Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories Read online

  ALSO BY PAUL JENNINGS

  Unreal!

  Unbelievable!

  Quirky Tails

  Uncanny!

  Unbearable!

  Unmentionable!

  Undone!

  Uncovered!

  Unseen!

  Tongue-Tied!

  Paul Jennings’ Funniest Stories

  Paul Jennings’ Weirdest Stories

  Paul Jennings’ Spookiest Stories

  The Cabbage Patch Fibs

  The Cabbage Patch series

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  The Gizmo series

  (illustrated by Keith McEwan)

  The Singenpoo series

  (illustrated by Keith McEwan)

  Wicked! (series) and Deadly! (series)

  (with Morris Gleitzman)

  Duck for Cover

  Freeze a Crowd

  Spooner or Later

  Spit it Out

  (with Terry Denton and Ted Greenwood)

  Round the Twist

  Sucked In…

  (illustrated by Terry Denton)

  For adults

  The Reading Bug

  … and how you can help your child to catch it.

  For beginners

  The Rascal series

  Novel

  How Hedley Hopkins Did a Dare…

  More information about Paul and his books can be found at

  www.pauljennings.com.au and www.puffin.com.au

  PAUL JENNINGS’

  TRicKIEst

  StoRIEs

  VIKING

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Australia)

  250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada)

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Penguin Group (NZ)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London, WC2R 0RL, England

  Individual stories copyright © Lockley Lodge Pty Ltd

  First published by Penguin Books Australia Ltd

  You Be the Judge, Clear as Mud from Undone, 1993

  For Ever, Just Like Me, Backward Step from Uncovered, 1995

  One Finger Salute, Ticker, Guts from Unseen, 1998

  There’s No Such Thing from Unbelievable!, 1987

  Nails from Unbearable, 1990

  Cry Baby, Ex-Poser, Sloppy Jalopy, Eyes Knows, from Unmentionable, 1999

  The Hat, Shake from Tongue-Tied! 2002

  Sucked In first published as Together Again in The Paul Jennings 1996 Superdiary, 1995

  A Watery Grave from The Paul Jennings 1997 Superdiary, 1996

  The Spitting Rat from Spit It Out, 2003

  Burp first published by Addison Wesley Longman Australia Pty Limited, 1991

  This collection published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This collection copyright © Lockley Lodge Pty Ltd, 2008

  Illustrations copyright © Bob Lea, 2008

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  978-1-74228-223-7

  Contents

  You Be the Judge

  There’s No Such Thing

  Backward Step

  One-Finger Salute

  Cry Baby

  Ex Poser

  Sloppy Jalopy

  Eyes Knows

  For Ever

  Just Like Me

  Ticker

  The Hat

  Sucked In

  Clear as Mud

  Shake

  Burp!

  A Watery Grave

  The Spitting Rat

  Nails

  Guts

  You Be the Judge

  A person who eats someone else is called a cannibal. But what are you called if you drink someone? Like I did.

  No, no, no. Don’t put down the book. This isn’t a horror story. It isn’t even a horrible story. And it’s not about vampires and ghouls. But it sure is a weird tale. Really weird.

  Now you can say that you don’t believe me if you like. But I tell you this – I don’t tell lies. Well, that’s not quite true. I did tell one once. A real big one. Did I do the right thing? I don’t know. You be the judge.

  1

  It began the day Dad and I moved to the end of the world.

  There we were. In the middle of the desert. The proud new owners of the Blue Singlet Motel. There was no school. There was no post office. There was no pub. There were no other kids. There was nothing except us and our little cafe with its petrol pumps. And two rooms out the back for rent.

  The red desert stretched off in every direction.

  And it was hot. Boy was it hot. The heat shimmered up off the sand. When you walked outside you could feel the soles of your shoes cooking.

  ‘Paradise,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Ten million flies can’t be wrong,’ I said, waving a couple of hundred of them away from my face.

  ‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll love it. The trucks all stop here on their way to Perth. It’s a little goldmine.’

  Just then I noticed the dust stirring in the distance. ‘Our first customer,’ said Dad. A huge truck was buzzing towards us at great speed. Dad picked up the nozzle of the petrol pump. ‘He’ll probably want about a hundred litres,’ he said with a grin.

  The truck roared down the road. And kept roaring. Straight past. It vanished into the lonely desert.

  Poor old Dad’s face fell. He put the nozzle back on the pump. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘There’ll be plenty of others.’

  But he was wrong. For some reason hardly any of the trucks pulled up. They just tore on by. There were a few tourists. They stopped and bought maps and filled up their water-bottles and topped up with petrol. Some even stayed the night. It was a living. But it wasn’t a goldmine.

  But to be honest it wasn’t too bad. And Dad had a plan. A plan to attract customers.

