One Dead Seagull Read online

  scot gardner has been a counsellor, masseur and hypnotherapist education consultant, landscape designer and builder, didgeridoo player and author. He lives in a solar-powered barn in the bush with his wife and three mischievous sprites. He likes bamboo. One Dead Seagull is his first but not his last novel.

  Teacher’s notes for ONE DEAD SEAGULL are available at www.scotgardner.com

  Cover model: Shane Henry

  First published 2001 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  Reprinted 2002

  This edition ©2013

  Karijan Enterprises

  P.O. Box 8 Churchill Vic 3842

  Copyright © Karijan Enterprises 2001

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Gardner, Scot. One dead seagull.

  ISBN 0 330 36273 9.

  I. Title. A828.3

  Typeset in 11/14 pt New Baskerville by Midland Typesetters

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  for robyn

  Mum has always harassed me about brushing my teeth. I thought it was stupid when I was little, now it’s a major pain. Every morning before I bolt out the door she stops me, kisses me, and if she can’t smell toothpaste, sends me back to brush them. She’s the reason I’m late for school almost every morning. She gets me into a lot of trouble. I wish she would just ease up on the tooth thing. If she leaves before me I usually go without doing my teeth. As if she would find out. One morning when she left early I went into the bathroom, put toothpaste on my toothbrush then thought: ‘Bugger it—Mum will never know’, and washed the toothpaste off again. She goes on and on about my jocks too. Asks me if I’ve changed them every morning (I always say yes). Sometimes they stink but mostly they’re fine. By Thursday she’ll corner me: ‘There were only three pairs of your undies in the wash, Wayne, and it’s been a week since I last washed. You’ve got to look after yourself.’ Then she’ll go on about how when I leave home I won’t have learnt how to stay clean and healthy and all that. Mum’s a nurse—well she used to be, now she works in the office at the Chisholm Hospital. She likes to look after me. I can look after myself.

  I love the smell of Lynx ‘Aztec’ deodorant: it’s cool and I always smell clean when I put it on. Sometimes I skip the shower in the morning so I can sleep in an extra half hour and all I need to do is give myself a good spray under the armpits and a bit around my bum and I’m right for the day. Mum likes it. So does Mandy Masterson—she sniffed me once and said I smelled nice. She always smells nice. I am amazed Mum can smell anything at all; she’s been smoking since she was my age (or so she says) and it burns out your smell glands or whatever you call them. She smokes a pack and a half of Holiday Extras a day. She smokes so much that she doesn’t notice if I nick a few from a pack that’s open. I took a whole pack once—fifty smokes—and she told herself off for smoking too much! She’d kill me if she knew I smoked. I smoke a bit. Like, maybe four or five ciggies a day or something like that. I get pissed off with myself for it most mornings. Run late for school and pedal like crazy so Mrs Leavey won’t crack, and I puff and wheeze and cough up big blobs of phlegm and spit. Am I fifteen or fifty? Got to give up the smokes...

  As usual, I was late. I had dumped my bike in the shed and made it to the sliding door of the breezeway just as Dennis’s bus pulled up. They knew they were late and all the sucks that sit up the front of the bus ran down the ramp and inside. Except Dennis. He sits in the front seat behind the driver but always manages to be the last one off. I reckon he likes to watch the girls’ bums as they’re jumping down the stairs. Mandy catches his bus. I watched her coming down the stairs. She smiled hello as she walked past me and I could smell her. She wears vanilla. I was waiting for it to hit me and there it was. The smell does funny things to my insides. I wish I could get a bottle of that stuff and spray my room with it. That would be hot.

  ‘I saw you ogling her. You’re a perv.’

  Dennis had crept out of the bus and scared the shit out of me. I hope my ogling is not as obvious to Mandy. He told me what he did at Venturers the night before and I nodded. He tells me the same stuff every Wednesday. I don’t know what he sees in it. To me it looks like a bunch of little kids who don’t have a life. Maybe they have trouble talking to girls. Den is not really in either category—the girls love him and he’s got plenty of other stuff to do. Like I said, I don’t know.

