Just Crazy (23 page)

Then I have a brainwave.

‘What about the spare key?' I ask.

Dad moans. ‘It used to be under the door-mat, but Neighbourhood Watch say you shouldn't keep keys in such obvious places.'

‘So where is it now?' I say.

Dad moans again.

‘I left it at work,' he says. ‘In my office.'

‘We could go and get it,' I say.

‘But we have no clothes on,' says Dad.

Dad has a point. But we've got to do something. I'm freezing.

I jog up and down to try and keep warm. But I slip on the wet ground and fall backwards onto the muddy lawn.

I get up.

My legs are covered in mud and little bits of grass.

Hey! I've got it.

‘Dad,' I say, I know how we can get to your work and get the key!'

‘How?' he says.

‘We can cover ourselves in mud and grass. It will be like camouflage.'

‘Don't be stupid,' says Dad. ‘This is serious.'

‘I'm not being stupid,' I say. ‘Watch this!'

I scoop up a big double-handful of mud and smear it across my chest. I grab another handful and rub it into my belly. I lie down on my back and roll around until I'm completely covered — from head to toe — in mud.

All the while Dad is standing there studying me like I'm something that just arrived from another planet.

‘Well,' I say ‘What do you think?'

‘I think you're completely insane,' says Dad.

‘Yes,' I say, ‘I know, but we'd only have to travel a few blocks. If we keep to backyards where possible and just move really fast across the open areas we'll be there in no time and nobody will even notice us. It's still pretty early.'

‘It's a crazy plan,' he says. ‘But . . .'

‘But, Dad . . .' I say.

‘Let me finish,' he says. ‘I was going to say it's so crazy it just might work. Besides, I'm damned if I know what else we can do.'

‘Good point!' I say. ‘What have we got to lose?'

‘You're right,' he says. ‘Let's do it!'

He bends down and starts slopping big handfuls of mud onto himself. He breaks into a broad grin.

‘Well,' he says, ‘how do I look?'

‘Looking good, Dad!' I say. ‘Just like a regular mudman!'

The more mud he slops on, the more excited he gets. He's like a little kid. He pastes mud all over his body, and all over his head. It's in his hair, his eyes, his mouth. He looks really freaky — not like my dad at all. He covers his private parts with a leaf and hands one to me.

‘Better put this on,' he says. ‘Just in case.'

‘Just in case what?' I say.

‘In case somebody sees us,' he says.

‘Nobody will see us!' I say. ‘Because we're mudmen! Invisible to the eye! We travel where we want! When we want! How we want!'

‘Mudmen!' says Dad, holding out his muddy hand, palm upwards. ‘Give me five!'

I give him five. Mud splashes out from our hands. I haven't seen Dad this excited since . . . since . . . well, actually I've never seen him this excited.

The sky is filled with dark clouds. That's good. It makes it less likely that we'll be seen.

We climb up our fence and into Mr Broadbent's yard. Crouching low we run across the yard and climb over his fence.

‘So far, so good!' says Dad, as we run across the second yard and scale the next fence.

We drop down into the third backyard. There's plenty of cover here. It's full of trees and shrubs.

‘Too easy!' giggles Dad.

‘See, I told you!' I say.

We continue on our way, leaping fences like they're nothing more than hurdles in a hundred-metre dash.

Wooden fences, galvanised iron, high-security fences — nothing stops us. We're mudmen!

We thread our way through compost heaps, swimming pools and vegie gardens. All the while getting more and more caked in mud and leaves and dirt.

We stop, panting, in the last backyard in our street.

‘I haven't had this much fun since I was in the boy scouts!' says Dad, wheezing.

‘You covered yourselves in mud and ran around the streets in boy scouts?' I say.

‘No,' he laughs. ‘We went bushwalking and orienteering — but this is much better!'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘We're going to have to run down the side of this house and cross the road to the house opposite to get to the next set of backyards. Are you ready?'

‘Ready!' says Dad.

We run down the side of the house and cross the footpath to the nature-strip.

Oh no!

There's a car coming out of the driveway of the house beside us.

There's no time to hide.

‘What do we do now?' says Dad.

‘Freeze!' I say. ‘Put your hands out to your side. We'll pretend we're trees!'

We both stop dead and put our arms out at weird angles.

‘I don't think we look much like trees,' whispers Dad out of the side of his mouth.

He's right, but it doesn't seem to matter.

The driver of the car doesn't even give us a second glance as he pulls out onto the road and takes off.

‘Phew, that was close,' says Dad.

‘But we did it!' I say.

‘Yeah!' he says, his muddy eyes shining. ‘We did it!'

He runs across the road and leaps over the low brick fence that runs along the front of the house on the corner. I follow him, down the side of the house, into the backyard and over the fence.

Dad's really moving now. I have to run as fast as I can to keep up with him.

As I'm climbing over a tall green fence I see him standing in the middle of a yard under a clothesline. He's holding a large pair of jeans above his head. I drop down into the yard and join him.

‘Look what I found!' he says. ‘This should make things easier!'

‘Great, Dad,' I say. ‘But let's keep moving. Before someone sees us.'

Dad is bending over, trying to put the jeans on.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice something move.

I hear growling.

Uh-oh.

I quickly review how many yards we've been through and I realise what backyard we're in . . . the backyard of number 19. The home of the bull terrier.

It comes running across the grass towards Dad.

‘Forget the jeans, Dad,' I say. ‘Run!'

I head towards the fence. The bull terrier follows me, baring its teeth and snarling. I start climbing the fence, the bull terrier snapping at my legs.

Dad runs towards us. He twirls the jeans around and flicks them like they're a rolled up tea-towel. He hits the dog on its back. It turns and attacks him.

Dad grabs the bull terrier around the stomach and wrestles it to the ground. They roll around together in the mud. Fighting, thrashing and growling. It's hard to tell who's growling the loudest. It's incredible. I've never seen Dad like this before. It's like watching Tarzan wrestle with a leopard.

Dad looks up at me.

‘What are you waiting for?' he yells. ‘Go!'

But I can't. I can't tear myself away. The bull
terrier is winning. It's on top of Dad, its fangs bared, ready to sink them into Dad's neck.