Number 8 (20 page)

My dad thinks Frank Sinatra was the best singer in the world. Well, you know what old Frank said about rock 'n' roll? He said it would be the end of civilization.

What are they all so afraid of, I want to know?

All the lights are off across the road. It must be really late. I check the clock—11:41. Geez, and on a school night. Jackson and Asim are so lucky. Valerie must be doing about a hundred encores.

Suddenly, in the light from the street lamp, I see something move. A shadow creeps across the pool of bright asphalt. It freezes for a moment in the middle of the road. I can see a solid shape, bulky but not tall. He's twisting around, looking straight at this window. Quickly I snap off the bedside lamp and duck down, so that only the top of my head peeps over the windowsill. But I can make out a baseball cap and a
bomber jacket. The light is glinting off the metal buttons. He raises an arm. Is he pointing at me? Waving? No, he's picking his nose. He's doing a real excavation. It's Badman!

I almost laugh out loud but then I see he's turned and is crossing the road. He's careful to go slow, his boots making no noise on the road. He steps up onto the sidewalk, across the grass. He's heading toward Jackson's house. Oh, no, what's he planning to do?

Just before he opens the gate he fumbles in his jacket pocket. He brings something out and looks at it.

I'm not waiting to find out what he's got. I yank my bathrobe off the bed and run down the hall. He's going to blow up their mailbox, I know it.
Idiot,
he's everything Jackson said he was. I can't believe it. I make myself slow down at the front door and carefully twist the knob so it doesn't squeak. I leave the latch thingy pressed in so it's unlocked and I can get back in. I won't be long, I tell myself, unless Badman kills me.

My heart is pounding away as I spring out onto our lawn.
Ow
, those damn thorns! I wish I'd put on slippers. No time, for sure he's heading toward the mailbox. What nerve—Valerie could be home any minute. But wait, he's not stopping at the mailbox. He's disappearing inside the gate … Oh, no, the possum house!

I run at the gate and push it open. There, right under the maple tree, a small plume of flame floating in the dark. I make out Badman, leaning against the tree. He swings round to face me. There's a lighter in his hand. In the light of the flame I see his eyes go wide and a surprised smile flits across his face. Everything's happening together, fast like a speeding train, but it's so weird because I'm picking out each detail in the dark as if it's a list I'll need to remember. I watch
him open his other hand, and see the long thin cylinder that fits neatly in his palm. He grins at me and his fingers close around it. I'm stuck here, glued. It's like watching a bus coming at you and not getting out of the way.

The wick catching alight does it. As he reaches up toward the little house I leap across the path and lunge at him, my head barrelling into his stomach. He topples and we both crash to the ground, football style. Out of the corner of my eye I see the firework still in his hand. The wick has almost burned away. It'll blow any minute. “
Throw
it!” I yell.

“Get your shoulder off me!”

I lift up and he throws the thing way down the lawn. Just a heartbeat later there's the loudest explosion I've ever heard. My ears are singing in top C. The sound keeps going,
eee eeeee
, like ripples around a stone after you hurl it in a river.

“You
moron
!” I pant.

“That was my best Thunder!”

“Cretin!”

“Hey, you like this position? I do.”

I look at him and realize I'm still lying on top of him with his great mug leering up at me.

I jump off and pull my bathrobe around me. I'm shaking like a leaf. “Why do you
do
this stuff? You're such a fool, I just don't get it, hurting people, hurting yourself.”

“You're the one who goes jumping on me like Bruce friggin' Lee! My back's just about split down the middle!”

“You could have blown off your hand, or my head!”

“No, see, I made the wick extra long. You just add string to the real wick and dip it in a bit of kero and that way there's time to put it where you—”

“But why? What's Jackson ever done to you?”

“Friggin' almost broke my nose—”

“Only when you insulted him nearly to death. And all those phone calls, what a cowardly bloody thing to do, just breathing away like some shabby porn star.”

