Don't Call Me Ishmael (18 page)

That weekend I read the final chapters of
Moby Dick.
When I gave the copy back to Dad, he insisted that I had to see the video of the movie-the old one starring Gregory Peck as Ahab.

On Sunday afternoon, I watched the final dramatic battle unfold on the screen. I saw a fearsome Moby Dick destroy the
Pequod
and send her crew to their deaths. I saw Captain Ahab trapped in a tangle of harpoon ropes, lashed to the side of the great white whale, striking out in anger and hatred to the very end, even as the massive beast dragged him to a watery grave. And finally, when all seemed lost, I saw Ishmael bobbing on the surface of the ocean gasping for air–the sole survivor of Ahab's quest for revenge. I was right–he was nothing like me.

I had a strange dream that night. It started off at school. At first I was in a normal class, but somehow it turned into some sort of a swimming pool, only I still had my school uniform on. Then I heard someone calling out my name. I turned around and there was Barry Bagsley. He had Bill Kingsley by
the hair and he was pushing him under the water. He smiled at me and held Bill under. I yelled at him to let go but he just laughed. I tried to hit him, but he ducked out of the way and laughed even more. All the time Bill's arms were thrashing and air bubbles were boiling to the surface.

Then Barry Bagsley puffed up his cheeks and began to sink down into the water, taking Bill Kingsley with him. I screamed at him to stop, but he kept the same stupid grin on his face as he disappeared below the surface. I was desperate now. I leapt on Barry Bagsley and wrapped my arm around his throat. I didn't know if I was trying to pull him to the surface or strangle him. But it didn't make any difference. I gulped in some air before I was dragged underwater.

As we sank deeper and deeper, I squeezed Barry Bagsley's throat with all my might and struck his face, but it didn't bother him at all. He just laughed and repeated over and over, ‘You haven't got a prayer. You haven't got a prayer,' as bubbles streamed from his mouth. Then it became really weird. Barry Bagsley turned into some kind of mutant fish and slipped from my grasp, so I grabbed Bill Kingsley by the arm, but he started to blow up like a balloon, only he got heavier instead of lighter. He was dragging us both down. Everything became colder and darker and my lungs burned like they were on fire. The last bubbles of air were escaping from my mouth.

Then I woke up.

I didn't sit bolt upright in bed like people do in the movies when they have nightmares, but I did shudder a little from the effort of making myself wake up, and my heart and lungs
seemed to be fighting each other to see which could be the first to break out of my chest. I checked the clock. It was well past midnight.

I lay awake for hours after that, staring at the ceiling. I couldn't get Barry Bagsley out of my mind. I thought about my life since I had met him. I relived over and over every insult, every push and shove, every taunt, every sneer, every arrogant laugh, every spiteful trick, every put-down and every lost battle.

It was quite a while before I eventually got back to sleep that night. By the time I did, my mind was made up. This had all gone on too long. Barry Bagsley was finally going to pay for everything he had done.

Not only that, but I had worked out exactly how and when I was going to deliver the bill.

Delight is to him–a far, far upward and inward delight-who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

Herman Melville,
Moby Dick

The night of the traditional end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy was hot and humid. This didn't surprise me at all, because the night of the traditional end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy was always hot and humid. Apparently it was some kind of meteorological law.

Mum dropped me off at the school gates. Normally the end-of-year do was a family affair, but Mum had a charity dinner she couldn't miss and Dad was babysitting Prue, who was running a temperature. I told her it was probably brain fever, from overuse. Prue said if that was the case, it was a condition to which I was permanently immune. Never tangle with a near-genius–even a sick one.

Anyway, I made the long trek from the entrance to the school gymnasium and followed the stream of people inside. At the front of the rapidly filling hall was a large stage draped in
house banners and school colours and loaded down with huge clumps of flowers. Throughout the hall, hundreds of programs fluttered under flushed faces like nervous moths about to take flight. There was only fifteen minutes to go before the evening kicked off.

Miss Tarango, who was in charge of the readers, was standing to the right of the stage searching the crowd. I stepped back behind a large banner at the side of the hall. I really should have reported in by now. But I had my own searching to do. I was on the lookout for a too-familiar sprout of blond hair and a defiant swagger.

