Chapter One

I’m armpit deep in poo when Rob comes loping across the yard, mobile phone stuck to his ear, his brow furrowed. He stops when he sees what I’m up to. Where my arm is. He shakes his head.

‘No,’ he says into the mobile. ‘I haven’t told him yet, Mr Murphy.’ He closes his eyes and his face crinkles into a desperate grimace.

Old man Murphy must be tearing him a new one. But for what, though? It could be anything or everything – the old bloke doesn’t need much of an excuse to let rip. He reckons we’re all pretty useless.

‘Yeah, yeah. Yes, sir. I’ll tell him now.’ Rob hangs up, stuffs the mobile in the back pocket of his overalls and drops to his haunches next to the trench I’m practically swimming in. ‘What are you doin’, Banjo?’

That’s my name. My actual name – the one’s that on my official birth certificate. Banjo John Coughlan. When your old man gives you a name like that you’re never destined for high office (Ladies and gentlemen, please be upstanding for the Prime Minister, The Honourable Banjo Coughlan) or higher callings (Doctor Banjo Coughlan to surgery. Stat. Or, M’lord, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defence counsel, Banjo Coughlan QC)

No one takes you seriously.

‘What am I doing?’ I squint up at Rob. ‘What do you reckon I’m doing?’

He stands, clicks his tongue and gestures for me to get out of the pit.

With pleasure. I bunch my fist, just a little (I don’t want the glove to slip off), and ease my arm out of the pipe. There’s a long loud sluuuurp and flecks of brown water speckle my face. It’s just dirt. That’s all. Dirt.

‘Why’d you start on that?’ asks Rob.

‘Well, I’m the apprentice and I always do the shitty jobs, so I showed initiative and got stuck into the shitty job.’ I nod back at the crap I’ve managed to winkle out of the pipe. ‘You want me to put that back so you can have a crack?’

‘Ah, mate.’ Rob blows out his cheeks and shakes his head. Again. This is not the happy-go-lucky artiste who’s been schooling me in the art of plumbing for the past eight months.

Something doesn’t smell right – and I’m not talking about the Radkovic’s drainage system. ‘What’s happened?’

We can’t be at the wrong job. We dug the trench yesterday afternoon and were here at first light. I stand there, feet spread, arms, hanging by my side, browny-yellow gludge dripping, pooling by my boots.

‘Take the gloves off,’ Rob says. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He’s a gruff bugger, no-nonsense, no bullshit, but now he’s like a little kid who’s done something wrong and has to tell his oldies.

I do as I’m told, slipping the heavy leather gloves off my hands and let them drop onto the muddy grass. ‘What’s up, Rob?’ A knot’s growing in my guts like I’ve got a bad case of the squirts.

‘Old man Murphy says we have to let ya go.’ He’s mumbling a bit, so I probably didn’t hear him right.

‘Let me go?’ I repeat. ‘To TAFE, you mean? Let me go to TAFE today.’

But before I finish the sentence, Rob’s shaking his head; digging at the damp ground with the toe of his work-boot. ‘Nah, mate. You’re finishing up.’

I heard that all right. ‘As in I’m sacked?’

Rob bites his bottom lip; nods vigorously. ‘The economy’s buggered. Murphy can’t afford to keep ya on.’

‘But you pay me bugger all!’

’I’m sorry, Banjo. There’s nothing to be done.

***

Why Banjo you ask? (You have to!)

Coggo – my Dad – was a pimple squeeze short of his twentieth birthday when I happened into the world. It was his second year in the big-time and the newspapers reckoned that on the footy field he moved like ‘poetry in motion’. Poetry. Which made Coggo a poet (of sorts). So when the first-born was whelped, Coggo had to cash in on the trend.[1]And bingo: Banjo! After Banjo Patterson, of course. Mega poet.

But hey, Coggo, there were other contenders. Henry Lawson. I could live with Henry. Or Les Murray. Steven Herrick. And what about Nick Cave for Christ’s sake? But no, I must bear the Banjo cross. And that’s not all that I have to bear . . .

