Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories Read online

  The sun beat down mercilessly. I wondered how he could stand it. My throat was dry. I wanted water. But I didn’t like to ask. I knew I would never make it without regular drinks.

  7

  So did Wobby Gurgle. He seemed to know when I couldn’t go on. Every fifteen minutes or so he would come and put his cool finger into my mouth. And I would feel the trickle of fizzing liquid flowing across my tongue.

  He was so gentle. So generous. Waiting. Leading me on. Giving me a drink. Pure, pure water.

  After several hours I felt much stronger. But the Wobby Gurgle seemed to be moving more slowly. His steps were shorter. And was it my imagination or had he shrunk?

  On we went. On and on. With the cruel sun beating down. We stopped more often for a drink and after each one the Wobby Gurgle walked more slowly.

  I looked at him carefully. The tiny fish seemed bigger as it floated effortlessly inside his arm. It wasn’t bigger. He was smaller.

  I was drinking him.

  ‘No,’ I screamed. ‘No. I can’t do it. You’re killing yourself for me. You’ll soon be empty.’

  He seemed to smile. If a water face can smile.

  Once again he placed his finger in my mouth. And like a greedy baby at its mother’s breast I sucked and swallowed.

  The day wore on and the Wobby Gurgle grew smaller and smaller with every drink. I clamped my jaw shut. I refused to open my mouth. I wasn’t going to let him kill himself for me. No way.

  But it was no use. He simply pointed at my mouth and let fly with a jet of water. It ran down my chin and dripped onto the dry sand, wasted. He wasn’t going to stop until I swallowed. I opened my mouth and accepted the gift of life.

  As the afternoon wore away, so did the Wobby Gurgle. By now he was only half my size. A little bag of liquid. His steps were small and slow. Like an exhausted child.

  I tried to stop him feeding me. But it was no good. He simply poured himself onto my face if I refused.

  In the end he was no bigger than my fist. A small figure, wearily leading me on at a snail’s pace. I picked him up in one hand and looked at him. The fish almost totally filled his body. He held no more than a few cupfuls of water.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking any more. I’d sooner die myself. If you give me any more I’ll run off. You’ll never catch me.’

  He looked up sadly. He knew that he was beaten.

  And so was I.

  The sun set once again. And the far-off moon, unknowing, uncaring, rose in the night sky.

  I thought that I could last until morning. But the tiny Wobby Gurgle, how long could he last?

  We both fell asleep. Me and my little friend – the bag of water.

  Later I woke and with a fright saw that the Wobby Gurgle was lying on his back, not moving. The dark red fish inside him floated upside down.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled, ‘wake up.’

  There was no movement. He looked like a tiny, clear football that had been emptied of air. I knew he was dying.

  8

  Tears trickled down my cheek. How I had enough moisture to make tears I will never know. I was so filled with sorrow that I didn’t see the watcher. The sad, silent watcher.

  A woman. A water woman. With a gasp I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to flow across the desert sand rather than walk.

  ‘Quick,’ I yelled. ‘Here.’

  I pointed to the tiny, deflated figure on the sand.

  She didn’t look at me but just bent over the still figure and gently kissed him on his water lips.

  It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Water flowed from her lips into his. She was filling him up. From herself. It was like watching a tyre being inflated. He grew larger and she grew smaller. The fish once more began to swim. The kiss of life went on and on until both Wobby Gurgles were the same size. About my size. Three kids in the desert.

  Well, no. One kid. And two wonderful half-empty Wobby Gurgles.

  They both smiled. So gently. Then the woman held out her water-filled arm and pointed. In the distance I could see a red glow. It was the neon light of the Blue Singlet Motel.

  ‘Thanks,’ I yelled. It seemed such a small thing to say. I could never repay them for what they had done. I turned around to try and tell them how I felt.

  But they had both gone. I was alone in the night.

  I walked towards home. As I got closer I could see the police cars. And the search helicopter. Dad would have lots of customers.

  But not as many as he would have when the word about the Wobby Gurgles got out.

  People made of water.

