Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories Page 12

  My father slowly took out his wallet. ‘How much?’ he said to the captain.

  2

  ‘One hundred dollars,’ said Dad. ‘Just for a hat.’ He shook his head slowly as the ferry disappeared across the water.

  While we walked along the little rickety jetty I hardly noticed the swiftly flowing river. It made its way to the ocean through the mangroves and the wide muddy beach. Even the splashing of rainbow-coloured fish in the swirling water failed to interest me. I hardly saw the crabs as they scurried into their holes at our approach. Normally I would have been racing around checking everything out.

  ‘I’m sorry, dad,’ I said. ‘I really am. But Mum loved this hat. I feel close to her when I wear it.’ I grabbed the wet brim of the wide stockman’s hat and pulled it firmly down on to my head.

  Dad didn’t answer. I guessed that he didn’t like the mention of Mum much. He probably didn’t like her. She certainly hadn’t liked him. I was never allowed to visit him on school holidays. And Mum would always say, ‘It’s him,’ when Dad phoned. She had a special way of saying him which sounded as if she was talking about the most horrible person in the world.

  I didn’t really know Dad. My own father. And now I was going to live with him. And spend the time in this small camp in the rainforest. Checking on the wildlife and making sure that tourists didn’t camp in the National Park or shoot native animals. He was a park ranger. That was his job.

  Dad put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you something special.’ We walked past the main building with its wide verandah and across the lawn which swept down to the water.

  ‘Don’t swim in the estuary,’ said Dad. ‘There are crocodiles.’

  I gave a shudder. ‘I hate crocodiles,’ I said.

  Dad pointed across the river to a patch of sunlight between some trees.

  ‘Geeze,’ I gasped. ‘It’s huge.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dad. ‘He’s big. And he’s fast. They can beat a racehorse over a short distance.’

  ‘What do you do if one chases you?’ I asked.

  ‘Run like hell. But not in a straight line,’ said Dad. ‘They are not very good at turning. It slows them down.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s seen us,’ I said.

  As if in answer, the huge beast opened its jaws in a yawn. Then it slid silently into the water and disappeared.

  We stopped at a small hutch surrounded by chicken wire. A fine-meshed wire fence surrounded it. It was strong and well made. Not even a mouse could sneak into the enclosure. Dad unlatched the gate and we stepped inside.

  The hutch reminded me of Ralph, my pet rabbit back home in Melbourne. I had to give him away when I left.

  ‘Rabbits,’ I said excitedly.

  ‘No way,’ said Dad. ‘We shoot rabbits up here. They’re pests. So are the pigs and the feral rats.’ He said the word rats with a disgusted look on his face. It reminded me of the way that Mum used to pronounce the word, him.

  He opened the top of the hutch and carefully took out the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. The hard look fell from Dad’s face. He reminded me of a mother staring down at a newborn child.

  ‘This,’ said Dad, ‘is an Eastern Bilby. A native animal. It’s meant to be here. But bilbies are on the edge of extinction. Killed by introduced animals brought in from overseas like pigs and cats and… filthy feral rats.’

  It was a beautiful animal. About the size of a rabbit with a pointed face and long ears that seemed too big for it. The bilby’s nose made it look like a stretched mouse. It waved its furry tail slowly from side to side.

  It sniffed Dad’s skin. Like a pet.

  Dad placed the bilby in my hand and smiled. ‘There are only two of this species left alive up here. A male in the zoo in Brisbane. And this one. She’s pregnant. Her name is Breeze. I’m trying to introduce them back into this forest. The feral rats and pigs have wiped them out. It’s a battle, I can tell you.’

  His face looked weary.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ I said.

  Dad grinned at me. His weather-worn brown skin broke into friendly wrinkles. He suddenly pulled the brim of my hat down so that it covered my eyes. ‘Come on, Jason. I’ll show you around.’ From inside the hat I could hear him laughing. I didn’t like him touching Mum’s hat. But it wasn’t the time to say anything.

  Nothing would part me from my hat. I would have jumped off the ferry to get it if they hadn’t stopped.

