Neville the Less

by Robert Nicholls

  * * *

  Half an hour, prob’ly; that’s what it took. Like I generally got half an hour to waste on kids! Well, not ‘waste’ actually, ‘cause these kids got monsters on the brain and somebody’s gotta take ‘em in hand and shoo ‘em away, see?

  First I say to ‘Soon, thinking it’ll show how ridiculous the idea is, even though she’s obviously like, half ga-ga with trauma, “So you’re thinking there’re guys - pirates or something - wandering Queensland looking for you? Is that right?”

  And she says, straight-faced and sombre and she’s all this crumpled, battered, pathetic little nothing-of-a-kid: “Not looking anymore.”

  “Listen!” I say. Because it’s just wrong for anyone to be so scared; like desperation is all they got left. “Here’s how it is, kid! Pirates are in Disneyland; not Queensland! We got no pirates here! And no crazy-assed other kinda ‘Things’ are inside anyone! You just got nosey bigoted neighbours is all!”

  And I’m saying it, but at the same time I’m thinking about the Doofus Combo-slash-Trio, whichever it is. Ol’ Shoomba lying so quiet under that philodendron and I have to wonder! Man! How can I be sure? I mean, where does that amount of crazy come from? What’s it for and why’s it all of a sudden there? To have Hughesy sliding up over the back fence with the Bum’s gun - which, though I forcefully remind myself is technically not even his, he still pulled it out when Riff came on the scene! And the Duke, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing over there; even if he’s just taunting the poor old Riff with his friggin’ fence. Why? What’s he want? What’s he getting out of it?

  I’m kind of briefly brought back to earth when Beau whoops, “Not just nosey!” Maybe thinking I’ve finally joined him in his loopy little mind-warp. “Robbers!” he goes on. “Nobody got a right to come in my yard an’ pinch my stuff!” Which (again, technically) I’m absolutely agreeing on. “Youse gotta help me get it back.” Which actually, I’m not so much agreeing on. ‘Cause it seems like the very least of the problems at hand.

  “We don’t care about your gun,” the Less says. “I came looking for the medal, that’s all. I have to give it back to the Quiet Man.”

  “Well ye don’t get medals without guns, Knob-head! It’s both or neither!”

  And the little Less just glares at Beau and the little dude’s already all scratched and punched up from their tangle, but he’s got this new look in his eye like he’d go another round at the drop of a five cent piece. And little Afsoon’s all kinda scrunched and holding herself together, but still looking somehow just as ready. An’ I‘m thinkin’, these kids . . . all they prob’ly need’s a little organisational help an’ they could prob’ly straighten out this whole mess an’ get back to being like, just kids!

  “So listen,” I says, ‘cause it’s like, obvious I gotta know the whole story: “what’s this medal you’re on about?”

  “It’s the Quiet Man’s medal,” the Less says. “I left it in the chokos but I shouldn’t have. Now I want it back. That’s all.”

  The Quiet Man. That’s what they call the Less’s ol’ man ‘cause he’s like, catatonic (or was, before last night’s big break-out!) Which now that I’m thinking of it (and it doesn’t escape me that saying this out loud’d make me sound as paranoid as they are!) . . . I’m thinkin’ Afsoon’s idea about the Doofus’s - them trying to see whether the QM’s still a soldier or not, could make a kind of half-assed sense! I mean really!

  I’m nowhere near believing this ‘pirates’ caper, understand, but like, what difference would it make to them what state he’s in? And I have to laugh that they picked last night to check him out! I reckon he gave ‘em heaps to think about today!

  “The medal was in the bag with my gun,” the selfish old Bum’s saying, getting into it now that stuff he cares about is on the agenda again. “Youse put it down, I picked it up an’ now it’s mine! Finders keepers! Anyways, why do you care? You said it wasn’t even a hero medal!”

  About now I see this fierceness getting even bigger in the Less’s eyes and I reckon maybe not even Beau’s threats to shoot his weener off would stop him today.

  “It’s a Going-to-Help medal,” he growls. “And it doesn’t say he wasn’t a hero. So I don’t care. I want it back.”

  “Well you can’t have it back! ‘Cause it’s gone with the gun!”

  “Well you go get it back then!”

  “Go get it back yourself! Maybe someone’ll give you a Going-to-Help medal! Ha!”