The old man glances up from the telly when I crash through the front door. ‘What’re doin’ home, now?’ His eyes are quickly back on the flickering images.

Oh, Hello, Ellen, what’s cracking? Any jobs going?

‘Got the bullet, Coggo.’ I kick out of my work boots, dump my bag in the kitchen doorway and take a can of energy drink from the fridge.

‘How did you muck that up?’

‘Not down to me,’ I call, popping the can’s lid. ‘Apparently the economy’s buggered and I’m one of the casualties.’

‘That’s just an excuse- Grab us a beer, Banj. Nah, nah. You did somethin’ and they couldn’t just sack ya, so they come up with the economy’s rat shit bullshit.’

I press a can of beer into his sweaty hand. ‘No. They can’t afford me and they had to let me go.’

‘So what about your apprenticeship?’

‘I guess we pay for that now.’

The TAFE course isn’t cheap either.

‘We?’ Coggo shifts in his seat; gulps his beer. ‘Are you jokin’? You want to be a plumber, you sort it out.’

I collapse onto the couch. It wheezes under my weight. ‘Gee, thanks for the sympathetic ear.’

‘Sympathy’s for losers.’

Well, we both know all about them. But still, I lean forward, hoping (not expecting) some parental pick-me-up. A little advice.

Coggo belches. ‘Talk to your Nan.’

‘No.’ No way.

He chuckles. ‘Look at you. So noble. So self-suf-frigging-ficent. You got no job, ya drop-kick! She’s happy enough to pay ya sister’s school fees. Why shouldn’t she look after you, too?’

‘Number One, I don’t want to be a hassle, money-wise for Nan. She does enough for us. Number Two, I want Dakota to get somewhere in her life. I’ve buggered things up, she won’t. Number Three, you should be looking after us.’

Coggo squints at me, as if I’ve spoken to him in Swedish, and then bats a hand at me. ‘Dunno what ya goin’ on about. You want an apprenticeship, ya pay for it.’ He snatches up the remote and starts channel-hopping, stabbing the buttons like he’s giving it C.P.R.

‘What’s for tea?’ I ask.

Annoyed, in half-sip, half-channel-flick, he half-glances my way. ‘How should I know? You’ll have to wait til Candy[2] gets home.’

‘So Candy’s still at work?’

Coggo turns the volume up, mutters, ‘What else?’

But mixed with the sounds of Ellen bleating and her audience’s inane cackling and rapturous applause, it sounds like he says, ‘Where’s hell?’

It’s here, Coggo, mate. We’re living it. At least at the moment, it feels that way. I look back at the telly. Ellen’s audience are looking under their seats. Are they searching for a bomb? A copy of Ellen’s life story?

‘Fuckin’ yanks,’ Coggo drawls. ‘Go to see a show get made and they give ya a car.’ He stretches out his leg, flexes. Winces. He calls this physiotherapy.

Ah, they’re looking for a car key or a very tiny car. ‘You’d have to be lucky,’ I say. ‘A bit of a mob there.’

Coggo shakes his head. His rat’s tail swishes around like it’s got a mind of its own, smacking against his chair. Then it perches on the headrest, like a greasy plaited pencil stuck in the back of his neck. Same hairdo for twenty years. Yep, my old man knows style.

‘They’ll probably all get one.’

‘Dead-set? Wish someone’d give me a car.’ Or a job. Yeah. A job. How’s that for dedication? Three hours out of work and I’m already chomping for another job.

#youngadult #humor #unemployment #sport #family #conflict #crime

I think I’m a superhero because every time I wear my underwear on the outside of my trackpants and have a beach towel pinned around my neck, people stop and gasp and stare and point and move away. Oh yeah, they know a person with special powers when they see one. Well, there’s hero work to be done, so it’s up, up and . . . you know the rest.

#super #hero #underwear #specialpowers #superhero

Danny didn’t mean to kill Slim Jim.

