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Like everyone on my bench, I swiveled left. Everyone on the bench facing us swung right. Thirty kids - sixty eyes - stared at Joke. Still clad in his costume, the small boy was a statue of shock, frozen at the buffet in the act of lowering a sausage roll onto a plastic plate with silver servers.
"Answer me!" screamed Mark with such force that Joke dropped the servers. The roll glanced off the side of his plate and flopped onto the floor like a tiny, talentless gymnast dismounting a vaulting horse. Joke hunkered down to clean up the mess. "Sorry, Mark," he said, so quietly we could barely hear him. "I was so hungry."
I didn't like the angry glint in Mark's eyes - he looked like a shark closing in on an injured seal. I scanned the marquee for Mr Fisk. He was nowhere to be seen.
"I said you were not allowed to eat anything," said Mark, feigning outrage. "You disobeyed me. First you steal my food. Now you waste it."
I stood up and tapped Mark's arm gently. "It was an accident," I whispered. "It's just one sausage roll."
Mark shook my hand away, pulled out his console from a side pocket of his radioactive-milk jeans, and put the silver box to his lips. "You know what we do to thieves in these parts?" he drawled, robotically.
Before anyone could react, Mark jumped off the pew and lunged at Joke. Joke tried to evade Mark's charge, but a loose thread from his costume snagged the corner of the buffet table, which tilted as he tried to pull away. Trying to right the wobbly table, Joke tripped and fell forwards. The table crashed on top of him, a cheese platter shattering centimetres from his head. Mark hollered with outrage, threw the table upright, and hauled the smaller boy to his feet with a savage wrench.
"Look what you've done now!" shrieked Mark, shaking the pumpkin gleefully, exulting in the carnage. "Time for a new game, everyone!" Mark beamed, his face dripping with sweat. Some of the kids on the opposite bench began to giggle; and almost everyone stood up. A shard of broken glass had pricked Joke's cheek, and the sight of blood set everyone on edge.
"It's called pin the tail on the pumpkin! Or pumpkin piñata, if you prefer!" Before anyone could react, Mark dragged Joke over to the cool bench, and made him stand up in the middle of it. The other kids backed off. Mark jumped up and seized the end of the rope that hung from the bottom of the medieval chandelier. Then he bound Joke's hands with it. "As the birthday boy, I'll go first," Mark said, and pulled down hard on the rope, hoisting Joke's feet into the air.
"Please, don't," wailed Joke, recovering his voice.
"Let him go, Mark," said Mrs Kroker, saying exactly what I was thinking. "Let's just play the game."
"This is the game now," snapped Mark, almost snarling. "Your job is to make me happy, so shut up and get me the donkey tails."
Mrs Kroker looked like she was about to say something to Mark, but decided against it and swallowed her words. "Be gentle," said Mrs Kroker, then nodded to her son. Tim snorted, shunted me aside, scrambled under the DJ podium and retrieved a white plastic ice cream container.
I strode to the podium. "Mrs. Kroker," I said craning my neck to make eye contact. "This isn't right."
"The customer is always right," muttered Mrs Kroker, staring into space. "When you're my age, you'll know that." She stepped down from the podium just as Tim handed Mark the container. Mark tipped it upside down so that its contents - about a dozen furry donkey's tails with pins stuck in the ends - spilled onto the floor.
Mark stooped down and snatched up a handful of pintails and began jabbing them randomly into the padded flanks of Joke's costume. Tim chuckled with glee, breaking into a wild jig.
"I'll teach you to steal from me," Mark scolded. Joke was bone white. Hanging limply by his arms from the rope over the pew, he looked even smaller and more helpless than usual.
"Aren't you meant to be blindfolded?" said Nicky, wringing her hands. Nicky was the tallest kid in the class, and by far the best athlete. Unlike most of the other girls, she cropped her hair, claiming long locks slowed her down over the hurdles (her favourite event). She was kind of pretty, though her face was splattered with freckles: in the purple light, she looked like someone had dunked her head in a trough of melted chocolate. She was one of the few kids Mark respected, perhaps for her strength, though for some reason he'd assigned her to the loser bench.