“What phone calls? I didn't do any phone calls. I just like burning stuff.” He bends down and starts hunting around for his lighter. “Where is it? Now look what you've done.”

“What
I've
done? God almighty.”

“That lighter is my dad's, from his Queensland tour. Everyone in the band got this special Zippo each. It's a world famous windproof lighter with a lifetime guarantee. My dad gave me his.”

“Oh, boo hoo.”

He finds it halfway down the lawn near the mango tree. I hear his grunt of relief and he comes back, trying to walk casual, with his old swagger.

“You ever try this again, and I'll tell the world,” I say.

“Yeah? Why don't you tell them now?”

We're standing there, glaring at each other, when we hear a car door slam.

“They're home!” I whisper. I don't know why I'm whispering. But I feel guilty standing here in my pajamas, as if it was me who was trying to blow up the possum house.

“Ah crap!” hisses Badman. “What'll we do now?”

“We?”

“You messed this up, I'd have been outta here so fast—”

Another door slams.

“Come on. We can go that way, climb over the side fence.”

I'm standing there wondering what I should do when the gate opens.

We freeze.

It's not Valerie. It's not Jackson.

It's a man built like a mansion with extra guest rooms attached to his shoulders. The muscles in his legs are so big they seem to prevent him from walking. He's moving toward us, lumbering from side to side like a doll that can't bend at the knees. It's like watching King Kong coming at you.

I want to scream but there's a stone in my throat.

“What are you two kids doing?” His voice is low like a double bass. I bet he could get the bottom C on the piano.

“Nothing,” mumbles Badman. He's staring like a maniac.

The man raises his hand to smooth back his hair. His coat swings open and I see SECURITY written on his black T-shirt.

“You make that explosion?” asks the man. His voice doesn't go up at the end. It isn't a question.

We just go on looking at him.

“Are you Neighborhood Security?” asks Badman. “Like Neighborhood Watch or something?” There's relief in his voice. I know how he feels. Even if we do get into trouble, a neighborhood kind doesn't seem so bad. There'd probably be a lot of sitting around and talking about anger management. Maybe some community service. This guy probably lifts weights because he's got low self-esteem. Maybe he's a banker.

But the man just raises an eyebrow. “Something like that. Do you live here?”

“Yes, sure do,” says Badman quickly.

The man nods. “Your mom out, huh?”

“Yeah, we just had some friends over,” Badman goes on. “A party.” He points at me and grins. “She's my sister. She's thirteen today. We just had a little firework or two, you know, to make it special. We're sorry,” Badman adds with an
oily smile, “we didn't know it would be so loud. We won't do it again, sir, promise.”

Fool. He's thinks he's being so clever.

A cold feeling like iced water is spreading along my neck. If this guy belonged to Neighborhood Watch he'd be part of the neighborhood. He'd know who lived here, wouldn't he? And
we'd
sure have spotted this King Kong on the street before now.

I kick Badman but he ignores me.

The man is frowning at Badman. Then he glances at me. “Didn't tell me he had a sister,” he mutters to himself.

“What?” says Badman.

The man is looking around, over our heads. “Seventy-three all right,” he says, nodding his head. Then he does something that makes my heart just about leap through my chest. He starts humming the theme to
Rocky
.

“Listen,” I burst out. My voice is a squeak. “Listen,” I say, a bit louder, “we don't live here at all, he's just making up stories—”

“Why are you here in the dead of night in your pajamas then, girlie?”

I look at Badman. But he's standing there like a tree. I open my mouth to explain about Badman's firework fixation when the man reaches into his jacket, pulling it to one side. We both see the gun sticking out of his belt.

“Hey, you're no Neighborhood Watch!” bursts out Badman.

“No kidding,” says the man. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. He takes his time lighting a cigarette. I grab Badman's hand and tug it. But he's still doing the tree thing, rooted to the ground. The man slides his pack of cigarettes back into his inner pocket.

