Neville the Less

by Robert Nicholls

  * * *

  How he was tempted, then, to whistle or shake a branch or shout out to confirm for her that he really was there, but Mum’s plea that he ‘give the friendship some distance’ held him back. So he sat stilly on his branch, which was stout as an elephant’s leg, his feet dangling and his arms and chin resting on a higher one. He felt like the very worst, most useless, most undependable, most ‘Less’ Neville that the world had ever seen.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like if he disappeared. Just evaporated into the air. Just sprouted wings and flew away with Cookie’s kites. So he could be a little speck in the sky but still look down with his telescope eyes and see everything. The whole world. Maybe even the invisible world! He tried to imagine these things but while he was working on it, a humungous other question began to be born in his mind. It wasn’t clear but it had something to do with wars and how they could be far away and near, all at the same time. How someone could both watch and not watch, all at the same time. But the question’s focus wasn’t clear. Was it a ‘why’ or a ‘how’ or a ‘who’? He tried very hard to look away from it but it grew like a blister and, like all blisters, though it became increasingly numb on the top, it also became increasingly sore on the inside. And it never even got close to making sense.

  No more sense than that graceful, gentle Parisa, whose eyes sometimes glistened when she looked at him and whose hand sometimes touched his face had once cradled her children but also picked up stones and sticks to fight like a demon. Or that someone had stolen a baby. Or that Neville the More, who’d once laughed and bowled cricket balls in the back yard of Home Country, had gone to be a soldier, to beat bad enemies, and had come back as a Quiet Man who couldn’t bear to look at his own family.

  Eventually Neville made a decision. He would climb down. And if, when he reached the ground, he landed facing the house in Home Country, he would keep his promise to Mum and go back to sit with the Quiet Man. Who knew? Perhaps, having spoken a word already, about pyjamas, he might just decide to speak more, about the war or about the jungle where his mind was or about what sort of help he needed for escape. If, however, Neville landed facing Rahimi Island, he would break his promise and go find out why ‘Soon was digging that hole and what she had in mind for the magic cyclone bolt and how she was going to find out if the Duke was the leader of the pirates who’d stolen Anosh.

  Down the Mango, onto the roof, across to the Poinciana and only two metres from the ground - that’s how far he got before the hissing grabbed his attention. And there she was - ‘Soon - sitting on the ground on the Island side of the trunk. A rhinoceros beetle the size of a chook’s egg clung to her arm and, under her prodding finger, hissed like a steaming kettle.

  “I thought you said you would come over,” she said, barely looking up as he dropped to the ground in front of her.

  “I . . . I don’t think I’m allowed.”

  “What about going west?” she said. “For conclusions. Like we said.”

  So he told her about the Quiet Man’s hand not moving, indicating that he had an idea, and then moving, indicating that he needed help. He also told her about the word that was spoken and about Mum’s belief that ‘Soon sometimes mixed up dreams and reality and so she wanted him to ‘step back’ from their friendship. He tried to let her know that Home Country troubles were complicated enough; that there was probably no room for chasing pirates. Not just now. Maybe later. ‘Soon made no comment, only nodded and, when he said no more, climbed to her feet.

  “So. I’ll go then.” She placed the still hissing beetle on the tree’s trunk and, “Hush,” she crooned. “No need for you to be worried. Your home is all around you. Go back to your family now.”

  And she turned to leave. Had she been talking to the beetle? Or to him?

  “You got stuff to do at home?” Neville asked, needing suddenly to stall her a little longer.

  “No. I’m going to Cookie Camp. And then to Boogerville.”

  “Boogerville! You shouldn’t go there, ‘Soon! It’s dangerous!”

  She shrugged. “Everywhere is dangerous, Neville. I’m not frightened.”

  If he knew anything at all, he knew that! She who had sailed them off in the Lightning Bug and stood up to Shoomba and gone back to steal the magic cyclone bolt. She who would prowl the night alone when the Things were also prowling.

  It made Neville suddenly both angry and disappointed. The disappointment was with himself, not only for having made rash promises to Mum, but for having wanted to make them - for being glad to have an excuse to stay out of danger. The anger, though, was with ‘Soon, that she was so certain she could find out all the secrets and that he must help her. So certain that the Quiet Man’s war and Riff’s war and the pirates’ war and probably all wars were just one war and that people who were there to help, sometimes were only just there to watch.

  “What about the Quiet Man’s idea?” he demanded as she walked away. “What about helping him?”

  “’Pyjamas’,” she said over her shoulder, “is not an idea, Neville.” Then she stopped, looked at him sadly.

