Lula Does the Hula

by Samantha Mackintosh

  ‘What?’ I said, still clutching the flannel. ‘Wh–’

  ‘Oops,’ said Alex. ‘Gotta go. See you in five.’

  ‘Wha–?’ I yelled, but the line was already dead.

  My bathroom door slammed open.

  And standing there looking totally nutso was Pen.

  Her eyes were red and enraged, her hair dripped in rats’ tails around her grim face and she had her pointy finger out. The pointy finger was shaking with fury.

  I was shaking with fear.

  ‘Two things!’ shrieked Pen.

  I flinched and sat down hurriedly on the edge of the old claw-footed bath.

  ‘Firstly! Boodley slept with you again!’ she said, stabbing the finger at me.

  ‘Sh-she did?’ I stammered.

  ‘Again!’ continued Pen, taking a step closer. ‘After I specifically told you she’s my dog! You want her to be your dog, YOU pick up the poos!’

  ‘Wroarf,’ came a voice from behind Pen, and in padded Boodle the Poodle. You should know that Boodle is not a poodle, but the hugest Newfoundland known to man.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. Then added stupidly, ‘Couldn’t this have waited till breakfast? It’s, like, the middle of the night.’

  ‘Exactly!’ yelled Pen. ‘The middle of the night and still your boyfriends PHONE and TEXT and MESSAGE and, you know, if we had a FAX MACHINE, they’d be MACHINING too! How could you leave your phone in my room? Again?! I’m sick of it! I’ve had no sleep! I’m going crazy! I –’ She interrupted herself to shove me in the shoulder and I fell back in the bath, my head gonging against the side like Big Ben. I scrabbled about like a beetle on its back while Boodle padded over to drool on my knees.

  Yuk! And ouch!

  ‘Hey!’ I yelled, suddenly furious. ‘Take a frikking chill pill, Penelope! Just listen to yourself! I! I! I! It’s all about you! For your information I have ONE boyfriend and it’s not MACHINING, you cretin, it’s FAXING! Which solicitors do a lot of! If you had any chance of becoming one, you’d know!’ My little sister Pen, in case you’ve forgotten, is fourteen, but acts and sounds like a forty-year-old. She wants to be a solicitor with every cell of her being, so this was a low blow.

  ‘Solicitors email, mainbrain!’ yelled Pen, and with lightning speed she got a handful of my hair and twisted, showing me my phone:

  30 missed calls

  Which she then threw on my chest. ‘You!’ she hissed. ‘You’re ruining my life! Look at my eyes.’

  ‘Eeeee!’ I squealed, my legs going limp. ‘Let go! Let go!’

  ‘Look!’ hissed Pen.

  I squinted obligingly through watery orbs. The girl had a demon grip and I needed a quick release.

  There was silence while I stared into Pen’s big green eyes. They looked extremely red and watery to me.

  ‘They look extremely red and watery to me,’ I said.

  ‘And?’ she spat. ‘AND! Look! There are rings! Deep blue rings from no sleep!’

  ‘Not my fault!’ I whimpered as she twisted harder. ‘Let go. Please.’

  ‘Angus loves my eyes!’ yelled Pen. ‘He says they’re my best feature.’

  I winced. Yikes.

  ‘If my best feature goes . . .’ continued Pen. I saw something flicker across her face as her voice petered out. Then her grip on my hair slackened and she pulled me out of the bath with a tired sigh.

  I could have headlocked her right then, but . . . well, she looked so sad. And small. I knew more than most that loving a boy is the first rung on the long and treacherous ladder of insanity. It looked to me like my sister could be halfway up already.

  ‘Oh, Pen, Angus adores you,’ I said warily, gently rubbing my scalp.

  Pen was about to say something when the door to my annexe smashed in. I was on my feet instantly, my most abrasive loofah at the ready, and Pen was yelling for help, clutching a mini-manicure nail file behind the bathroom door: ‘POLICE! POLICE! WE’RE BEING ATTACKED!’

  Footsteps thudded into the annexe and I made for the bathroom doorway, scratchy loofah raised. ‘Stay back, Pen!’ I hissed.

  ‘WHAT’S GOING ON? LULA?! LULA?! WHERE ARE YOU?’

  Pen came out from behind the door, her face grim. I groaned and rolled my eyes at my sister, who replied with a headshake and a sigh that puffed out her cheeks. ‘Dad. In here. You scared the bejeepers out of us.’

