Just Stupid! (16 page)

   I stand back and admire my work. Looks cool. A brown and green snail. And not only does it look good, it’s great camouflage as well. The other snails are going to be so jealous.

   My snail seems pretty happy with its new shell too. It’s frothing and bubbling with excitement. Well, frothing and bubbling anyway. Like I said, it’s hard to tell with snails.

   I wrap long strands of chewing gum around the snail’s shell to hold it all together while the glue dries.

   Done. Good as new. Better than new. And stronger. I reckon I could whack this snail with a hammer and the hammer would just bounce off. Not that I’m actually going to try it. I’ve put this snail through enough trauma for one day.

   I put the snail down in the grass and kneel beside it.

   ‘Go now, little snail,’ I whisper. I want to say more. I want to tell it how sorry I am and that I will never step on another snail for as long as I live. I want to tell it that I will dedicate my life to fighting for the rights of snails so that they can travel the footpaths of the world free from the fear of being stepped on. But I can’t say any of this. I’m too choked up.

   As I watch it begin its slide to freedom I feel a mixture of awe and pride. I’m like those people who save beached whales. Only I’ve done more than just save the snail, I’ve improved it.

   I’m still waving goodbye to the snail half an hour later when I hear the golf buggy again.

   I look up.

   Uh-oh. The gardener is over at the pond, looking at my ice-cream container scoop. I left it beside the pond. And the other fish is still in it. Oops!

   ‘What’s this fish doing in here?’ he says.

   ‘Um . . . would you believe it jumped?’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t believe me because it
was
pretty incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It just leapt out of the water and landed in the container.’

   From the look on his face it is obvious he doesn’t believe me.

   He picks up my scoop.

   ‘Can’t you read the sign?’ he barks. He points to where the
NO FISHING
sign was. He looks. No sign. He looks at the wooden stake in his hand. He looks at the
NO FISHING
sign lying on the grass.

   He turns back to me. His eyes are bulging. He looks a bit like one of the fish. He pours the water and the fish back into the pond and wrenches the container off the wooden stake.

   ‘All right, you troublemaker,’ he says. ‘I’ve
had enough. I want you out of my park!’

   ‘But you don’t understand,’ I say.

   ‘No
you
don’t understand!’ he says. ‘This park is my responsibility. All the plants and animals here are in my care and you are threatening their wellbeing!’

   ‘But I saved a snail,’ I say.

   He is not listening. He is walking towards me slowly, still holding the wooden stake. He slaps it into the palm of his hand.

   ‘Are you going to leave or do I have to make you?’ he says.

   ‘Now don’t do anything you might regret,’ I say, backing away slowly.

   ‘Oh, I won’t regret it,’ he says, slapping his hand with the stake again.

   I reach for my gun.

   ‘Don’t come any closer,’ I say, pointing it at him.

   He laughs and keeps right on coming.

   I squeeze the trigger. Nothing.

   I squeeze it again. Still nothing.

   Drat! Out of caps.

   I’m about to step back when something stops me. I look behind me.

   My snail.

   If I step back I’ll squash it. Again. But if I don’t take the step the gardener will get me for sure.

   It’s me or the snail. I have to take that step. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I made a promise.

   The gardener grabs my collar.

   ‘Gotcha!’ he says.

   I suppose there are worse ways to die than being strangled by an insane gardener. I’m not sure what they are right at the moment, but I’m sure they exist.

   Suddenly there is a flurry of white and black. Clicking and flapping. The magpie! I knew there was a worse way to die.

   I can’t run because the gardener is holding my collar so tight. I close my eyes and get ready to accept my fate. Any moment that enormous black beak will penetrate my skull and it will all be over. I hope I go to heaven and get a pair of angel wings. First thing I’ll do is come back to the park and divebomb the magpie. See how much it likes it.

   What’s taking so long?

   I open my eyes. Just in time to see the magpie score a direct hit. But not on me. On the gardener.

   He screams. He lets go of my collar and starts running. The magpie flies up into the
air, circles and prepares to swoop him again.

   It is a beautiful sight. Almost as beautiful as the sight of my snail still sliding slowly across the grass to freedom. But not quite. Nothing can compare to that.

oices.

   I hear voices.

   I open my eyes.

   Everything’s blurred.

   I close my eyes and open them again.

   Round shapes against a white sky. But still blurred. And my head hurts.