  And on like that, yada-yada, while I’m busy thinking about this problem so it’s Afsoon who finally gets between them.

  “Stop it!” she snaps. “Fighting each other won’t help. We need a plan.” And they all turn to look at me.

  Cookie, Robert and the Boogerville Gun

  “Whaddya thi’g, Cook? Is it real?”

  “Course it’s real! Feel how heavy it is!”

  “Ar’t you scared it’ll go off?”

  “Nuh. You have to pull the trigger for it to go off. See these other little lever-y things - they don’t do nothin’. See? Ye can move ‘em an’ . . . nothin’.”

  “Why do ye thi’g they got it?”

  “It’s not their’s, stupid! You said mum told Pastor Paul that dad found it in Beau the Bum’s yard! Remember?”

  “Yeah. But why was he there? A’d why do you thi’g he picked it up a’d brought it ho’b? Did he steal it?”

  “Course not, Robert. Dad wouldn’ steal anything. I bet he was just trying to help. You know, like, here’s a lost thing, I’ll just pick it up and return it to its owners.”

  “But he did’t retur’d it! He brought it ho’b. Do you thi’g it’s because he was’et supposed to be over there?”

  “You know what I think? Mister Shoomba told Neville there’re spare kids buried in the chokos at Boogerville. They couldn’t feed ‘em all so they got ridda some. I think this is the gun! And dad’s just looking out for Beau the Bum and Hayley by keeping it. That’s what I reckon. I reckon Beau the Bum found the gun and hid it so him and Hayl’s wouldn’t get shot! And dad just found it. Maybe they even put it where he’d find it so he’d look after it! And one day, when they’ve both gone out and got jobs and it’s safe, dad’ll give the gun back!”

  “Oh! That makes se’se! God’d like hib for doi’g that! What about this other thi’g? The medal?”

  “I don’t know, that one’s got me a bit stumped. It says Afghanistan on it. That’s where ‘Soon came from. And where Neville’s dad went to the war. So it might be one of theirs. But I can’t figure why it would be in the bag with the Boogerville gun!”

  “It’s a very dice, shidy medal. Baby Beau stole it, like he stole the gud, a’d thed just hid theb together!”

  “Yeah, Maybe.”

  “I thig you’re right. I thig you ca’t get a medal ‘f you do’t go to a place. So it bust be Deville’s dad’s or Afsoo’d’s dad’s. We should give it back.”

  “Yeah. But what if we give it back to the wrong one and they just keep it, and the other one finds out. Then we could be in big trouble. I reckon we’ll just put it all back in the cupboard for now. And it’s just between you an’ me, Robert! Okay?”

  “Okay. A’d Cook?”

  “What?”

  “D’you thi’g bub a’d dad are havi’g edy trouble feedi’g both of us?”

  10. Plans

  Shoomba’s Plan

  Lookee here, see this? Me camel pack! Straps onto your back, see, an’ ye get this tube over yer shoulder so’s ye can drink jus’ by turnin’ your head! Four litres back there! Man could stay out all night, quiet as ol’ Terrible Bill himself an’ never give himself away. Put a tot o’ rum in there an’ yer proof against the cold as well. Weather man says there’s a front comin’ through, so why not?

  I once saw a front come through - could see it in the rearview, comin’ straight down the road behind me. Sun on the bonnet an’ hail the size o’ mud crabs on the boot. Foot to the floor I was, but couldn’t outrun it. Afterwards, that car
looked like bran’ new comin’ toward ye, but a total wreck goin’ away. Like some people’s lives, I reckon. Tasmania, that was. My opinion is it’s colder than a chicken’s foot down there, every day o’ the year.

  An’ what else I got here, I got the old cricket pads for shins an’ mitts and I got this chest guard which, I wanted kevlar o’ course, but this one’s genuine imitation leather over a folded tarp’ that I’ve wrapped around and tied off with twine. Home made, that is. Coupla these corrugated iron strips down the front an’ I reckon you’d need a dum-dum bullet to get through that. Got me jockstrap which I can’t show ye for modesty’s sake an’ me ol’ motorcycle helmet which, ye could knock on that with a four be two and not disturb any o’ me thoughts at all. And o’ course there’s food an’ a knife an’ some rope an’ the mobile phone an’ me pencil torch and a writing pad so’s I can keep track o’ suspicious comin’s and goin’s. An’ this here gadget - this is night vision goggles! Nineteen bucks on ebay. Why wouldja not?