"This is my property," said Mark, glaring at her. "And if you don't like my rules why don't you leave? I've got a good mind to get your dad sacked."
Mr Jackson, Nicky's father, ran the historically accurate toffee shop in Midas Mountain. For a moment, Nicky bristled and held Mark's gaze. Then she bit her lip, muttered something inaudible (probably rude!), and sat down on the loser bench, looking up at Joke, concerned.
Mark stuck a pin dangerously close to the edge of the pumpkin padding, centimetres from Joke's left upper thigh. "Careful," I called out from the dance floor. "You might hurt him!"
"Wouldn't that be just terrible," laughed Mark and jabbed a pin directly into the soft skin behind Joke's right knee. "Just terrible."
Joke bucked and thrashed. The candle flames flickered as he yanked side to side on the rope. Hot wax slopped out of the candleholders onto Joke's hair, and down the back of his neck. Mark laughed. A small trickle of blood dripped down Joke's green tights, staining them black. Mark had gone too far. I ran towards Joke, but stopped cold when I heard a chilling scream.
Apart from the elderly DJ, who was snoring face down on his deck, we'd all been transfixed by Mark's torture show. As one, we turned to the source of the shriek.
It was Tim. He clutched his left wrist with his right hand, like a microphone. "The parcel," he whispered, then collapsed and started to blubber.
Dumbfounded, I looked at the golden parcel on the ground beneath the bench. Or what was left of it. It looked like it had been torn apart from the inside. I looked around for the culprit and caught a glimpse of a black scorpion's pincers and sting disappearing through a small hole in the marquee next to the podium.
"It scratched me," sobbed Tim. Mrs Kroker, who'd been trying to look the other way while Mark toyed with Joke, rushed over to her stricken son.
"What scratched you?" she asked, trying to prise Tim's hand away from his wrist to look at the wound.
"A lizard. Black-green scales. Like a big blue tongue."
"No, it wasn't," said Nicky, matter-of-factly. "It was a bird. Like a pheasant, with a long tail. I saw it peck its way out that way," she said, pointing to the same small tear in the marquee.
"It was a rat," said Mr Fisk, running into the marquee with a rake. "A filthy, black water-rat. I saw it exit the tent and chased it into the Lake." He sized up the scene, then palmed Mark away without a word, and went to his weeping son.
Just then Mr Barker marched into the marquee, unbuttoning his jacket. "What's going on here, Annette?" he shouted at Mrs Kroker. "I thought someone had been injured. I couldn't hear my team in Jakarta over the hullaballoo. I hired you to keep control! Why's that little boy tethered to a rope?"
Mrs Kroker pointed dumbly at the golden parcel. "A rat in the parcel. It hurt my son."
"How, pray tell, did a rat get into a kid's party game?" said Mr Barker. "Was it meant to be some kind of edgy pet? The latest party-bag filler. What's wrong with you?" Then he turned to Mr Fisk: "You," he ordered. "Take the Kroker lad to Base for a checkup. Tell them to charge it to me."
"I did-didn't," stammered Mrs Kroker. "Not a pet. It was a DVD, not a -"
Nicky screamed like a girl, something I'd never heard her do before. "Look at the cake!" she cried.
The roof lights pulsed then the marquee was flooded with black light. From near the entrance, came the muffled sound of a thousand legs scratching. The UFO cake shook violently, like it was struggling to take off, spraying orange Martians in all directions.
The cake's roof exploded and hundreds of blue-black bugs erupted out of it, scuttling in waves across the dance floor toward us. Almost everyone, including Mr Barker, Mrs Kroker and the surprisingly spr
y DJ, now wide awake, started for the exit. Mrs Kroker staggered under the load of her son, but was stronger than she looked, and made it out.
