Tigers on the Beach (14 page)

‘So am I. I'm more than a friend. Aren't I?'

There is an icy pause. ‘I'm having second thoughts,' says Sam.

People dressed in green are casting worried looks in our direction.

‘Sam, please can we forget this happened?' I say.

‘But it
did
.'

‘Okay, then can it be like one of those scenes in a movie, where the guy and the girl argue but then they kiss and make up and the camera pulls back and –'

‘This isn't a movie. And I'm not going to kiss you when you smell of beer.'

‘Sam, when you say that you're having second thoughts, what do you mean exactly?'

‘What do you think?'

My mind is racing at a hundred kilometres an hour, but in no particular direction.

‘I apologise from the bottom of my heart,' I say. ‘Let's not argue. And you shouldn't be having second thoughts just because I laughed at an inappropriate moment.' Before I can stop myself, the words tumble from my mouth. ‘After all, you did the same to me.'

Sam looks puzzled.

‘The ashes,' I prompt. Sam slumps. ‘Oh.'

‘I don't like it that you laughed when Grandpa's ashes blew in Dad's face,' I say.

‘You should have said.'

‘I didn't know it bothered me so much.'

‘I apologised.'

‘So did I. Just now. To you.'

‘But
I
could have broken my neck.'

‘You fell off a stage and into thick grass. It's not like it was a cliff or anything.'

‘You don't think it's such a big deal?'

‘Well, obviously I'd prefer you
hadn't
fallen, but –'

‘Adam, you're juvenile.'

‘Please don't call me that. ‘

‘But that's what you are.'

I can feel the blood rush to my face. ‘Oh, and I suppose it's very grown-up to laugh at my father with burnt bits of his best friend all over his face?'

Sam pauses. ‘But no one got hurt.'

‘You
didn't get hurt.'

‘I might have.'

‘But you didn't, so it's okay.'

‘It isn't okay at all!' Sam shouts, but doesn't mean to. She checks herself and speaks quietly. ‘I think we should break up.'

‘What?'

‘I don't want a juvenile boyfriend,' she says.

‘Well, I don't want a juvenile girlfriend,' I say.

‘Good.'

‘Good.'

‘See you, Adam,' says Sam.

It hits me. ‘We're really breaking up? Just like that? After I learned so much about Bach?'

‘I never want to see you again,' says Sam.

She walks away.

I think of running after Sam and begging her to change her mind. Then I think of how hypocritical she is. If Sam can laugh at something bad, why can't I? The guy wearing half a dinosaur costume has finished drinking the green beer and gives me a look of pity. It's as if we have something in common.

We've both been wiped out.

The last place I want to be is the Carlington Prehistoric Festival. I bike as quickly as I can, but I'm not headed anywhere. I pedal faster and faster. The bitumen is hot and sticky in the full glare of the sun. I see a blue-tongue lying in the middle of the road and I don't stop to pick him up. His survival doesn't concern me. Sam admired me once for picking up a blue-tongue. But I want to stop thinking about her, and how she cackled like a witch when Grandpa's ashes blew in Dad's face. And what about those stupid cartoons she sent? She's obviously not a stable person. I ride faster and faster. Grandpa wouldn't be proud of me, leaving the blue-tongue on the road like that. The guilt kicks in. I have to turn back and rescue him. It's not his fault that the nicest, warmest place to lie is also the most dangerous.

I skid. My bike chain breaks and I end up crashing into some bottlebrush alongside the road. The bush cushions my fall. I'm dizzy, no longer thinking about saving a blue-tongue or agonising over Sam. I lie there for a few moments, even though I'm not injured. I catch my breath and try to think clearly. I hear the humming of tiny creatures living in the grass. The noise is all around me. There is one sound that overpowers the others.

Tik tik tik.

It's the bug noise.

Tik tik tik.

I think of Xander and how he never looks you in the eye.

Tik tik tik.

I think of how he obsesses about things, like numbers and shapes and ideas.

Tik tik tik.

I think of the conversation last night, and I realise something unbelievably awful. Xander is putting his plan into action. He's going to blow up Grandma. The preparations have been happening all around me but I haven't been paying attention. Xander took apart the torch. Torches have pushbuttons and wires and batteries. Tony Palin steals stuff from the yacht club, such as boxes of blank cartridges full of gunpowder. And Tony paid Xander a visit.

I'm convinced. Xander is going to booby-trap Grandma's toilet. Grandpa's last email gave him the idea. My grandma is about to become an urban myth. I try to ring The Ponderosa but my phone is flat after my last conversation with Sam. If Grandma explodes it will be Sam's fault. I hide my useless bike in the bottlebrush and start to run. How far am I from The Ponderosa? Ten kilometres at least. How long will it take to run that far? For all I know, the explosion might already have happened.