  What I’m gonna do is, I’m gonna take up two or three positions out there in the yards, startin’ tonight. Be like the Scarlet Pumpernickel, slippin’ from one spot to another so’s I can get a good gander at all sides an’ just record what sorta funny business is goin’ on around here. ‘F I have to stay out all night, then that’s hunky-dory with me ‘cause a man’s got everything he needs for that kinda endurance work. An’ it might jus’ be that I’m all there is stoppin’ that burned out bomb fanatic goin’ off his gourd and plantin’ jelly-g’night in the septic tanks or that other bird-nervous refugee jumpin’ the fences like Hiram Bloody Highjumper!

  Gonna jus’ touch base with Hughesy before I start - make sure the bugger doesn’t shoot me by mistake. An’ maybe with the Duke too; case he might like to take up a rear-guard position. Or better yet, let me set up a step ladder against the Folly for one o’ me positions. That’d be a particularly fine view.

  Hughesy’s Plan

  Mrs Hughes and I, we’ve prayed mightily for guidance on this. And we’ve spoken on the phone to Pastor Paul. It’s not that the Lord’s avoided leading us to the path; only that He seems to have left us at a place where it divides! We of course have utter faith in the decisions He takes on our behalf, but we certainly know we’re being tested when we’re shown a crossroad rather than a simple signpost.

  The major issue is this gun thing. Firstly I wondered why I would be led to it and prompted to pick it up and bring it into our home if it was then to be left high and untouched in the hall closet! Was it simply His way of moving it from less responsible to more responsible hands? Perhaps to safeguard the vulnerable who might either be tempted to misuse it or, indeed, might find it being used against them?

  Or, on the other hand, (and this was Pastor Paul’s observation) might it be an invitation to make use of it? After all, a gun is a gun! And guns, even when only displayed, imbue their controllers with an undeniable air of authority; and authority which has the weighty nod of a Lord-given pistol behind it could obviously be used for the betterment of many things in this world, let alone in this neighbourhood!

  One would, of course, never assume a permission to take actual action against one’s neighbours. But there is an un-Godliness out there which, indisputably, has begun to impact families throughout the neighbourhood. And it is, of course, one’s burden to protect not only one’s own family but also the vulnerable in other’s! A blatant example would be the apparent source of this weapon - the Bogarts, whose children are being raised without apparent conscience, care or supervision.

  Also, Cookie and Robert have recently spoken about the Rahimi girl, quite confidently stating that she is, of all things, a ‘witch’! There are biblical references to witches, of course - that they be stoned with stones; put to death and other such outmoded commandments that served in less tolerant times and we certainly don’t subscribe to any such foolish notions in this modern era. We don’t, for that matter, believe there truly to be witches. And judging by Cookie’s recent apparent foolishness - that he once existed as a whistling kite - we’re wise to prefer that our sons not mix with those who do maintain such primitive beliefs.

  Not that we’re singling out Afsoon Rahimi for blame. Some part of Cookie’s ridiculous notion, I’m quite certain, has come from young Neville (‘the Less’, as they call him) - who’s totally misconstrued the concept of being ‘born again’. In short, things being what they are, we’re considering banning our boys from contact with all these neighbourhood children. We’d’ve done it already were we not so leery of seeming judgemental or provoking parental backlashes.

  So our plan, arising out of our prayerful confession of confusion (which was doubly answered by Pastor Paul’s wisdom and by Dennis Shoomba’s most unusual urge to visit us) is this. First of all, the gun stays in the closet. It stays there because (the second reason) we more or less resign ourselves to the uncomfortable fact that Dennis has appointed himself the head, shoulders and body of Neighbourhood Watch and intends to undertake a surveillance of the yards for some period of time in the night.

  We appreciate that he’s chosen to inform us, though it’s only acknowledging an activity that we’ve all been aware of for a long while. Still, it’s disturbing to think that he might be armed and probably more than a little convinced that he has a leading role to play in the unravelling of our neighbourhood crisis. Of course we remonstrated with him, but he’s convinced himself (and somewhat strengthened our suspicions) that the returned soldier’s mind has become unstable; somehow allowing past war experiences to blend into present times. (That probability had, in fact, occurred to me after hearing the ruckus from their place last night.) And so, for the time being, the gun stays in the closet and we watch and wait.