  Even though I couldn’t swim.

  3

  That night I lay alone in my room on the verandah and listened to the sounds of the forest. The air was warm and only a fly-screen protected me from the dark outside. I left the light on – it made me feel a little safer.

  The ceiling had paintings of small green lizards scattered across it. I wondered if Dad had put them there especially for me. It looked like wallpaper.

  In the darkness of the rainforest the sounds outside seemed incredibly loud. I was used to trams rumbling down Barkers Road in Melbourne. At night in the city I would never even notice the sounds of squealing brakes and blaring police sirens. But here in this wild and lonely country every rustle seemed to hold a threat.

  Suddenly, the wallpaper lizards began to walk. I screamed. They were real and walking upside down on the ceiling, clinging to the paint with little suction cups on the ends of their spidery toes.

  Dad raced into the room and then began to laugh. ‘You are a city boy for sure,’ he said. ‘They are geckos. They can’t hurt you. They are lovely creatures.’

  Dad turned off the light. ‘It attracts the mossies,’ he told me as he gently closed the door.

  Mum’s hat dangled from the bedpost. I could see its dark outline in the glow of the huge, soft moon. A tear ran down my cheek and soaked into the pillow. ‘Mum,’ I moaned to myself. ‘Please come back.’

  I grabbed her hat and pulled it down over my face to keep out the silent dangers of the night. The hat still smelt of Mum. Even its soaking in the ocean hadn’t been able to take that away. No one would ever get that hat away from me. I would go to my grave before I would part with it.

  Those and other sad thoughts circled in my head until finally I fell into a deep sleep.

  Blam.

  I sat upright in terror. What was that noise? Like the slamming of a million doors at the same time. Like the snapping of a giant tree.

  I heard the sounds of a struggle and scrabbling feet. Then again.

  Blam.

  Now I recognised the sound. Even though I had never heard it before. Not in real life anyway. A shot-gun. Someone had fired in the middle of the night. Footsteps approached.

  ‘Sorry, Jason,’ said Dad’s voice. ‘A ruddy feral pig. But it’s okay. I got it.’

  I shoved on my shoes and staggered outside. Underneath a curtain of hanging vines lay a huge black pig. Its body still steamed with the warmth of its lost life. I gave a shudder.

  This place was so brutal. On the one side there was the love of bilbies and crocodiles because they belonged here. And on the other side a scorn for pigs and rats because they didn’t.

  ‘I’m feral too,’ I said. ‘I don’t belong here either.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Dad. ‘Feral animals are killers. You and me – we are protectors of the weak.’

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. I knew what he was saying. There was nowhere else to go. So I had better get used to it.

  4

  The next morning Dad raced into my room before I was fully awake. ‘Quick, Jason. Get dressed. Something’s happened.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Three baby bilbies have been born.’

  ‘Terrific,’ I yelled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘But there’s something else.’ His face was grave. He was worried. I followed him outside.

  We both stared down at the damage to the bilby enclosure. The gate had been flattened and the wire mesh pulled off. The mesh had been twisted into a long rope and dragged off
into the forest.

  ‘Who did it?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Not who. What,’ said Dad. ‘The feral pig that I shot. I thought that it was making a lot of noise. Pigs have enormous strength. Fortunately it didn’t get into the hutch. The bilbies are safe.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I have to get some new wire,’ said Dad. ‘And quick. The pigs won’t be back in daylight. But nothing stops feral rats.’ He pointed to a patch of tall green grass that stood out against the brown dirt.

  ‘I saw a rat there a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘It’s the septic tank. I was going to clear it out but I had to…’ His voice trailed off, ‘go to your mother’s funeral.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I said.

  ‘Stay here while I take the dinghy along the coast to our next ranger’s station. There’s a roll of new wire there. I’ll be back before dark.’

  ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘Can I see the babies before you go?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Jason,’ said Dad, ‘but they mustn’t be disturbed. The mother has a pouch. They are safe in there. Nice and warm with mother’s milk on hand. All you have to do is make sure nothing goes in or out of the entrance to the hutch. Breeze will stay there. There’s food and water inside.’

