Blacky Blasts Back (9 page)

I was hoping that a handsome, frank and open apology would touch his heart. That his eyes would soften, he'd shake my hand, slap me gently on the back and invite me to a sleepover at his place when we got home.

Instead, his eyes narrowed. At least I think they narrowed. It was difficult to tell on account of it being dark. Plus his eyes were about four metres above my head. Maybe if I'd eaten more carrots in my life I could have said for certain.

‘C'mon, Mucus,' he said. ‘Fight.' His voice took on a mocking tone. ‘Or you scared?'

‘Me?' I snorted. ‘Scared? Me? Scared?' I was playing for time. I considered going for another few repetitions of ‘Me? Scared?' in the hope that Dyl would make an appearance, but I didn't think John would fall for it. ‘I don't think so,' I added. ‘
Terrified
would be a much better word. Scared doesn't come close. I'm petrified. I'm quaking in my boots. Well, I would be if I was wearing any. I'm on the point of pooping myself in terror.'

There was silence for a moment way above me.

‘You're a sook, Mucus.'

‘Absolutely correct, John. Well spotted.'

‘Yellow streak. Metre wide.'

‘Wider, I think you'll find, John.'

‘Not gonna fight, eh?'

I sighed. I thought we'd already established this. For one thing, I'd have needed a ladder just to get close to punching him in the face. And, anyway, I knew how a fight would go. I'd hurl my face into his knuckles, smack my stomach hard into his fist and possibly spread my nose over his forehead.

It's an unorthodox fighting strategy, but one I'd discovered I was good at during the only fight I've ever had.

‘No,' I said. ‘But thanks for the offer.'

John bent down to look me in the eyes, which was decent of him under the circumstances.

‘Gonna get you, Mucus. Bet on it. Sometime. Watch your back.'

And then he uncurled and headed off to the dorm. I followed.

In my experience, being threatened with senseless violence doesn't do wonders for a peaceful night's sleep. But I was unconscious about ten seconds after my head hit the pillow.

It's that old exercise and fresh air thing again.

Though, between Kyle and Blacky, the air was getting less fresh by the second.

‘Aye, a'reet,' bellowed Jimmy. ‘Ye cannae sleep yir brains to train oil, ya balloons. Rise and shine and quit yir greetin'.'

The gibberish soaked into my brain and dragged me reluctantly to consciousness. I glanced at my watch. It was five-thirty. Was the dorm on fire? Was there some emergency that would explain why a short, hairy-limbed, bald-headed madman was yelling garbage at us in the middle of the night? I struggled up in bed and tried to peel the sleep from my eyes. Maybe it was a nightmare.

It was, but unfortunately it was a waking one. Jimmy paced up and down. Even in the darkness I could see his face, as red as a traffic light. From all around came groans and mumbles as seven kids reluctantly greeted a new day.

‘Fifteen minutes,' roared Jimmy. I was grateful he'd switched to English. ‘Ootside by then or ye'll be daein' push-ups.'

This time we were punctual. The general feeling was that Jimmy didn't bluff.

We huddled together in the dark. Seven miserable, freezing kids and two perky instructors.

Listen, if it's okay with you I'll draw a veil over the next couple of hours. There were warming-up exercises, a jog for a couple of kilometres and a final sprint. I hadn't had so much fun since I trod on a rusty nail when I was six and had to have tetanus jabs.

Breakfast was good, though. Jimmy cooked while the rest of us lay gasping on the ground. He did pancakes on the barbie griddle and I'd never tasted anything so excellent in my life. I ate six, smothered in maple syrup. I was hungrier than an overweight hippopotamus on a calorie-controlled diet.

Fresh air and exercise. I tell you. I'd probably have munched through a bucket of Brussels sprouts, though I'd be grateful if you didn't let my mum know that.

After breakfast, we showered and then met up with the instructors in one of the huts. It had been set out like a classroom, with rows of chairs and a whiteboard. There was no sign of Mr Crannitch. I thought it was unfair that
he
could have a lie-in, until I remembered he'd been sick since almost the start of this camp. He must've needed the rest.

Phil did the talking.

‘Okay, guys,' he said, pulling at his earring. ‘Today is basic survival skills. And putting up tents. Tomorrow, very early, we are hiking in the bush.' He pulled down a map from above the whiteboard. It didn't help much. Trees, more trees, the occasional lake and a crosshatch of dotted lines that appeared to be walking tracks. Phil took out a pointer.

‘We will be trekking along this path,' he said. ‘Eventually, we will arrive here.' He smacked the pointer on a small lake. ‘Doesn't look far, does it?' We would have nodded but we were too tired and full of pancakes to have the energy. ‘In fact, it's a two-day hike. Which means we will be camping along the way. Two people to a tent, so I suggest you find a partner who doesn't mind that you fart, snore and dribble in your sleep.'

I tapped Dyl on the arm. I didn't want to get lumbered with John Oakman, who would probably not only resent my farting, snoring and dribbling but also take issue with my breathing. Dyl nodded. We'd shared a bedroom before.

‘Okay,' said Phil. ‘We provide tents, sleeping-bags, hiking boots and wet weather gear. What we
don't
provide is their transport. You will carry everything in backpacks. Nor do we help get the tents up. And if any of you are hoping we'll tuck you into your sleeping-bags, check the corners of your tents for monsters and tell you amusing bedtime stories, then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Right, all outside and we'll show you how to get the tents assembled.'

