So Feral! (4 page)

Gavin’s spirits started plummeting.

‘Cut it out,’ yelled Marty, copping a golly on his foot.

‘Sorry,’ said Gavin. ‘I spit when I’m worried and I’m dead worried.’

Leo burst out laughing. ‘Good one,’ he said, punching Gavin in the shoulder. Gavin looked puzzled. ‘Dead, get it?’ said Leo.
‘Dead
worried.’

Gavin groaned. ‘What’ll happen if I’m caught?’

‘Probably two years for break and enter,’ said the ever-practical Marty.

‘Another two for stealing,’ said Leo, counting on his fingers. ‘At least five for digging graves outside of graveyards. And ten for being caught with a dead baby!’

‘Twenty years all up,’ moaned Gavin.

‘Maybe thirty!’ cried Leo. ‘Depends on who you get for a judge.’

And all because he was stupid enough to go inside the Bellows’s place.

‘I’m going to break in,’ said Gavin, pulling himself up tall. ‘I have to. Twenty years is twenty years but you’re a long time dead.’

‘Atta boy,’ said Leo, thumping Gavin on the back. ‘You can do it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Marty. ‘I’m sure you can.’

Gavin smiled his thanks. ‘You mean
we
can!’

‘Yes, we can,’ agreed Leo.

‘Not
we,’
said Marty. ‘Sorry, Gavin. Count me out. This is one kid who wants to reach old age.’

‘Where do you reckon the living room is?’ whispered Gavin.

He and Marty and Leo were hiding behind a magnolia plant in Shellingham’s nursery, studying the Bellows’ house across the road.

‘Next to the dying room. Get it?’ said Leo, his chuckle turning into a splutter when Gavin punched him.

‘Probably up the end of the hall,’ said Marty.

‘How’s that?’ asked Gavin, still whispering.

‘Looks like my grandma’s house,’ said Marty. ‘The bedrooms are up the front, off the hall, and the lounge room’s out the back near the kitchen.’

Gavin nodded. ‘Might be right.’ He looked at the long high fence that ran down the side of the house, shielding it from the street. ‘If one of you gives me a leg-up we might be able to see inside the window.’

‘Not me,’ said Marty, shrinking behind a hibiscus bush. ‘I told you. I’ve got no intention of dying.’

Leo snorted. ‘You can’t get cursed if you’re
out
side the property,’ he said, ‘only if you trespass. And standing beside a wall is not trespassing.’

‘What about being
on
the wall?’ asked Marty.

Leo shook his head in disgust. ‘Gavin’ll be on the wall, stupid. And Gavin’s already cursed, so it doesn’t matter.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ said Gavin.

‘If you’re so sure about that then you can give Gav a leg-up,’ said Marty. ‘I’ll stay here and be lookout. Tell you what’s happening in the front.’

‘And how are you going to help if Mr Bellows comes out?’ asked Leo, peeking at the other flowering plants in that section of the nursery. ‘Chuck a rose petal at him?’

Gavin laughed as Marty looked sheepish. ‘It’s all right, Marty. I understand.’ Marty smiled but the smile quickly left his face when Leo added, ‘You can’t help it if you’re a prize chicken.
Cock-a-doodle-do-o-o!’
he crowed.

Marty gave him a shove. ‘That’s a rooster, stupid!’

‘Shhh to the both of you,’ said Gavin, elbowing them in the ribs. ‘We’re trying not to stand out, remember?’ Nudging Leo again, but this time more gently, he said, ‘C’mon. Let’s go and see if we can find where this room is. Maybe see that baby in the bottle.’ Gavin pulled an old tennis ball from his pocket and started to throw it in the air.

Leo nodded and followed Gavin towards the nursery exit, saying, ‘Bye-bye, flower girl,’ to Marty as he left.

‘Idiot,’ cursed Marty under his breath as he settled down to watch.

Gavin and Leo threw the ball to each other. With each catch they eased closer and closer to Mr Bellows’s wall. Even from the street Gavin could see that the front door and windows were shut tight and the blinds were drawn. It reminded him of a funeral parlour.

He’s obviously got something to hide, he thought, diving low for a catch.

Flicking the ball back to Leo, Gavin put some spin on it. It bounced, clipping the jutting edge in the footpath and hooking up so that it disappeared over the wall. A perfect shot.

I’ll bowl for Australia one day, thought Gavin modestly.

‘Hey, Leo,’ he said, looking around to see no one was watching. ‘Give us a leg-up, will ya?’

Leo braced himself against the wall and waved at the cluster of orchids that was Marty.

‘Move down a bit,’ said Gavin, pushing him back a few steps. ‘The window’s about here.’

