Just Annoying! Page 8

  ‘Let’s set him on fire!’ cries someone else. ‘I’ve got a lighter.’

  ‘Not in my theatre you don’t,’ says the usher. ‘I’m the one who has to clean up after this.’

  These people are obviously mad. Too much James Bond. I have to get out of here.

  ‘Look up there!’ I yell, pointing at the roof. ‘Ninjas!’

  Everybody looks. They’re so James Bonded out that they’ll believe anything.

  It’s the chance I need to heave myself out of my seat. But this time I’m not going under—I’m going over. Over the head of the big-hair woman. I use her shoulders as a springboard to leap across two rows into an empty seat. I use the seat as a trampoline to propel me across another three rows.

  An old man tries to hook me around the ankle with the handle of his walking stick. But I grab the walking stick and use it to polevault across the last two rows of seats and up onto the narrow platform in front of the screen.

  I look around. Nowhere to go. Both of the front exits are blocked by ushers. And the mob is closing in.

  What now? What would James Bond do? He would use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective, of course. If I can’t go forwards and I can’t go sideways, that only leaves one direction. Backwards. Into the screen!

  The hands of the mob are clutching at my feet.

  No time to lose.

  I jump backwards.

  There is an incredible ripping and tearing noise and then everything goes quiet.

  Next thing I know I’m lying on a wooden floor.

  I can hear cheering and whistling. It’s coming from the other side of the screen.

  And then I see it. My Jaffa.

  And not just my Jaffa. There’s hundreds and thousands of Jaffas and old lollies! All the lollies that have ever been hurled at the screen or lost in the history of this cinema have ended up here.

  And they’re mine.

  All mine.

  I pick my Jaffa up off the floor. I wipe the dust off it and put it into my mouth. No minty taste this time. Just pure Jaffa.

  I reach for another. And another. And another.

  My only problem now is how I’m going to eat all these lollies without being sick.

  It’s going to be tough.

  But I can handle it.

  A field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective.

  I’ll think of something.

  f you’ve never tried swinging on the clothesline at night then you should. I recommend it.

  I’ve been out here every night for the past three weeks. From midnight to 4 a.m.

  But not for fun. I’m in training. I’m going to set a new world record for the fastest ever clothesline swinging. It’s my dream.

  Unfortunately, my parents don’t share my dream. That’s why I have to do my training at night while they’re asleep. Whenever they catch me swinging on the clothesline they go berko. I’ve tried to explain to them that I’m not just mucking around, that I’m trying to achieve something special, but it’s no use.

  ‘Why can’t you play a normal sport like football?’ says Dad. ‘Something that takes real skill.’

  Real skill?

  Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against football, but anyone can play it. All you need to know is how to run and kick at the same time and you’re away.

  But breaking the world speed swinging record—now that takes real skill, real dedication and real guts. You need to combine an exhaustive knowledge of aerodynamics with a thorough understanding of the mechanics of rotary clotheslines. You also need to be fit enough to withstand G-forces stronger than most NASA astronauts will ever have to endure. Not to mention being able to run like hell when your parents see you. That’s what I call real skill.

  The bar is cold under my fingers. The wind is cool. There is a slight frost in the air. If I tilt my head back I can see the stars circling above me.

  I’m swinging faster and faster. I feel good. I can hear the squeak-squeak-squeak of the clothesline as I spin. I take one hand off the bar and readjust my goggles. Yes, I know that swimming goggles are not the coolest look in the world, but it gets pretty hard to see at the speeds I get up to.

  I hear the back door slam.

  Uh-oh.

  The floodlight comes on and the yard is bathed in bright white light.

  Dad is standing there in his dressing gown.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he yells.

  I would have thought it was fairly obvious, but with parents you can never quite tell. Sometimes they see things very differently to normal people. Best to keep it simple.

  ‘Swinging on the clothesline, Dad. I’m training.’

  ‘Training? I’ll give you training!’

  Dad grabs hold of the straw broom leaning next to the steps and comes rushing at me with it raised above his head.

  I don’t think ‘training’ is exactly what he has in mind. I think ‘thrashing’ would be closer to the mark.

  I haven’t got time to get away. This is going to take a bit of fancy footwork. I rock myself back and forth to work up as much extra speed as I can. I wait until Dad is right beside the line. Just as he is about to swing the broom at me I assume my best Bruce Lee pose and kick the broom out of his hand.

  The broom goes flying.

  I release my grip on the line, do a spectacular double somersault dismount and hit the ground running.

  I sprint up the steps into the house and into the safety of my bedroom.

  I push my dressing table in front of the door.

  ‘Open up, Andy!’ says Dad. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He’s rattling the door handle.

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’ I say. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ says Dad. He throws himself against the door like some TV cop trying to break down the door of a TV criminal.