  Visitors would come from everywhere. Australians. Americans. Japanese. Germans. Clicking their cameras. Buying their films. There would be museums. Hotels. Pizza parlours. Probably even poker machines. We would be famous. And rich.

  Dad came rushing out with tears streaming down his face. He hugged me until I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘How did you stay alive?’ he said. ‘With no water? Did someone help you?’

  I looked at him for a long time. The police were listening – everyone wanted to know what had happened. I thought about the Wobby Gurgles. Those shy, generous people. Who had given the water of life to a greedy boy. Then I thought about the crowds with the cameras. And the noise and pizza shops that would follow.

  I thought about all the plants and flowers that had vanished from this country for ever.

  ‘Well?’ said Dad.

  He was a good dad. But I knew that he would want to find the Wobby Gurgle.

  That’s when I looked at him and told a lie.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I never saw anyone.’

  Did I do the right thing? You be the judge.

  There’s No Such Thing

  Poor Grandad. They had taken him away and locked him up in a home. I knew he would hate it. He loved to be out in his garden digging the vegies or arguing with old Mrs Jingle next door. He wouldn’t like being locked away from the world.

  ‘I know it’s sad,’ said Mum. ‘But it’s the only thing to do. I am afraid that Grandad has a sort of sickness that’s in the head. He doesn’t think right. He keeps seeing things that aren’t there. It sometimes happens to people when they get very old like Grandad.’

  I could feel tears springing into my eyes. ‘What sort of things?’ I shouted. ‘I don’t believe it. Grandad’s all right. I want to see him.’

  Mum had tears in her eyes too. She was just as upset as I was. After all, Grandad was her father. ‘You can see him on Monday, Chris,’ she said. ‘The nurse said you can visit Grandad after school.’

  On Monday I went to the sanatorium where they kept Grandad. I had to wait for ages in this little room which had hard chairs and smelt of stuff you clean toilets with. The nurse in charge wore a badge which said, ‘Sister Gribble’. She had mean eyes. They looked like the slits on money boxes which take things in but never give anything back. She had her hair done up in a tight bun and her shoes were so clean you could see the reflection of her knobbly knees in them.

  ‘Follow me, lad,’ said the nurse after ages and ages. She led me down a corridor and into a small room. ‘Before you go in,’ she said, ‘I want you to know one thing. Whenever the old man talks about things that are not really there, you must say, “There’s no such thing.” You are not to pretend you believe him.’

  I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I did know one thing – she shouldn’t have called Grandad ‘the old man’. He had a name just like everyone else.

  We went into the room and there was Grandad, slumped in a bed between stiff, white sheets. He was staring listlessly at a fly on the ceiling. He looked unhappy.

  As she went out of the room Nurse Gribble looked at Grandad and said, ‘None of your nonsense now. Remember, there’s no such thing.’ She sat on a chair just outside the door.

  2

  Grandad brightened up when he saw me. A bit of the old twinkle came back into his eyes. ‘Ah, Chris,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wai
ting for you. You’ve got to help me get out of this terrible place. My tomatoes will be dying. I’ve got to get out.’ He looked at the door and whispered. ‘She watches me like a hawk. You are my only chance.’

  He pulled something out from under the sheets and pushed it into my hands. It was a small camera with a built-in flash. ‘Get a photo,’ he said, ‘And then they will know it’s true. They will have to let me out if you get a photo.’

  His eyes were wild and flashing. I didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘Get a photo of what?’ I asked.

  ‘The dragon, Chris. The dragon in the drain. I never told you about it before because I didn’t want to scare you. But now you are my only hope. Even your mother thinks I have gone potty. She won’t believe me that there is a dragon. No one will.’

  A voice like broken glass came from the corridor outside. It said, ‘There’s no such thing as a dragon.’ It was Nurse Gribble. She was listening to our conversation.

  I didn’t know what to think. It was true then. Poor old Grandad was out of his mind. He thought there was such a thing as a dragon. I decided to go along with it. ‘Where is the dragon, Grandad?’ I whispered.

  ‘In Donovan’s Drain,’ he said softly, looking at the door as he spoke. ‘Behind my back fence. It’s a great horrible brute with green teeth and red eyes. It has scales and wings and a cruel, slashing tail. Its breath is foul and stinks of the grave.’