‘Ready,’ said Leo. Linking his fingers to form a step, he waited for Gavin to place his foot. Deftly he hoicked him up.

But it wasn’t enough. The wall was higher than they realised. Gavin hung from the top, dangling, as he fought for a toehold.

‘Great view from down here,’ said Leo looking up. ‘Reminds me of a joke. What has a bottom at the top?’

Gavin didn’t answer. He was too busy scrambling for a place to put his foot.

‘A leg!’

‘Now’s not the time for jokes,’ hissed Gavin.

With a final shove from Leo, Gavin landed on the narrow top platform of the wall.

‘Can you see anything?’ asked Leo. ‘Tombstone? Torture rack? Acid bath?’

‘Very funny,’ said Gavin, craning his neck to peer through the window.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Leo, impatient for the job to be done. ‘Delay can be deadly.’

‘I know,’ whispered Gavin. ‘I’m doing the best I can.’ He eased himself along the wall to get a better view of the window.

‘What the …?’ said Leo under his breath. An azalea bush had made its way out of Shellingham’s and was cruising across the footpath.

‘Huh?’ asked Gavin, irritated by the distraction.

Leo bit his lip as his eyes zoomed in on the moving target. ‘Nothing. Just hurry, will you?’

The azalea bush was jumping up and down with two arms flailing about.

To Leo it looked like it was trying to make smoke signals. ‘Azalea bush at fifty paces,’ he said at last.

‘Will you be serious!’ said Gavin, trying to peer through the curtains.

A deep rumbly voice interrupted. ‘Huh, hmmm!’

‘G-G-Gav!’
spluttered Leo.

‘Shhh,’
said Gavin, intent on looking through the window.

‘But, Gav,’ persisted Leo.

‘Rraaaagh!’
A roar filled the air, loud and guttural, like no sound the boys had ever heard before.

A hand clamped around Gavin’s foot and yanked hard.
‘What?!’
he screeched, then,
‘Oh-oh-ohhhh,’
as he crashed to the footpath.

Mr Bellows loomed overhead.

Gavin looked left-right-left-right for Leo. Leo was running down the street, keeping up with the azalea.

‘Gotcha!’ snapped Mr Bellows.

A strong smell of vinegar filled Gavin’s nostrils. For one insane moment he wondered if Mr Bellows had been eating chips. Gavin pulled away, managing to loosen Mr Bellows’s grip. Though his back jarred and his grazed knee stung, Gavin tried to wrench out of the tight grasp, wimpering, ‘I … I was just look … looking for my ball!’

Sinewy fingers clung like superglue. Tart fumes made Gavin’s eyes water. ‘Anyone who bothers me,’ said Mr Bellows, his voice booming out loud and ominous, ‘gets it!’

In desperation, Gavin yanked back as hard as he could. The vice-like grip gave way.

Gavin fled after the azalea bush, ‘I’ll have the police onto you for trespass!’ ringing in his ears.

There it was, again. The trespass word.

‘The curse takes forty-eight hours,’ said Thomas when Gavin got home. ‘Then it’s goodbye. Farewell. Adieu.’

‘Forty-eight hours!’ said Gavin. ‘I’m halfway there!’

‘You are,’ agreed Thomas. Without a hint of sympathy in his voice he tacked on, ‘Can I have your bike, too? When you’re gone, like.’

Gavin flared, ‘No one gets my bike! Besides, I don’t believe you. That curse and the baby thing’s not real.’

Thomas laughed. ‘They’re real all right. The baby sits on this mantelpiece above the fireplace in the kitchen.’

‘Kitchen?’ said Gavin, with a puzzled look. ‘I thought it was the lounge room.’

‘Nah,’ said Thomas. ‘Definitely the kitchen. At the very back of the house. It’s about
this
big,’ he went on, holding his palms thirty centimetres apart. ‘All curled up. You can see its little fingers and toes. And one ear is squashed flat.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Lockie Gozzwell told me and Lockie Gozzwell was there.’

‘Oh!’ Gavin thought for a moment. ‘Is it blue?’ ‘Nah! It’s sort of white.’

‘Can’t be a real dead baby. I saw a picture once in a magazine. A real dead baby looks blue.’

‘Not when it’s been properly pickled,’ taunted Thomas. ‘Then it wouldn’t be blue.’

‘What do you mean pickled?’ asked Gavin in a quiet voice.

‘You know,’ said Thomas, smirking. ‘Preserved. Like you do with vegies. They say it’s Bellows’s specialty. Only
he
doesn’t use vegies.’

Gavin’s eyes widened. ‘You mean to say this baby’s sitting in pickling water?’ he asked.

