Spurt (17 page)

The instructor cast the line into the water and passed the rod to Jack. Jack had finally got used to the boat lurching every time the instructor leant over to grab some fresh bait or check one of the rods. Even so, he was glad to be wearing the flotation vest.

Jack glanced over at Delilah, who stood on riverbank with the crew. At her feet was a small blue icebox she’d had with her when they’d collected Jack at sunrise. When he’d asked her what was in it, all she’d said was ‘coverage’. She didn’t elaborate.

Jack had never been out on the Redcook River – not even on one of the paddle-steamers that chugged tourists up and down the river for most of the year. He’d swum at its edges with primary school friends during summer holidays, and played cricket on the sandbar near the caravan park upstream.

Out on the river itself, the stillness was eerie. Jack lost all sense of time. Occasionally he caught the fishing instructor just staring at the water. Maybe the instructor saw some mysterious pattern in the ripples left by the bugs as they skimmed the surface. Maybe he saw some hidden truth in the murky depths that Jack couldn’t.

Jack stared broodingly at the water. He wondered if Sampson had ever caught a fish. (‘Does wrestling a shark count?’ he’d probably say.) He hoped the camera was capturing his now very profound understanding of all things natural. His ease with the elements. His Lionheart Tigerwolfiness.

He’d actually considered letting Delilah know about Mr Trench and his weird wilderness survival group, in case they could help out with the fishing or shooting segments. But then he’d had visions of Mr Trench paddling over to him in a camouflage-painted tinnie, with lures and spinners stuck into the band of his fishing hat like ammunition on a bandolier, and announcing on camera how proud he was of Jack for finally becoming the ‘commanding officer of his Y-chromosome’ or something equally ridiculous. Mr Trench had way too much embarrassing intel on Jack and his testosterone troubles to be let anywhere near the
Bigwigs
cameras.

Anyway, it was actually Delilah making the whole manhood thing happen. She was doing a way better job of faking manhood for Jack than he ever could have managed on his own.

‘Any luck?’ Delilah shouted from the riverbank.

The fisherman nudged Jack. ‘She’d be scaring the fish away, shouting like that. That’s if there were any fish to catch.’ He gave Jack an apologetic look. ‘They’re just not biting today, son. If you were here for cod opening you’d really see them on the chew.’

‘We’ve got nothing!’ Jack shouted back.

Delilah held up a hand and knelt down to open the icebox. She reached in and pulled out a slim, greeny-yellow fish. She handed it to Todd, then wiped her hands on the back of her skirt.

‘Yellowbelly,’ said the fisherman.

‘What?’ said Jack.

‘That’s a golden perch. A yellowbelly. She’s gone and bought you your catch.’

Jack realised what it was. A stunt fish. The fisherman raised his eyebrows at Jack but said nothing. He gave the outboard motor a yank and aimed the boat for the riverbank, where Todd was edging his way towards the water, holding forth the fish like some kind of sacred offering.

As the boat got nearer, Jack reached out to grab the fish. But just as the fake catch was within reach, Todd slipped. He skidded down the bank and tumbled sideways into the river.

The fish fell out of his hands, landed in the water with a plop, and immediately sank.

Todd was chest-deep in water, and didn’t look particularly happy about it. In fact, the string of words he let out through chattering teeth was guaranteed to have frightened any fish that might have heard them. Even the fishing instructor seemed slightly taken aback.

‘Are you okay?’ said Jack.

Todd didn’t answer. He pulled himself out of the river and seemed to be doing his best not to shiver. Muddy water dripped from his beard. He continued to not look particularly happy.

‘Did we lose the fish?’ asked Delilah.

Jack nodded. ‘What are we going to do now?’ he asked.

‘It’s okay,’ said Delilah. ‘We got some shots of you in the boat. With the right voiceover, I’m sure we can sell the whole “rugged bushman” concept.’ She checked her watch. ‘Okay, Fisherman Jack, we’d better get you to school! Tomorrow afternoon we hit the gym.’ She faked an uppercut jab and made a ‘Pow!’ noise.

The gym
, thought Jack. Where there’d be no shooting vests or flotation vests to protect him. He pictured the shots of him in shorts and a tank top, landing feeble blows against a punching bag.

He pictured himself in the changing room, getting ready.

And he pictured Oliver Sampson standing there in front of him, laughing.

Jack stared at himself in the ensuite mirror. He held his skinny, bare arms out in front of himself, and wondered if Delilah could buy him some muscle powder from the chemists, to really complete his onscreen transformation.

She kept telling him how great the firing range and fishing boat stuff was going to look on TV. And he did
feel
different, somehow. When he’d laid hands on the rifle and the fishing rod, it felt a bit like taking hold of a flame passed down to him by the earliest, manliest cavemen. The problem was that it was all on the inside. Nobody watching the reunion show was going to notice
that
.

Maybe it was time to get that tattoo he’d been thinking about. A rifle and fishing rod, crossed like clashing swords. Or ‘wig’ on the knuckles of one hand, and ‘big’ on the other. Something to distract everyone from the tragic shortage of biceps and body hair his tank top and gym shorts were guaranteed to reveal.