It wasn't long before I found what I'd been looking for. Barry Bagsley entered the gym with a steady flow of latecomers and stopped for a moment just inside the door to speak with Danny Wallace. A lot of people were still milling around chatting and trying to find seats. I drifted towards the back of the gym and waited. When Danny Wallace finally moved away, I slipped my hand into my pocket and headed in Barry Bagsley's direction. I felt like a hired assassin. By the time Barry Bagsley turned my way I was standing right beside him.

‘Well, if it isn't Manure, the creature from Le Sewer. What's your problem?'

‘I just came to tell you that you were wrong,' I said as calmly as I could.

‘Wrong? What are you crapping on about now?'

‘The other day-something you said–you were wrong.'

‘And what was that?' Barry Bagsley said with a curled lip.

‘Well, you said that I didn't have a prayer. But you're wrong.
I have got a prayer. Here,' I said, pulling a folded piece of paper from my pocket and handing it to him. ‘I even made a copy for you.'

‘What is this shit …?'

But I didn't wait around to hear any more. I left Barry Bagsley with his face screwed up in a sneer and headed towards Miss Tarango, who was now waving at me a little frantically.

I don't remember much at all about what happened while Prindabel, Razza, Bill and I waited for the signal from Miss Tarango to move on to the stage. I'm sure there were the usual welcoming speeches and ceremonies, but all I had on my mind was what I was about to do. I spent most of the time staring at my reading. It wasn't the one that Mr Barker had helped me write. This was one I had composed all by myself. It was the one that I had just handed to Barry Bagsley, and it was the same one I was about to read to the entire school. I let my eyes drift over the words. They seemed so simple, so harmless–just marks on a page. I read them to myself for the hundredth time.

Let us pray that Barry Bagsley can learn to let other people be themselves instead of bullying them and putting them down all the time.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Miss Tarango's. Soon we were climbing up the steps to the rostrum and lining up behind the big lectern.

I looked around the packed gym. Three large banks of chairs stretched to the back wall-a wide middle section and two narrower sections at the sides. It didn't take long to find
Barry Bagsley. He was sitting about halfway back, almost dead centre. He didn't look happy. In fact it was one of those occasions when the expression ‘bristling with anger' was right on the money. His eyes had turned into dark slits and his mouth was a quivering snarl. I'm sure it was only my imagination, but he looked like he was growling. If he'd been a dog the Council would have declared him dangerous and had him put down on the spot.

The amazing thing was, even though I knew that Barry Bagsley wanted to rip me limb from limb, I didn't care. I was going to get my revenge and there was no way he could stop me. After all, what could he do? Stand up in front of everyone and tell me to shut up? Climb up on the stage and crash-tackle me? Take me out with a burst of machine gun fire? No, he was powerless. I had Barry Bagsley right where I wanted him.

Prindabel was the first to step up and deliver his petition. I didn't hear a word he said. My eyes were locked on Barry Bagsley. He was shaking his head slightly and glaring at me while his lips seemed to be forming words. I didn't need an interpreter. I got the message loud and clear. It went something along the lines of
Don't do it, Manure. Don't even think about it, or I'll tear your head off and insert it up your backside.

Prindabel stepped down from the lectern and Razza took his place. I shuffled a couple of steps closer.

Barry Bagsley continued to glower at me while Razza read his petition, but when he finished, the first crack appeared. Barry Bagsley broke eye contact with me, shot a quick glance to his left and right and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Bill Kingsley moved slowly in behind the microphone.

I studied Barry Bagsley closely. Something was happening. Although he was trying to maintain a fierce glare, he couldn't do it. His eyes kept darting to the sides, and once he twisted right around to take a fleeting look at the back of the hall. When he locked eyes with me again, his expression contorted and swirled through a range of emotions. And somewhere among all the arrogance, anger, defiance and threat, there were brief but unmistakable flashes of panic.

Bill finished his reading.