  There is one more thing - a more proactive thing, and I’ll brook no objections to it. I intend, perhaps this evening or tomorrow evening, to do a more thorough search of the Bogart’s choko patch. If there’re more weapons out there, for the good of us all, I’ll be taking charge of them

  Neville the More’s Plan

  I’ve set up trip wires. And spotties. I’ve rigged the hose to the guttering and near the bottom of the steps I’ve got a skein of wires between car batteries. I’ve cut up all the ping-pong balls, pulled the cores from the toilet rolls and raided the Cool Packs for potassium nitrate. Cut up candles for the wax and used up all the vinegar and baking soda and plastic drink bottles. Just simple smoke bombs and flash-bangers, but that’s all I can manage at short notice. Diversionary value only, but that’s okay. Disorientation’s the key. The last thing I want is for anyone else to get hurt. Not at this early stage. Not if I can help it. Still! I’ll try to get down to the shops tomorrow for some heavier duty stuff, just in case. Fertilizers. You can make some potent stuff from fertilizers.

  A night of watching ahead. Keep everyone safe. And if I can, take a prisoner. Make ‘em tell where Ava is.

  Mum’s Plan

  It’s ironic. When he was vegged out and unresponsive, I’d’ve given anything to have him come back to life. Now he’s alive again, but so panicked and paranoid that I’m not sure any of us - especially the neighbours - are safe.

  I’ve rung the doctor, but she’s tied up at the hospital and can’t come. I’ve rung the DVA and they’re sending someone out this afternoon. They’re already talking heavier sedation - anti-anxiety stuff. But he refused all of his pills last night and again this morning. Not that they worked particularly well before - certainly not well enough to keep the nightmares at bay. If I don’t get any better help than this, I’m going to grind up half a dozen to slip into his dinner. And hope he takes in enough to knock him out for the rest of the night.

  Hayley’s Plan

  There were only two things Afsoon and the Less wanted. One was to get that medal back from the Hughes’s. I told them, I said, it’s only gonna be a service medal, ye know; he can prob’ly get it replaced. But they said no, it’s the one he was given and it’s the next best thing to a hero medal. And
they’re both convinced that giving it back - not him having it, but them giving it back - will be a way of telling him . . . I don’ know . . . that what happens at the war stays at the war. Or something like that.

  And the harder thing they wanted was to find that little pooch. Well, I said, you’re stuck there because, if she was still in the neighbourhood, somebody would’ve caught her and bounced her on back to you! And they reckoned that was true of everyone but the one person whose yard nobody’s game to go into - the Duke. So they’ve got it in their heads that that’s where she is; that she’s snuck into his yard for a crap or some unthinkable sin like that and the wrinkled old gumball has thrown a rope around her and dog-napped her!

  I got a plan to get the medal back for them. It’s already underway, in fact. First I had to talk to Cookie Hughes, so I got the Bum to lure him down to the back fence, which he did by lobbing chokos at the poor little dude while he was moping in their yard.

  “Listen, mate,” I says to him. “I don’t wanna cause any trouble for youse, but I saw your ol’ man in our yard las’ night, an’ now somethin’s gone missing.”

  Straightaway his lips go all kinda twitchy and his cheeks flush and suddenly he can’t look me in the eye (not that he was ever tops at that). So I know he knows what I’m talking about. So then I make a little mention of the cops and the Lord Jesus and stealing camels through the eye of a needle and like that and I say, if he knows where that little sack is stashed, and maybe if he got the medal out’ve it and gave it back - ‘cause it’s got like, sentimental value to a friend of ours - if he can do that, maybe we won’t be needing to press charges for trespassing and theft.

  Of course Beau goes off about getting the whole sack back and how they’re next on his list to have their peckers shot of if they don’t co-operate. I don’t know if that kind of stuff works, but it’s all poor ol’ Beau’s got to offer. Anyhow, I really think the gun is prob’ly better off over there than over here. Nonetheless, Cookie gives this sad, frightened little nod and goes off.

  So I’m pretty sure the medal’s coming back. As for the pooch, I’m still working on that. Somehow or other I wanna find a way to get a lotta people behind the Duke’s defences; and find out for sure if he’s the culprit.