The repeat glimpse of that belt must have unfrozen Badman because suddenly I feel his hand tugging mine and he starts to yell. “
HEL
—” he screams but the man whips out his gun so quick that his hand blurs. He drops the matches.

“Shut up,” hisses the man.

The sound is sliced off. It falls dead into the silence.

Badman starts to whimper.

“Now you're irritating me,” the man says. He leans close to us so that the gun just brushes Badman's bomber jacket. “And I don't like to be irr-it-a-ted.” The man looks at us and smiles slightly. He looks pleased with himself, as if he's proud that he knows such a big word.

Four syllables. Jackson would notice that. Oh, Jackson, why don't you come home?

“The people who live here aren't home,” I try again. “See there was no party—”

“Yes, there was,” Badman cuts in, staring hard at me, “and our mom and dad are right there in the house.”

“Thought you said your mom was out,” the man says.

“No, she went out before, I forgot, but she came home. And my dad will come out here any minute with his hunting gun…”

Rocky looks at the dark house that was supposed to have just finished a party.

“Yeah, sure, and I'm a gorilla.”

“
Well
,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Shut your gob,” the man barks at me. Then he takes a step toward Badman and leans close. “You don't have a father, little boy. I know that. You live here with your mother. That's the sad story. That's what I've been told. And your mother has to work nights. So no more fairy
tales or I'll get agitated again. Ag-it-a-ted, see? I might even get
incendiary
.”

Badman looks like he's been hit.

“You kids know what
in-cen-di-ary
means?”

“No,” I say quickly. I try to make my voice interested. Maybe if we can spin this out Jackson and Valerie will get home. “What does it mean?”

The man starts to hum.
Rocky
. His face looks smug, like a kid with a secret.
I know something you don't know!

But then Badman makes this sound. It's low, coming from deep in his throat, and suddenly he charges at Rocky, his fists slamming into the guy's stomach.

Rocky must do a lot of sit-ups because he doesn't even flinch. His stomach is probably like a brick wall. Badman staggers back and Rocky doesn't sway even one inch. But his face has lost that pleased look. He looks angry now and very
irr-it-a-ted
.

Suddenly he reaches out and grabs us both under the arms, lifting us up. He has us dangling there like rag dolls, one in each hand. We both start to kick but he just lumbers straight to the gate and kicks it open.

“Get in the car,” he barks, putting me down first.

“Damn, this is a Ford Mustang,” says Badman. “What model is it?”

“Eighty-nine. Two door coupe, turbocharged, massaged from head to toe—”

But Badman isn't listening. He gives a mighty lunge and breaks free of Rocky's grip. With Badman grabbing my arm we take just one running step before we feel the man's hands like iron clamps on our necks.

“Where are you taking us?” says Badman in a high voice I've never heard before.

Rocky doesn't answer.

I glance quickly down the street. Rocky sees me and reaches into his jacket.

“Get in the car or you'll be a
dead
girlie,” he snaps, showing me his gun.

He opens the door of the Mustang. I stand there, not breathing. My heart is thumping painfully. I won't be able to stay upright much longer—the bones in my knees have dissolved into something floppy. Couldn't some miracle happen now? Couldn't Badman turn into Superman and flatten the guy?

Suddenly I feel something hard in my back. It grinds into the knob of my spine. Rocky gives an extra twist of the gun and pushes me forward. He lifts up the passenger seat and I fall into the back, my knees hitting the floor.

Before I have time to crawl up onto the seat I feel Badman dropping on top of me, his chin hitting hard against my spine. This is the smallest backseat I've ever seen. It's like being thrown in the trunk. Or a coffin. Rocky gets in behind the wheel and I hear the key click in the ignition.

We're both still half on the floor when the engine starts up. Rocky revs the Mustang to a roar and swings out from the curb, sending us sliding against the doors. My face slams against the door handle. It stings like hell. I hold my face and look up to see Valerie Avenue disappearing out the window.

“Do you want sausages and mash, too?” the waitress behind the counter asks.

“Excuse me?” says Asim.

“Sausages,” I tell him.