Blacky Blasts Back (4 page)

‘No problem, Miss. Thanks. Thanks a lot.' I didn't want to risk asking, but I couldn't help it. ‘Miss? You said this was only for boys with behavioural problems. So why are you letting me go?'

‘Well, Marcus,' said Miss Dowling, ‘it is true that the camp is mainly to help some boys with their social skills. But after the way you've behaved recently – the volunteering to garden for our senior citizens, your heroism in the Science lab – I think you will be an excellent role model for those boys. Show them it's okay to be responsible and caring. Plus, the Education Department has already paid for that place.'

I felt like jumping into the air and yelling. Just when things had appeared impossible, a way had been found. It was fate. Fortune was smiling on me now, instead of pooing in my back pocket. I was so happy I could have kissed Tonia. Luckily, I stopped myself.

‘This seems like a tough camp, Marcus,' said Dad.

It was Thursday and the family was sitting down for breakfast. My bags, all packed, were on the floor next to me. Dad was re-reading the information Miss Dowling had given me about the Wilderness Camp.

‘I mean, it's a fabulous opportunity,' Dad continued. ‘Don't get me wrong. Camping, kayaking, abseiling, fishing, rock-climbing, whitewater rafting. And in a place of such natural beauty. Amazing. But it also says you and the other kids will be responsible for looking after yourselves. Cooking, cleaning, washing. Reckon you can cope with that? I mean, your mother and I do everything for you here. It's a wonder you manage to wipe your own bum.'

Rose sniggered and kicked me under the table. Mum rose to my defence.

‘That's not fair, Michael,' she said.

‘You mean he doesn't manage to wipe his own bum?' Dad laughed.

Rose spluttered into her Weet-Bix.

‘You are soooo funny, Daddy,' she chortled.

‘Marcus can look after himself, can't you dear?' said Mum. ‘He does the dishes twice a week. And remember the time he cooked us a meal on our anniversary?'

‘Remember?' said Dad. ‘I've been trying to forget. Pasta and custard.'

‘I thought that was a cook-in sauce,' I said. Boy, was I never going to be allowed to forget that? Actually, I'd thought it was kinda yummy.

‘Anyway,' said Dad. ‘It should be the making of you. Like a boot camp. Maybe when you get back you'll keep your bedroom tidy.'

I was going to point out the pigs flying past the window, but decided against it.

‘I'll miss you, Marcus,' trilled Rose, her shoe thudding with unerring accuracy into my shin. Mum and Dad smiled at each other. It's possible that cartoon hearts rose up from the table and popped in midair.

Yeah
, I thought.
My shin is really looking forward to you missing me.

‘I'll miss you too, Rose,' I said.

Like a poke in the eye with a burnt stick.

‘You're dead meat, Mucus,' said John Oakman as he kicked me in the shin. ‘Hey. Geddit? Mucus. Slimy stuff. Your name's Marcus. Mucus. Geddit?'

The school minibus had travelled about two hundred metres on our journey to the ferry. This wasn't the best possible start to the trip.

I rubbed my shin and looked John up and down, which took a bit of time.

The first thing to strike you about John (apart from his boot into your shin) is his height. You get a crick in your neck just trying to make eye contact. I've known shorter telegraph poles. He's a hazard for low-flying aircraft. Sometimes his head disappears into clouds. Occasionally, his shoulders become crusted with snow.

He's tall, okay?

I considered his friendly attempts to strike up a relationship. Mucus? A kick in the shin? These were the trademarks of Rose, the sister from hell. For a moment, I wondered whether John was Rose in disguise. Perhaps she couldn't bear to be separated from the object of her torture for a week, and had undergone cosmetic surgery to get on this trip. I wouldn't put it past her to have a sex change just to make my life miserable.

Or maybe she'd
possessed
John. Like in those horror flicks when demons take over someone's body, live inside them and force them to commit acts of evil.

Rose was evil enough, and there was enough room inside John. For Rose
and
a couple of mates standing on her shoulders.

Then I thought it through and decided that it was just coincidence. Fortune was pooing in my back pocket again. However, I was going to be spending the next week with John, so I needed to get to know him.

‘Why am I dead meat, John?' I asked him in my most reasonable voice. ‘I've not done anything to you.'

He mulled this over. John isn't known for the quickness of his mind. Maybe it's something to do with his brain being starved of oxygen at high altitude. If he ever had a thought, it would die of loneliness.

‘Have, Mucus,' he said finally. ‘You exist. Me don't like it.'

He was about to kick me in the shin again. I could see his brain struggling to send the message to his leg. But it didn't happen, and not just because of the distance the message would have had to travel. Dyl came between us.

‘Hey, John,' he said in a friendly voice. ‘Just so you know, Marcus is my mate. Anything happens to him and I take it personally. Get my meaning?'

This was very complicated for John, and he took his time processing the information. Finally, comprehension struggled into his eyes.

‘Sure, Dyl, mate. Got yer.'

Everyone is scared of Dylan, which makes him a useful friend to have. I really don't know why. He's built like a pencil and isn't much taller. John, on the other hand, is built like a skyscraper. Put them side by side and Dylan wouldn't be able to touch his kneecap. Yet it was obvious who was top dog. Nonetheless, I'd have to keep my eye on John. Not that that was difficult. He dominated the landscape.

John went to the back of the minibus where the rest of the kids were mooning cars on the freeway. I hoped he wasn't going to join in. If he bent over, he'd headbutt our driver.

