Unreal Collection! Page 9

  I was made lighthouse keeper. I have been here for a year now. I love the island; I hope I can always stay here. But it gets very lonely. I often wish that Stan was still alive.

  Last night something happened. Something good. It was Friday. I was just closing my eyes when I thought I heard music. It was coming from the lighthouse. I jumped out of bed and ran as fast as I could. I stopped when I reached the music-room door. It was a saxophone and a clarinet. But something was different. I pushed open the door a tiny bit and peeped in. The clarinet and the saxophone were floating in the air as usual. But there was another instrument as well. It was a violin. It looked as if it was playing itself. But I knew that Stan was playing it. There were three ghosts now.

  I smiled to myself and closed the door. As I walked back down the stairs I hummed a tune to myself. I knew the song well. It was ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’.

  Tomorrow when Dad calms down I’ll own up. Tell him the truth. He might laugh. He might cry. He might strangle me. But I have to put him out of his misery.

  I like my dad. He takes me fishing. He gives me arm wrestles in front of the fire on cold nights. He plays Scrabble instead of watching the news. He tries practical jokes on me. And he keeps his promises. Always.

  But he has two faults. Bad faults. One is to do with flies. He can’t stand them. If there’s a fly in the room he has to kill it. He won’t use fly spray because of the ozone layer so he chases them with a fly swat. He races around the house swiping and swatting like a mad thing. He won’t stop until the fly is flat. Squashed. Squished – sometimes still squirming on the end of the fly swat.

  He’s a dead-eye shot. He hardly ever misses. When his old fly swat was almost worn out I bought him a nice new yellow one for his birthday. It wasn’t yellow for long. It soon had bits of fly smeared all over it.

  It’s funny, the different colours that squashed flies have inside them. Mostly it is black or brown. But often there are streaks of runny red stuff and sometimes bits of blue. The wings flash like diamonds if you hold them up to the light. But mostly the wings fall off unless they are stuck to the swat with a bit of squashed innards.

  2

  Chasing flies is Dad’s first fault. His second one is table manners. He is mad about manners.

  And it is always my manners that are the matter.

  ‘Andrew,’ he says. ‘Don’t put your elbows on the table.’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’

  ‘Don’t lick your fingers.’

  ‘Don’t dunk your biscuit in the coffee.’

  This is the way he goes on every meal time. He has a thing about flies and a thing about manners.

  Anyway, to get back to the story. One day Dad is peeling the potatoes for tea. I am looking for my fifty cents that rolled under the table about a week ago. Mum is cutting up the cabbage and talking to Dad. They do not know that I am there. It is a very important meal because Dad’s boss, Mr Spinks, is coming for tea. Dad never stops going on about my manners when someone comes for tea.

  ‘You should stop picking on Andrew at tea time,’ says Mum.

  ‘I don’t,’ says Dad.

  ‘Yes you do,’ says Mum. ‘It’s always “don’t do this, don’t do that”. You’ll give the boy a complex.’ I have never heard of a complex before but I guess that it is something awful like pimples.

  ‘Tonight,’ says Mum. ‘I want you to go for the whole meal without telling Andrew off once.’

  ‘Easy,’ says Dad.

  ‘Try hard,’ says Mum, ‘Promise me that you won’t get cross with him.’

  Dad looks at her for a long time. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘It’s a deal. I won’t say one thing about his manners. But you’re not allowed to either. What’s good for me is good for you.’

  ‘Shake,’ says Mum. They shake hands and laugh.

  I find the fifty cents and sneak out. I take a walk down the street to spend it before tea. Dad has promised not to tell me off at tea time. I think about how I can make him crack. It should be easy. I will slurp my soup. He hates that. He will tell me off. He might even yell. I just know that he can’t go for the whole meal without going crook. ‘This is going to be fun,’ I say to myself.

  3

  That night Mum sets the table with the new tablecloth. And the best knives and forks. And the plates that I am not allowed to touch. She puts out serviettes in little rings. All of this means that it is an important meal. We don’t usually use serviettes.