  My father lunged into the doorway looking frantically from me to Pen, back to me. He was holding a tennis racquet in his left hand and the carving fork in his right. His hair was all squashed up on one side and a mad fuzz on the other, but worst of all he was naked from the belly button up.

  ‘YOU WERE CRYING OUT!’ yelled Dad. ‘FOR HELP!’

  ‘Ew,’ said Pen, staring at Dad’s hairy torso. ‘Dad! You’ve got to Veet! Like, seriously.’

  ‘Calm down, Dad,’ I said. ‘It was just Pen attacking me.’ Dad lowered the racquet, but the carving fork stayed poised and there was still a crazy look in his eye.

  ‘PEN?’ he gasped. ‘ALL THAT NOISE WAS PEN?’ His chest began to heave.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you need to stop shouting. You’ll wake Next-Door Dan up.’

  Dad’s eyes bugged out a little and he lifted the carving fork ever so slightly.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Pen. ‘Boodle, let’s go.’

  ‘Mrwoh,’ said Boodle, shaking her head. She pawed at my elbow and looked up at me with big pleading eyes.

  Pen stared at her dog in shock and horror at the betrayal. ‘OH THAT’S JUST GREAT!’ she yelled, her eyes all shiny, her cheeks bright red.

  ‘Put the nail file down, Pen,’ I suggested. ‘Let’s all just take a deep breath here.’

  ‘YOU SEE?’ she shrieked at me. I widened my eyes and shrugged helplessly as Boodle pawed me again. ‘YOU SEE?’ she screamed at Dad. ‘DID YOU SEE THAT? SHE’S TAKEN CONTROL OF MY DOG! WELL –!’ She was looking desperately at Dad and I was dismayed to see there really were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Pen,’ I started.

  ‘Well –! Well –! FINE!’ And she stamped out of my annexe, pausing only to sidestep Dad’s hairiness. He turned to follow her and I wasn’t far behind.

  ‘Wait, Pen!’ I called across the courtyard. ‘You need to know that Boodle –’

  She stopped in her tracks and whirled round. ‘Oh, so now you’re going to tell me about my dog? You are going to tell me? About my dog? Don’t even!’

  ‘Boy, oh, boy. This is not good,’ bumbled Dad. ‘Girls, come on, it’s 5 a.m., it’s the middle of the night.’

  CRASH.

  A window in the wall way above the annexe roof slammed open. In the fast fading light of the moon I could just about make out the sexily shaggy head of Next-Door Dan. ‘What,’ he rasped, ‘is going on out there?’

  ‘Oh, great. Priceless,’ said Dad, squinting up. ‘The boy next door is about to tell me off for noisy behaviour. I can’t stand it.’ His shoulders sagged and he plodded to the back door of the main house across the courtyard. ‘My own children. Bringing me to my bloody knees.’

  ‘Hey, Spenser.’

  Dad stopped and looked warily upwards at Next-Door Dan’s window. ‘Sorry about the noise, Daniel,’ he ventured.

  ‘Good tunes last night. At the Guilty Felon.’

  ‘You think?’ Dad’s face brightened. ‘It was all new stuff.’

  ‘I liked it. Especially that catchy one about . . . uh . . . my heart’s gonna boil . . . y’know?’

  Pen snorted. I wrinkled my nose. Dad is a soughtafter songwriter, but we all live in fear of his next totally ditzy number-one hit. How can such an amazing poet – a university professor, for goodness’ sake – write such crazy stuff, and how can the crazy stuff always work? It’s mad.

  ‘I think that one’s going to be big,’ said Dad, shambling back over. ‘EMI want it for a funky rap-pop duet with two of their latest signings.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Indeed. But I need to work on the . . .’ Dad trailed off, lost in a world we couldn’t hear just
yet. Thank God.

  ‘Is it true you’re playing at the Port Albert Regatta?’

  Pen clutched my arm. The biggest inter-school rowing regatta was not a source of excitement for us, but the after-party was legendary. Kicking off with a fancy ball, it degenerated as fast as you liked into the district’s biggest mosh pit. Dad getting down with the moshers was too terrible to think about.

  ‘Please no,’ I whispered, blood draining from my face.

  ‘Oh absolutely yes,’ said Dad happily to Dan. ‘A few weeks to go, but I’m ready already. Hawaiian theme this year. Luau. Can’t wait.’ His voice raised in happy trilling as he sashayed back into the main house, bumping his sizeable hips to either side. ‘Boiiiiil your heart . . .’