          At best, he’d only wanted to hurt him. Slightly. Or perhaps maim. But certainly not kill. Just a subtle nudge to send breakfast radio’s loudest talker sprawling down the escalator resulting in a slight maiming. Who knew the maintenance crew hadn’t properly replaced the access hatch and that poor old Jim would pitch head first into the pit of grinding gears and cogs?

         They’d been returning from the music library and Jim was complaining (when wasn’t he?) that on the way up to the library he’d had to use ‘the damn stairs’ because the escalator was indisposed. He had to drag himself up one whole flight of stairs. In hindsight, Slim Jim would probably agree that taking the damn stairs on his return trip (no pun intended) would have meant a far better outcome for himself. That outcome being continuing good health; life.

         Danny had only wanted Slim Jim to hurt an arm or a leg. Or both. Him being rendered mute would have been the perfect outcome. But to witness him actually eaten by the escalator was not part of his master plan. That thing chowed down on him like minced arse wipe was a meal not to be savoured but devoured.

         And to be fair to Danny, there was little he could do. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Well, minutes. By the time he reached the emergency shut off button there would have only been a shoulder and few toes that could have been saved. In a way, it was an act of mercy to let the machinery do its business and save the poor sod from painful rehabilitation and most definitely permanent scarring.

         No. Danny’s conscience was clear and the listeners of FUN FM would be the ones who benefited.

Diary Entry of George Feltham, 24th April 1791

Cottages are still burning. The Piper’s hold over the children was unmatched this time and I needed all of my skill to return it to its cell. This can never happen again. Now, with The Piper secured, I shall make haste with my captive to Plymouth and seek passage to the New World. No. That would be dangerous. There are children in the New World. I shall go further afield. My destination shall be a place where there are no children and all hopes and dreams have long been dashed. I will take The Piper to the convict settlement of New South Wales.

One

The first surprise is finding Brittany Somers sitting on the top step of the veranda of my house.

The second surprise is that she knows my name.

Well, sort of.

‘Egghead!’ She bounds towards me. ‘You’re home. Cool.’

I shrug, nonchalantly (I hope). ‘Of course, I come here every day after school.’

But what are you doing here, oh fair one?

Brittany checks her watch. ‘You’re a bit late. School finished ages ago.’

‘Ah, yes. Slight problem at the sportsground.’

Brittany’s flawless brow creases into a frown. ‘You don’t play sport.’

‘No. But thanks to Mitchell Hayman and his cronies, I got to play the ‘pick up your homework’ game. You know, windy day, vast expanse of open ground. What better way for the geek-about-town to get fit.’

Brittany slowly shakes her head. ‘Those guys can be real jerks.’

I wave away her concern. ‘Don’t worry, I used an old SAS trick - I begged and screamed.’

‘Oh, Jeremy, you’re so funny!’ She laughs. ‘I hope they weren’t too rough.’

‘What can I say? I toughed it out.’

A thought strikes me. A very relevant thought.

‘How-how do you know where I live?’

‘That was easy.’ She smiles.

‘Really?’ 

‘Yeah. Everyone knows where the mad inventor lives.’

That would be my Great Uncle George.

Brittany points over my shoulder at the family junkyard - prized by antique officiandos and spare part dealers from near and far.

‘And the junkyard? That’s famous, too.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s just too bizarre. Too, too bizarre.’ She pauses; tilts her head to the side and gazes at me, grinning. ‘And then there’s you.’

What about me?

‘It’s like you couldn’t live anywhere else.’

‘Ah. I see.’

It’s very reassuring to be so neatly stereotyped. Not! But, no matter. I have the lovely Brittany on my doorstep and I will not disappoint her (with whatever it is she wants).

‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘We-ll.’ She twists a finger through her long blond hair. She actually seems to be nervous talking to me. ‘I was hoping to take up your offer to use your television studio.’

‘My television studio,’ I croak. ‘Ah, yes. That old thing.’

Point One: I don’t have a television studio.

My Great Uncle George has a laboratory and it contains some technical gizmos that very closely resemble the components of a television studio.