Thomas burst out laughing. ‘Pickling water!’ He clipped Gavin on the shoulder. ‘No such thing as pickling water. What they use,’ he finished triumphantly, ‘is vinegar!’

Vinegar? Gavin’s nostrils flared and his eyes watered at the memory. Without warning, he slid to the ground. ‘I’m the one who’s just been pickled,’ he moaned, then he went on to describe the morning’s events.

The whirring sound of a fax put an end to his tale. Gavin watched as the machine spat out a sheet of paper. Knowing his mother was expecting it, he walked over to pick it up.

‘Tomorrow’s list,’ said Gavin, spying the hospital crest on the top.

Gavin’s mother worked at Bridgewater Hospital as a Gastrointestinal Surgeon. She operated on Fridays. Every Thursday they faxed through the next morning’s list of cases.

‘Bor
ing,’ said Thomas.

‘I’ll give it to Mum,’ said Gavin, his eyes automatically going down the list. 8.00 Andreatti. 9.00 Mellay. 10.00 Bellows. Bingo!

‘Mr William Bellows,’ he read out loud. ‘Ten o’clock. Yes!’ he shouted, leaping into the air. He stared at the paper again. ‘Col … col-on-os-co-py. What’s that?’

‘It’s where they shove a mirror up your bum,’ said Thomas.

‘You’re making that up!’ said Gavin.

‘And look at you from your testicles to your tonsils.’

‘Mum would never do that!’ He pulled a face. ‘Even to Mr Bellows.’

‘It’s how they check for cancer,’ said Thomas. ‘Trust me. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock your Mr Bellows will be bottoms-up in bye-bye land.’

Gavin’s eyes sparkled. ‘And I will be burying a baby!’

The next morning when Gavin heard his mother leave for work he got up and dressed in khaki pants and a brown jumper.

The perfect camouflage for baby burying, he thought. He looked at his watch. Only five hours to go!

Deciding to skip breakfast, Gavin crept out of the
house, desperate to make his escape without disturbing his father. His plan was to get to Shellingham’s nursery nice and early so he could watch Mr Bellows leave for the hospital. He mentioned this to no one, not even Marty and Leo. He’d be much less conspicuous on his own.

Gavin arrived at Shellingham’s at eight o’clock.

Plenty of time, he thought.

He slid behind a large potted palm and leant against the wall to wait. He and a salesman wearing a bow tie were the only ones there. The salesman was flitting from plant to plant with a yellow watering can, reminding Gavin of the time he had been a bumblebee in the kindergarten concert. From flower to flower he had flown — till his antennae got stuck in the petal of William Blake’s costume. Yanking on it was a big mistake. The entire flower costume came off, leaving poor William standing in his undies. Gavin chuckled at the memory, then froze as the watering can hovered close by.

Water poured onto his back. Gavin could feel it trickling down his spine and into his pants but he dared not move.

Forty minutes passed and nothing happened unless you count aching feet and an icy bottom and back. More and more staff arrived for work.

Maybe I’ve got it wrong, he thought. Or maybe Mr Bellows has changed his mind.

Just as Gavin was about to give in and turn back for home he saw the front door open and the man
himself come rushing out. Gavin could see that Mr Bellows was trying to lock the door with a key but all the while he was jiggling up and down on his toes, looking exceedingly agitated. Gavin frowned.

Down the path came Mr Bellows when all of a sudden he reared up, swung around clutching his bottom and dashed back upstairs.

He’s walking like he’s got a cactus up his bum, thought Gavin. ‘What’re you doing, you old git?!’ he exclaimed.

‘Can I help you?’ a salesman interrupted. It was the one with the bow tie.

Gavin’s feet rose off the ground and he turned a deep red. ‘Just looking,’ he said, and grabbing at a dangling tag he pretended to inspect the price.

‘If you require assistance, all you need to do is ask,’ said the salesman, removing the tag from Gavin’s fingers and turning it the right way round.

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Gavin, thinking of what the man could do with his stupid bow tie. The salesman walked away. Gavin swung back to his surveillance with relief.

There was no sign of Mr Bellows.

Oh, no, thought Gavin. I don’t know if he’s left or still inside.

He glanced at his watch. Nine twenty. Mr Bellows should have been at the hospital by now.

Just at that moment the door opened and Mr Bellows came out. Gavin watched him repeat
the sequence. Only this time he did not turn back at the gate but kept on, round the corner, along the fence and down the street.

Baby, here I come! thought Gavin.

Gavin crossed the street, pushed open the gate and cruised into the garden looking as casual as he could, but his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it could be seen thumping through his jumper. Summoning up his courage, he made his way down the side path.

Phew!
thought Gavin as he reached the back yard. I’ve made it.