  I dragged him by the arm so we could walk behind Mandy and Cheryl Bickerton. Past the bins in front of the science block and the bald patch of dirt where Mr Davis chucked the bomb that Shane Grizotto lit in class. Smoke bomb. Filled the whole quadrangle with thick smoke and set off the alarms. We got to spend a few hours on the oval and Griz got to spend three days at home. Wanker.

  Cheryl and Mandy did a quick right into their homeroom and old Mrs Kneebone glared at us as we pretended to follow them inside. Some teachers have names that are so silly you can’t twist them into anything. Kneebone. She gets heaps from some kids about her moustache of thick, soft black hair. She’s not really that old, just hairy. I had her for English last year and she gave me some fun jobs after I’d breezed through all the set work. Den and I backed out of the room and hurried off to face Mrs Leavey.

  ‘Sorry Miss, the bus was late,’ Dennis said flatly and headed to his seat.

  ‘What’s your excuse, Wayne?’

  ‘Sorry Miss,’ I said. I batted my eyelids and shrugged before I sat down. She glared at me and finished reading the message bulletin.

  ‘Special assembly at lunchtime today—listen for the announcement just before the bell for fifth period.’

  ‘What for?’ Janine Cleary was annoyed her lunchtime would be cut short.

  ‘I don’t know, Janine. Best we all just trot along and find out.’

  My guess? Another drug bust. Last year, kids got caught buying speed from a bloke in a yellow Escort. The bloke finally got busted and a whole group of kids—six year tens—got expelled. There was a joke going around at Chisholm Catholic College that our school, Chisholm High, produced the finest drug dealers in the state. Yeah, could be a drug bust. Could be another award for that blind chick in year eight. She’s as smart as.

  Mr Richards spoke to us first and told us he was leaving. That doesn’t sound so wild when I say it like that. How about . . . Richo, the bloke who has been the principal of this school since before I was born, the real gentleman (the bloke who dated my mum when she was still Sylvia Kirkwood) was throwing in the towel. He stood there in the same grey suit that he always wore and a boring tie in blue with little gold stars. He looked smaller.

  Then Mr Johnson took the microphone and shouted into it like the idiot he is. Said he was sorry to see Richo go. Yeah, yeah. And as the assistant, he will step into Richo’s spot until another principal is appointed. Everyone hates Johnson, the sleazy pig. Last week he suspended Greg for having smokes in his pencil case.

  Mum couldn’t believe it either. She stopped chewing her mouthful of lamb chop like someone had pressed her pause button. She put her plate on the arm of the couch and picked up the phone. I thought she was going to call my Auntie Pat to spread the news.

  ‘Hello, Gilbert?’ she said and then groaned—she hates answering machines. She knew Richo’s phone number by heart.

  ‘Hi Gil, it’s Sylvia Armond here, I was ... Wayne just told me
you were leaving the school. I ...I hope everything is okay. Give me a call when you get the chance. Yes, give me a call.’

  She almost hung up then said, ‘Sylvia Kirkwood. Did I say that? Anyway, give me a call. Bye.’

  She put the phone down and burst into a coughing fit that lasted half a minute. Sometimes when she’s coughing she sounds like the Velos’ tabby bringing up a fur ball. Disgusting. She wiped her mouth on the towel she keeps near the remote and continued her tea. Sale of the Century started and she turned up the volume. I scoffed the last mouthful of my potato and half-kissed, half-wiped my mouth on her hair as I bolted for the door.

  Halfway to Game Zone I decided Den would have to wait. The sun had just disappeared and everything was orange. As I pedalled up to the war memorial I wished I had a camera. The glow from the sunset had painted half of the digger’s face, half of his concrete coat and exactly half of his rifle, which was propped with the butt on the marble pedestal. The rest of him was in silhouette. I sat and watched him do absolutely nothing for a minute or so. Statues do that so well. This bloke looked tired and proud. When I was little I reckoned statues were people who had been turned to stone. There’s no way a person could carve anything that real looking from rock. No way. I sat back on the seat of my bike and lit up one of the Peter Jackson 12s that I’d botted off Dennis, out of respect for the weary stone soldier.