  ‘And you’ve seen it?’ I croaked.

  ‘Seen it, seen it. I’ve not only seen it, I’ve fought it. Man and beast, battling it out in the mouth of Donovan’s Drain. It tried to get Doo Dah. It eats dogs. And cats. It loves them. Crunches their bones. But I stopped it, I taught it a thing or two.’ Grandad jumped out of bed and grabbed a broom out of a cupboard. He started to battle an imaginary dragon, stabbing at it with the broom and then jumping backwards.

  He leapt up onto the bed. He was as fit as a lion. ‘Try to get Doo Dah, will you? Try to eat my dog? Take that, and that, you smelly fiend.’ He lunged at the dragon that wasn’t there, brandishing the broom like a spear. He looked like a small, wild pirate trying to stop the enemy from boarding his ship.

  Suddenly a cold, crisp voice cut across the room. ‘Get back in bed,’ it ordered. It was Nurse Gribble. Her mean eyes flashed. ‘Stop this nonsense at once,’ she snapped at Grandad. ‘There is no such thing as a dragon. It’s all in your head. You are a silly old man.’

  ‘He’s not,’ I shouted. ‘He’s not silly. He’s my Grandad and he shouldn’t be in here. He wants to get out.’

  The nurse narrowed her eyes until they were as thin as needles. ‘You are upsetting him,’ she said to me. ‘I want you out of here in five minutes.’ Then she spun around and left the room.

  ‘I’ve got to escape,’ said Grandad as he climbed slowly back into his bed. ‘I’ve got to see the sun and the stars and feel the breeze on my face. I’ve got to touch trees and smell the salt air at the beach. And my tomato plants – they will die without me. This place is a jail. I would sooner be dead than live here.’ His bottom lip started to tremble. ‘Get a photo, Chris. Get a photo of the dragon. Then they will know it’s true. Then they will have to let me out. I’m not crazy – there really is a dragon.’

  He grabbed my arm and stared urgently into my eyes. ‘Please, Chris, please get a photo.’

  ‘Okay, Grandad,’ I told him. ‘I’ll get a photo of a dragon, even if I have to go to the end of the earth for it.’

  His eyes grew wilder. ‘Don’t go into the drain. Don’t go into the dragon’s lair. It’s too dangerous. He will munch your bones. Hide. Hide at the opening and when he comes out take his photo. Then run. Run like crazy.’

  ‘When does he come out?’

  ‘At midnight. Always at midnight. That’s why you need the flash on the camera.’

  ‘How long since you last saw the dragon, Grandad?’ I asked.

  ‘Two years,’ he said.

  ‘Two years,’ I echoed. ‘It might be dead by now.’

  ‘If it is dead,’ said Grandad, ‘Then I am as good as dead too.’ He looked gloomily around the sterile room.

  I heard an impatient sigh from outside. ‘Visiting time is over,’ said Nurse Gribble, in icy tones.

  I gave Grandad a kiss on his prickly cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘If there is a dragon I will get his photo.’ The nurse was just about busting her eardrums trying to hear what I said but it was too soft for her to make out the words.

  As she showed me out, Nurse Gribble spoke to me in her sucked-lemon voice. ‘Remember, boy, there’s no such thing as a dragon. If you humour the old man you will not be allowed back.’

  I shook my head as I walked home. Poor Grandad. He thought there was a dragon in Donovan’s Drain. I didn’t know what to do now. I didn’t believe in dragons but a promise is a promise. I would have to go to Donovan’s Drain at midnight at least once. I tried to think of some other way to get Grandad out of that terrible place but nothing came to mind.

  3

  And that is how I came to find myself sitting outside the drain in the middle of the night. It was more like a tunnel than a drain. It disappeared into the black earth from which came all manner of smells and noises. I shivered and waited but nothing happened. No dragon. After a while I walked down to the opening and peered in. I could hear the echo of pinging drips of water and strange gurglings. It was as black as the insides of a rat’s gizzards.