  “Neville, I know why Riff will not speak of the war and of Anosh. It’s because he is ashamed. Ashamed that he could not protect us. Your Quiet Man, though . . . I don’t know his reason. His family is safe! So ask yourself, why does he not speak, this man who was there and not there; watching and not watching? What is his shame?”

  “I . . . ! He . . . ! He isn’t ashamed! You just don’t know! Soldiers have to be brave enough to do things! To do what they get ordered! And now. . . his mind is in a jungle! That’s all!”

  He said it in a confusion of defence and even as he said it, somehow it didn’t make sense. And he grew angrier still, hating his own stupidity, for not understanding - for doubting.

  “Have it your way,” ‘Soon shrugged, as though the rightness or wrongness of things in his life mattered not at all. And she walked off through the banana palms.

  “I will!” Neville shouted after her. “And I don’t think you’re so smart either!”

  He whirled about, looking for something - something to throw after her. There was nothing. But his eye fell on the rhinoceros beetle, making its slow, ponderous way back up the trunk of the Poinciana. He swept it to the ground and stomped it dead, crushing its coal black horn and its carapace and all of it into the dirt.

  “That’s what happens when you just come into someone else’s Home Country!” he shouted, as though both it and Afsoon would know what he had done. And for a moment, he felt so lordly that he looked around for another target. High in the Poinciana, the other beetles clung silently, camouflaged against the undersides of branches, waiting for the killer to pass.

  “Ava!” he shouted in frustration. “C’m’ere! We’re going home!”

  It wasn’t until he got to the house that he realised she wasn’t with him.

  Neville

  Things are very, very bad. It’s been all night and Ava hasn’t come home. Mum and me went out after dinner last night and called and called, but there was no sign. Mum says she’ll smack Ava’s nose when she finds her. And she’ll tie her up as well, like Shoomba said. Maybe tie her in Under and leave her there all night, to teach her a lesson.

  When she said that, I made her get the torch and shine it in Under. I said, ‘We can’t go there, but we can look with the torch,’ and she said, ‘Of course we can go there, silly. It’s our house.’ And she crouched in amongst the dead forest but the Things, whatever they are, hid from her. Still, even from the edges, even with the shadows, I could see all the holes dug by bandicoots and a big dip where something has scraped out a nest for sleeping. And on two posts there are deep scratch marks.

  I tried all the prayers I know, all night.

  “Please come home. Please let Ava come home.”

  But she hasn’t come. I remember ‘Soon saying, when we were on the Lightning Bug, that nobody ever comes back. Anosh never came back but Anosh w
as just a baby and Ava’s a full-grown terrier and a Terrier-of-Death at that! Still, what if the Things in Under got her and were too strong for her?

  Mum says that’s a silly thought. She says there are no Thing’s in Under and that nobody’d want to hurt Ava. She says ringing the neighbours to keep an eye out will be best and that, if Ava’s not back in a day or two, we’ll put up posters.

  From up here in the mango tree, I can see all over the neighbourhood, except for most of Boogerville and parts of Cookie Camp. But I can’t see any sign of Ava.

  Stuff has been moved out from under Shoomba’s castle, though, and I can hear him banging around in there again today, so he seems to be looking for or chasing something. The Duke and Duchess have got nearly all their sharpened stakes in the ground but he’s still sharpening more and I guess he’s just putting new ones in all around the Duchy, so anyone who tries to get in will be stabbed. I saw Robert wander through the yard at Cookie Camp and I heard Hayley call out to someone over at Boogerville, just before she sped away in her Ute. ‘Soon’s half-dug hole on Rahimi Island looks like a grave.

  Hayley

  He’s a cute kid. Weird as hell, but harmless and Hey! With my family, who’m I to criticise? And I do remember telling him once he could use my bus sometimes, when I wasn’t there - just as a sort of get-away, ‘cause I knew things weren’t real good over home, what with his ol’ man being a basket case and his mum having to cope with all that

  Anyhow, to add injury to insult, apparently his mutt’s gone missing now and the poor little bugger’s in a state. Which I concede is the only actually believable explanation for him wandering over here in broad daylight and straight into Beau the Bum’s sites. I mean literally! Into the yard and into B’ the B’s gun sites!

  The story is that Neville (‘the Less’, he calls himself. Isn’t that cute?) . . . Neville was down by our big choko vine, not quite amongst the leaves, but peeping in like he expected something to reach out and grab him. And Beau, true to his bummy nature, having commando-ed his way into the weeds under the bus, took a pot shot at him. I was inside the bus but the sound of that pellet gun going off under my feet had me straight out and onto him. Killing birds again, I thought. But no; it was our little lesser Neville he had, pinned down and terrified.