Ignoring the bugs, Mr Fisk threw down his rake, braining some beetles in the process, and fumbled with the knot around Joke's wrists. I ran over to help, pushing against the surge of kids heading the other way. The floor was slippery with mocktail slops and I slipped, almost landing face first in the sea of swarming bugs. I recovered my balance, and held Joke's swinging legs still, while his father clawed at the knot. Despite the bugs climbing his legs, Joke grinned.
With a grunt, Mr Fisk gave up on the knot, pulled a serrated army knife out of his pocket and sawed through the rope. I dragged Joke to the marquee door, crushing bugs underfoot with every disgusting step. Mr Fisk retrieved his rake and drove the bulk of the bugs through the tear in the marquee and out towards the Lake.
As Joke and I exited the dark tent, we were hit with blinding daylight. Joke and I fell to the ground, stunned. Mr Fisk, still wielding his rake, followed us out. "You look after him, Paddy. This time," he said, blinking. "I have to get that hulking Kroker lad off to the Base," he said, referring to the local hospital, "but I'll be back to pick you both up in half an hour."
I nodded, patting Joke on the back as the small boy applied pressure to the pinprick wound behind his knee. Mr Fisk lent down, mussed Joke's hair and winked at him. Joke smiled and winked back. Then his father went over to help Mrs Kroker lug her son to the van.
Joke and I sat on the soft grass and waited for Mr Fisk to come back, watching the thinning stream of bugs splash into the Lake. Mark stood out on the jetty, shouting at Mr Barker and stomping his feet like a toddler mid-tantrum. Even from where we sat, we could hear him: "Dad! My party! Wrecked by cockroaches! Filthy cockroaches."
"I thought the rat was more troubling, from a hygiene perspective," whispered Joke, almost grinning. "Or was it a bird? Or a lizard?"
"Or a scorpion?" I muttered.
"What?" asked Joke, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Nothing," I said. "My eyes playing tricks in the dark."
"Indeed," said Joke mysteriously. "Well, the bugs aren't cockroaches. Did you see their shovel-shaped heads? They're scarab beetles."
"Can't be," I said. When I'd first arrived in Quakehaven, Joke had been at pains to drill me on all the local bugs, spiders and snakes. "Scarabs aren't from here -"
"That's right," said Joke, beaming. "This particular species is from North Africa."
I arched my eyebrows, but said nothing. Joke coughed, and Mark saw us. He sidestepped his father, and stormed up the jetty, advancing on us with hatred in his eyes and balled fists. I scooted forward, shielding Joke.
Mark stopped and spat on my shoes. "Tell your nerd mate I hold him responsible for this," said Mark, gasping for control of his breath. Then something inside him - pride? - gave way, and he started to sob like a fairy princess stung by a bee.
"Come on, Mark," I said, rubbing my spittle-soaked shoes on the grass. "Don't cry. You know Joke had nothing to do with it. It's just one of those things. Freakish bad luck."
"I told that Kroker woman that I wanted an exclusive event. But she said bigger was better. Invite the whole class, she said. Stupid sow!"
"It was a great party, Mark," I said, trying to placate him. "Huge. We'll laugh about the Barker bug attack in a few days. You can tell people it was your way of ending the event with a bang!"
But Mark was in no mood to listen. "Pauper filth. Should never have invited them. Tracked dirt and vermin onto my land. Wrecked everything good and clean. That's how the bubonic plague killed a third of the world. Poor, squalid people, squatting with rodents."
Ignoring Mark's stupid diatribe - poor doesn't mean dirty or bad, any more than rich means clean or good - I helped Joke to his feet. The back of Joke's costume was covered in grass stains, and his tights were torn and stained with blood. The pumpkin suit had seen its last party!
We walked back the way we had come and waited out on the street. Though Joke had been a victim, there was something odd about his reaction to the beetles, his grinning face as Mr Fisk and I struggled to set him free. North African bugs in Quakehaven? The only thing remotely North African in town was Joke's book on Egypt.
"Quite a coincidence," as Dad used to scoff when investigating fishy deals. "Quite a coincidence."