  2

  ‘It’s called a Wobby Gurgle’, Dad said, waving an old faded book at me. ‘There’s a legend that the Wobby Gurgle lives around here in the desert.’

  ‘What’s it look like?’ I said.

  Dad looked a bit embarrassed. ‘No one’s ever seen one,’ he said.

  ‘Well, how do you know there’s any such thing?’

  ‘Stories,’ said Dad. ‘There are stories.’

  ‘Well, what does a Wobby Gurgle do?’ I asked.


  ‘Drink.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ he went on. ‘It, ah, likes to drink water.’

  I scoffed. ‘There isn’t any water around here. Only what we bring in by truck. There isn’t a waterhole for hundreds of miles.’

  Dad wasn’t going to give up. ‘Well, maybe it sort of saves water up. Like a camel.’

  ‘It would have to be big. It hasn’t rained here for twelve years,’ I told him.

  Dad tried to shush me up. He was getting all excited. ‘Imagine if it was true,’ he said. ‘People would come from everywhere to see it. We could sell films and souvenirs. Lots of petrol. We could open a museum. Or a pub.’

  Dad was getting excited. His face was one big happy grin.

  ‘Like the Loch Ness Monster,’ he yelped. ‘No one’s ever really seen it. But people go to Loch Ness from all over the world – just hoping to catch a glimpse.’

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘So we let people know about the Wobby Gurgle. They’ll come for miles to see it.’

  ‘But what if there isn’t one?’ I said. ‘Then you would be telling a lie.’

  Dad’s face fell. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we’ll keep our eyes open. If we see one it will be like hitting the jackpot.’

  3

  Well, we didn’t see anything. Not for a long time anyway. Time passed and I started to enjoy living at the Blue Singlet Motel. We didn’t make a lot of money. But we got by.

  I liked the evenings the best. After the sun went down and the desert started to cool. Sometimes a gentle breeze would blow in the window. I would sit there staring into the silent desert, wondering if anything was out there.

  ‘Never go anywhere without a water-bottle,’ Dad used to say. ‘You never know what can happen out here in the desert.’

  Anyway, this is about the time that things started to get weird. One night I filled my water-bottle to the brim and put it on the windowsill as usual. I fell off to sleep quickly. But something was wrong. I had bad dreams. About waterfalls. And tidal waves. And flooding rivers.

  I was drowning in a huge river. I gave a scream and woke up with a start. I was thirsty. My throat was parched and dry. I went over to my water-bottle and opened it.

  Half the water was gone.

  I examined it for holes. None.

  Who would do such a thing? Dad was the only other person around and I could hear him snoring away in his bedroom. He would never pinch my water. He was the one always giving me a lecture about never leaving the property without it.

  I looked at the ground outside. My heart stopped. There, on the still-warm sand, was a wet footprint.

  I opened my mouth to call out for Dad. But something made me stop. I just had the feeling that I should handle this myself. It was a strange sensation. I was scared but I didn’t tell Dad.

  I jumped out of the window and bent over the footprint. I touched it gently with one finger.

  Pow. A little zap ran up my arm. It didn’t hurt but it gave me a fright. It was like the feeling you get when lemonade bubbles fizz up your nose. Like that but all over.

  I jumped back and looked around nervously. The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen. All around me the endless desert spread itself to the edges of the world.

  The warm sand seemed to call me. I took a few steps and discovered another footprint. And another. A line of wet footprints led off into the blackness.

  I wanted to go home. Turn and run back to safety. But I followed the trail, still clutching the half-empty water-bottle in my hand.

  4

  How could someone have wet feet in the desert? There was no pond. No spring. No creek. Just the endless red sand.

  The footprints followed the easiest way to walk. They avoided rocks and sharp grasses. On they went. And on.

  I was frightened. My legs were shaking. But I had to know who or what had made these prints. I was sure that a Wobby Gurgle had gone this way.

  I could run and get Dad, but the trail would have vanished by then. The tracks behind me were evaporating. In a few minutes there would be no trail to follow.

  If I could find a Wobby Gurgle we would be set. Visitors would come by the thousands.

  A cricket chirped as I hurried on. A night mouse scampered out of my way. Soon the cafe was only a dark shadow in the distance. Should I go on? Or should I go back?

  I knew the answer.

  I had to go back. It was the sensible thing to do. Otherwise I might be gobbled up by the desert. I was in my pyjamas and slippers. And only had half a bottle of water. That wouldn’t last long. Not once the sun came up.

  The footprints were fading fast. I looked back at the cafe. Then I headed off in the opposite direction, following the tracks into the wilderness.

  I had never been one to do the sensible thing. And anyway, if I could spot a Wobby Gurgle we would make a fortune. Tourists would come from everywhere to look for it. That’s what kept me going.