Tracksuit
, he thought.
Tracksuit bottom and hoodie
. A fleecy armour to hide inside. He’d be like a warrior in a sheepskin cloak. Let the
Bigwigs
viewers
imagine
the rippling, muscular powerhouse underneath.

Jack opened his chest of drawers and rummaged through the piles of clothes Philo had stashed away for him during the move.

And that was when he saw it. The thing that kept following him around, finding its way back to him.

Like Samwise Gamgee from
The Lord of the Rings
, but made of pubes.

There was one other difference between Sam Gamgee and Philo’s merkin. Frodo Baggins
needed
Sam. Jack most definitely did not need –

Then he thought for a moment. And he thought for a moment longer. Then, after a further moment of thought, he reached in, fingers like forceps, and extracted the merkin from the drawer.

With a quick glance over his shoulder to check that nobody was about to walk in on him, Jack padded back into the ensuite and stood in front of the mirror. With one hand he dangled the merkin out in front of him, and with the other, he tugged down the neck of his tank top to bare his hairless chest.

Could he? Would it be too obvious? Too up-front? He cocked his head and squinted as he draped the merkin across his pectorals, trying to imagine how it would look on camera.

Probably how it looks in the mirror
, he thought.

Like pubes.

Maybe there were other options. Less visible options. Options that would still give off an overall impression of manliness.

He peeled the merkin from his chest, lifted one arm in the air, and inched the wiry black thatch tentatively towards his armpit. If he cut the merkin in half –

‘Jack?’

He spun around to see his mum standing in the bungalow doorway. ‘Mum!’ He whisked the merkin behind his back. ‘Some privacy, please! I’m …
rehearsing
!’

‘Pardon me, Mr De Niro!’ Adele craned her neck slightly, as if she were trying to see over Jack’s shoulder. ‘I thought you should know. Delilah just called. She wants to come over.’

Jack frowned. ‘What, tonight? Why?’

‘Something about a change of plans? It sounds urgent.’

Jack wondered what it could have been. Had Kenny Hodgman blabbed to the press about being the one to hit bullseye instead of Jack? Had the media got hold of the ‘fake fish’ story?

Calm down
, thought Jack. A change of plans, his mum had said. ‘Maybe we’re not filming at the gym tomorrow after all,’ he wondered aloud, trying his best to sound disappointed.

Adele looked doubtful. ‘I think it might be bigger than that. She said something about rethinking the whole reunion show.’

Behind his back, Jack clenched both his hands, giving the merkin an anxious squeeze. Did rethinking the reunion show mean what he thought it meant? Was
Bigwigs
about to be taken away from him again? Sampson would have a field day with
that
news. He realised how tightly he was clutching the merkin. He wanted to fling it away, but his mum was still standing in the doorway.

‘Oh! I forgot to tell you, Philo stopped by earlier in the week while you were out with Delilah. He said he had something he wanted to drop off for you?’

Jack went pale. Had Philo made another merkin? A second-generation model with twice the sticking power and double the pubes? He’d been cagey about what he’d been researching when Jack had found him in the library, but he’d insisted it wasn’t another merkin. So what
was
it? On past form, it was guaranteed to be
massively
embarrassing. After all, Philo had started off with fake pubes. The next logical step was …

Oh my god
, thought Jack.
It’s going to be fake junk.
He had a vision of a huge papier-mâché dong springing out from a drawer like something from an X-rated pop-up book. But surely his mum would have noticed Philo walking
that
through the house?

‘This thing Philo dropped off,’ Jack said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. ‘Was it big? Was it small?’

Adele shook her head. ‘I was on my way out to work, I wasn’t really paying attention.’ She frowned. ‘What’s the matter? You’re acting like he’s hidden a snake in your room or something.’

A trouser-snake, maybe
, thought Jack darkly. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll just … finish up here, then I’ll come in for dinner.’

Adele craned her neck again, obviously hoping for a glimpse of whatever Jack was holding behind his back. Luckily, Jack’s body seemed to be blocking the reflection of his merkin-clutching hands in the ensuite mirror.

‘Okay,’ said his mum, pausing at the door on her way out. ‘You’ll never guess what we’re having.’

‘Great,’ said Hallie. ‘Sausages again. I’ll pass.’

Jack drummed his fingers nervously on the kitchen table. As soon as his mum had left, he’d upturned his entire bachelor pad. He yanked out drawers and flung t-shirts and socks and underpants over his shoulder in a desperate search for Philo’s new pube-prop.

Nothing. His room was a mess, and he’d found nothing.

Philo must have suffered one of his typical brain-fades and had forgotten to actually leave the mystery item for Jack to find. It was the only explanation Jack could come up with.

‘When did Delilah say she’s coming?’

‘Soon,’ said Adele from the kitchen. She rolled another spatula-load of sausages onto a plate.

Marlene looked up from her phone. ‘I’d like to be excused, if it’s all the same to everyone. The whole house feels like it’s under bloomin’ surveillance. I had to shoo three
very
peculiar young ladies off the front lawn the other afternoon.’