  Chapter Four

  ‘How’d the gasket fit, Tallulah?’ asked Next-Door Dan. ‘Perfect?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, grinning up at him. ‘Dad helped me. Oscar’s one happy motor. Now I’ve just got to put his engine block back in, and –’

  ‘Quiet!’ hissed Pen.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Firstly, no one’s supposed to know about your motormechanics obsession; secondly, naming that useless car makes you sound even more crazy!’

  ‘It’s dawn,’ I retorted. ‘No one’s awake to hear this casual conversation!’

  ‘He’s awake,’ replied Pen, flinging a dismissive hand in Dan’s direction.

  ‘I’m harmless,’ said Next-Door Dan hurriedly. ‘Like, totally. So you’ll save me a dance at the regatta ball, Tallulah?’

  Pen and I both looked at him blankly.

  ‘The luau, or whatever it is?’ he continued, hesitant.

  ‘Erm,’ I said, my shock and stupefication switching to unconcealed delight at being asked. ‘Actually I’m kind of seeing someone now.’

  ‘So I hear,’ said Dan.

  ‘Huh,’ said Pen, clearly irked at not being asked herself. ‘You’re just like the rest of them, Next-Door Dan. All happy to dance with the freaky witch girl now that you know you’re safe. Now that Jack has lived to tell the tale. Join the queue.’ She glared up at him, and he leaned back into the window a little.

  ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘Always knew there was nothing wrong with Tatty. No jinx there. Just weird coincidences . . . all those terrible accidents. How’s the dude with the fingers?’

  ‘Huh,’ said Pen again, her arms crossed, staring up at Dan with her aggro squinty eyes. ‘Without fingers, you mean.’

  It was probably too dark for Dan to recognise the danger signs. ‘The Hambledon boys are after you, then, Tatty?’ he continued. ‘Are you playing along while your Jack is away?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pen at the same time as I said, ‘No.’

  Then I said, ‘How did you know he’s been away?’

  ‘Ohh.’ Dan waved his hand around. ‘Everyone knows he’s been a big hit up in London with Channel 4. Since the little exposé.’ He eyed me. ‘Hang on, does that mean you haven’t seen anything of him since . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Since she snogged him? No,’ said Pen.

  ‘Pen!’

  ‘So she’s had a one-night stand, and her man has vanished from sight,’ said Dan thoughtfully, leaning further out of the window again. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, my cheeks flaring with colour. ‘Don’t even go there.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened to Jack de Souza,’ said Pen, examining a fingernail by the light of the rising sun. ‘He calls Tallulah before dawn each day.’

  ‘Maybe nothing’s happened to him only because he’s kept his distance. Or may–’

  ‘Goodbye, Dan,’ I said with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘Goodbye, Pen.’ And I crossed the courtyard to get to my annexe door.

  I had stuff to think about.

  I pushed my door closed with an exhausted sigh and wasted no time in filling my kettle for some hot water to drink. My mind was whirling with worries – Dad seemed happy enough to be performing at the regatta, but any performance is stressful, ultimately, and the last thing I wanted was for him to be stressed, given his recent problems . . .

  And Jack . . .

  No! I shook my head. He was absolutely fine. I was not going to start stressing about him.

  Outside I could hear Pen saying something sharp to Next-Door Dan and the rumble of his laugh before she hauled Boodle’s hairy ass inside and slammed the door to the main house behind her. I grinned, despite myself. Pen had all the middle-sister issues I’d missed out on, and her feisty attitude could be really funny.

  The grin was wiped from my face when my annexe door whacked open, yet again, smashing a chunk of plaster from the wall.

  A slim vision of keep-fit glamour was framed in the dawn haze.

  ‘Alex!’ I shrieked. ‘Geez! What the frik?’

  ‘Why aren’t you dressed?’ hissed Alex. ‘We need to go! Now! What’s Next-Door Dan doing talking to Pen? Did you hear them? Are you making tea? Go get dressed!’

  ‘Stop, stop!’ I said, flapping my hands at her. ‘Listen to yourself! Bossing me around like that! How much white tea have you had today?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Alex, jittering from one foot to the next. ‘That stuff’s full of antioxidants. Packed full. Full, full, full. So how about Frey’s, huh? You need to help me. We’ve got to go in the back way, and I’ve no idea how. Police all over the road at the front. Hopefully they’ve cleared off from the dam, though, so we can get in there and see –’

  ‘Firstly,’ I said firmly, ‘we’re not going anywhere now. There’s no chance we could get up to Frey’s and back and still have time to get ready for school.’