  Beau reckoned it was just a warning shot but you never know with him. Usually his warnings come after he’s shot something. So I gave him a slap up the back of the head and told him, if he didn’t get out of my sight in a nanosecond, I was going to tell dad on him, which would mean the horsewhip and no more guns for at least a month. Mum and dad are both working away at the mines this week so I wasn’t sure if Beau’d listen. Anyhow, he probably wouldn’t mind the whip. But losing the gun’d kill him, so he took the smart option and sulked off into the house.

  I gave the Lesser Neville a bit of a rattle as well, and accused him of being a cretin - too stupid to understand that Beau the Bum is a psychopath in training.

  “He kills stuff, Neville! That’s what he does! You think he wouldn’t shoot a kid who’s knocking off his ol’ man’s prize chokos?”

  “I-I-I wasn’t!”

  “Ye-ye-yes you were! And the fact that you’re not bleeding from somewhere only means he was playing with you! Another two minutes and you’d’ve been wearing a pellet up your arse, for sure! Is that what you wanted?”

  “I wasn’t stealing! I was looking for Ava.”

  “Oh yeah? So Ava’s taken to eating chokos, has she?”

  “No. But if she got confused and came over here and Beau the Bum . . . well, I thought he might’ve buried her there . . . with the other kids.”

  “Other kids? What other kids? What’re you talking about?”

  I had this awful, sudden picture of Beau shooting Cookie or Robert Hughes, from over the back and burying them under the chokos. Or even that cute little Rahimi kid. So I did listen, but he started on this ridiculous convoluted story about dead kids from my family. So then I had this awesome idea and I cut him off dead. I told him I’d have to tell his mum he was flogging stuff from our garden and telling whoppers to get out of it (which’d probably kill her to hear) unless he agreed to come back on the weekend and put in an hour polishing the Ute.

  So I know that was mean and selfish and all that; that I should’ve taken more interest in the missing bow-wow. I know that now. So I’m an after-the-fact learner. So sue me.

  Mrs Hughes

  He came to me shivering with fear and confusion, which is hardly surprising considering the lack of conscience, let alone the godlessness, that suffuses this entire neighbourhood. His home as much as any! My husband and I are pacifists but Neville’s father, quite blatantly, is a man trained to kill his fellow men; presumably an eager recruit to one of those endless Middle Eastern wars. As a result of which I gather he’s been struck down - incapacitated in every way - PTSD’ed, as they call it. I’ve been to visit and seen for myself and it’s tragic - but hardly unforeseeable.

  Hs mother is a woman of fine intention, I’m sure. Despite being still young and apparently very attractive (if the comments of men in the neighbourhood are to be given credence). And I make no judgments, but I have heard Dennis Shoomba’s voice booming out his coarse laughter from their back veranda and I know he’s been seen prowling between their houses after dark, with and sometimes without a torch. A man with few scruples is Dennis Shoomba and what he’d get up to under the very nose of his stricken neighbour (not to mention his own wife), I dread to think. Temptation finds fertile ground in men of his ilk.

  Anyhow, I gather that only moments before coming to me, little Neville received some sort of fright from the Bogart children next door. ‘Boogerville’, is how he refers to their home. It’s mean-spirited, I said to him, to attempt to diminish people by labelling them with crude pejoratives. He spouted some nonsense about it being a different country - that we all lived in different countries. As though the neighbourhood was some kind of Barely United Nations. I naturally explained to him that that was not the case. Australia is Australia. We are one. We are many. From all the lands we come. And our common tasks are to love one another and to practice forbearance.

  I asked, then, (by way of illustrating my point) about his little friend, Afsoon, who all the neighbourhood knows, of course. She’s such a bright intelligent little girl, which is surprising, considering what a . . . fragmented existence hers has been. A little more self-regarding than I believe is healthy for a child, but I imagine medical specialists would (and undoubtedly one day will) find purpose in that. Anyhow, my understanding from Cookie and Robert is that she plays a significant role in young Neville’s life so I thought to use her as a symbol of how we can be different and together, all at the same time and must labour to get along. Apparently, though, he and she are not seeing eye to eye at the moment.

  “So the Bogart children then - had they invited you into their yard?” I asked.

  “No. But Ava’s gone missing.”

  “Ava?”

  “Ava’s my dog. She’s a terrier. A Terrier-of-Death. But she’s gone missing.”

  A ‘terrier of death’! Can you imagine the sort of round-the-dinner-table talk that would’ve given rise to that concept? No wonder the child is fearful and confused. And it only got worse.

  “First,” he said, “I thought the Things in Under might’ve got her. Then I remembered it was daytime when she disappeared and the Things only wake up at night.”

  “Things?”