  ‘What about me?’ I said. ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I’ll go and get you something too,’ said Dad. ‘But you mustn’t leave this spot. A rat will be in and out in a flash – they can smell a new birth a mile off. The babies are the first things they eat. A bilby has no defence against rats. I would move Breeze up to the house but I can’t risk disturbing her.’

  ‘You can count on me, Dad,’ I said. ‘Nothing will make me leave here.’ I grinned up at him from underneath the brim of my Akubra.

  Dad nodded. He came back with a bottle of drink and some sandwiches. And a crowbar.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asked.

  ‘If you do see a rat,’ said Dad, ‘you know what to do.’

  I shuddered as he leaned the crowbar against the hutch. ‘Okay,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘Good man,’ said Dad. ‘I should be back in three or four hours.’

  He walked down to the jetty and started the outboard on the little dinghy. The putt-putt of the engine drifted across the water as he headed out to sea. He finally vanished around the headland. For a little while I could still hear the sound of the motor. Then it faded and died.

  I was alone.

  The ground began to return the heat of the rising sun. The only sound was the occasional buzz of a fly. It’s funny how the bush has different sounds at different times. In the morning and evening the birds are noisy and life fills the forest. In the night there are the sounds of secret hunting and feeding. But in the hot hours all is quiet.

  I began to grow drowsy. I took a few mouthfuls of water from the bottle and nibbled at a sandwich. I shook my head, trying to keep myself awake. Time passed slowly. I should have asked Dad for a book. For a moment I thought about racing over to the house and getting one. But I had promised not to leave the hutch. Even for a second.

  Then the weather began to change. Clouds covered the sun. A tropical breeze sprang up.

  Without any warning a fierce gust of wind swept through the clearing. It snatched my hat and sent it bowling towards the river. My blood turned to ice.

  In a second it would be gone. Could I follow it?

  Could I not follow it? I would only have to leave my post for a few moments. But those words – leave my post – sounded dreadful. Weren’t soldiers shot for leaving their post?

  But this wasn’t war. This was a boy and a hat. Nothing could happen to the bilbies in that short time.

  I jumped to my feet and pelted after the hat. It was spinning like a crazy out-of-control wheel on a racing track.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I gasped.

  A gust carried the hat into the air. In no time it was in the water, floating quickly away from the muddy bank.

  I jumped in after it. The mud was soft and I sank up to my knees. In a flash I realised the danger. I tried to lift one leg but straight away the other one sank deeper. The mud was foul and squelchy. It sucked at my legs.

  My hat was spinning upside down in the water, just out of reach. The word crocodile flashed through my mind.

  Panic began to well up in my throat. Then I looked at the hat. My mother’s smiling face appeared in my mind. I threw myself into the water and like a dog digging a hole I began to pull myself forward with my hands. I stretched out and reached for the brim of the hat. With two fingers I managed to just nip the edge. I pulled it gently towards me.

  Yes. Got it.

  With one muddy hand I jammed the hat on to my head and began crawling towards the shore. I reached the bank and ran panting back to the hutch.

  Nothing had changed. Or had it? I looked at the small entrance hole. Were the baby bilbies and the mother safe inside? Had something slipped in while I was away? I listened. All was quiet. Too quiet?

  Was there a feral creature in there?

  There was only one way to find out. Dad had told me not to look at the bilbies. But I had to know. Were they safe?

  I lifted the lid and stared inside.

  5

  Breeze was dead. Her staring eyes did not see. They were dry and milky. I bent down and gently lifted up the still body. Her fur was sticky. Her little legs felt as if they would break if I tried to bend them. One foot had been chewed.

  My head seemed as if it had dropped off and was falling down, down, down into a deep well. This was a nightmare. I had deserted my post and the enemy had crept into the camp.