  Mr Spinks comes in his best suit. He wears gold glasses and he frowns a lot. I can tell that he doesn’t like children. You can always tell when adults don’t like kids. They smile at you with their lips but not with their eyes.

  Anyway, we sit down to tea. I put my secret weapon on the floor under the table. I’m sure that I can make Dad crack without using it. But it is there if all else fails.

  The first course is soup and bread rolls. I make loud slurping noises with the soup. No one says anything about it. I make the slurping noises longer and louder. They go on and on and on. It sounds like someone has pulled the plug out of the bath. Dad clears his throat but doesn’t say anything.

  I try something different. I dip my bread in the soup and make it soggy. Then I hold it high above my head and drop it down into my mouth. I catch it with a loud slopping noise. I try again with an even bigger bit. This time I miss my mouth and the bit of soupy bread hits me in the eye.

  Nothing is said. Dad looks at me. Mum looks at me. Mr Spinks tries not to look at me. They are talking about how Dad might get a promotion at work. They are pretending that I am not revolting.

  The next course is chicken. Dad will crack over the chicken. He’ll say something. He hates me picking up the bones.

  The chicken is served. ‘I’ve got the chicken’s bottom,’ I say in a loud voice.

  Dad glares at me but he doesn’t answer. I pick up the chicken and start stuffing it into my mouth with my fingers. I grab a roast potato and break it in half. I dip my fingers into the margarine and put some on the potato. It runs all over the place.

  I have never seen anyone look as mad as the way Dad looks at me. He glares. He stares. He clears his throat. But still he doesn’t crack. What a man. Nothing can make him break his promise.

  I snap a chicken bone in half and suck out the middle. It is hollow and I can see right through it. I suck and slurp and swallow. Dad is going red in the face. Little veins are standing out on his nose. But still he does not crack.

  The last course is baked apple and custard. I will get him with that. Mr Spinks has stopped talking about Dad’s promotion. He is discussing something about discipline. About setting limits. About insisting on standards. Something like that. I put the hollow bone into the custard and use it like a straw. I suck the custard up the hollow chicken bone.

  Dad clears his throat. He is very red in the face. ‘Andrew,’ he says.

  He is going to crack. I have won.

  ‘Yes,’ I say through a mouth full of custard.

  ‘Nothing,’ he mumbles.

  Dad is terrific. He is under enormous pressure but still he keeps his cool. There is only one thing left to do. I take out my secret weapon.

  4

  I place the yellow fly swat on the table next to my knife.

  Everyone looks at it lying there on the white tablecloth. They stare and stare and stare. But nothing is said.

  I pick up the fly swat and start to lick it. I lick it like an ice-cream. A bit of chewy, brown goo comes off on my tongue. I swallow it quickly. Then I crunch a bit of crispy, black stuff.

  Mr Spinks rushes out to the kitchen. I can hear him being sick in the kitchen sink.

  Dad stands up. It is too much for him. He cracks. ‘Aaaaaagh,’ he screams. He charges at me with hands held out like claws.

  I run for it. I run down to my room and lock the door. Dad yells and shouts. He kicks and screams. But I lie low.

  Tomorrow, when he calms down, I’ll own up. I’ll tell him how I went down the street and bough
t a new fly swat for fifty cents. I’ll tell him about the currants and little bits of licorice that I smeared on the fly swat.

  I mean, I wouldn’t really eat dead flies. Not unless it was for something important anyway.

  The twins sat on the beach throwing bits of their lunch to the seagulls.

  ‘I don’t like telling a lie to Grandma,’ said Tracy. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. She has looked after us since Mum and Dad died. We would be in a children’s home if it wasn’t for her.’

  Gemma sighed. ‘We won’t be hurting Grandma. We will be doing her a favour. If we find Dad’s rubies we can sell them for a lot of money. Then we can fix up Seagull Shack and give Grandma a bit of cash as well.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait until we are eighteen? Dad’s will says that we will own Seagull Shack then. We can even go and live there if you want to,’ replied Tracy.

