So Sick! (9 page)

Hamish had smelt like a fish cannery all day.

‘Touché!’ says Luke, grinning at the memory. He bows and eases backwards, not too fast, pretending to walk away, all the while keeping an eye on Hamish. He peeks through his matted hair pleased that Hamish is tracking him. Who’s stalking who? Luke chuckles to himself.

Hamish is hesitant. Something is not quite right. He shoves his hands in his pockets, hoping by some miracle he’ll find another blood plum. He doesn’t. There is the chewy from last year still glued to his pants’ liner, some rolled up pieces of tissue (you never know when there’ll be the next spit ball fight) and the bottom half of a pencil. The top half is rammed in the storage cupboard at school — the one where Mr Bingles keeps his chocolate stash. Hamish trails behind Luke, keeping his distance. ‘Who’s plum ugly, now?’ he goads.

Luke is nearing his goal. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ he yells back to Hamish, lulling him into a false sense of security. ‘You’re a real comedian. Should be on Hep’s Happy Hour.’ (Hep’s Happy Hour is a program on TV.)

Hamish grins at the idea. ‘Yeah, mate!’ he says. ‘I’d be real good.’

Luke is getting close to his destination. He can tell by the pong. It might be the prettiest garden in
Simpson but it sure isn’t the sweetest smelling. Luke keeps edging backwards, careful not to let on that he has a plan. From the backyard he hears Mrs Sully.

‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ coos Mrs Sully. ‘Pretty Boy. Pretty Boy.’

Luke tries not to laugh.

‘Who’s mummy’s little Pee Pee?’

Pee Pee? wonders Luke. He’s thinking warm and yellow. But, he’s on the wrong track.

‘Pee Pee — you Precious Pigeon, you!’

Luke bites back a laugh. Everyone in Simpson knows that as well as her garden Mrs Sully loves her birds. Some say she loves her birds more than she loves her own husband. And everyone knows that Pretty Boy is her prize-winning racing pigeon.

Luke’s eyes begin to water. He tries to breathe through his mouth but it is too late. Wafts of chook manure clog the air. They lodge in Luke’s nose and cling to his throat. That’s something else everyone knows. Chook manure. It’s Mrs Sully’s secret weapon for winning Simpson’s Garden of the Year.

‘Phwoar!’ cries Hamish. ‘Smells like
Mr
Sully’s carked it.’

Luke nods. He smiles. ‘Yeah!’ he says in agreement. ‘Reckon the old biddy’s done him in.’

Hamish goes to cover his mouth and nostrils with his hand.

With Hamish distracted Luke leaps into action. It isn’t the smell he’s come for! It’s the lemon tree that’s hanging over Mrs Sully’s fence. Luke snatches a lemon from the ground — a deflated looking lemon with clumps of mould on it. His fingers spear the soft fruit. The texture is just right, not pithy and hard like a normal lemon, more like pureed prune.

Fear flits across Hamish’s face. He turns … Splat!

‘Bull’s–eye!’ yells Luke, laughing when the yellow fruit clings to Hamish’s back. ‘Take that!’

Hamish hollers as he tries to shake off the wet mash. He snorts, then charges. ‘Aaagh!’ Hamish scoops up a lemon and pelts Luke back, fair on the shoulder. ‘Ha!’ he laughs. The shattered lemon does no harm but it does leave a huge blob on Luke’s school shirt.

And then it’s on. Another mighty battle. Lemons launching, lemons flying, lemons landing everywhere. Hamish is throwing like a boy possessed. He’s firing off lemons quicker than a tennis–ball machine. Luke, though slower, is more accurate, picking off a head here, a stomach there, and how about an ear?

‘Oi!’ A voice shrieks from over the fence. ‘Stop that!’

The boys are too busy to hear. They’re chucking lemons faster than a production line in a processing factory. The street is littered with yellow corpses dotted with bits of white skin. The fence, too, has scored its fair share. It is plastered with pulp and pith. Piles of fruit lie on the ground at its base. The boys are covered with rind and seeds and fermenting matter. They look like the dregs in a bowl of punch.

‘Enough!’ It is the voice from over the fence. The voice backs up with a squirt of water. The water catches Hamish first, its cold spray taking him by surprise. He drops his lemon, cursing as it lands on his foot, and swings to face his newest opponent.

A nozzle appears, closely followed by a hose. ‘Stop it!’

It is Luke’s turn, now. He gasps for breath as he cops a mouthful. ‘Hey!’ he splutters. ‘Cut it out!’ He staggers towards his assailant.

A figure steps out from behind the fence. It is the same height as the boys, but stooped and moving slowly. It is wearing overalls and work boots and has a pigeon on its head.

Mrs Sully!

She raises the hose shrieking, ‘Take that you scallywags!’

Nothing happens. The hose has wedged under a paling, the flow of water completely blocked.

Luke can’t believe his luck. ‘Woo hoo!’ he whoops. He starts to run calling, ‘Bye bye! See ya later, alligator.’

‘Come back!’ shrieks Mrs Sully trying to follow but stopped by her grip on the hose. ‘Come back and clean up this mess!’