I moved forward and stepped up on to the small platform at the base of the lectern. The microphone hovered near my mouth. Barry Bagsley was squirming in his seat. His face looked like dough. He was still shaking his head at me, but there was no threat in it any more.

Then I saw a hand reach across and settle gently on his knee. It came from the lady beside him. I hadn't really noticed her before. She turned towards Barry Bagsley and leant in with a concerned smile. I could tell she was asking if he was all right. It had to be Mrs Bagsley, but it didn't seem possible. It was hard enough imagining Barry Bagsley with a mother at all (surely he was thrown together in some dingy rat-infested laboratory) let alone one who looked … well … nice. I watched as she turned back and whispered something to the man on her right. Mr Bagsley? Why wasn't he dressed in thongs and footy shorts, belching and drunkenly abusing the people around him? What was he doing in a suit and tie, smiling at his wife and squeezing her hand? I didn't have time
to figure this out. I had a job to do and I wasn't going to let anything distract me.

I pulled the microphone lower and leant forward.

‘Let us pray.'

My voice filled the hall. It felt like it was coming from someone else, from somewhere outside my body. For the first time in my life I was standing in front of an audience and I didn't feel nervous. I looked down at Barry Bagsley. He had pushed himself back in his seat, like he was feeling the thrust from a rocket launch. His head was still shaking from side to side, but so slightly that only I would have noticed. His lips were still forming words, but the only ones I recognised now were, ‘no', ‘don't' and ‘please'. I looked into his eyes. The arrogance had gone. I saw nothing but fear and desperation. They were the eyes of someone who knew there was no escape.

‘Let us pray that Barry …'

I spoke slowly and clearly, and when I said his name, Barry Bagsley slumped in his seat like a boxer who knows he won't survive the next round. His eyes had changed again. Now they were dull, empty and defeated. It was a look that was familiar to me. I had seen it before, many times. I had seen it on Kelly Faulkner's brother's face and I had seen it on Bill Kingsley's. It was a look that I had also worn.

An uneasy silence crept around the gymnasium. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I looked one last time at Barry Bagsley. I had been dreaming about this moment every day for the last week. Now it had arrived. I was about to get my revenge.

I started my petition again. I wanted to do this properly.

‘Let us pray …'

I had the harpoon in my hand.

‘… that Barry …'

I drew it back and steadied myself.

‘… that Barry …'

All I had to do was unleash it.

‘… that … barriers which separate us and keep us apart can be overcome and that we can learn to get along with each other.'

Yeah, I know what I said. That I was going to make Barry Bagsley pay. That nothing was going to stop me. So what happened? Why didn't I go through with it? Well, I guess Barry Bagsley's mother had a lot to do with it.

You see, even as I had Barry Bagsley in my sights and I was imagining my final victory, I couldn't stop thinking about Mrs Bagsley and how embarrassed and hurt and sad she was going to be because of me. She just didn't deserve it-neither did her husband. And neither did Miss Tarango, who was so proud of our debating team and who I would be letting down, nor did Brother Jerome, who would have the school's big night ruined, nor did Mr Barker, who would be left with another mess to sort out. And they weren't the only ones. There were all the families and friends who had come along and all the people who had worked so hard on the decorations and the flowers and the music to make the evening a success–did they deserve to have their night spoilt?

And what about my own family? How would they feel when they found out what I had done?

But there was another reason why I couldn't go through with it. It was that look on Barry Bagsley's face, the one that I had put there, the one that reminded me of Kelly Faulkner's little brother, of Bill Kingsley and of myself. I didn't want to be the kind of person that made people look like that. No matter who they were. I can't really explain how I was feeling when I returned to my seat and waited for the evening to come to an end. I knew I had made the right decision and I was glad that it was all over, but nothing I had done would help Bill Kingsley. As much as I tried to convince myself that the holidays might bring him some relief, I knew they would soon pass like the eye of the storm and then Cyclone Barry would return to wreak havoc again. I was still trying to work things out in my mind when I heard Brother Jerome wishing everyone a safe trip home, and then the gym disintegrated into a rumbling mass of noise and movement.

I desperately needed some fresh air to clear my head.