  “Yeah. ‘Soon taught me words to keep them away, but I think they only work in daytime. At night, you can’t be sure.”

  And he recited a line of mostly nonsense syllables but which, to my astonished disbelief and without doubt, contained the words ‘Muhammed’ and ‘Allah’! I was simply struck dumb! Not that I disapprove in any way, of course, of foreign religions! Belief is belief and must be respected! I just had no idea! And I truly wondered if his mother had any idea either! Neville, on the other hand, was bundling on as thoug
h it meant nothing.

  “So then I thought maybe she got into Boogerville and Beau the Bum shot her and buried her in the chokos with the dead kids. But I didn’t see any fresh dug dirt so now I don’t know. Can you get her back?”

  My Lord, I thought to myself. The poor little man’s mind is like a garden that’s being tended by demons. ‘Under’ and ‘Things’ and ‘dead kids’? One barely knew where to begin!

  “What do you mean, sweetheart? What do you mean, ‘Can I get her back’?”

  “Well, like . . . get her born again. From the Great Tiggywand.”

  “The great what?”

  “Tiggywand. Mister Shoomba says you can be born again if you find the Great Tiggywand and tell him all the bad things you’ve done! I don’t think Ava’s done many bad things, except for pooping in Shoomba Territory sometimes. But he says, if you say you’re very sorry, sometimes you can come back; maybe as something else. I’d like her to come back as a dog again, but she doesn’t have to be a Terrier-of-Death. Maybe an Alsatian or a Saint Bernard - she’d like that. And I’d teach her to only poop in Home Country. But anyhow, I don’t know where to look ‘cause The Great Tiggywand’s a spirit and anyhow Mister Shoomba said it could be dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. But I figured, ‘cause you were born again, you’d know!”

  I simply had to sit at that stage, and required him to do the same.

  “Darling, are you taking any medications that you know of?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. Well that is surprising! And you’re sure this is what Mister Shoomba said? A spirit called The Great . . . ?”

  “Tiggywand. Yep, that’s what he said. I asked Cookie and he said he was born again from a whistling kite. And he didn’t know what you were, but ‘Soon said she bumped into your dreams and she knew you were a famous actress.”

  “Bumped into my dreams?”

  “Yep. By accident. She doesn’t do that on purpose. Except for Riff’s dreams, but they’re partly hers anyhow, I think. And Anosh’s dreams, except that his dreams are maybe real and he’s part of ‘Soon anyhow, so maybe his dreams are hers as well, ‘cause they were born twins.”

  “Afsoon has a brother? A twin? I . . . ! Well! I must say!”

  I’m not generally one to make negative assumptions about a family’s internal workings. Especially not one in such a state of disruption as young Neville’s. (Or of Afsoon’s, for that matter!) But how could one fail to draw terrifying conclusions from such an outpouring? The children! If not properly guided and protected, they are surely Satan’s easiest, most vulnerable targets.

  “Neville. You have a cut on your forehead. And a bruise, darling. A large bruise. If someone was hurting you, you know you could tell me, don’t you. And I would help.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better and merely nodded. But I could see the need and, again, the confusion, in his eyes.

  “Alright then. You’ve come to me today, and that’s a very good start. So I must tell you two things. Firstly, Neville, Mister Shoomba is a . . . he’s a man who is . . . not always truthful. Do you know what I mean?”

  “He’s a liar?”

  “I don’t say ‘liar’. Liar is a very strong word. But you must keep a doubtful eye on him; not let him . . . stimulate your imagination too much. Because he will try, believe me. His stories . . . serve his own purposes; no one else’s. Am I making sense to you?”

  He touched the bruise on his forehead then, in such a way that made me wonder, but he nodded - which made me wonder more.

  “Okay. And the second thing then, is your little friend, Afsoon. I don’t know how your mother feels about this . . . relationship . . . but . . .!”

  His fingers moved to the cut at his hairline, then, and he said, “Mum says I should try to be less good friends with ‘Soon. She says ‘Soon has too many adventures in her mind.”

  “Ah. Excellent. Your mother is a wise woman. Now! What I’d like us to do, you and I, is for us to pop down on our knees and say a little prayer together, would that be okay?”

  “To The Great Tiggywand?”

  “No! Well! Call him what you like, I suppose. What’s in a name! But understand! This isn’t to be about getting your dog to be . . . born again. ‘Born again’ is . . . ! Well, it’s not . . . what we need to be praying about just now.”

  And I had a bit of an epiphany then, of what was important; and that perhaps some sort of ground work had, in fact, been laid. “This ‘Thing in Under’ that you mentioned, Neville. It’s very good to be aware of the evils that lurk in our lives. They are real, I promise you, and we must be ready to rebuff them. Okay? So a little bit of what we’re praying for is to keep us safe from evil. You see? Now you pop down on your knees and see what kind of a start you can make while I fetch Cookie and Robert to join us. Okay?”

