Unbearable! Page 3

  Kim puts the bird down on the ground. It is always on the ground because it can’t fly. ‘Tie up Skip,’ says Kim, ‘and I’ll let Beethoven out for a walk.’

  I do what she says. I would do anything for Kim. I would even roll over on my back and beg like Skip. Just for a smile. But Kim hardly knows I am here. I tie up Skip and Kim lets Beethoven out for a walk. He chirps and sings and walks around the back yard. It reminds me of a little yellow penguin walking around on green snow.

  Skip is tied up so she just sits and looks at Beethoven and licks her lips.

  3

  After a while Kim shuts Beethoven back in the aviary and puts the brick in front of the door. Skip sticks one ear up in the air (the other one won’t move) and looks cute. Kim gives her a pat and a cuddle. ‘She’s a lovely dog,’ she says. ‘But you have to keep her away from Beethoven.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

  Kim smiles at me again. Then she says something that makes my heart jump. ‘Next to Beethoven, you are my best friend.’

  It is hard to tell you how I feel when I hear this. My stomach goes all wobbly. It reminds me of a bunch of frogs jumping around inside a bag.

  I walk back to our place feeling great. Wonderful. Mum isn’t home so I can let Skip inside. Mum doesn’t like Skip being in the house. Skip is a smart dog. She can open the door with her paw if it is left a little bit ajar.

  Mum won’t let Skip in because she once did a bit of poop under the dresser. It did not smell very nice and I had to clean it up. Skip’s poop reminds me a bit of …

  ‘I think we can miss that bit,’ says Mr Marsden who is listening to my story carefully and looking at me through the bars of the bird cage.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll move on to the awful bit.’

  4

  I do not see Kim for two days because I have to visit Grandma with Mum. We leave Skip at the dog kennels all day Friday and Saturday. When we get back we collect her from the kennels. Poor Skip. She can’t even put up one ear. She hates the dog kennels. She cries and whimpers whenever she has to stay there. But she is too scared of the other dogs to bark.

  We drive home with Skip on my knee. She looks at me with those big brown eyes. They remind me a bit of two pools of gravy spilt on the tablecloth.

  ‘Skip can sleep inside tonight,’ I say to Mum.

  ‘No,’ says Mum. ‘You tie her up in the shed, the same as always.’

  Poor Skip. That night I do not tie her up. I sneak her into my bedroom and let her sleep in bed with me. She is a very clean dog. She is always licking and chewing herself.

  Mum, however, has a keen sense of smell. She will know that Skip has been in. Even when you burn incense in your room Mum can still smell dog. I open the window to let in the fresh air. Then I fall asleep and have a lovely dream. All about how Kim and I and Beethoven and Skip get married and all live together on a tropical island. It reminds me a bit of one of those pretend stories that always have a lovely ending. I wish real life was like that.

  The next day is Sunday. I sleep in until the sun shines on my face and wakes me up. A soft wind is blowing into the room. I get out of bed and shut the window.

  Skip has gone.

  5

  I look out of the window and see Skip running around with a yellow tennis ball.

  I think about how Mum doesn’t like getting dog spit on the tennis balls. It leaves green marks on her hands.

  Green marks. Our tennis balls are green.

  What is that yellow thing in Skip’s mouth? I jump out of the window and run down the yard. Skip sees me coming. A chase. She loves a chase. She runs off at top speed. She reminds me a bit of a rabbit bobbing up and down as it runs away from a hunter.

  My heart is beating very fast. ‘Please,’ I say to myself. ‘Let it be a ball. Let it be Mum’s best glove. Let it be my new transistor radio. But don’t let it be …’ It is too awful to even say.

  I run after Skip. She loves the fun. She runs under the house. ‘Come out,’ I yell. ‘Come out, you rotten dog.’ Skip does not move. ‘I’ll kill you,’ I yell. I am shouting. There are tears in my eyes.

  Skip knows that I’m mad. She rolls over on her back and begs. Way under the house where I can’t even get her. She drops the yellow thing and nicks off.

  Oh, no. I can’t bear it. I crawl under the house on my stomach. It is dusty and dirty. There are spiders but I don’t even notice them.

