ankle. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’
He started limping up the stairs. Shortbread yelled after him.
‘Wait!’
Justin stopped.
‘No need for stairs buddy. Let’s take a shortcut.’ Shortbread walked a few steps past Justin and opened a narrow wooden door in the wall. ‘An elevator. Installed years ago, but still works like new.’
Justin was impressed. If he was going to fix the mess he’d created, he might as well do it in style.
He stepped into the dark nook and waited for his eyes to adjust.
‘Where are the buttons?’
But there were no buttons.
Or lights.
Or anything that remotely resembled the inside of an elevator.
Just the sound of the wooden door slamming shut, and a lock turning on the other side.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ came Shortbread’s muffled voice. ‘Like I said, principal’s orders.’
Justin slammed his hands against the door. It didn’t budge.
He pressed his face against the crack and called for help, but all he could hear was the sound of Shortbread’s footsteps disappearing down the tower stairs.
He switched on his torch and swung it around the tiny, cramped room. Dust. Cobwebs. An old metal bucket.
No escape.
He started to panic.
If he didn’t fix the bell, Eliza would spend the rest of her life thinking he’d lied.
Then he noticed a small verse scrawled in chalk on the wall. The handwriting looked old. Had someone been trapped here before? Had they written instructions on how to escape?
Justin dropped to his knees to read it.
May those who follow me at school
Hold fast to nature’s ancient rule
And as you climb life’s ladder high
Ensure a toilet is nearby.
– Mr Douglas, January 1901
Justin lay down, defeated. His torch batteries drained away and the light faded to black.
Okay, question time. Worst sleep of your life. When was it? Where was it? How long was it? Sorry to say, but if your answer doesn’t involve the floor of a makeshift toilet cubicle and the stench of a putrid bucket, you have no right to complain.