  Gemma started to get cross. ‘I’ve told you a million times. We won’t be eighteen for another three years. The last person who hiked in to Seagull Shack said that it was falling to pieces. If we wait that long the place will be blown off the cliff or wrecked by vandals. Then we’ll never find the rubies. They are inside that shack. I’m sure Dad hid them inside before he died.’

  Tracy threw another crust to the seagulls. ‘Well, what are you going to tell Grandma, then?’

  ‘We tell her that we are staying at Surfside One camping ground for the night. Then we set out for Seagull Shack by hiking along the cliffs. If we leave in the morning we can get there in the afternoon. We spend the night searching the house for the rubies. If we find them, Grandma will have a bit of money in the bank and we can send in some builders by boat to fix up Seagull Shack.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Tracy to her sister. ‘What makes you think we are going to find the rubies? The place was searched and searched after Dad died and neither of them was found.’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t searched by us. We know every corner of that shack. And we knew Dad. We know how his mind worked. We can search in places no one else would think of. I think I know where they are anyway. I have an idea. I think Dad hid them in the stuffed seagull. I had a dream about it.’

  ‘Hey, did you see that?’ yelled Tracy without warning. ‘Where did that crust go?’

  ‘What crust?’

  ‘I threw a crust to the seagulls and it vanished.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Gemma. ‘One of the birds got it. Bread doesn’t just vanish.’

  Tracy threw another scrap of bread into the air. It started to fall to the ground and then stopped as if caught by an invisible hand. It rose high above their heads, turned and headed off into the distance. All the other gulls flapped after it, squawking and quarrelling as they went.

  ‘Wow,’ shrieked Gemma. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Tracy slowly. ‘Something flew off with it. Something we couldn’t see. Something invisible. Perhaps a bird.’

  Gemma started to laugh. ‘A ghost gull maybe?’

  ‘That’s not as funny as you think,’ said Tracy. ‘It’s a sign. Something or Someone wants us to go to Seagull Shack.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve got it wrong,’ replied Gemma. ‘Maybe something doesn’t want us to go to Seagull Shack.’

  The wind suddenly changed to the south west and both girls shivered.

  2

  Two days later Tracy and Gemma struggled along the deserted and desolate clifftops. They were weighed down with hiking packs and water bottles. Far below them the Southern Ocean swelled and sucked at the rocky cliff. Overhead the blue sky was broken only by a tiny white seagull which circled slowly in the salt air.

  ‘How far to go?’ moaned Gemma. ‘My feet are killing me. We’ve been walking for hours.’

  ‘It’s not far now,’ said Tracy. ‘Just around the next headland. We should be able to see the old brown roof any moment . . . Hey, what was that?’ She felt her hair and pulled out some sticky, white goo. Then she looked up at the seagull circling above. ‘You rotten fink,’ she yelled at it. ‘Look at this. That seagull has hit me with bird droppings.’

  Gemma lay down on the grassy slope and started to laugh. ‘Imagine that,’ she gasped. ‘There are miles and miles of cliff top with no one around and that bird has to drop its dung right on your head.’ Her laughter stopped abruptly as something splotted into her eye. ‘Aaaaagh, it’s hit me in the eye. The stupid bird is bombing us.’

  They looked up and saw that there were now four or five birds circling above. One of them swooped down and released its load. Another white splodge hit Tracy’s head. The other birds followed one after the other, each dropping its foul load onto one of the girls’ hair. They put their hands on top of their heads and started to run. More and more birds gathered, circling, wheeling and diving above the fleeing figures. Bird droppings rained down like weighted snow.

  The girls stumbled on. There was no shelter on the exposed, wind-swept cliffs – there was no escape from the guano blizzard which engulfed them.

  Tracy stumbled and fell. Tears cut a trail through the white mess on her face. ‘Come on,’ cried Gemma. ‘Keep going – we must find cover.’ She dragged her sister to her feet and both girls groped their way through the white storm being released from above by the squealing, swirling gulls.

