Blacky Blasts Back (5 page)

‘I made it, Blacky,' I said, giving up the previous topic of conversation as a bad job. ‘On my way to Tassie.'

‘You are phenomenally good—'

I blushed.

‘—at stating the obvious. But this is the easy bit, tosh. What you must do over the next four or five days will challenge you in ways you've never experienced. It's going to be the toughest thing you've ever done. So I suggest you get a good night's sleep and warn that wazzock Dylan about what's in store.'

Wazzock?
I had no idea what that was, but I guessed it wasn't a compliment. And how could I warn Dyl about what was in store? I had no idea, because Blacky, the foul, stinking, loathsome mutt, had refused to tell me. An awful thought crossed my mind.

‘You're not thinking of bunking down with us tonight, are you, Blacky?'

He snorted.

‘In the budget recliners section? I don't think so, bucko. I only travel first class. I have my own cabin. Very comfortable. Very private.'

‘And how did you manage that, then? Mastercard?'

‘No. The cabin was booked by an elderly American couple. For some reason, they came into the cabin, took a couple of deep breaths, vomited and left. Strange, that. But I'm not complaining.'

‘You're not bothered about sharing your sleeping space with vomit?'

A misty look came into Blacky's eyes.

‘Almost irresistible,' he breathed. ‘I only hope someone doesn't get in there with a mop, bucket and disinfectant.'

I caught up with Dylan in the games arcade.

I took him to one side and explained that a smelly, off-white dog was on board. I hadn't told him about Blacky's appearance in my bedroom the previous week. It would only have got him worked up. And getting Dyl worked up is about as wise as microwaving a hand grenade.

He was thrilled.

‘So what is it, Marc? What's the mission?'

And I was forced to explain that I was more in the dark than a coal miner during a power blackout.

Dyl got the rest of the boys back to the sleeping station by eleven o'clock, only an hour after Mr Crannitch's deadline. Not that it seemed to bother Mr Crannitch. He was snoring loudly in one of the recliner chairs, drool running down his chin.

I think the boys might have just gone straight back to the arcade, but the boat was running into bad weather. For the last half hour, there'd been a distinct swell, and the boat was rocking violently. A few of the boys looked green around the gills. Everyone found a recliner and tried to settle down to sleep. But the pitching and tossing grew steadily worse. After a while it was obvious I wasn't going to sleep.

I figured it was probably better to get some fresh air. Being in a confined space made my stomach churn. I hadn't eaten since the fast-food place, which was probably good. If the sea got any rougher I'd certainly be seeing my cheeseburger again. With relish.

I lurched from my recliner and headed for the door. As soon as my feet hit the floor I knew I was in trouble. It was the weirdest feeling, as through the world was on springs. I tried to take a step, but the floor moved beneath my feet. I planted one foot firmly and waited while everything tilted and steadied. Then I took another step. At this rate I'd get to the deck sometime after the ship had docked. I was moving like a sumo wrestler in slo-mo. So I went for the scuttle. Stiff-legged, I weaved drunkenly through the recliners.

It was a relief to get on deck, though it was freezing and the spray from the ocean was like a heavy rain. I peered over the edge of the rail, but the sea was shrouded in darkness. I took deep breaths. My stomach was tossing and turning like the dark waters below.

‘Crook, mate?'

I turned. Dylan had followed me. He didn't seem bothered by the ship's movement. In fact he looked downright perky. I felt like something Blacky would want to roll in.

I tried to shake my head but decided against it. Too many things were moving already.

‘Any ideas about the mission, Marc?' Dyl asked.

I kept my mouth closed. I was afraid that if I opened it something other than words would come pouring out.

‘Hey,' Dyl continued. ‘What if it's about Tassie devils? How cool would that be? I mean, our first mission was saving God. It would be fantastic if this one was about saving the Devil. 'Course, it could be anything. I hope it's dangerous, though. Like our last mission. That was the best. Nearly got ourselves killed . . .'

His voice droned on, but I wasn't paying attention. Something was boiling to the surface and I was sweating, despite the cold, in my attempts to keep it under control. But I knew it was hopeless. It was fast food going down. It was even faster food coming up.

Listen. Here's a tip that might save you considerable grief in the future. If you're going to throw up on a boat, make sure you're at the back. That way, the puke disappears downwind and into the ocean.

All those diced carrots.

Why is it that when you're sick it always comes up as diced carrots? I've never eaten diced carrots in my life, but every time I upchuck there they are. It's one of life's great mysteries.