  After ten minutes he gives up.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he says, making it sound like the biggest threat in the world. But that suits me fine. By then he’ll have cooled down. He might even have come to realise just how serious I am.

  I put my head on the pillow and dream of how proud Mum and Dad will be when I set the new world record. They’ll come into the kitchen and the newspaper will be on the table with the headline: ‘BOY BREAKS WORLD CLOTHESLINE SPEED RECORD!’ There’ll be a big picture of me, swinging on a clothesline in the middle of a huge stadium packed with cheering fans. And I’ll just be sitting there eating my breakfast, real cool, and Mum and Dad will be overwhelmed and they’ll get down on their knees and beg my forgiveness for not taking my ambition seriously and for placing so many obstacles in my way . . . But I won’t hold a grudge. I’ll just wave my hand, dab at my mouth with a serviette, stand up and say, ‘Hey—no hard feelings . . . we all make mistakes—now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and get ready for the street parade that the Prime Minister is putting on in my honour . . .’

  The scene that greets me at the breakfast table the next morning is a little different.

  Dad is sitting there with an expression on his face like one of those Easter Island statues.

  The radio—which is usually burbling away—is not turned on.

  The sound of my Cornflakes clattering into my bowl sounds like a hundred tonnes of boulders falling on top of the kitchen.

  ‘We’re very disappointed in you, Andy,’ says Dad.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘You’ve let us down.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I’ve had to buy three new clotheslines this year and do you know why?’

  ‘Because they’re really bad quality?’ I suggest.

  Dad’s ears start wiggling. Wrong answer.

  ‘No!’ he yells. ‘Because the others were so mangled and broken from your infernal swinging.’

  I still think it’s a quality issue. If he would buy top of the line, superstrength clotheslines, instead of these crappy jobs made
out of nothing stronger than coathanger wire, then we wouldn’t have a problem. But I don’t say this. Dad is in no mood to see reason. Besides, he’s not finished yet.

  ‘Your mother and I have begged you, have pleaded with you, have extracted promises from you—have even bribed you—to stop swinging on the clothesline, but to no avail. I thought we got things straight the last time we talked, but now we discover that you are sneaking out there in the middle of the night. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘I have a dream . . .’ I say.

  ‘You have a what?’ interrupts Dad.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. What’s the point of even talking about it? I’ve explained it a hundred times and they still don’t get it.

  I push my Cornflakes towards the centre of the table and stand up.

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to get going to school.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ says Dad. ‘This is the last time I intend to have this conversation. Swinging on the clothesline is to stop and if you think you’re going to find that too difficult, then don’t worry. I will make it very easy for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’ll see.’

  That’s what he thinks.

  Nothing is going to stop me training. I’m just hitting my peak. What’s the worst he can do?

  Sit out there all night on guard with a straw broom across his legs? He’ll need to sleep sometime.

  Electrify the line? I’ll wear a rubber suit.

  Set up a machine gun to spray the line with bullets when it’s triggered by a motion sensor? I’ll wear Ned Kelly armour.

  Nothing will stop me.

  I’ll see? I don’t think so. We’ll see who’ll see.

  That afternoon when I get home from school I walk up the driveway and into the back-yard.

  Suddenly a huge black dog comes barrelling towards me.

  It’s massive. Snarling. Long white strings of foam trailing from its bared teeth. And it’s heading straight for me.

  I clutch the straps of my bag and get ready to bop it across the head. It’s not much—like trying to scare off a charging bull with a rolled up tea-towel—but it’s all I’ve got.

  The dog lunges for me, but just as it’s about to sink its fangs into my neck it is tugged violently backwards. It rears up on its hind legs and flips over onto its back. It has reached the end of its chain, which—as I collect myself—I notice is attached to the clothesline.

  I hear laughter from the porch.

  ‘Andy,’ says Dad, ‘I’d like you to meet Spot. Spot, this is Andy.’

  Spot picks himself up from the ground. He lunges at me again.

  I jump backwards.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I ask Dad. ‘That dog’s a killer!’

  ‘Spot? A killer?’ says Dad. ‘Nah. He’s harmless. He just gets a bit touchy when people go too close to the clothesline.’

  ‘You’ve bought this dog just to stop me swinging on the clothesline?’ I say.

  ‘I haven’t bought him,’ says Dad. ‘I just arranged a little swap.’

  ‘You swapped him for Sooty?’

  ‘Not permanently.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as it takes you to break your clothesline habit and develop some new, more healthy interests,’ says Dad.

  ‘Like football you mean?’

  ‘Yes, like football—like other boys.’

  ‘I’m not like other boys!’ I yell. ‘I need something more challenging.’

  ‘Well,’ says Dad, ‘I think you’ll find Spot challenging enough.’