‘Ishmael, are you feeling all right? You had me a little worried up there tonight.'

It was Miss Tarango.

‘Yeah, what was that all about? Were you having a brain explosion? No, wait on, that's a bit optimistic–maybe
half
a brain explosion?'

I'll let you guess who that was.

‘I'm fine. It was nothing. I was just … using pauses for dramatic effect–like you told us to, Miss.'

‘Is that right?' Miss Tarango said suspiciously. ‘Well, you might need to work on that a bit more. Anyway, well done all of you–and not just for tonight. Now off you go and have a well-earned break and I'll see you back, bigger and better, next year. '

‘Yeah, see ya, Miss. You have a good holiday, too. Try not to get too lonely without us.'

Miss Tarango clasped her hands on her chest, fluttered her eyelids and sighed. ‘Oh Orazio, how will I ever cope? It will be just devastating to have to lie on the beach day after day without even a single Year Nine English essay to keep me company. But you know me. I'm a trouper. I'll struggle through … somehow.'

That made us laugh. It also made us imagine Miss Tarango lying on a beach.

‘We could always whip up some practice essays for you to take with you?' Razza suggested.

‘Don't even think about it,' Miss Tarango said as she unleashed her dimples at each of us, ‘not if you value your lives. Ciao, boys!'

We watched as she threaded her way through the crowd. Some teachers made school worth coming back to.

‘Well, I'm off,' Ignatius Prindabel announced bluntly. ‘It's been … interesting. Gentlemen,' he said, nodding at the three of us before departing.

‘I hate it when Prindabel gets all soppy,' Piazza said, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye before turning his attention to the moping form beside him. ‘Well, Bilbo, tell me, what
have you got planned for the holidays? Putting the finishing touches to the time machine? Darning up the holes in your Spidey suit? Taking a bus trip over to the Dark Side? Changing the bulb in your light sabre?'

Bill shook his head gloomily. ‘Nothing much,' he said without emotion, ‘just hanging around at home … prob'ly go to the pictures or something.'

I searched Bill's face. The hero of the debating finals was nowhere to be seen. There had to be some way to bring him back again. But how?

As usual, it was Razza who broke my train of thought.

‘Pictures? What're you seeing?

Bill shrugged his shoulders.
‘Star Warrior's Quest–The Ultimate Evil
I guess. I have to see that.'

‘Yeah, all right!
The Ultimate Seagull.
Is that out already? Sweet! Man, that'd be wicked. I'm there. So when are we going, Billy Boy?'

I looked at Razza in disbelief.

‘It's
Ultimate Evil
, not
Seagull.'
Bill Kingsley said, screwing up his face.

‘Yeah, right,
Evil.
That's what I said,
Star Worrier's Guest–The Ultimate Evil'.

‘That's
Star Warrior's Quest.'

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. So when are we going?'

‘I … I'm not sure …
I
was thinking of going next week probably … maybe Tuesday'

‘Great. Tuesday's good for me. What about you, Ishmael? Are you in or what?'

‘Well, yeah … OK … sure … I mean, that's if it's all right with Bill.'

‘All right? Why wouldn't it be all right? What's the problem? You don't mind us tagging along, do you, Billy?'

A flicker of life blinked into Bill Kingsley's confused eyes. ‘No … I … that'd be fine … yeah, good … great.'

‘It's a done deal then. Oh man,
Star Warrior's Quest!
I dig that Star Warrior dude.'

Finally Bill Kingsley creased his brow and asked the question that had also been bouncing around in my head. ‘But I thought you hated space stuff?'

Somehow Razza managed to look stunned and hurt at the same time. ‘Where
do
you get these crazy ideas from, Billy Boy? You know you've really got to stop performing those cranial probes on yourself. What are you on about? Me? Hate? Man, I've been hanging out to see
Star Warrior's Quest–The Ultimate Evil.
I'm a
Star Warrior's Quest
freak. It rocks. It's fully sick, man. I'm a regular Questie–a certified Quest-head. I'm a space
nut.
I'm telling you, my brain is filled with nothing
but
space!'