It turned out that Kyle was the one who didn't get a partner. Everyone had obviously come to the conclusion that sharing with him would be like bunking down in a rubbish bin with a skunk. So he had to put his tent up by himself, whereas the rest of us at least could work it out in pairs.

It wasn't difficult. The tents were tiny. Me and Dyl are both shorter than average, but it would be tight in there regardless. I wondered how John would fare. He'd have to curl up like a sausage or his legs would stick out the flaps. Wake up and find some critter had eaten them in the night. Mind you, he'd still be taller than me. Maybe in an emergency his partner could use him as a tent pole.

Jimmy and Phil made us put up and take down our tents at least ten times.

‘Ye cannae afford tae think aboot it,' Jimmy shouted. ‘Oot there, yous'll be caud, wet and buggered wi' tiredness. Ye huv tae dae it oan autopilot.'

Putting up and taking down a tent again and again is not my idea of quality relaxation time, but it gave me the chance to have a private word with Dyl.

I told him what Blacky had said the previous night. Dyl's eyes lit up.

‘Cool, Marc. I can't wait. You and me. Another adventure.'

It's a funny thing. I'm the one who is
forced
to go on these adventures. It's only me who can communicate with Blacky, after all. Yet I prefer a quiet life. Don't get me wrong. I
want
to change things for the better. It's just that I'd prefer to do that without running the risk of being eaten or put in jail or becoming lost in a harsh wilderness. Dyl, on the other hand, can't stand the quiet life. He craves excitement. He's in love with danger. Getting eaten or going to jail or being stranded in woop woop holds no terrors for him.

Not for the first time, I thought how lucky I was to have him along.

‘Any idea on how we can lose the rest of the group, Dyl?' I asked.

He scrunched up his forehead in thought.

‘Nah,' he said. ‘Don't worry. We'll work something out when the time comes.'

I glanced around at the rest of the special boys unit. They were working hard at getting the tents up. Phil and Jimmy moved among them, offering encouragement. Something struck me then. Something I'd noticed but hadn't quite got round to thinking about.

‘Dyl?' I said. ‘What is it with these kids? At school, they are mongrels. They destroy stuff. They swear. You couldn't keep them in a classroom if you padlocked it. Yet, on this camp – so far, at least – they haven't caused any problems. Why's that?'

Dyl looked at me.

‘You can't work that one out for yourself?' he said.

I shook my head.

Dyl grinned. ‘I thought
you
were the smart one, Marc. They call us “the special boys unit” or “the behaviourally challenged group”. Stuff like that. But we know what they really mean. We're the retards, the dropkicks. Thing is, school doesn't suit us. Try to get us in rows, sitting there all quiet while some dude bores us with Maths or reading a dumb book written by someone a hundred years old . . . well, that's when we cause problems. It's okay for you. You like that stuff. You've got the brains for it.' Dyl folded up the canvas of the dismantled tent. He was good at it. It took him no time at all. ‘But we like
doing
things. Working with our hands. This camp is great. It makes us feel like we don't always have to fail. That's why we behave.' He waved his hand around the clearing. ‘I know these kids. And I can tell you they're all good, deep down.'

‘What? Even John Oakman?' I asked.

‘Well, not entirely sure about John,' admitted Dyl. He started putting the tent up again.

I thought about what he'd said. It proved two things, at least. Firstly, Dyl was not dumb. I never thought he was, mind. That was just what everyone else thought. Secondly, it doesn't do to judge on appearances. Dyl was right. The retards. That's what other kids called them. I think, in private, it's what the teachers called them. But who was really dumb? The kids who acted up when forced to do things they couldn't accomplish, or those who condemned them for it without considering the reasons why? I was guilty of that.

Which all goes to prove, I guess, that I'm dumber than I like to think.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

We had instructions on survival techniques, just in case we got lost out there. Phil and Jimmy told us that we wouldn't need it this time, because we were going to be travelling in a group and there'd be no chance of becoming separated.
That's what you think
, I said to myself. But the techniques might hold us in good stead for the future.

I paid particular attention. If Blacky was taking us into the bush, this information might save our lives. Blacky has many good qualities – well, I assume he has – but I suspected he wasn't going to come equipped with a GPS or an assortment of distress flares. Rolling in foul messes is all well and good, but it's rarely the difference between life and death.

Maybe I'm wrong, though. The last time I smelled Blacky I
wanted
to die.

We made lunch. Sandwiches and cordial. Then, in the afternoon, we played games. Instructional games, problem-solving by communicating within the group. The sun made an appearance around two o'clock. It wasn't a warm sun, but it lifted our spirits.

It wasn't the only thing to make an appearance.

We had just started a trust-building exercise that involved falling backwards into the arms of a waiting team member. I'd been paired with John. This meant I had to stand a considerable distance away and catch something the size and weight of a mature ironbark tree. I was bracing myself, confident I'd be crushed like a bug, when an eerie sound drifted through the air.

‘Cooeee.'

We all froze. What was that? The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and an icy chill ran down my spine. I gazed at the surrounding forest and an ominous silence gathered.

‘Cooeee.'

Around a bend in the track, two people appeared, buried under a mass of camping equipment. They carried colossal rucksacks. Pots, pans and tents dangled from every available strap. I've seen department stores that weren't as well stocked. It wouldn't have surprised me to spot a five-burner gas barbecue with wok side-burner and an industrial fridge. They teetered towards us and stopped, the mountains on their backs swaying alarmingly. The gentle melody of tinkling pans faded and died.