I have to get to a phone to warn my parents about Xander's plan. I'm now sprinting down the centre of the road, short of breath.
Xander, how could you do this?

A car toots. I turn. It's a familiar red car. At the wheel is Stanley Krongold, the man I hate. But I need his help. I wave at him to stop. The car screeches to a halt and Mr Krongold jumps out. He's furious.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?' he yells.

‘Mr Krongold, I need to use your phone,' I tell him.

‘Why?'

‘I can't tell you. Please. It's an emergency. Can I use your phone? Please?'

Amazingly, Mr Krongold reaches into his pocket. Something in my voice has made him help me. He hands me the phone. He says I must pay for the call and I promise I will. I dial the number of The Ponderosa. Someone answers after the fifth ring. I'm in luck. It sounds like Nathan. I start to explain about the emergency, then I realise I'm not talking to Nathan. This guy has no idea who I am. I've dialled a wrong number.

Mr Krongold holds out his hand. He wants his phone back immediately. I've made my call. I beg him to let me make another one and he unwillingly allows it. This time I get an engaged signal. Mr Krongold reaches out and takes the phone from me. He places it in his pocket. He's already shown me more mercy than he can bear. But I'm not going to give up. I may hate this man but he's my only hope.

‘Mr Krongold, please, I need you to give me a lift to The Ponderosa.'

‘No,' says Mr Krongold.

‘It's urgent. It's incredibly urgent.'

‘I have an appointment. I can't keep a client waiting. It would be unprofessional.'

‘I'm sorry about that, Mr Krongold, but someone's life may be at stake. I'm serious. Someone might die.'

This is a dilemma for Mr Krongold.

‘Oh, all right. Hop in.'

‘Thank you, Mr Krongold. I'll never forget this.'

I climb into the red car.

‘Seatbelt,' says Mr Krongold.

I snap the seatbelt into place.

‘Have you been drinking?' he asks, sniffing the air. I'm surprised he can smell anything other than the fug of his aftershave.

‘I had a mouthful of green beer,' I say.

‘I don't approve of underage drinking.'

Mr Krongold has three sons who are sixteen and under, and they are all binge drinkers, but this seems to have escaped him.

‘How old are you exactly?' he asks.

‘Thirteen years, eleven months, one week and two days.'

‘Don't be smart. You realise I could report you?'

‘What for?'

‘Ravaging girls on the side of the road. You're a sex maniac.'

I had a feeling this would come up.

‘We were ravaging
each other,'
I say. ‘It was mutually consensual ravaging. And Sam's my girlfriend. Well she was, until five minutes ago. Can we not talk about this? We need to get to The Ponderosa.'

‘What's all this about exactly?'

‘I can't tell you all the details.'

‘You'd better, or I'm not driving you anywhere.'

I'm still out of breath. ‘Mr Krongold, there may be an explosion.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I said, there may be an explosion. Quite a large one.'

‘Get out of the car, you're talking rubbish. And give me ten dollars for the phone calls. And for those stupid chocolate peanuts your father forced me to buy.'

But I won't get out. ‘Mr Krongold, I think some gun-powder may be involved.'

The real-estate agent still thinks I'm making up stories, which is what he does best. Unless I convince him otherwise, he won't take me anywhere.

‘Mr Krongold, I believe my little brother may have –'

‘What?'

‘I think he's got hold of some gunpowder.'

Mr Krongold's expression changes. ‘Tell me more.'

‘Xander doesn't think like other people, and –'

Mr Krongold immediately does a U-turn and drives at full speed.

‘What are you doing?' I say. ‘We have to get to The Ponderosa. This is the wrong direction.'

‘This is a matter for the police.'

‘What? We don't need to talk to the police. We just need to stop Xander before –'

‘I'm a law-abiding man. The police must be informed.'

‘Can't we tell them later?'

‘After your little brother has had a chance to get rid of the gunpowder? I don't think so.'

What can I do?

‘Can I
please
use your phone again, Mr Krongold?'

‘No, you can't.'

Mr Krongold locks the doors in case I decide to jump from the car.

‘Don't you love that expensive car smell?' he says. ‘You're probably unfamiliar with it.'

Stanley Krongold parks right out the front of the police station at Flanders, as though he's in a TV series. He orders me to come inside with him and tell the duty officer what I've just told him. The blast of air conditioning hits me as I enter the building. It helps me to think clearly. If I tell the policeman at the front desk about the danger to my grandmother, what will happen? The police might send a squad car to The Ponderosa to prevent a disaster. But they might also arrest Xander. I don't want to send him to a juvenile detention centre. It wouldn't be fair on the other prisoners.