‘So which one's your favourite, then?' Bill asked suspiciously.

Razza looked perplexed. ‘My favourite what?'

‘Favourite
Star Warrior's Quest
movie. Mine's
Star Warrior's Quest-Assassins of the King
, but a lot of people reckon
Star Warrior's Quest–The Scroll of Sorrow
is better.'

Razza nodded his head thoughtfully and bit his lip. Then he tapped his fingertips together before giving his considered response. ‘Actually, the one I prefer is
Star Warrior's Quest-Hot
Space Chicks Get Naked.
You may not be familiar with it. It only enjoyed a limited release, but it does have a strong cult following, and while I admit that the plot and dialogue leave a
little
to be desired, I feel that the cinematography–particularly the use of close-up-is breathtaking.'

Bill Kingsley stood with his mouth open. Finally he recovered sufficiently to respond. ‘Don't tell me you haven't seen the first two parts of the
Star Warrior's Quest
trilogy?'

‘All right, I won't tell you, but you'll probably work it out for yourself when I have to ask you a million questions during the film. Do you think it could lessen my viewing experience?'

Bill shook his head, overwhelmed by Razza's ignorance. ‘
The Ultimate Evil
is the
final
part. You won't have a clue what's going on. You won't know anything about Zabattaan and the lost Orb of Morglard Blarkon. You won't even know why Kraakon has to get the last Delfini Sun Sword in order to stop the Tempest of Vermatton from being unleashed. And you'll have no idea about the Mucallion Death Crystal or the Oath of Enlightenment or the Scales of the Seventh Serpent.'

Razza tilted his head towards me and spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘What language is he using now?'

‘Look, it's pointless seeing the last
Star Warrior's Quest
if you haven't seen the first two.'

‘And I suppose you guys have both seen them?'

Bill and I nodded together. ‘I've seen them heaps of times. I've got the special edition DVD box sets at home-with three hours of extra features.'

Suddenly Razza's eyes lit up and he slapped his forehead.
‘Well, that's it! Bilbo, you're a genius. Why didn't I think of it?' he said, grinning madly at our uncomprehending faces. ‘It's obvious–
Star Warrior's Quest
movie marathon this weekend-at the Hobbit's house! Whatta you say, Billy Boy? Are you ready to fire up the old DVD player?'

‘Well … yeah … yeah, sure … OK … why not?'

‘Woohoo! You da bomb, Billy! You-da-Bomb!'

‘Bill, you sure that's OK? Maybe you've got other plans or something. Razza can always rent the movies out himself, you know.'

‘No, it's fine … I'll have to check with Mum … but that's no problem … really … it'll be fine … if you guys want to come over … it'll be great.'

‘Sure it'll be great. Come on, Billy Boy,' Razza said, throwing his arm around Bill Kingsley's broad shoulders. ‘We have to plan this thing to within a millimetre of its life. Ishmael, we'll give you a ring when we've got all the details sorted out. Geez, this is gonna be a big operation–two movies plus three hours of special effects. We could be talking sleepover here, B.K.'

Bill Kingsley shook his head as he let himself be swept away in the avalanche of Razza's enthusiasm. I wasn't worried, though. He'd survive. The smile on his face told me so.

‘Now, we'll need food and lots of it. You have to watch your diet, Big Guy, so I'll be in charge of catering. We've got to make sure we cover the three basic food groups–pizzas, chips and ice cream. No whinging. It's for your own good.'

‘You da boss,' Bill Kingsley said.

Razza staggered back in amazement. ‘You got that right, big fella! Now let's go find your mum and get the ball rolling. Catch you later, Ishmael.'

‘Yeah, see ya guys … and Razz … don't get
too
carried away, OK?'

‘Carried away? Moi?'

Razza wheeled Bill Kingsley around. The last thing I heard him say as they headed off was, ‘Now, Billy Boy … about the beer and strippers …'

I heard a strange noise come from deep within Bill Kingsley. It took me a moment to realise that he was laughing.

Razza looked back at me, flashed that deadly smile and gave me the thumbs up.

They were right all along. The Razzman really did work in mysterious ways.