  I stretch out my hand and I grab the little bundle of feathers. It is Beethoven. Dead. He is smeared with blood and dirt and dog spit. His eyes are white and hard. His little legs are stiff. They remind me of frozen twigs on a bare tree. Beethoven stares at me without seeing. He has sung his last song.

  Tears carve tracks down my face. They run into my mouth and I taste salt.

  Everything is ruined. My life is over. My dog has killed Beethoven. It is all my fault. If I had tied Skip up this would never have happened. My head swims. When Kim finds out she will cry. She will hate me. She will hate Skip.

  Her mum will tell my mum. What will they do to Skip?

  6

  I crawl out into the back yard. Skip is wagging her tail slowly. She knows something is wrong. I feel funny inside. For a second I feel like kicking Skip hard. I feel like kicking her so hard that she will fly up over the fence.

  Then I look into her gravy-pool eyes and I know that she is just a dog. ‘Oh, Skip,’ I cry. ‘Oh, Skip, Skip, Skip. What have you done?’ Then I say to myself. ‘Gary, Gary, Gary, what have you done?’

  I tie Skip up. Then I take Beethoven into my bedroom. He is so small and stiff and shrunken. He reminds me a bit of my own heart.

  I think about Kim. She mustn’t find out. What if I go and buy another yellow budgie? One that looks the same. She will never know. Kim’s car is not there. They are out.

  I go down to the garage and get this old golden cage that is covered in dust. When I was a little kid I used to think it was made of real gold. ‘No,’ Mum told me, ‘it is only gilt.’

  I wrap up Beethoven in a tissue and put him carefully in my pocket. Then I look in my wallet. Seven dollars. Just enough. I jump on my bike with the golden cage tied to the back. Where do they sell budgies? At the market. It is late. The market will be closing soon.

  I ride like I have never ridden before. The wind whips my hair. I puff. I pant. Sweat runs into my eyes. I ride up Wheeler’s Hill without getting off my bike. No one has ever ridden up Wheeler’s Hill before. My heart is hurting. My legs are aching. I look at my watch. It’s five o’clock. The market will be closed.

  It is. The trucks are all leaving. The shoppers have gone. The ground is covered in hot-dog papers and cabbage leaves. The stalls are empty.

  I look at the trucks. One or two men are still loading. I drop my bike and run from truck to truck. Car parts – no. Plants – no. Watches – no. Chocolates – no. Fairyfloss – no. I look in each truck. None have pets.

  I am done. I hang my head. Beethoven is dead. Kim will hate me. Kim will hate Skip. What will happen?

  I walk back slowly. Men are laughing. Children are calling. Cats are meowing.

  Cats are meowing? Pets.

  There is a lady with a small van and in the back are cats, dogs, guinea pigs and birds. There is a large cage full of birds.

  ‘Please,’ I yell. ‘Please. Have you got any budgies?’

  ‘They are up the back of the truck,’ she says. ‘I can’t get them out now. Come back next week.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I sob. ‘I need it now.’

  The lady shakes her head and starts up her van. I take Beethoven out of my pocket and unwrap him. The lady looks at the little blood-stained body. She turns off the engine with a sigh and starts to unload the van.

  At last we get the cage of birds unloaded. There are canaries and finches. The cage is filled with birds. There are about twenty budgies. There are green ones and blue ones.

  And there is one yellow one. It looks just like Beethoven. It is a ringer for Beethov
en. I will put this bird in Kim’s cage and she will never know the difference.

  ‘Ten dollars,’ says the lady. ‘Yellow ones are hard to get.’

  I empty my wallet. ‘I only have seven dollars,’ I tell her.

  The lady takes my money with a smile and gently hands me the bird. ‘I was young once myself,’ she says.

  I put the bird in my golden cage and pedal like crazy. My trip back reminds me a bit of a sailing boat skidding to shore in a storm. I hope I can get there before Kim arrives home. I have to put the new bird in the cage before she knows Beethoven is dead.

  7

  Finally I get home. There is no car at Kim’s house yet. They are still out. I rush into the backyard and down to the aviary where the wire door is flapping in the wind. The new budgie is sitting on the perch in my golden cage. It flaps its wings.