  In the end I went there five nights in a row. I didn’t see Grandad in that time because the nurse would only let me visit once a week. Each night I sat and sat outside the drain but not the slightest trace of a dragon appeared. It gave me time to think and I started to wonder if perhaps Grandad’s story could be true. What if he had seen a dragon? It could be asleep for the winter – hibernating. Perhaps dragons slept for years. It might not come out again for ten years. In the end I decided there was only one way to find out.

  I had to go in.

  The next night I crept out of the back door when Mum was asleep. I carried a torch and Grandad’s camera and I wore a parka and two jumpers. It was freezing.

  I walked carefully along the drain with one foot on either side of the small, smelly stream that ran down the middle. It was big enough for me to stand upright. I was scared, I will tell you that now. It was absolutely black to the front. Behind me the dull night glow of the entrance grew smaller and smaller. I didn’t want to go but I forced myself to keep walking into the blackness. Finally I looked back and could no longer see the entrance.

  I was alone in the bowels of the earth in the middle of the night. I remembered Grandad’s words. ‘Don’t go into the dragon’s lair. It’s too dangerous. He will munch your bones.’

  I also remembered Nurse Gribble’s words. ‘There’s no such thing as a dragon.’ I almost wished she was right.

  The strong beam of the torch was my only consolation. I shone it in every crack and nook. Suddenly the idea of a dragon did not seem silly. In my mind I could see the horrible beast with red eyes and dribbling saliva, waiting there to clasp me in its cruel claws.

  I don’t know how I did it but I managed to walk on for a couple of hours. I had to try. I had to check out Grandad’s tale. I owed him that much.

  Finally the tunnel opened into a huge cavern. It was big enough to fit ten houses inside. Five tunnels opened into the cavern. Four of them were made out of concrete but the fifth was more like a cave that had been dug out by a giant rabbit. The earth sides were covered in a putrid green slime and deep scratch marks.

  I carefully made my way into the mouth of this cave. I wanted to turn and run. I wanted to scream. I half wished that a dragon would grab me and finish me off just to get it over and done with. Anything would be better than the terror that shook my jellied flesh.

  I stumbled and fell many times, as the floor was covered in the same slime as the walls. The tunnel twisted around and upwards like a corkscrew. As I progressed a terrible smell became stronger and stronger. It wa
s so bad that I had to tie my handkerchief over my mouth.

  Just as I was about to give up I stood on something that scrunched under my feet. It was a bone. I shone the torch on the floor and saw that small bones were scattered everywhere. There were bones of every shape and size – many of them were small skulls. On one I noticed a circle of leather with a brass tag attached. It said ‘Timmy’. I knew it was a dog’s collar.

  As I pushed on, the bones became deeper and deeper until at last they were like a current sweeping around my knees. My whole body was shaking with fear but still I pressed on. I had to get that photo. The only way to get Grandad out of that sanatorium was to prove he wasn’t mad.

  Finally the tunnel opened up into another cavern that was so large my torch beam could not reach the roof. And in the middle, spread out across a mountain of treasure, was the dragon.

  4

  His cruel white jaws gaped at me and his empty eyes were pools of blackness. He made no movement and neither did I. I stood there with my knees banging together like jackhammers.

  The horrible creature did not jump up and crunch my bones. He couldn’t. He was dead.

  He was just a pile of bones with his wings stretched out in one last effort to protect his treasure. He had been huge and ugly. The dried out bones of his wings were petrified in earthbound flight. His skull dripped with slime and leered at me as if he still sought to snap my tiny body in two.

  And the treasure that he sought to hoard? It was poor indeed. Piles of junk. Broken television sets, discarded transistor radios, dustbin lids, old car wheels, bottles, a broken pram, cracked mirrors and twisted picture frames. There was not a diamond or a gold sword to be seen. The dragon had been king of a junk heap. He had saved every piece of rubbish that had floated down the drain.

  Now I could get what I came for. I could take a photo. I stood on a smooth rock and snapped away with my camera. This was the evidence that would save Grandad. I took about ten photos before my foot slipped and the torch and camera spun into the air. I heard them clatter onto the dragon’s pile of junk. The torch blinked as it landed and then flicked out. I was in pitch blackness. Alone with a dead dragon.