  Neville the Less’s Plan

  The Quiet Man’s finally told me what I can do to help him, but now I don’t know. He wants me to help him guard the yard tonight and he’s shown me how to use the bombs he’s made. He says they won’t hurt anyone; they’re just smoke and noise, he says. But it seems like going to war, sort of - using bombs. And I promised mum I wouldn’t. Not ever. But it seems I might have to anyhow because of what ‘Soon said about all of us kids being in danger. And if his bombs really won’t hurt anyone, then I can see why it’s a good idea because, in Under last night, I hit the Quiet Man a lot of times with the magic cyclone bolt and I thought I was doing real good until I found out it was him and now he’s got bandages and bleeding and I didn’t want that.

  Anyhow, I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. I don’t think anything is. It hardly ever does. So I guess I’ll wait with him and see. I made ‘Soon promise not to come over in the dark because of the traps.

  ‘Soon’s Plan

  I have promised Riff and Raff that I will not sneak off to Home Country tonight. I wonder what the demons do to liars.

  Ragged Man’s Plan

  He wanted to be shown a path, I know. That’s what everybody wants. Show me the way! Past the dead ends, the knock-downs, the disillusionments. The sweet, sweet juices of temptation! Lead me not into Regret or Resignation. Or Self-delusion. Lead me instead to Self-satisfaction. As if they had any clue what was good for them; what they deserved. As if I’d want to see them spared any trouble or embarrassment. As if such a thing was even possible..

  Anyhow, destinations are not all they’re chalked up to be and that’s a fact. For starters, every fool and his cat can sit down anywhere along the way and convince themselves they’ve arrived somewhere! Stoppin’ here. This feels right, here. What they’re really sayin’ is, it’s scary out there without an anchor. Simple fear. Ye know? Don’t make me taste it Ragged Man! Don’t make me see it! Don’t make me go on!

  Well why not? Not like any of it’s my problem! Selfish gits! Anyhow, I’m more interested in the simple ones - the ones who never arrive. Who just keep bumpin’ along, hopin’ for somethin’ better. Not for their own sake. Not because they got an idea they think is grand. Just ‘cause they can’t help but care. A little compassion’s all it takes. A little forbearance. A little charity. If there aren’t at least a few walkin’ that path, then there’s not much point to any of it, really, is there?

  Look over there, on the horizon. See what I mean? There’s always stuff going on over there. Which is good! Gotta explore the horizons if ye want any say in the Big Picture. But that’s my horizon, see? Not theirs! Their horizons, most of ‘em, are hardly past the neighbour’s fence! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Immovability. Intolerance. That’s where my faith in humanity got shot through the head. On the other hand, I like that kid. I got a feeling about that kid. He’s little and he’s nervous but he’s got that sort of simplicity of soul, ye know? I like his sort. The world could use more o’ his sort. That’s what I reckon. I’m going to go have a look - just to see how he’s getting on. How he finishes.

  11. D-Day

  Afternoon

  Neville couldn’t believe his ears at first; or his eyes when he peeped into the living room. The voice and outfit were both much more formal than the last time they’d met - more correct and deferential-seeming. But the uniformed man from the DVA, who had shown up shortly after lunch and was now sitting in the living room with his cap on his lap, was definitely a man in disguise.

  “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” Mum was saying and, “Not in the least, Ma’m!” Ragged Man was answering. “The welfare of our brave returned soldiers is our paramount interest down at Veteran’s Affairs.”

  “Good, yes. Excellent. It’s ours here as well. As I’m sure you can imagine.” “Imagining is my particular talent, Ma’m. And this young man in the doorway - would I be right in imagining him to be your son?”

  “Neville! Come in. My God, look at you! What’s happened to you? You’re all scratched up! And your clothes! And the bandage on your head! That was clean, new this morning! Are you alright? You look like you’ve been in a fight!”

  “Um!”

  “Oh Neville!” Her despair was palpable. “We’ll talk about this later, young man! In the meantime, this man is from the army. He’s come to chat with us and your dad about . . . changes in how he’s behaving. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your . . . !”

  “Mann,” said the Ragged Man, rising quickly and holding out a hand to Neville. “Major Mann. Two ‘n’s. And you’re another Neville, no less!”