  On I went and on. The moon rose high in the sky and turned the sand to silver. The Blue Singlet Motel vanished behind me. I was alone with the wet footprints. And an unknown creature of the night.

  The moon started to lower itself into the inky distance. Soon the sun would bleach the black sky. And dry the footprints as quickly as they were made. I had to hurry.

  My eyes scoured the distance. Was that a silvery figure ahead? Or just the moon playing tricks?

  It was a tree. A gnarled old tree, barely clinging to life on the arid plains. I was disappointed but also a little relieved. I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to find anything.

  I decided to climb the tree. I would be able to see far ahead. If there was nothing there I would turn around and go home. I grabbed the lowest branch of the tree.

  5

  I can’t quite remember who saw what first.

  The creature or me.

  I couldn’t make sense of it. My mind wouldn’t take it in. At first I thought it was a man made of jelly. It seemed to walk with wobbly steps. It was silvery and had no clothes on.

  It let out a scream. No, not a scream. A gurgle. Well, not a gurgle either. I guess you could call it a scurgle. A terrifying glugging noise. Like someone had pulled out a bath plug in its throat.

  It was me that let out a scream. Boy, did I yell. Then I turned and raced off into the night. I didn’t know where I was running. What I was doing. I stumbled and jumped and ran. I felt as if any moment a silvery hand was going to reach out and drag me back. Eat me up.

  But it didn’t. Finally I fell to the ground, panting. I couldn’t have moved another step, even if I’d wanted to. I looked fearfully behind me. But there was nothing. Only the first rays of the new day in the morning sky.

  Soon it would be hot. Unbearably hot. I stood up and staggered on towards where I thought the Blue Singlet Motel should be.

  I wandered on and on. The sun rose in the sky and glared down on me. As I went a change came over me. My fear of the Wobby Gurgle started to fade. And be replaced by another terror. Death in the desert. I was hopelessly lost.

  The water-bottle was warm in my hand. I raised it to my lips and took a sip. I had to make it last.

  By now my face was burning. Flies buzzed in my eyes. My mouth felt as if I had eaten sand for breakfast. My slippered feet were like coals of fire. My breath was as dry as a dragon’s dinner.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. To leave home in the middle of the night. With only a little water. And no hat. Dressed in pyjamas. The heat was sending me crazy.

  How long I walked for I couldn’t say. Maybe hours. Maybe days. My throat screamed for water. In the end I guzzled the lot in one go. I was going mad with thirst.

  I laughed crazily. ‘Wobby Gurgle,’ I shouted. ‘Come and get me. See if I care.’

  Finally I stumbled upon a small burrow under a rock. There was just enough room for me to curl up in its shade. I knew that without help I would never leave that spot.

  6

  Night fell. I dozed. And dreamed. And swallowed wit
h a tongue that was cracked and dry. I dreamed of water. Sweet water. I was in a cool, cool place. A wet hand was stroking my face. A lovely damp hand, fresh from a mountain stream.

  I opened my eyes.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  It was the Wobby Gurgle.

  Normally I would have screamed and run. But in my near-dead state I only smiled. Smiled as if it was perfectly normal to see a man made of water.

  He had no bones. No blood. No muscles. His skin was like clear plastic. The nearest image I can think of is a balloon filled with water. But a balloon shaped like a man. With arms and legs and fingers. All made of water.

  For a silly second I wondered what would happen if I stuck a pin in him. Would he collapse in a shower and seep away into the sand?

  His water lips smiled sadly. His hand on my cheek tingled like fizzing snow. Cool, cool, so cool.

  Inside his chest a tiny, dark red fish circled lazily. I knew that I must be losing my mind. There is no such thing as a man made of water. With a fish swimming inside him.

  It was then that he did the weirdest thing of all. He placed the end of one finger in my mouth. It was cold and fresh and filled me with sparkling freshness. A little electric shock ran all over me.

  I felt a trickle of pure water on my tongue. The clearest, coolest, freshest water in the world. I sucked like a calf at a teat. The Wobby Gurgle was feeding me. With himself.

  The freshness was so good. I was greedy. I swallowed until I could take no more.

  ‘Thanks,’ I managed to croak.

  He didn’t answer. Well, not in speaking. He just gave a gentle gurgle. Like a mountain stream trickling over a rock.

  He stood up and started to move off. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I said. ‘Don’t go.’

  The Wobby Gurgle looked up at the sky. The sun was already rising. I had to get home that night. Another day in the desert would finish me.

  And him? Would it finish him too? Where did he live? In a cool burrow somewhere? I didn’t know. But I remembered Dad’s words. Maybe he stored up water like a camel. Maybe he was carrying twelve years supply.

  I staggered after him, somehow realising that he was leading me in the right direction. Every now and then he would give a low gurgle, as if to encourage me.