  Finally, exhausted and blinded, the twins collapsed into each other’s arms. They huddled together and tried to protect themselves from the pelting muck by holding their packs over their heads. Gemma began to cough. The white excrement filled her ears, eyes and nostrils. She had to fight for every breath.

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, the attack ended. The whole flock sped out to sea and disappeared over the horizon.

  The girls sat there panting and sobbing. Each was covered in a dripping, white layer of bird dung. Finally Gemma gasped. ‘I can’t believe this. Look at us. Covered in bird droppings. Did that really happen? Where have they gone?’ She looked anxiously out to sea.

  ‘They’ve probably run out of ammo,’ said Tracy. ‘We had better get to the shack as quick as we can before they come back.’

  3

  An hour later the two girls struggled up to the shack. It sat high above the sea, perched dangerously on the edge of a cliff which fell straight to the surging ocean beneath. Its battered tin roof and peeling, wooden walls stood defiantly against the might of the ocean winds.

  Both girls felt tears springing to their eyes. ‘It reminds me of Dad and all those fishing holidays we had here with him,’ said Tracy. They stood there on the old porch for a moment, looking and remembering.

  ‘This won’t do,’ said Gemma as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. ‘Let’s get cleaned up and start looking for those two rubies.’

  Inside was much as they remembered it. There were only two rooms: a kitchen with an old table and three chairs, and fishing rods and nets littered around; and a bedroom with three mattresses on the floor. The kitchen also contained a sink and an old sideboard with a huge, stuffed seagull standing on it. It had only one leg and a black patch on each wing. It stared out of one of the mist-covered windows at the sky and the waves beyond.

  ‘It almost looks alive,’ shivered Tracy. ‘Why did Dad shoot it anyway? He didn’t believe in killing birds.’

  ‘It was wounded,’ answered Gemma. ‘So he put it out of its misery. Then he stuffed it and mounted it because it was so big. He said it was the biggest gull he had ever seen.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tracy, ‘I’m glad you’re the one who is going to look inside it for the rubies, because I’m not going to touch it. I don’t like it.’

  ‘First,’ said Gemma, ‘we clean off all this muck. Then we start searching for the rubies.’ The two girls cleaned themselves with tank water from the tap in the sink. Then they sat down at the table and looked at the stuffed seagull. Gemma cut a small slit in its belly and carefully pulled out the stuffing. A silence fell over the hut and the cliff top. Not even the waves could be heard.

  The air seemed to be filled with silent sob
bing.

  ‘The rubies aren’t there,’ said Gemma at last. She put the stuffing back in the dead bird and placed it on its stand. ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ she went on. ‘I didn’t like the feel of it. It gave me bad vibes.’

  As the lonely darkness settled on the shack, the girls continued their hunt for the rubies. They lit a candle and searched on into the night without success. At last, too tired to go on, Tracy unrolled her sleeping bag and prepared for bed. She walked over to the window to pull across the curtain but froze before reaching it. A piercing scream filled the shack. ‘Look,’ she shrieked. ‘Look.’

  Both girls stared in terror at the huge seagull sitting outside on the windowsill. It gazed in at them, blinking ever y now and then with fier y, red eyes. ‘I can see into it,’ whispered Gemma. ‘I can see its gizzards. It’s transparent.’

  The lonely bird stared, pleaded with them silently and then crouched on its single leg and flapped off into the moonlight.

  Before either girl could speak, a soft pitter-patter began on the tin roof. Soon it grew louder until the shack was filled with a tremendous drumming. ‘What a storm,’ yelled Gemma.

  ‘It’s not a storm,’ Tracy shouted back. ‘It’s the birds. The seagulls have returned. They are bombing the house.’ She stared in horror at the ghostly flock that filled the darkness with ghastly white rain.

  All through the night the drumming on the roof continued. Towards the dawn it grew softer but never for a moment did it stop. Finally the girls fell asleep, unable to keep their weary eyes open any longer.

  4

  At 10 a.m. Tracy awoke in the darkness and pressed on the light in her digital watch. ‘Wake up,’ she yelled. ‘It’s getting late.’