  And when I got back to the kitchen with the boys, he was gone!

  Neville the Less

  What an awful morning! I sneaked into Boogerville to look for Ava, but Beau the Bum saw me and tried to shoot me! Hayley says I’d have a pellet up my arse if she wasn’t there to save me. But now she thinks I was stealing chokos which I don’t even like chokos! And as well, I’m worried that Beau really will pellet my arse, first chance he gets. One good thing, though, is that there was no fresh dug dirt so at least I’m pretty sure Beau didn’t shoot Ava.

  So, but just in case, I went to Cookie Camp to ask Missus Hughes about getting Ava born again, which I thought, if something has happened to her, would be a really good surprise for Ava. If she came back as something really big - so big and scary that nothing would ever dare to bother her again - I know she’d like that. I’d like it too.

  Missus Hughes didn’t want to help with that. But she did tell me that ‘Soon was right about Mister Shoomba - that he’s a tricker and maybe even a liar. And she told me Mum was right about ‘Soon - that she’s mixed up a bit.

  I feel bad about ‘Soon being mad at me. But I guess that’s part of her mix-up - like thinking everything’s about her and Anosh and the pirate king and not even about The Quiet Man at all who, after all, if we helped him, might be able to tell us important stuff that would help her find out about Anosh. Maybe he could tell why Mister Shoomba and the Duke would be at the war and watching. Mister Shoomba says the Quiet Man will never be able to tell, but maybe that’s part of Mister Shoomba being a tricker, though I don’t know why he’d want to trick about that.

  Missus Hughes also told me that the Things in Under really are real! Which I think is right because I think Mum would be saying they weren’t real just to try to make me not worry. I wish I knew what they were.

  Missus Hughes wanted me to pray with her to the Great Tiggywand which I thought would be good ‘cause then I’d find out how that worked. But then she said we couldn’t ask him to re-born Ava. I don’t know why. But I thought, if I can’t ask for that then I don’t guess I can ask for anything bigger either; like getting The Quiet Man better. Or helping ‘Soon get Anosh back. Then Missus Hughes went to get Cookie and Robert and I heard her going mad at Cookie for saying he used to be a whistling kite. If that’s supposed to be a secret, he really shouldn’t have told me. Or he should’ve asked me to promise not to say that I knew.

  Anyway, now I guess Cookie’s mad at me too, like Mum and ‘Soon and Beau the Bum. I ran away from Cookie Camp without praying so probably Missus Hughes and the Great Tiggywand are mad at me too. I miss Ava. And I miss ‘Soon. I wish I hadn’t promised to be poorer friends.

  4. The Making of Plans

  Beau the Bum

  After leaving Missus Hughes, Neville tried the lilly-pilly cubby for a brief while and the green haze of its cover was as soft and welcoming as ever. But for the first time, having Under at his back, even though it was broad daylight, was worrisome. Especially because Ava wasn’t there to put her head on his lap or snuffle at the little lizards or warn him of sneakers. Not even the magic words seemed to help.

  He thought of
going up into the mango tree, but the prospect of looking out over the surrounding yards, in most of which it seemed, he was unwelcome, made him sad. He thought of going back to Boogerville and letting Beau the Bum kill him with an arse pellet but that, he knew, would make Mum sad. The best thought, and the one he settled on, was to sneak onto Rahimi Island and hide in the animal shed with the brown pigs and the chooks and Latifeh. If he was lucky, Parisa would come to collect eggs and find him. Then she’d take him to ‘Soon and ‘Soon’d say she was sorry for not caring about The Quiet Man. On the other hand, Riff might be the one to come into the animal house, hoping the smell of dung would dull his terrible memories of losing Anosh and drowning men in red dust.

  This last possibility was very worrying but, despite that, Neville began the trek across the back of Home Country. He crossed the grassy area where the rivers from Under drained in the wet season and he passed through the dense shade of the Poinciana, into the banana palm forest. That’s where his courage failed. He sat down. He cried a little bit, for loneliness. He lay down amongst the polished green skins of the palms and watched a darkness creep up on him, like a fog.

  Before long the light had left the forest entirely, leaving it black and silent and looming in all directions. Except for one spot, directly ahead in his line of vision. There he saw the shape of a bare hill silhouetted against an oily, gun metal sky. On top of it were the outlines of five, maybe six people who, he felt certain, would not be able see him, lying down there in the foresty darkness. But somehow they did because they all reached up and waved in his direction. And he tried his very hardest to wave back but he couldn’t move; couldn’t even call out. Then, one by one, the figures turned and walked down the other side of the hill, out of sight. He lay there, paralysed, with no idea how to get to where they were going. He only knew that those waves were meant to be good-bye.