  I look at Spot.

  He’s straining on his leash. Staring at me. Just daring me to take one step towards his clothesline.

  I’ve got to admit that at this moment football is starting to look pretty attractive. I’d even consider taking up cricket.

  I turn around and go back down the driveway to enter the house by the front door.

  I throw my bag hard against my bedroom wall. My pencil case falls out and pencils go flying all over the floor. I pick up a handful and throw them against the window.

  Just when the speed record was within my grasp!

  From my bedroom window I can see Spot. He is sitting straight-backed, ears twitching, ready to tear apart anyone who is even thinking about going near the clothesline.

  Fifty kilos of prime slobbering Dog Power.

  If only his power could be harnessed for good instead of evil.

  Hang on—that’s it!

  In the early days of my training I used to get Danny to tie a rope to one corner of the clothesline and tow me around at super-speeds. That was until I was able to generate them for myself and go faster than even Danny could run. But I’m looking at a dog with energy to burn.

  If I could slip a harness around Spot and get him to pull me around, I could set a new world record yet. I’ll show them!

  It’s 10 p.m.

  Dad is in the kitchen.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed early,’ he calls loud enough for me to hear. ‘I expect I’ll sleep well without the creaking of the clothesline to wake me up—heh heh heh! Anyone for a cup of cocoa before bed?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Mum.

  It’s the cue I’ve been waiting for. The noise of the kettle will block out any noise I make while I’m setting up.

  I grab my equipment. Swimming goggles, Sooty’s lead and a stuffed toy cat that I borrowed from Jen’s room.

  I tiptoe down the steps.

  Spot is lying with his head on his forelegs.

  He might be asleep. It’s hard to tell. Are guard dogs allowed to sleep?

  I take a step towards him.

  He doesn’t move.

  I take another step.

  He remains asleep.

  Too easy!

  I take another step. I’m now within his range.

  He could wake up and chomp me in half, but am I scared?

  You bet.

  I place my foot down on the ground as carefully as if I was walking on a one-millimetre thin piece of glass.

  My right knee is shaking out of control.

  I stoop down to steady it with my hand.

  But my hand is shaking as well.

  I try to steady my hand with my other hand. But that’s shaking even worse. All the stuff drops onto the ground.

  Spot opens his eyes.

  I can tell by his growl that he is not pleased to see me.

  My whole body is shaking.

  I pick up the fluffy cat and wave it in front of Spot’s face. He is mesmerised. I throw the cat to one corner of the clothesline.

  Spot is torn.

  One eye on the cat. One eye on me.

  I’m at his mercy, but I’m counting on the fact that not even years of specialist guard dog training can overcome a dog’s natural urge to chase cats.

  I’m right.

  Spot lunges at the cat.

  There is an explosion of white fluff.

  Better that than an explosion of me.

  I loop the end of Sooty’s lead over the corner of the clothesline above Spot. He’s in a frenzy, tearing the remains of the cat apart.

  This is my chance.

  I sneak up behind him. I grab his neck chain and clip Sooty’s lead on to it.

  I run to the opposite corner of the line, jump up and hold on.

  Spot is still more interested in mangling the cat than in me.

  ‘Hey, Spot,’ I call. ‘Your father was a sewer rat and your mother was a chihuahua!’

  That gets his attention.

  He looks up, rears up on his hind legs and starts chasing me.

  The line takes off with a whoosh!

  Spot is going crazy. They must have starved him for weeks. Either that or he has taken an even greater offence at my insult than I could have predicted.

  Whatever the reason, I am swinging faster than I have ever swung in my life.

  I’m gripping the ba
r as tightly as I can. I feel like Superman—arms straight out, head down. I’m going so fast that I’m practically horizontal. The wind is roaring in my ears. I wish I’d thought to put more clothes on. I’m freezing.

  The familiar landmarks of the backyard are gone—the shed, the old orange tree stump, the window of the kitchen where Mum and Dad are probably sipping their cocoa right at this moment. It’s all just a blur of spinning colour.

  Spot is huffing and barking as he chases me around.

  Any moment now Mum and Dad are going to hear the racket. They are going to look out of the kitchen window and see me spinning faster than any human being has spun before.

  They’ll see.

  They’ll see that I’m serious and that nothing will stop me.

  But they’re going to have to look soon, because the faster I go the harder it is to hold on. It’s like being caught in a force 5 hurricane.

  I can’t keep this up much longer.

  I’m not used to this sort of pressure.

  My fingers give out.

  I’m flying through the air.

  Straight towards the kitchen window.

  I’m wondering whether it’s safer to crash through a window headfirst or break it with a fist, Superman-style.

  It doesn’t really matter, I guess.

  If the window doesn’t kill me, my parents will.