  When I got to Game Zone, Dennis was waiting out the front. He was nervously puffing on the last of a smoke and I could tell it was him from the corner of Howard Avenue. His body is long and he always wears black— black tracksuit pants, black shirt and a black leather bikie’s vest he must wear to bed. His skin is pale and his hair is black, straight and shiny. Mandy reckons he’s spooky-looking. Den loves it. He told me once that he could shapeshift into different animals—I don’t think I believe him.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  I puffed harder than I needed to. ‘Oh. Sorry mate. Had to finish my tea.’ Puff puff.

  To anyone else that would sound like a limp excuse but to Den it was okay. He and his family have tea together every night. At the table. They don’t have a telly in the house.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the library.’

  ‘I thought we were going to have a game?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  Griz and his mate Otto were standing in the glare of the Terminator screen making short work of the animated terrorists popping up from behind the boxes and cars. Griz is younger than Den and me but he’s a freak. He’s bigger than my dad. And more hairy. He smells like Lincoln’s Service Station mixed with a month-old ashtray. I bumped into Otto as I backed away from the machine. He shoved me and told me to watch it. I apologised. Otto is a bull terrier. He must be twenty but he looks younger than Dennis. Wisps of hair stretch down the side of his face. A patch of blond fluff sticks out from his chin and his moustache looks like velvet if you get close to him. He wears a Saints beanie pulled down so it half covers his eyes. Makes him look even younger and dimmer than he is. I think he goes to the gym because his arms are the size of Den’s thighs and covered in tattoos. He’s lost his licence twice already for driving like an idiot.

  ‘Why don’t we wait until they’re finished?’

  ‘Nah. Come on. We’ll come back later,’ Den said and jumped up to sit on the handlebar of my bike. He flicked the butt of his cigarette at the rubbish bin and jiggled so I had to move to keep balance.

  Den’s sister Kerry was at the library with Carly and Rebecca. They’re all a year younger than Dennis and me. Carly’s a redhead with big boobs and Rebecca is sort of weird and black like Dennis. She reminds me of Morticia from The Addams Family. Dennis could be Gomez and kiss her up and down the arms and stuff except he doesn’t seem to be interested in girls like that. We chatted for a while then Kerry started talking about periods and tampons like she does when she wants us to gross out and nick off. It works—she started using that tactic before she had her first period. God, I remember that, Kerry walking like a cowboy and explaining to everyone who had to stop for a minute all the little details of her first bleed. Den threatened to get a T-shirt printed with a big tampon on it that read ‘I am menstruating—come ask me how’. She takes no notice of his sick jokes.

  Den seemed a lot more relaxed when we got back to Game Zone. Dennis and I go there whenever. What I really wanted to say was that Game Zone is our ‘home away from home’. It’s our place and Griz might have been in our bedroom when he was playing Terminator. I tore open the Velcro on my wallet and gave him a five-dollar note. He chatted with Maru for a few minutes and came back with a handful of coins.

  I had a sense that we were in trouble before it happened—not just danger but real trouble. It’s weird how that feeling can take hold of me sometimes.

  Den and I both emptied our chambers on the same shot and in the split second it takes us to reload, the terrorists were on to us. Four of them with SA-80’s showering the ground at our feet. I was hit. Everything went red and two seconds later Den was on the ground beside me, billowing cyber blood. It was the shortest life I have ever lived and I couldn’t believe I was dead. Den cursed and reached forward to file more coins in the slot. A huge greasy hand slapped across the console. The large skull ring made a sound like a gunshot as it struck the coin slot.

  ‘Game over, boys,’ Griz said with a yellow-toothed grin. My face flushed and my skin prickled.

  Den looked over at Maru then at me. ‘We’re just going to have one more game, then we’ll leave you to it,’ he said.