  Wings?

  Beethoven only had one wing. Beethoven couldn’t fly. Oh no. Kim will know straight away that the new bird is not Beethoven.

  My plan has failed. I take out the little bird and stretch out its wings. It has one wing too many. ‘Little bird, little bird,’ I say. ‘You’re no good to me like this. What will I do with you?’

  There is only one thing to do. I throw the tiny budgie up into the air. ‘Goodbye, little bird,’ I say. It flies off in a flurry of feathers and disappears for ever.

  I go home.

  All is lost. Kim will know what Skip has done. Kim will know what I have done. I let Skip run free. I didn’t chain her up like Mum told me. It is all my fault. I am a murderer. I am responsible for Beethoven’s death.

  I will never be able to look at Kim. She will never want to look at me.

  Then I get an idea. I’ll bury Beethoven and say nothing. Kim will think he has escaped and walked off.

  No. That’s no good. Kim will still think Skip opened the cage. And she’ll ask me to help look for Beethoven. I would have to pretend to hunt for the bird knowing it was dead.

  I get another idea. It is better. But terrible. I will sneak back to the cage and put Beethoven inside. I will lock up the cage with the brick. Kim will think that Beethoven has died of old age.

  But Beethoven is covered in blood and dirt and dried-up dog spit.

  I will have to clean him. I take Beethoven’s body to the laundry and wash him gently. I hate myself for doing this. The blood starts to rinse out. But not all of it. I soak him for a while. I try detergent. I try soap. At last he is clean.

  He is clean. And dead. And wet.

  8

  I go and fetch Mum’s hair dryer and I dry out Beethoven’s feathers until they are all fluffy and new. I gently close his staring eyes. Then, I sneak down to Kim’s back yard. I remind myself a bit of a robber skulking around a jewellery shop.

  I go inside the aviary door and put Beethoven down on the sawdust. No one will ever know my terrible secret. I am safe. Skip is safe. Kim will still like us. I close the door, replace the brick and go home.

  That night I cannot sleep. I see Kim’s sad face. I dream of myself in jail. Nobody likes me. Nobody wants me. I have caused sorrow and pain.

  In the morning I look out of my window. I see Kim and her mum and dad. They are gathered around the cage. I can’t hear what they are saying. I don’t want to know what they are saying. Kim will be crying. Her tears will be falling. If I could see them they would remind me of a salty waterfall.

  I see Kim’s father put an arm around her shoulder. I wish it could be my arm. I see her mum pick up Beethoven gently in her hand.

  I can’t look at them any more. Everything is my fault. Poor Skip is just a dog. I should have tied her up. Murderer. I am a murderer. And no one will ever know. My horrible secret will stay with me forever.

  I get the golden cage and rush out to the garage. I cut a hole in the bottom with tin snips. I push my head through the hole. I will wear the golden cage for the rest of my life. It is my punishment. It is what I get for what I did. I will never take it off.

  9

  Mr Marsden is looking at me sadly. ‘You made a mistake,’ he says. ‘A little mistake that made big things happen. But it wasn’t your fault. And even if it was, you can’t carry around the burden for ever. Like a rock on your shoulders. Or a cage on your head. You have to face up to it. Tell Kim. And then go on living.’

  We are still sitting on the sick-room bed. Looking out of the window. A girl is slowly walking into the school grounds. She is late for school. She reminds me of a lonely ghost.

  It is Kim.

  Mr Marsden walks out and brings her into the room. Her eyes are red, but still lovely. Her face is sad. It reminds me of a statue of a beautiful princess who has passed away. I cannot look at her. I shrink down in my cage.

  ‘I’m sorry to be late,’ she says to Mr Marsden. ‘But something happened at home. My budgie Beethoven died on Friday. Dad says he died of old age.’

  I hang my head in shame. I can’t tell her the truth. I just can’t.

  Friday?

  ‘Not Friday,’ I say. ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘No,’ says Kim. ‘He died on Friday. We buried him in the back yard. But someone dug him up and put him back in the aviary.’