Anyway, I wasn't at the back of the boat. I was halfway down one side. I tried to be sick over the railing, but the wind caught it and blew it over my right shoulder. Back on board. A thick cloud of hamburger meat and diced carrots.

It would be amusing to tell you that it drenched Dyl, but he was standing in front of me. Upwind. What is less amusing – for me, at least – was that someone else had come on deck without me noticing. John Oakman stood there, his face and hair covered. I watched as he slowly wiped his eyes clear. My stomach lurched again. He was not pleased, which is hardly surprising. But it wasn't just anger reflected in those distant eyes.

It was murder.

I was dead meat. Which was appropriate, since that's what I'd just covered John with.

Along with diced carrots, of course.

Dylan discovered me cowering in a cleaner's cupboard half an hour later. He said he would protect me, but I couldn't sleep in a recliner only a few metres from John. So I found a lounge as far away as possible. The seats were uncomfortable and I was forced to keep an eye on the door in case an evil beanpole smelling of puke entered in search of vengeance.

He didn't.

By the time we docked in East Devonport at seven in the morning I was shattered. The weather had improved and it was cold but clear. Judging by the appearance of the other boys, we were all suffering. I'm not sure which was heavier – the bags on our shoulders or the ones under our eyes.

Mr Crannitch also seemed under the weather as we went down the gangplank. He clutched his head whenever there was a noise. Not even a loud noise. He reacted to normal conversation as though someone was poking him in the eye with a needle.

We were met at the terminal by our guides, instructors from the Wilderness Camp. Two of them. They couldn't have been more different.

One wasn't much taller than me. He had a shaved head and was packed with muscle. I mean his head was packed with muscle. It bulged in strange places. Not that the rest of him was short on power. He wore a tracksuit that strained to keep all of him safely gathered in. It was as if he'd been cling-wrapped. His legs were huge and so bandy he couldn't stop a pig in a corridor. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his tracksuit top, exposing massive forearms folded across a barrel of a chest. I'd never seen such hairy arms. I've stepped on carpets that weren't as thick. He was a pocket King Kong.

The other dude was taller, thinner and, on first impressions at least, friendlier. At least he was smiling, whereas the small gorilla looked as though he was chewing on a lemon. This guy appeared fit and lithe. Judging by his face, he'd spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin was brown, leathery and criss-crossed with lines. The only worry was that he sported a short, braided pigtail. It was as if he had a length of grey rope stapled to the back of his neck.

I don't trust old people with pigtails. They labour under the delusion they're young and listen to the same bands you do. This is unnatural. There should be a law against it.

Anyway, we stood in a ragged line while the bandy-legged chimp paced in front of us, giving us a close examination. He stopped in front of me. His nostrils were like shotgun barrels. I felt as if I was gazing into two large caves. I half expected to see a possum in one.

‘Aye, a'reet,' he barked, taking a step back and addressing all of us. ‘Ma name's Jimmeh. This here's ma colleague Phul. Now. Reet. There'll be nae botha oan this camp.' His beady eyes swept over us. His nostrils followed suit. I worried for a moment we might get blasted by both barrels. ‘Dinnae think, fir one moment, thit ma arse is made o' mince or thit ma heid buttons up the back. Aye. Reet. Phul.'

He stepped back and flexed his arm muscles. Hairs writhed as if small animals were burrowing under the surface. I gave a sideways glance at the rest of the boys and, judging by their expressions, they were thinking exactly the same. Not only was one of the guys in charge closely related to a Yowie, but he hadn't yet got to grips with the English language. If he was a film, we'd have needed subtitles.

The other dude stepped forward.

‘Thanks, Jimmy,' said the Pigtail. ‘As you've heard, my name is Phil and we are your guides and instructors on this camp. You will follow us to the bus and stow your luggage. We have a three-hour drive, but we'll stop on the way to pick up provisions and get a bite to eat.'

He pulled at his pigtail and I caught the glint of an earring. It was worse than I'd thought. A pigtail
and
an earring. He'd probably get out a guitar for a singsong around the camp fire and be ripped to pieces by a pack of desperate twelve-year-olds. But at least we could understand what he said.

‘This will be your only chance to do essential shopping,' Phil continued. ‘Trust me, where we are going there are no corner shops. Any questions? Good. Follow me.'

I particularly liked the way he asked if we had questions and then didn't give us the chance to ask any. Looking at Jimmy, though, I had the feeling Dad was right. This camp was going to be
tough
. A wiry hippie and a furry, musclebound primate speaking his own private language wasn't the best of starts.