Luke is several houses away. He turns to see if Hamish is behind him, then falters and stops.

Hamish is standing about two metres in front of Mrs Sully. Luke can’t believe it. He shuts his eyes, then opens them again, as if to clear away the scene before him. ‘Not the war cry!’ he yells, but he is too late.

Hamish slams his foot into the grass.

‘Oh!’ gasps Mrs Sully. She drops the hose. The pigeon huffs up its feathers and flaps. ‘All right, Pretty Boy,’ coos Mrs Sully gently stroking its back.

Hamish curls over, his upper body parallel with the ground. His other foot rams into the soft earth. He tilts back his head and opens his mouth — wide. An ear-piercing scream splits the air.

Mrs Sully is shocked into silence. The pigeon wriggles from one foot to the other, its head bob-bobbing furiously.

Hamish straightens up and starts stomping.

Luke moans. How can he scare an old woman like that? He yells, ‘No-o-o!’ and begins to run.

Mrs Sully stays frozen, her eyes glued to Hamish. Pretty Boy has started to quake.

Reaching Hamish, Luke snatches at his shirt and tries to pull him away. ‘Stop!’ he yells. But Hamish can’t stop. Once begun, the war cry must go on. It’s all part of his battle plan.

Luke can see Mrs Sully’s face contort. Terror, or is that anger, flits across her chiselled cheekbones.

Luke rams into Hamish, sending him sprawling. Hamish lands in a pile of lemons and skids an extra metre. He is on his tummy. He tries to get up but slips, legs and arms flailing.

Luke grabs a handful of collar and yanks him up. ‘Come on!’ he grunts, and starts to drag Hamish away. ‘Now’s not the time for breast stroke.’

‘Don’t think I don’t know who you are!’ screams Mrs Sully, waving a fist at the boys. Pretty Boy flutters in agreement.

Luke stops when they get safely around the corner. He swivels Hamish to face him. ‘Whatcha
do the war cry in front of Mrs Sully for?’ he growls, ‘You some sort of moron? You’ll scare her to death!’

Hamish gives Luke a shove. ‘At least the Warriors have a war cry,’ he growls. Then, starting to sprint he calls over his shoulder, ‘Not like the wimpy Wallaroos!’

Later that afternoon Luke laughs as he tells his mates, Zac and Karl, about the lemon fight. ‘I looked like I’d been through a blender.’

‘But what did
Hamish
look like?’ asks Zac.

Luke grins as he tries to find the words. ‘He looked like one of those people who stand on a float surrounded by fruit in a parade. I dunno, Miss Citrus, or something.’

Luke, Zac and Karl burst out laughing.

‘That loser called us the wimpy Wallaroos,’ Luke adds.

‘Wimpy?’ says Karl, pretending to swagger. ‘Not the Wallaroos.’

‘We’ll show them who’s wimpy!’ says Zac, punching a fist in the palm of his hand, then flinching and adding, ‘Ouch! Must be stronger than I think.’

Zac leans forward, his voice serious. ‘How’ll we get them back? Put sand in their school bags? Tie their laces together?’

Luke chucks a seed at him. ‘No, ya dag. We bide our time. Something will come up.’

And something did come up, much sooner than expected.

‘Sh!’ says Karl. ‘Someone’s coming.’

From their hiding spot in a large oak tree the boys freeze, straining to see who it is. Several voices float up.

One is Hamish’s. ‘Mum found out,’ he’s saying, ‘and now I’m grounded.’

Luke wonders what he’s talking about. He holds a finger up to his lips to call for silence. Zac and Karl nod to show they know.

‘But the show’s next weekend!’

That’s Oscar! thinks Luke. You can tell his voice anywhere — more whine than a rusty motor.

‘We’re all going!’ says another voice. Eli’s this time. ‘We’re doing The Exterminator, remember?’

‘And
The Viper,’ adds Oscar.

‘And what about Shoot ‘em Gallery?’

Luke raises his eyebrows at Zac and Karl, then pulls a face with a beauty of a dropped lip as if to say, Poor widdle Hamish, he’s missing out on Shoot ‘em Gallery. Luke eases back into his branch, eager to hear more.

‘The stupid witch told Mum.’

At this Luke sits upright. Does he mean
Mrs Sully? Has she been to see his dad, too? Luke does not have a mum. He does not have any brothers or sisters, either. Luke holds his breath, his heart is starting to pound. His dad will kill him!

Just then, a bird flies into the tree. ‘Aaaagh!’ screams Zac as it swishes towards him. It arcs quickly, close enough to brush Karl with its wings before taking off over Luke’s head.

Karl and Zac manage to cling to their branches but Luke loses his hold. He drops to the ground, right at Hamish’s feet.

‘You!’ says Hamish, and he raises his fist above Luke’s head.

‘Hey!’

‘Stop!’

Zac and Karl jump down, as Luke scrambles to his feet. The two groups stand facing each other like rival gangs in a Western.

Hamish belts Luke in the shoulder. It hurts, but Luke fights the urge to rub it. He’s no wimp.