  I take the cage off my head and throw it in the bin. After school I walk home with Kim. She holds my hand. It sort of reminds me of, well, flying free, like we are up there in the clouds with Beethoven.

  Next Time Around

  It all started when I was reading a comic called… what was it again …? I forget now. Anyway, this comic reckoned you could hypnotise chickens by staring them in the eye and making chook noises.

  Well, it was worth a try. See, Dad had this prize chook named Rastus. It used to win ribbons at the show. He kept it in a cage in the garage and gave it nothing but the best to eat. Dad loved Rastus.

  It was a smart chook. I have to admit that. You probably won’t believe me when I tell you that Rastus could understand English. ‘Rastus,’ Dad would say. ‘Count to four.’ Rastus would peck on the cage four times. No kidding. It could go all the way up to twenty-two without making a mistake. It sure was brainy.

  Anyway, I wanted to see if the comic was right. It would be great to hypnotise a chook. I sneaked out to the garage and let Rastus onto the floor. Then I did what it said in the comic. I stared straight into Rastus’ eyes. ‘Puck, puck, puck, puck,’ I said.

  Rastus didn’t take any notice. He just started scratching around on the ground. It didn’t work. Things in comics never do. Still, I decided to give it one more try. This time I changed pitch. I made my voice higher. More like a chook’s. ‘Puck, puck, puck, puck,’ I went.

  Well, you wouldn’t believe it. The silly chook froze like a statue. Its eyes went all glassy. It stood as still as a rock. Not a blink. Not a movement. It was out to it. Hypnotised. I had done it. Fantastic.

  2

  I walked around and around the staring chook. I poked it with my finger. It still didn’t move. I grinned to myself. I could hypnotise chooks. Maybe this would make me famous. I could go on the stage. Or the TV. People would pay good money to see the boy who could put a chook into a trance.

  Still and all, Dad wasn’t going to like it much. He wouldn’t win many ribbons with a chicken that just stood and stared.

  The back door banged. I could hear Dad packing his fishing rod in the car.

  I clicked my fingers at the chook. ‘Okay, Rastus,’ I said. ‘You can snap out of it now.’

  Rastus didn’t move.

  I tried something different. ‘When I say bananas,’ I said to Rastus, ‘you will wake up. You will feel happy and well. You will not remember anything that has happened.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Bananas,’ I said.

  Rastus stared to the front like a solid, feathered soldier.

  I picked him up and looked into his eyes. ‘Speak to me, Rastus,’ I said. ‘Puck, puck, puck.’ I gave him a vigorous shake.

  Rastus was rigid. The rotten rooster was out like a light.

  Dad’s footsteps came toward
s the garage. ‘Oh no,’ I said.

  I grabbed Rastus and my school bag and nicked out of the back door. Dad was going to be mad when he found out that Rastus had gone. But not as mad as he would be if he knew what I’d done. I wasn’t even supposed to go anywhere near the bloomin’ chook. And if I couldn’t get it out of its trance it might die of starvation.

  3

  I made my way slowly to school with the frozen fowl tucked under my arm. Its glassy eyes stared ahead without blinking.

  ‘What have you got there?’ said a loud voice. It was Splinter, my best mate.

  ‘It’s Rastus,’ I said.

  Splinter whistled. ‘Wow. How did he die?’

  ‘He’s not dead. He’s hypnotised. I can’t bring him round.’

  By now we had reached the school gate. ‘Pull the other one,’ said Splinter.

  ‘No, it’s true,’ I said. ‘I’m a hypnotist. I did it.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Splinter. ‘Hypnotise me then.’

  I looked around the school ground. Kids were staring at me because I was standing there with a bit of petrified poultry under my arm. I could feel my face going red. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I will. But first I have to hide Rastus.’

  We found a little trap door under one of the portable classrooms and hid Rastus inside. He looked kind of sad, staring out at us from the dark.

  Splinter stretched himself out on a bench. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get on with it. Put me in a trance.’

  A group of kids gathered around. They were all scoffing like mad. They wanted to see me hypnotise Splinter. They didn’t really think I could do it. Neither did I. A chook was one thing. But a person was another.