  With trembling fingers I began to search for a pouch. Maybe the bilbies were still alive in there. I turned her over and felt in the fur. No pouch. No pouch. Oh, yes, there it was. Facing backwards. It was torn and bleeding where teeth had ripped at it. I felt gently inside with my fingers. There were little teats. But nothing else. My heart seemed to stop beating. The world grew bleak and cold.

  The babies were gone. I knew at once that they had been eaten by the rat. Killed before we could even give them names.

  The rat was a murderer. It had scurried off to its stinking nest. And I knew where it was.

  Red-hot rage flowed through my veins. I had never experienced anything like it before. My whole face was burning. I opened my mouth and screamed in fury at the sky. The sound filled the forest for a few seconds and then died. My skin was cold but inside I was boiling. Something had taken hold of me. Something inside wanted to explode.

  It was hate.

  Hate for the filthy skulking piece of vermin that could eat three baby bilbies. The rat’s image scurried, red behind my eyeballs. The whole world seemed red. Even the one patch of long green grass that sprouted like an island in the dry house paddock was the colour of the sun.

  I grabbed the crowbar that was still leaning where Dad had left it against the hutch and staggered towards the patch of grass.

  It’s funny how something so healthy and strong can grow out of a foul bog. The grass was lush and moist even though it was the dry season.

  I hardly noticed the stench. My boots squelched in the brown soil. Somewhere in there was a hole. A home. A hideout for the rat that had killed Breeze. I parted the grass with furious sweeps of the crowbar. Bubbles plopped and released nauseous gases but I hardly noticed. There. Yes, yes. A wet oozing hole. I shoved the end of the crowbar into it and jabbed in and out with furious shouts.

  ‘Die, die, die,’ I shrieked.

  The end of the crowbar struck something hard. Maybe a rock. I started to dig but the crowbar wasn’t wide enough to lift wet soil. I grabbed a large tuft of grass and began to pull. It was firmly lodged but slowly it began to loosen its grasp.

  Splop. It came away with a huge ball of soil dripping from the roots.

  There. A concrete pipe. I couldn’t see the end but something told me the rat was inside. I struck furiously with the tip of the crowbar. Again and again and again. Small ch
ips and sparks flew into the air. My hands grew red raw and a blister formed on one of my palms.

  Chip, chip, chip. I banged and banged and banged. Striking with a fury fuelled by my red-hot hate.

  Finally a round crack appeared. Like the lid of a teapot that had been glued in place. I tore at the broken concrete with bleeding fingers.

  ‘Aagh.’

  I fell backwards into the bog. My jeans and shirt soaked up the foul water. I floundered helplessly.

  A huge rat had jumped out of the pipe. It was black and fat and squeaking. And even worse it was only a metre away from my face.

  It suddenly began to jump straight up and down as if cornered. I was suddenly grabbed by a wave of fear and revulsion. I wanted the rat to run away. But it was protecting something. Its lair meant more to it than its life.

  Life is nothing to a rat.

  It had eaten Breeze’s babies as if they were no more than scraps of garbage.

  The world once again turned red. I sprang to my feet and began striking crazily at the leaping rodent. It jumped up and sideways. And then forward, baring its teeth like a dog.

  Suddenly it grabbed the end of the bar and began to crawl along it. The thought of its claws and teeth and scabby skin made me feel faint. I dropped to a crouching position and holding the bar parallel to the ground thumped it down. There was a small, sickening crack. The rat twitched and lay still.

  I stood up and leaned on the bar. I gasped. The breath was raw in my lungs.

  I stared down at the dead rat. Its life had gone in a fraction of a second. And in the same moment hate drained from my frenzied head.

  I had never killed anything before. Well, maybe a fly and a few spiders. But not a warm-blooded animal. A mammal – even a rat – is more like a person. It has eyes and ears and skin. It holds food in its paws and chews like a human. It has blood inside. And it gives birth and suckles its young.

  Suddenly I felt weak all over. I had killed the rat but it didn’t make me feel better. Its dead body reminded me of Breeze, lying stiff and still in the box not far away. Now I was a killer too. I had my revenge. But revenge is not sweet. Revenge is sour.