  Then there was a sound. A sound like . . . someone crunching up a scorpion! And a voice! The voice of the Ragged Man from Apollo Dungeon! “There is a path, Nev’. Keep looking.”

  Neville did look about for that path but the darkness was as thick as paint. A gooey, gluttonous, eyeball covering paint! Paint out of which a Thing - an awful Thing - perhaps an Under Thing - suddenly reached its iron finger to jab him painfully in the ribs. The soft echo of the Ragged Man’s voice disappeared and in its place came a loud, harsh, barking jeer.

  “Hey Nubble! You dead out here?”

  The body of Neville the Less popped up onto its bum. His eyes filled with light and the bleakly looming forest transformed itself back into a warm green stand of banana palms. And the awful Thing with the iron finger resolved itself into the all too solid and frightening figure of Beau the Bum with his pellet rifle.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Beau growled as Neville scrambled to his feet. “Yer dobbin’ ol’ lady wise up to yer pathetic self an’ throw ye out?”

  Neville goggled and said nothing. He could quickly wrestle the wrinkles out of his legs, but the effort to wrestle his thoughts out of that black forest with its retreating people and past the hidden Ragged Man with his impossible instruction, was taking considerably longer.

  “Talkin’ to you, Nubble!” Beau insisted, jabbing him a second time with the rifle barrel. “Cat got yer tongue? Ol’ Terrible Bill get it while yer were sleepin’? Huh? Want me to shoot yer weeny off?”

  Is it a choice, Neville wondered; even as his weeny shrank in awful anticipation and his tongue wobbled into an unsteady, “N-n-no!”

  “N-n-no?” mimicked Beau the Bum. “Well I’m prob’ly gonna anyways. In fact, next time I catch you hangin’ even one sad little toe over my place, you can bet on it. Weeny off! Got it?”

  “Y-y-yes!”

  “Y-y-yes? Man yer pathetic! What’re ye doin’ here anyways? Me dumb-bum sister says someone’s pinched yer mutt. Who’d’ye think’d want a useless little turd tank like that?”

  “She’s not useless. She’s a Terrier-of-Death.”

  “Yeah, an’ I’m Roger the Robot. Listen, that choko vine is off limits, see? My yard is off limits. Even if you’re invited on, which you aren’t ever gonna be, that choko vine’ll still be off-off-off limits. First an’ last warning, right? Now get outta my way, ye dozy little nose-picker.”

  Neville’s feet hopped him briskly to one side but his tongue, perhaps suicidally celebrating its avoidance of being gotten by Bill, rattled out, “I know about the other kids.”

  “What? What other kids?”

  “The dead ones. The ones that got shot for eating too much. I know they’re buried under the choko vine. Mister Shoomba told me. He told me about the bullet holes in the house, too. If I told the police, they’d come and dig up those kids and arrest all your family and put you all in jail.”

  Beau the Bum’s eyes narrowed. He squinted back across the yards, to the grey block of a house at Boogerville, trying for all he was worth to understand what was being said to him.

  “I wouldn’t tell them though,” Neville raced on, intent on taking every advantage he could of Beau’s confusion. “I just wanted to see if Ava was there as well, that’s all - if maybe there was some new dug dirt.”

  “And did you see any?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “No. Just leaves. And chokos.”

  “Okay. Right. And no . . . dead kids?”

  “No. Nothing. Just leaves and chokos.”

  “Right. Okay. Yer either smarter’n you look, Nubble, or a total dumb-ass.”

  “Neville.”

  “What?”

  “I’m Neville.”

  “Right, right! Whatever. So why you sleepin’ out here in the banana palms, Nub’? Have a blackout? Lost? Too simple to find yer way home? Which by the way is right there!”

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was . . . planning.”

  “Planning? Planning what?” He raised his rifle and took careless aim at some invisible thing in the Poinciana.

  And here was a dilemma for Neville. How much can one actually tell a boy called Beau the Bum or, sometimes, (even by his sister) Murderous Little Cretin - a boy who has cold-bloodedly shot the heads off drunken parrots and might, on a whim or a dare, shoot the weeny off a dreaming neighbour?

  “I guess . . . planning how to find out about pirates,” he said. “’Cause ‘Soon’s brother was stolen by them a long time ago and now they might be coming back for her.”

  Beau’s mouth fell open just a crack.

  “Pirates,” he said.