  For a second there was a tiger in Griz’s head.

  ‘Come on Dennis, we’ll come back later,’ I mumbled. Griz lifted his hand from the slot and smiled. ‘Okay.’

  He backed away from the machine and Den sent the coins rattling down the slot. I wanted to run. I didn’t want to play another stupid game but I wasn’t going to pike out. Den looked over, his eyes dark like sea caves, and motioned for me to join him. I grabbed the gun and shot the ‘Two Player’ selection then the icon for the part where we start called ‘Dockside’. We were in that void between ‘press to start’ and the first actual shot when I heard Griz whisper, ‘Now!’

  Otto grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me from the front of the console. I was ready to run so I let the gun go and did. Griz had Dennis under the arms and was holding him off the ground and shaking him. Dennis let go of the gun and kicked back at Griz. The heel of his boot connected with Griz’s zipper. Bent him in half. He dropped Den roughly on his feet and grabbed for the gun. A kick in the nuts couldn’t stop him from collecting a free game. He reached out a gorilla-arm and slapped Den on the side of the head. Den’s hair shot straight up and he bucked away from the blow.

  ‘We’ll just have this game and then you guys can have it, okay?’ Griz chuckled.

  When Den saw Griz’s bike lying like it had been abandoned on the footpath outside, he sniffed back a ball of snot and then spat it on the seat. Then he lunged onto the front of my bike and I rode like wildfire down Garrison Street to Fairleigh. It wasn’t until we’d cut across the library lawn that I slowed down.

  ‘I thought he was going to have a go at you,’ I panted. Den laughed. ‘Good shot, huh?’

  ‘Why didn’t you run?’

  He shrugged. ‘The bloke’s a full-time wanker.’

  •

  We pulled into the driveway and found Den’s dad Barry mowing the lawn by streetlight.

  ‘Hey fellas. How are you going?’

  Den and I chimed that things were good, which stretched the truth a bit but wasn’t an outright lie. Barry was dressed in a purple sarong flecked with gold that danced in the streetlight. His bare feet were covered in damp grass clippings and he walked over to shake my hand, as he does. He smelled sweaty, fresh and green. He went back to work with the musical ratchet of the push– pull mower and that silly little Beatles’ song he whistles. I can’t remember the song but it’s always the same one.

  Entering the Humes’ place is
like falling through a Stargate and coming out somewhere in Indonesia or India. They have a huge collection of teak carvings—a woman with huge boobs and real hair on her head, and Bilbo, a little wooden man with shells inlaid for eyes and a massive wooden stiffy that reaches higher than his shoulder. The floors are polished wood but it’s hard to see them for all the coloured rugs. Their place is always clean—not like our flat—but there’s so much stuff in there that clutter rules. The Humes have lived there since before Den and I went to kindergarten. All that time there has been a boat sitting under green canvas tarps in the backyard. Barry reckons he’ll fix it one day. The silence of their house is a bit freaky sometimes. I wish Den would leave his radio on or get a TV. Feels more like a church, with all the incense and stuff, than a home.

  Kerry and her mum were sitting at the old wooden kitchen table reading the local rag and they both looked up when we walked in. Gracie flew into her long-lost-son routine that makes me feel embarrassed but welcome and Kerry smiled. Den filled up a drink bottle with water then we headed for his room. I flopped onto his bed before he managed to turn the light on. The ceiling was lined with posters of wild places.

  ‘Nice ceiling,’ I cooed as he pushed Kerry’s cat off his desk chair and sat down.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed that before? It’s been like that for years.’

  It made me think of the sleepovers we had every other weekend when we were little and my family lived in Tennyson Street. Recording our farts on his portable stereo and making up new words to his stupid Play School tape. I had never noticed the ceiling.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind going to a few of those places.’

  ‘I’ve been to every one.’

  My eyebrows jumped. Even the deep, dark fern gully creek? Even the huge boulders by the frantic sea? And the painted desert with purple storm clouds?