  ‘I’ve brought my bag,’ said Alex. ‘And there’s time if we run. Running is the only option. That way we look like we’re exercising.’ She bolted up to my bedroom and my running bra, leggings and a manky T-shirt came sailing down the steps. ‘Put those on!’

  I sighed and shook my head. The thing with Alex is there’s no wiggling out with that girl. Once she’s decided, she’s decided. Better get this over with.

  Alex and I stretched our hamstrings outside the front gate. Opposite us were the remains of the Setting Sun Retirement Home, charred and still smoking, though every timber had been doused three times over since it burned down two weeks ago. Between my side of the road and the other was a three-metre bank of waving grasses, at the top of which was a tree stump on which I perched whenever I waited for pickups from friends. Which was often because friends did not come to my house; I went to theirs. My house was gnarled and flaky and unravelling at the edges, with help from my chaotic, untidy family. It was embarrassing. Even Blue was starting to drop raisins in places that no vacuum cleaner would ever reach. You’d think with all Dad’s number-one hits we’d have money to spend on the place, but apparently not.

  On my tree stump this morning was Mr Kadinski. He usually sat in a rocking chair on the veranda of the Setting Sun, but . . .

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You’re more conspicuous out here.’

  ‘Even with the hat?’ His usual fedora was pulled low over his silver hair, bright ice-grey eyes sparkling beneath.

  ‘Especially with the hat,’ I said, going into another stretch and gesturing to Alex. ‘This is my friend –’

  ‘Alex Thompson,’ said Mr K, holding out his hand and gripping Alex’s in a firm handshake. ‘I like your writing.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Alex, going all pink and stuttery. ‘Th-thanks, Mr Kadinski.’

  ‘We’re going for a run,’ I said, pulling my arms behind my back. ‘Gotta hurry, actually.’

  Mr Kadinski nodded. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Frey’s Dam is cordoned off, so I’m sure you won’t be heading that way.’

  I grinned back at him and he winked. ‘Oh, boy,’ he said. ‘Another adventure. Make sure you check your postbox when you get back.’

  ‘Wowzers,’ I said, looking over at the rusty box on our front gate. ‘Postie’s up early.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was him,’ replied Mr K. ‘Fiv
e a.m. is not our postman’s style.’

  ‘Nooo,’ agreed Alex, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘So who’s been dropping letters off at dawn?’

  I stood up, hands on hips. ‘Oh, Alex,’ I sighed, shooting a look at my watch. ‘Go and get it. Between you and Mr K –’

  ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t be able to wait,’ said Mr K, a triumphant smile chasing round his lips.

  ‘Me? Oh, please.’ I turned and looked at our postbox. There was something protruding from the mouth of it, and it flapped insistently in the cool morning breeze.

  I laughed at Mr Kadinski. ‘You are unbelievable. You saw some person dropping off something at an unlikely hour and you just can’t leave it alone. Who was it? What did they look like?’

  ‘Even the secret-service training didn’t help me get a good look at him,’ he said with a twinkly smile, tipping the fedora right back on his head. ‘The mornings are still too misty.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I said, watching my friend reach into the postbox, pricking her hands on the thorns of the rambling roses that had totally taken over. ‘You okay, Alex?’

  ‘Oh, boy!’ she muttered, standing there holding a piece of paper, oblivious to the scratches. ‘Oh, Tatty. This is not good.’

  The letter wasn’t in an envelope. Just half a piece of ruled A4 paper, with holes punched in the side, ready for a lever-arch file. Alex scrambled back up the bank and shoved it a centimetre from my nose. At the bottom, near the tear, someone had scribbled:

  The Birds Will Die

  A cold chill ran down my back and raised hair all over my body. I looked over at Mr Kadinski waiting.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked. ‘How do you always know when something terrible is going to happen?’

  Chapter Five

  Monday 6 a.m., outside my house examining an anonymous letter

  ‘Though, strangely . . .’ I said, scrutinising the death note, ‘strangely this doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t feel like a threat.’

  ‘Oh!’ yelped Alex. ‘Oh, so now we’re getting all second sightish, are we? Ha!’ She turned to Mr K. ‘Let’s bag it and take it straight down to the police station.’