  “Yeah. Riff killed hundreds of ‘em with rocks ‘n’ sticks and drowned ‘em in an ocean of red dust and so did Parisa - Missus Rahimi - when they lived in Afghanistan or in Refugee Camp, I’m not sure which. But still, some of ‘em got away. With her brother. Anosh.”

  He half expected Beau to laugh at him, or maybe just push him aside and carry on his way, but all he said was, “Cool!”

  And so, with that little success behind him, Neville went on to tell of his and ‘Soon’s trip in the Lightning Bug, following the night geese and seeing the ship-wrecked Ragged Man on Apollo Dungeon and being bashed on the head by Mister Shoomba with a magic iron cyclone bolt which ‘Soon had later gone back, alone, into Shoomba Territory to steal.

  “No way!”

  In answer to which, Neville parted the hair on his forehead, to show more clearly the bruise.

  “Wa-a-y! What, and she’s got the bolt now? What’s she gonna do with it?”

  “She’s gonna use it to get Anosh back from the pirates. And maybe . . . !” This was the hardest part of all. “. . . maybe help The Quiet Man get home.”

  “The Quiet Man? That’s your dad, right? Hayl’s says sometimes when she’s sleepin’ in the bus, she can hear him shoutin’ out. Stuff about bombs an’ like, ‘Stay back!’ kinda stuff. ‘Get the kid!’ He’s like, weird, right? But a hero, too! Bona-fight hero! Been off killin’ the loopies in somewhere else! So, but he’s already home! Why ya talkin’ like he isn’t?”

 
It hadn’t occurred to Neville before that moment that the neighbour’s might also be able to hear the Quiet Man’s nightmares. The bomb stuff they’d understand: he’d been, after all, in a war. But what would they make of the shouts, having no knowledge of the jungle and the nightmares in the ceiling?

  “He’s only sort of at home. ‘Cause his mind’s still in a jungle somewhere.”

  “In a jungle? Where? Where zat?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s got a plan to get it back again. He just needs some help is all.”

  “Some help? And so that’s where the magic iron bar comes in, right? Yow! So you’re makin’ a plan! What is it? What’s the plan?”

  “I . . . I don’t know yet. But . . . !” And for the first time he knew this to be true. “Me and Soon’re gonna make one up. ‘Cause she can channel people’s minds and know stuff about ‘em. And that’s where we have to start ‘cause it’s all tangled up - the war and the jungle and the pirates and Anosh and the things that live in Under and Mister Shoomba and the night geese and the Flying Foxes and the Ragged Man on Apollo Dungeon and . . . and everybody. And prob’ly whatever’s happened to Ava, too, if you didn’t shoot her.”

  It was massive, Neville had suddenly realised. And as ‘Soon had said, massively complicated. And it was clear from Beau the Bum’s wide eyes and open mouth and white-knuckled grip on the pellet rifle, that he also knew it was massive.“So,” the big boy muttered. “Pirates!”

  “Yep. ‘Soon says we might have to kill the pirate king.”

  “Kill him! Whaah! You reckon you could?”

  And though Neville didn’t know the full extent of ‘Soon’s Amazonian standing (or even of her continued friendship, for that matter) and though the absence of Ava, the Terrier-of-Death, was a definite handicap, he still had to answer in the affirmative: “I guess. If we have to.”

  “I could too,” Beau whispered. “I could kill a pirate king.” He snapped off a shot into the Poinciana. Something black fell. Maybe a rhinoceros beetle. “See that? If I get to go to the war one day, I’ll kill more bad guys or pirates or whatever ‘n’ your ol’ man an’ Riff ‘n’ Raff ever dreamed of altogether. Like the best sniper ever!” And after a pause he said, “I could help you, you know! You ‘n’ ‘Soon. With your plan. When you get it figured out, you let me know, an’ I’ll help. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You ever shoot a gun, Nub’? Wanna have a go with mine?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’ wanna be a hero like yer ol’ man?”

  “I promised Mum. I said I wouldn’t be a soldier.”

  Beau’s eyes fell into a distant stare as that thought crawled uncomfortably into his mind.

  Then, “You really do need me, don’t ya? I mean, ‘f you don’ wanna be a soldier, that’s your stupid business. But . . . like the pirates, man! Who’ll fight ‘em if ye don’t have soldiers?”

  “Dunno,” said Neville softly. And he realised clearly, for the first time, that he was not only trapped between his promise to Mum to step back from a friendship and his promise to ‘Soon to help; he was also trapped between a second promise to Mum - to not be a soldier - and an unspoken one to the Quiet Man, to be a help. A fact which Beau also seemed to see.