3. THE OLD MAN AND THE FEE
Tim turned out to be fine. Barely a surface scratch on his wrist. "Probably just a bit of shock," huffed Mr Fisk, as he dropped me off at Sub Rosa. He sounded disappointed.
As soon as I opened the front door, Aunt Bea ambushed me. She'd been cleaning out Katy's cage, but interrupted the task to tell me the 'dreadful' news of Mr Barker's 'hideous plans' to turn a couple of disused warehouses near the hospital into loft-style apartments. As if to emphasise Aunt Bea's distress, Katy bounced up and down on her shoulder while my aunt ranted about the 'underemployed artsy folk from the City with their jazz cafes and cocktail bars'. Such plans were not, in my aunt's view, 'at all in keeping with Quakehaven's culture', or 'its proud tradition of scone and tea houses'. Katy squawked in agreement.
I stuck my head in to see Mum. She was fast asleep, no doubt assisted by Doc Vass' prescriptions.
Straight after dinner, I excused myself and went up to my room. I was about half way through one of Dad's old novels, a scary story about duelling magicians. After reading the same paragraph three times, I gave up, turned off the light and closed my eyes.
With all the excitement (and sugar!) at Mark's party, and all the questions running through my head about the lizard-bird-rat thing and the army of scarab beetles, I didn't sleep well. I was just beginning to settle into a deep sleep, when the alarm sounded, a static-beeping too annoying to ignore.
Groggily, I climbed out of bed and slapped off the alarm. I rugged up and tip-toed downstairs. My clunky French horn case was next to the hall stand, and I picked it up, being careful not to disturb Katy, and crept out the front door. On the front porch, I grabbed my bike, latching my French horn case to the rear rack behind the seat. I hopped aboard and pedalled down the three porch stairs, through the open gate and down my freezing, empty street, and across town to Mr Tangen's newsagency.
Tangen's newsagency was about a twenty minute ride south of Sub Rosa, just west of Base Hospital. It felt longer that morning, peddling into the frigid wind. There were no cars or people on the streets, but somehow Justine had already beaten me to the shop and taken out her cart. How did she and her twin brother, Mick, get up so early? Even on Sundays and Thursdays – my shifts – Mick had football practice at 7am. Did the twins ever get to sleep in?
I jumped off my bike and chained it to the dead gum tree outside the shop. Then I unlatched the horn and jumped over the single marble step and into the newsagency.
Mr Tangen frowned, tapping his watch, then winked to show he was joking. Lucky for me! His newsagency was not in the best part of Quakehaven: some of the shops nearby had closed because of robberies. But not once in all the years he'd managed the shop had anyone dared to hold him up. Mr Tangen, known around town as the Viking, looked like an old Norse warrior without the horned hat: he seemed twice my height, with massive shoulders and proud puff-muscled chest.
"You're late, lad," declared Mr Tangen. "My customers pay good money for personal deliveries, but they're probably wishing they had subscriptions with Luk."
"Sorry sir," I said. Mr Tangen was the type of man people called sir, even though he never asked you to. I'll make up time on Tavistock Street - I'll just have to shorten my cat-chat with Mrs Carruthers by a few minutes."
"You'll do no such thing," frowned Mr Tangen. "That poor old lady's all alone now, except for her cats. You'll not deprive her of one second of your time just because you can't get your lazy bones out of bed on time."
"Sure, Mr Tangen," I said, smiling, and handed him my horn case. He stashed the case under the counter. I sighed, taking in th
e newsagency’s wonderful stink of oranges, tobacco and burned coffee beans.
Mr Tangen went into the back of the shop. "Any special orders?" I called after him, hopeful.
"Two," said Mr Tangen, returning with my red cart, fully laden with Quakehaven Inquisitors, and a couple of magazines under his arm.
Mr Tangen pulled a pad and biro from his shirt pocket and licked his lips as he thumbed down his customer list. "Yarn Yarns, for 15 Taubman Street, Mr Dixon, $6," Mr Tangen said, handing me a pastel-hued monthly packed with knitting stories and tips. My face almost split open with laughter at the thought of Mr Dixon - ex-army engineer and fishing enthusiast - crocheting the baby blue mittens featured on the cover. Mr Tangen shot me a warning glare, and I swallowed my laugh.