  His back to Mum, the Major smiled broadly and winked a deep, conspiratorial wink, even as Neville reached out to shake the proffered hand. The alteration of both their names, however, nonplussed him somewhat and he had to suppress an instinct to correct. I’m not Neville no Less; I’m Neville the Less, he wanted to say; and you’re not Major Mann, you’re Ragged Man from Apollo Dungeon! Seeming to anticipate the urge, Major Ragged Mann barrelled on.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Neville. A young man a father can be proud of, are you?” And flicking a gesture at the scratches on Neville’s face, “Going to be a soldier like him one day?”

  “Um, no.” With a glance at Mum: “I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, well, good-oh then!” He looked Neville up and down, plucked a tuft of grass from Neville’s hair and handed it over. “Not for the soldier thing, I mean! For sticking to your promises! That’s a Big Picture item, that one is.” He waggled his eyebrows happily and repeated, “Big Picture, for sure! So! What’s your dad up to, Nev’? Being a bit hard to understand is he?”

  “He’s . . . building defences. That�
�s what he told ‘Soon this morning.”

  A gasp from Mum. “Your father talked to Afsoon? This morning? Where? He didn’t go over to their place did he? Oh, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just found out. She came here and talked to him in Under in the other language - like they did yesterday. To see if he was okay, she said.”

  “Well I guess he was over at her place in a sense, wasn’t he!” the Major chirped. “The bigger sense, I mean! In Afghanistan? But good on her for coming to check on him, eh? After what that little girl’s been through? Keeping on caring - that’s the one that shows true worth, you know. Anyone ever tell you that, Nev’?”

  Neville nodded. “You did, out on . . . !” But the Major cut him off again.

  “So what’s the report then? What did he tell her? Is he okay?”

  Neville shook his head. “He still reckons he could use some help.”

  “Does he now? Does he now? Well that’s interesting, isn’t it? Interesting he understood that other language, I mean. Because we already knew he wanted help, didn’t we! You and me . . . and your mum. All of us, we knew that. And I bet he knows that’s what we were here for, eh? To help as best we can? So the big question then is . . . how. Did he tell Afsoon? Help building his defences, maybe?”

  “Um. Maybe. But I don’t think . . . ! I mean . . . ! I think maybe it’s . . . !”

  He didn’t want to tell in Mum’s hearing that the help he’d been asked for involved smoke bombs and flash-bangers and keeping watch on the yard. It wasn’t actually fighting but it obviously had the potential to be soldiery.

  “Tell you what!” the Major interjected, once again saving Neville the difficulty of evading. “How would you feel about showing me where this ‘Under’ is, so your dad and I can have a natter about it, huh? You wouldn’t mind that would you Ma’m? If Neville walked me around to where the Lieutenant is holed up? Sometimes a good chat, you know - one on one with someone who’s been where he’s been, seen what he’s seen - sometimes that’s as good a place to start as any. Knowing you’re not alone in the boat, if you see what I mean.” He winked again at Neville, making an exaggeratedly crooked O of his mouth. “Then I’ll come back and speak with you again,” he finished. “That be okay, M’am?”

  And without waiting for a proper answer, he was shooing Neville out the door. Neville, happy to feel the weight shifting from his shoulders to those of Major Ragged Mann, hurried across the veranda and down the steps. The Major, though, was in an observer’s state of mind. First he stopped at the railing to study the green shell of the lilly-pilly, as though he knew of the hidden fortress within. “Peaceful,” he said. “Private. A good choice.” Then he surveyed the backyard boundary: the leaning garage under the spreading Poinciana, the banana palm forest, the back of Rahimi’s animal shed and the planted boundary corner where Cookie Camp and Boogerville met Home Country - all the way down to the big philodendron and the start of the bottlebrush trees.

  “Calm before the storm though, I imagine,” he sighed. “Generally how it goes.”

  Immediately following the words, there was a little hiss and a clack that made Neville wonder if the man’s teeth had come loose. A moment later though, when the Major raised his military cap to place on his head, Neville saw a pair of black armoured scorpions drop out of it onto the man’s shoulder and scuttle out of sight into his shirt pocket. No sooner were they in than they turned and raised the pocket flap, allowing their two pairs of eyes to re-emerge.