‘You mentioned it at one of our meetings.’

‘Uh huh.’

Point Two: I thought she’d hadn’t even noticed I was at her Save Our School meetings. But, to be fair, they’re not that well-attended.

She smiles. ‘And I really, really appreciate all of your help with trying to stop the school from closing.’

‘Oh, you mean the loudspeaker I’m repairing?’

‘Loudspeaker?’ Brittany frowns again; bites her bottom lip.

I nod behind us - at the family junkyard.

‘The one I found in the yard? Remember? I, er, I mentioned it at a meeting.’

‘Um . . .’

She doesn’t remember. Terrific.

‘Oh yes. The loudspeaker.’ Brittany nods. ‘That could be handy at the rally.’

‘So old man Livingstone’s given you the go-ahead?’

‘I saw Principal Livingstone this afternoon and he said I can hold the first Save Our School rally at lunchtime tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? That soon? Wow . . . ’

I try to organise an inter-school chess tournament and old man Livingstone knocks that on the head, yet a Year 8 student with an over-active sense of school pride wants to organise the whole school to attend a pointless function (words that would never leave my lips in Brittany’s presence) to stop the Government ordained closure and he says ‘yes’. What the devil is going on?

‘Which is why I need to make a broadcast today. Like, now.’ She steps back and squints at the junkyard. ‘Where’s the studio?’

There’s no backing out now. ‘It’s in the house.’

I unlock the front door and push it open. Letting a stranger into the house is a big no-no with Uncle George. Letting a stranger into his laboratory is an offence punishable by death - or worse. But Uncle George isn’t home.

It’s just Brittany and me.

Alone.

Our secret.

Ooh, lah, lah.

I turn and smile brightly. ‘Come on in. Let’s broadcast you.’

The castle keep stood dark and silent, shrouded in early morning mist. The only movement was a soft breeze through the treetops.

Orlando drew his sword and crept along the path leading up to the main gate. Despite being warned of the Beast, he was still surprised by its attack. It rushed out of the mist and body-slammed Orlando against the Keep’s wall. He gave an anguished cry as his sword clattered onto the cobblestones and disappeared into the swirling mists. But the vessel he had to deliver stayed firm in his other hand. He wouldn’t be beaten so easily and would not fail this quest.

He saw that the Keep’s gate was raised, and a plan formed quickly in his mind.

The snorting of the beast drifted to Orlando across the breeze. The Beast was so close that its rancid breath washed over him. He remained still and listened, waiting for a sign of attack . . . Then, a deep howl and a scraping of claws alerted him of the Beast’s next move. Orlando drew his dagger and sprinted towards the gate. 

The Beast’s head speared through the mists to Orlando’s left, its fangs bared, its red eyes wide. Orlando dived, full length, slashing at the thick rope holding up the gate. It crashed down on top of the Beast - stunning and pinning it to the ground. Success!

A cough rasped above Orlando; then a face appeared in the murder hole. Wide browed, creased with wrinkles and surrounded by matted grey hair, the face smiled.

‘Got here all right, then?’

‘Y-yes,’ Orlando stammered, holding up the vessel. ‘Good morning, m’lady.’

‘I hope Caesar behaved himself,’ the face said. ‘He can be a little playful at times. Too eager, you know?’

‘Yes, m’lady.’ Orlando knelt on one knee and placed the vessel on the courtyard floor.

A low groan rumbled across the cobbles. The pinned beast was slowly regaining its senses. Slowly. There was plenty of time for Orlando to make good his escape. As he hoisted the gate, the beast moaned and rolled onto its side.

Whistling a merry tune, Orlando walked through the gateway, stepped over the beast and ambled on his way.

‘I hope that milk is low fat?’

The question stopped Orlando. Dead.

Low fat?

Oh no, he thought.

He looked up at the face and smiled.

‘Right then, m’lady.’ Orlando’s gaze dropped to the beast. It was almost back on its feet, its eyes glowing, mouth salivating. ‘I’ll be right back.’

T H E  E N D