"And we have a very special order for a customer I haven't heard from in a while. Mr Seth, at 49 Blakes Road. "Sumerian Anthropological Digest".
I looked at the cover, confused.
"It's in Arabic," explained Mr Tangen. "And you'll be very pleased to hear that it's tremendously expensive: $30."
"Great," I said, suddenly alert. The job paid 8 cents a paper, but I got 15% of the face price of every special order. From my jacket, I pulled out my trusty school calculator and punched in the numbers. "Three-seventy-five!"
Mr Tangen smirked. "You must be getting close to your target. How long till I have to replace you with someone less tardy?"
"A few more weeks yet, sir," I said, stuffing the calculator back into my pocket. "I'm about three-quarters there. Another $20 dollars will do it."
"Your mother will be so proud" said Mr Tangen, placing the magazines spine down into the cart, making sure not to bend them. "Like I am."
I blushed. Mr Tangen was not a man who paid false compliments. A few awkward moments passed, then I stammered out a weak 'thank you', grabbed the cart and headed for the door, nearly running over my own feet in the process.
The truth was that Mr Tangen and I were co-conspirators. Aunt Bea, Mum and the school basketball coach, Mr Walker, thought I spent Sunday and Thursday mornings at band practice. That's why I had to lug my horn to the newsagency twice a week. Ms Crabshank, the band mistress, thought that I was at basketball training with Mr Walker. It worked because Mr Walker and Ms Crabshank refused to talk to each other. They’d fallen out over a cake prize at the Quakehaven Show. It was a perfect white lie, so long as none of my customers dobbed me in!
Mr Tangen got a kick out of our secret. When I'd first applied, he refused to hire me without Mum's written permission. He'd said no, even when I told him I wanted the job to buy her a secret birthday present: Fabliaux, an expensive perfume Dad had bought her every year since they'd been married. But, in one of his gossip sessions, Mr Fisk had spilled my whole sad story to Mr Tangen. Mr Tangen had shooed Mr Fisk out of the shop, locked up and ridden straight out to Sub Rosa on his ridiculous tiny scooter and given me the job!
I opened the shop door. A tobacco-orange scented gush of warm air rushed past my ears into the chill of the street outside. From my tracksuit pocket, I pulled out a silver whistle on a plastic chain, and looped it around my neck. The back of the cart crackled to life: Mr Tangen had activated my docked walkie-talkie. He used them to keep tabs on his staff and in case there was any trouble. I turned to salute Mr Tangen, then paused.
"Did you say Blakes Road?" I asked the Viking.
"What?" said Mr Tangen.
"The special order. The one for Mr Seth. Did you say Blakes Road?"
"Yes," said Mr Tangen. "It's his first order in years. He's been overseas and must have moved back recently. Make sure it's not his last order with us."
"No-one moves to Quakehaven," I said. "Especially not to Blakes Road."
"Well, you moved to Quakehaven. And so did I," said Mr Tangen. "And Mr Seth has been here for years: long before either of us."
I frowned. "Why would anyone live there? There's nothing in that street. It's -”
"Sounds like you've been listening to Mr Fisk's stories," said Mr Tangen, shaking his head. "That man has an overactive imagination."
"Yes. No, but - isn't number 49 near the butcher's shop?"
A flicker of concern crossed Mr Tangen's face. "Those stories are untrue, Paddy. I've met Mr Seth, and he's a perfectly charming gentleman. And he's a paying customer!"
"But -"
"No buts," interrupted Mr Tangen. "You've got customers waiting for their daily news. Off you go. Before you let out all the heat!"
"OK sir," I said, dragging the cart and onto the street. A snowball-sized chill rolled up my spine. It was more than the wind.
"Any trouble," said Mr Tangen, tapping the walkie talkie on his belt, "You call me."