  “So Nev’!” the Major said, having paid them no attention whatsoever, but signalling a private word. “Tell us how you went with the Things! Dja have any luck? Or are they still Under - with your dad?”

  “Um . . .!”

  “It’s just I had this feeling . . . upstairs . . . maybe that’s what you were about to tell. When I asked what sort of help, you know? And I thought, since your mum’s doing her best to pretend they don’t exist, maybe we should keep this part between ourselves.”

  “Yeah, well, um. I tried, like you said. I went down to Under.”

  “You did? You went down? In the night? When it was dark?”

  “Uh, yeah. Except . . . !”

  ‘No lights? No weapons? No friends? No . . . Ava?”

  “Well, I had the magic cyclone bolt.”

  “Oh yeah? Risky! But okay, how’d that go then?”

  “Well ‘Soon was . . . !”

  “She was nearby, right? But not with you when you went in?”

  “No. Not with me.”

  “So you went on your own! Wow, man! I mean, even with the magic bolt, I’m impressed! Wooo! I had a feelin’ about you, ye know, but yeah! I’m impressed!” The scorpions clacked and hissed, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than the Major was showing.

  “So, and what! Dja actually see ‘em this time?”

  “Um. Not really. My bandage,” he touched his head where it hung, again askew, though not as seriously as it had been in the night. “It came loose and it . . .! I couldn’t see! And I thought it was . . . ! But then the . . . !

  The scorpions clacked and hissed in, Neville thought, a particularly derisive manner but the Major, putting his hand to their pocket retreat, pushed the flap closed, causing them sullenly to pull their heads in. Their argument continued on in a muffled way, in the pocket, but the Major chose to ignore them.

  “Prob’ly the magic bolt put ‘em off,” he said. “They wouldn’ve liked that. But they’d’ve seen you, Nev’, and that’s important. They’d’ve known how determined you had to be to go even that far! So you didn’t get a chance to, you know, actually get amongst ‘em? Like we talked about?”

  “Well I got too frightened and I . . . I tried to hit them with the magic bolt. But I don’t think I got any of them.”

  “No? Missed them all?”

  “Well . . . I hit the Quiet Man. He came down and it was so dark! And he came so fast. It was an accident. I thought he was . . . !”

  “What . . . one of the Things? Coming to get you? And in the panic and confusion, you bopped him with the bar?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “More ‘n’ once?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well! That’s great, isn’t it? That he came, I mean, not that you bopped him! And in a way, that means you did get amongst ‘em! How’d he know you were there? Were you shouting out, like, ‘Help! Help! They’ve got me!’?”

  “Um, I think it was because I told him earlier I was going to try to get rid of them. I didn’t think he heard, but maybe he did.”

  “Evidence says yes, Nev’! Damn tootin’! Heard every word and came to help! That’s important! That’s great! Means he’s figured out they’re his, see? He knows it’s up to him to face ‘em down. So . . . anything else?”

  “I think . . . he told his secret. About a boy that got killed in the war. And he saw how to stop it but then didn’t. Not ‘til it was too late.”

  “Oy! He saw how to help? An’ then didn’t? An’ the boy died? He toldja that?”

  “An’ then he cried. An’ Mum cried an’ ‘Soon cried an’ I cried. It was awful.”

  “I bet! I bet! For all four of ya. So, but ‘Soon was right about him havin’ a secret then, eh? Smart girl, she is! An’ whaddya think now then? Are ye ready to give up on him? Ashamed of him? D’ye hate him? Ye ready to eat that floorboard?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I was ashamed of him when he wasn’t a Hero. Then I thought I didn’t need him to be a Hero if he could just be Dad again. Now I think maybe . . .!”

  “What? You think maybe what?”

  The argument in the shirt pocket came to an abrupt end, the pocket flap went up and the two sets of insect eyes re-emerged to stare at him.

  “I thought . . . if he could do that to that boy, maybe he couldn’t be Dad again either. Maybe it was like you said . . . the Thing’s got inside him. And then it was just Thing . . . with the Quiet Man stuck on. But . . . I’m getting his medal back. To help remind him to not give in. To be who he’s
supposed to be.”

  Clacking, hissing, worried noises erupted from within the pocket and the flap slowly fell. “Good one! Good one!” the Major said. “That’s gotta help, ye’d think, eh? And then we’ll see. Give it some time an’ we’ll see.”