  “Well listen!” he commanded. “I reckon whatever plan you come up with’s got Buckley’s o’ workin’ if ye haven’t got a soldier! Like me! Understand?” And, on a further note of clarification, he demanded, “An’ you! You gotta make a choice, mate - mummy’s boy or hero! Figure it out, Nub! Figure out who y’are!”

  But that was the one thing Neville absolutely had learned from seeing all those people - possibly all the people he knew - disappearing over the hill, leaving him alone in the darkness.

  “I know who I am!” he said sadly. “I’m Neville. Neville the Less.”

  Parisa

  In Australia, we are blessed with good neighbours. Even Mister Daisley and Missus Daisley - Duke and Duchess, the children call them - really, we’ve known so terribly much worse.

  At the start, when Mister Daisley shouted very loudly, with great anger, for many days and weeks while he built his fence, then I thought, ‘Oh, this will end badly.’

  Because I felt how that anger passed into my Mohammed and, after his years of endurance, how it bent him; bent him like a stick - so tense that even the weight of a tiny word might break him apart. Please,” I whispered to him: “please, you must turn your ears away.” “No!” he said to me. “No more. I turned away at Yakawlang when the Taliban came and shouted just so! And did it help? No! After the shouts came bullets!”

  “This is not Yakawlang,” I whispered again, pleading - “not even Bamyan province. This is Australia. There are no Taliban in Australia. And more, the Taliban did not build a fence like this man does. A fence is good. A fence is not bullets.”

  I feared for us all in those days! Even for Mister Daisley. Because there is an ending to what any man can endure and no man should be made to see that ending. This one - my man - was wise and gentle when first I came to know him. Not like so many who care for the happiness of their goats more than for the happiness of their wives; worry more over what their friends will say than what their children will learn. This one was a teacher who taught lessons of faith and kindness. Even when the starvation came and the people ate grass and earth just to have something in their stomachs, though it broke his heart, he taught that Allah - God, was still there, in the earth and the grass. Then the Taliban came.

  “Naughty people”, the Taliban said: “you have eaten all the grass. Now you must eat bullets.”

  Many women with their children fled to the mosques. “Naughty people,” the Taliban said, “to flee from our bullets. Now you must eat fire.”

  I escaped. But my Mohammed’s gentleness did not. It burned away with those many lives. After that time, I saw such rage in him - I didn’t know him. It was me who said, “We must flee this country. We will walk until we meet the sea,” I said. “Then the four of us will find a boat, and we will become safe in another land.”

  And so we did. We walked and we rode and we camped and we lived on the thin grace of others. Then we found a boat and I thought maybe, just a little, the hope began to return to his eyes. But on the sea, such terrible things! All of us there, so lost and alone and frightened - the children; they, at least until then, were innocent.

  When they came, in Mohammed there was no fear. Only rage. Like a demon had taken the place of his heart. It burst from him like a great firework and on that desperate day, how we all welcomed it and praised it! How we grew from it ourselves, letting it wash away our own fear - even our mercy! But when it was over, we were still lost - even more so, and in different ways - and still alone. And the children, no longer so innocent. And we were fewer. Much fewer.

  Now Mohammed - he knows there is no limit to the awfulness and despair God has prepared for men who think they know Him. ‘When Man is perplexed, God is benevolent.’ So goes the saying. Does it follow then, that when Man is arrogant, God must be spiteful? I don’t know. But Mohammed, he blames himself for what happened. And maybe a little bit me. And very much, God.

  But we do not speak of it together. Long ago we said, “No more talk! We cannot undo, we cannot forget. But we do not have to speak of it.” But lately I see him whisper with Afsoon and see them go quiet when I walk by. I pray for him to find again his faith and kindness and to teach these things to our daughter.

  So I say we are blessed with good neighbours in Australia. And even more, we are blessed with Afsoon who learns the new customs and teaches us, as though she is the mother and we are the children. I think she is the jinn’s magic bowl, that one - able to hold all things. When Mister Daisley in his anger named us ‘Riff’ and ‘Raff’, it was Afsoon who explained, in Australia, to call someone Riff and Raff is to call them worthless people - unless it is done with a smile of friendship. Then it is to say, you and me, we are partners in knowing that someone who believes this
thing is foolish.

  And more, she says, in same fashion, Mister Daisley is given the title of a great man - a Duke - to gently remind that, in this country, ‘worthless’ and ‘great’ live side by side as neighbours. So together, the neighbourhood strikes at Mister Daisley’s hatred with ridicule and at Mohammed’s with a smile.

  But still, always we must remind ourselves to look for the smile. I must look for the smile. And I must be sure to point it out to Mohammed - because, for number one, smiles are better than guns. And for number two, for Afsoon, Australia must become the home country.

  And for number three, we must survive here because there is no place else.