   I feel a hand shaking my shoulder. The two round shapes merge into one and a face appears. It comes in close. I try to make out who it is but the face does not look familiar to me.

   ‘Andy!’ says the face. ‘Are you okay?’

   ‘Who’s Andy?’ I say.

   ‘You’re Andy,’ says the face.

   ‘Who are you?’ I say.

   ‘You know me!’ says the face. ‘I’m Danny. Your best friend. You just got hit in the head. Don’t you remember? We were trying to make a jack-in-the-box. You were just about to test it, but it went off in your face. I can’t believe you don’t remember it.’

   Danny? Jack-in-the-box? My head hurts, that’s for sure, but I don’t remember getting hit. I don’t remember anything about a jack-in-the-box. And I don’t remember anyone called Danny.

   ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say.

   ‘Try sitting up,’ he says.

   ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I say.

   ‘I’d better get you inside,’ he says.

   He helps me to my feet. The ground is spongy. It’s like walking on a mattress.

   I look around me. We’re in somebody’s backyard. There is a clothesline in the centre. It’s bent over at a forty-five degree angle, one of the corners practically sticking into the ground. There’s a half burned-down fence running alongside the driveway. In the carport there’s a mangled pram that looks like it’s been run over by a truck. The whole area looks like it should be cordoned off with yellow tape and declared a disaster zone.

‘Where am I?’ I say.

   ‘In your backyard,’ says the boy.

   ‘My backyard?’ I say.

   He sighs.

   ‘Take it easy up the steps,’ he says.

   I wobble my way to the top of the porch.

   The boy opens a sliding glass door and guides me through it. Inside the house it’s dark and cool.

   ‘Mrs G!’ he calls. ‘Mrs G! Come quick! Andy’s been hurt!’

   ‘Who’s Mrs G?’ I say.

   ‘That’s your mother,’ he says. ‘You must remember your own mother.’

   ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember anything.’

   The boy looks around the room. He grabs my arm and leads me over to a shelf full of photographs.

   He points to one of a man and a woman.

   ‘That’s your mum,’ he says, pointing to the woman.

   ‘And who’s the guy with the big ears?’ I say.

   ‘That’s your dad,’ he says. ‘But you’d better not let him hear you saying he’s got big ears. He goes ballistic.’

   Hmmm. He’s obviously got a bad temper. That would explain the state of the backyard.

   ‘Here’s a photo of you,’ he says.

   He’s pointing to a picture of a group of people in a restaurant. They are all staring at someone in a gorilla suit. The gorilla has spaghetti all over its head.

   I recognise the man and woman from the other photo, but nobody else looks familiar.

   ‘Which one am I?’ I say.

   ‘You’re the one in the gorilla suit,’ he says. ‘Remember? You gave Jen a gorillagram for her birthday and she tipped spaghetti all over you.’

   ‘Jen?’ I say. ‘Who’s Jen?’

   ‘Your sister,’ he says, pointing to the girl in the middle of the photo.

   ‘She looks nice,’ I say.

   The boy looks at me closely.

   ‘You really do have amnesia, don’t you?’ he says.

   ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember.’

   ‘Mrs G?’ he calls again.

   Nobody answers.

   ‘The mother must be out,’ I say.

   ‘Not
the
mother,’ he says. ‘
Your
mother.

You’re really starting to freak me out. Maybe you should go up to your room and have a rest.’

   ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

   ‘Somebody will be home soon,’ he says. ‘I’ll drop by later and see how you are.’

   ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But where’s the bedroom?’

   ‘Upstairs. The one with the big red skull on the door,’ he says. ‘You can’t miss it.’

   ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m glad I met you.’

   ‘Get some rest,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you later.’ I go up the stairs and find the door with the skull on it. Underneath the skull there’s a sign that says
ANDY’S ROOM. DANGER! ENTER AT OWN RISK!

   I walk in.

   Wow, what an amazing smell. Sort of like a sports changing room crossed with a rubbish tip. And the mess! It looks like a bomb went off. Not a normal bomb though. One filled with undies, socks and towels. They’re everywhere. Hanging off the light, the curtain rails and the desk.

   There is a gorilla suit thrown across the bed. A half-eaten banana on the floor. A fish tank full of green slimy water on the windowsill.

   And the bookshelves have some very
weird stuff on them. A severed hand. A jar with an eyeball in it. And a horrible pink teddy bear with a human skull for a head.