The bus left us at the ferry terminal. Eight of us, including Mr Crannitch, hoisted our bags on our shoulders and found a fast-food joint. It was six in the evening. The school day had really dragged, especially since I'd spent the recess and lunch breaks locked in a cubicle in the boys' toilets. Tonia Niven just doesn't give up.

The ferry was due to leave at eight. According to Mr Crannitch, another bus would pick us up from East Devonport in Tassie and take us to our destination in the heart of the Tasmanian wilderness. We would meet our guides on this bus – some special dudes with considerable experience of survival techniques and dealing with problem kids. I got the feeling Mr Crannitch was looking forward to that. Like I said, he used to be young and energetic before he came to our school and got saddled with the special boys unit. Now he looked like Yoda with extra wrinkles.

I fronted up to the fast-food counter. A young guy with a face like a pizza chewed gum and stared at me blankly.

‘Excuse me,' I said. ‘Can you tell me where your meat comes from?'

I'm fussy about the meat I eat. I try to avoid anything that involves cruelty.

‘Yeah,' he said.

There was a long silence. I drummed my fingers on the counter. He snapped his gum.

‘So where
does
it come from?' I said finally.

‘The freezer.'

I tried again.

‘Okay. But before the freezer?'

‘A delivery truck.'

This was getting me nowhere.

‘Any chance of a supervisor?' I asked.

‘Just what you see on the menu.'

I sighed. Then I noticed a sign on the menu board. O
UR BURGERS ARE MADE FROM 100% PRIME-CUT
A
USTRALIAN BEEF.
This was encouraging but didn't give enough information.

‘Is there cruelty involved when your cows are butchered?' I said.

He looked at me as if I was a moron.

‘Well, they're butchered,' he replied. ‘I guess the cows reckon that's kinda cruel.'

He was right, of course. I was a moron. But I was also starving, there was nothing vegetarian on the menu and the queue behind me was getting restless. Guilt and hunger battled. Hunger won. I ordered a cheeseburger, a double helping of fries and made a solemn vow this would be the last time my conscience would lose out to my stomach.

After we'd eaten and Mr Crannitch had tried to stop the other boys from seeing how far they could throw French fries, we got on
The Spirit of Tasmania
, a huge boat that would take us across Bass Strait. We filed past a long line of cars waiting to load, presented our tickets to a guy in a booth and made our way up the gangplank and from there to the passenger level. Mr Crannitch held up his hands.

‘Now, boys,' he said. ‘You are representing our school on this trip and bad behaviour will not be tolerated. If anyone steps out of line . . .'

He looked around. Only me and Dylan were still there. The rest had disappeared in a blaze of shouting, screaming and arm-punching.

‘. . . then I will make another idle threat,' he finished.

‘Don't worry, sir,' said Dyl. ‘I'll make sure they behave.' Mr Crannitch licked his lips.

‘Thanks, Dylan,' he said. ‘We are sleeping in the Ocean View Recliners on C Deck. Tell the boys they must be there by ten o'clock. I'm . . . I'm just going to explore the boat.' He hurried off to what looked suspiciously like a bar. Dyl went in search of the others. He's like that, Dyl. If he says he's going to do something, then he will.

So I had the chance to do a little exploring. Most of the ship was taken up with bars and restaurants, though there were plenty of lounges and even an arcade games section. As I passed it I saw all of the special boys in there. Probably a blessing. Everyone's well-behaved in arcades. Put a computer game in front of us and we'll stare at the screen as if hypnotised. Set off dynamite and we won't flinch. I might have gone in myself but I needed fresh air.

Most of the passengers were inside, so the decks were generally empty. As the boat set off, I stood at the very front and felt the cold air blow through my hair. After half an hour or so, I could feel spray against my cheeks. We were picking up speed. Lights twinkled on distant shores. When I looked back I saw Melbourne dwindling into the distance, braceleted with lights like a vast Christmas decoration. There was no one else around and that suited me. The air felt sharp and clean. I could smell the sea.

And something else . . .

At first, it was faint, a ghost smell. Then it hit me between the eyes and I almost retched.

‘For God's sake, Blacky!' I yelled. ‘That has to be you. Nothing smells as bad as that. Nothing.'

‘You're very kind, mush,' said Blacky's voice in my head. ‘I like to think I'm unique.'

I turned and there he was, sitting on a bench. It was lucky no one else was on deck. Otherwise there might have been a major disaster. People throwing themselves overboard to escape the smell. I was tempted myself. When Blacky exudes a particularly foul odour, death loses its sting.

‘Phwoah, Blacky,' I said. ‘I thought you'd stopped farting! Changed your diet. But that is evil, even by your standards.'

‘Thanks, tosh. I aim to please. But I
have
stopped farting.'

‘So what's that smell, then? Aftershave?'

‘I have rediscovered the joy of rolling in various things I find in the course of my travels. This, for example, is the result of a happy encounter with a small mound of rotting fish guts, seasoned with the merest hint of seagull poop. Stumbled across it on one of the piers. Superlative bouquet.'

‘Why do dogs do that, Blacky? Roll in nasty-smelling stuff.'

‘Why do humans not?'

I considered asking him to drop his guts, just to mask the ripe aroma that shimmered around him in a haze. I would have thrown him overboard but my eyes were watering so much I couldn't see him properly. At least we weren't inside the boat. If Blacky had been on the
Titanic
, they would have
aimed
for the iceberg.