‘Tell the policeman,' says Mr Krongold.

‘Tell him what?'

‘Tell him what you told me. About your brother. And the gunpowder.'

The portly police officer looks unsurprised to see Mr Krongold.

‘I've been warning you about something like this, officer,' he says. ‘There have been peculiar goings on at that Ponderosa place. A mad old woman who terrorises people. Illegal possum traps. Citizens are concerned.'

What citizens? What is he talking about? And
he's
the one who set the possum trap. Mr Krongold is playing at something.

‘What is it, son?' the policeman asks me.

‘I need to make a phone call,' I say.

‘You're not allowed to,' says Mr Krongold.

‘He is,' says the officer.

‘No, he isn't,' says Mr Krongold.

‘It's my bloody phone,' says the officer, ‘and he's allowed to use it.'

‘Thank you so much,' I say.

The policeman tells me to use the phone on the desk. I ring The Ponderosa again. I get the engaged signal and hang up slowly.

‘What do you want to tell me, then, son?' asks the policeman.

I chance a smile. ‘I think there's been a misunderstanding.'

‘What?' Mr Krongold fumes. ‘
Tell him what you told me.
'

‘It's quite a funny story,' I say. ‘This man was on the front porch of his house, working on his motorcycle. The motorcycle slipped into gear, ran over him then smashed through the front door of the house and ended up in the living room –'

‘Tell him about the gunpowder,' snaps Mr Krongold.

‘Petrol,' I say. ‘It was petrol. You see, some petrol leaked onto the floor –'

The policeman looks confused. ‘What are you talking about, son?'

‘I was telling Mr Krongold an urban myth and I think he took it seriously.'

The policeman gives a deep sigh. ‘An urban myth?'

‘Yes.'

‘You mean like a tall story?'

‘Yes.'

‘Off you go, then.'

‘Aren't you going to investigate?' asks Mr Krongold.

‘Not unless a crime has been committed.'

‘It has. I'm sure of it.'

‘Mr Krongold, this is the third time you've been in here. Your claims against The Ponderosa are becoming vexatious.'

Stanley Krongold is
definitely
playing at something.

‘This boy has been drinking,' he says. ‘He's only thirteen.'

‘Nearly fourteen,' I say.

‘Book him,' says Mr Krongold.

‘One mouthful. I had one mouthful.'

‘Book him for underage drinking and for being drunk and disorderly.'

‘I don't think there's any need,' says the policeman. ‘But go easy, son.'

‘I saw him ravaging a girl on Tower Hill Road,' says Mr Krongold, turning desperate.

The policeman looks worried and turns to me. ‘What's he talking about?'

‘I was with my girlfriend,' I say. ‘Mr Krongold interrupted our natural teenage urges.'

Now the policeman looks confused. ‘Oh.'

‘It's against the law to have underage sexual relations on a carriageway,' storms Mr Krongold.

‘We weren't having sexual relations and we weren't on a carriageway,' I protest. ‘We didn't even lie in the long grass. I wish we did, but we didn't.'

The policeman smiles. ‘Better luck next time, son.'

‘Is that it?' Mr Krongold can scarcely breathe. ‘Is that how you keep law and order?'

‘Stop wasting our time, Mr Krongold,' says the policeman. ‘You keep complaining about this Ponderosa place but your accusations seem baseless.'

Mr Krongold slaps the counter. ‘You're useless, you police. You never do anything.'

‘That's not true.' The policeman stands up straight. ‘At the moment one of us is booking your car for being illegally parked.'

Mr Krongold turns around and looks out of the window to see that this is indeed happening. His face goes a redder shade of orange, as though his tie is too tight.

We leave the police station. There are a lot of names that I want to call Mr Krongold. I even feel like taking a swing at him. But right now I need him to get me to Samsara.

‘Where the hell do you think you're going?' Mr Krongold demands, as I head for the passenger door of his car.

‘Samsara,' I say. ‘I want you to drive me there. After telling those lies it's the least you could do.'

‘Piss off. Not you, Officer.'

Mr Krongold snatches the parking ticket from the windscreen, climbs into the car and speeds off without me.

I'm now stuck in Flanders with a flat phone, five kilometres from home on a Saturday afternoon. My brother is at The Ponderosa with gunpowder, some wire, a push-button and a plan to blow up our grandmother.

The only person I know in Flanders is a strange man called Zebulon.