Creep Street (15 page)

he rope's starting to feel like it's been specially treated with grease. You try to hang on but, with a sense of despair, you realise it's impossible. You're about fifty metres above a cold stone floor and you're going to drop all the way down to it. Your whole life starts flashing in front of your eyes. Those early kindergarten days, playing doctors and nurses in the sand-pit and getting sand in your . . . And that's all you have time to remember. The next moment you've lost your grip. You're plummeting through the air like a Superman who's swallowed Superglue. The only good news is that, as you fall, you knock Stacey and her father off the rope, too. There's now three plummeting bodies heading for that hard stone floor. You're about ten metres away from it now. You're about nine metres away. Eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .

Then you hit. To be exact, you hit the arms of a nice big friendly policeman. He catches you very neatly. You lie in his arms like a baby, looking up at his face. Right now he's about the best-looking human being you've ever seen.

‘Thank you,' you say.

He puts you on your feet. Suddenly you remember Stacey and her dad and you look around swiftly. But there are no squashed mangled mutilated bodies on the floor, oozing blood and guts and squishy grey brain matter. There's nothing to be seen at all! You can't believe it!

‘Where are they?' you ask wildly.

‘Where are who?' the policeman asks.

You realise he hasn't seen them! This is impossible!

‘The two people who fell off the rope when I did,' you say. ‘You must have seen them!'

‘I didn't see anyone,' he says, looking at you suspiciously. ‘All I saw was two bats flying out of the tower just as you fell.'

You can't think of anything to say so, naturally, being one of those people who never shuts up, you say, ‘I can't think of anything to say.'

‘Well, I can think of a few questions I want to ask you,' he says. ‘Starting with: what do you think you're doing, mucking around in this deserted church. Eh? Just what do you think you're doing?'

To buy a bit of time you ask: ‘How did you know I was here?'

‘How did I know? How did I know? How did the whole district know? That bell hasn't rung for twenty years!'

‘Oh,' you say.

The policeman takes you home and tells your parents that you've broken into the church and disturbed everyone in the suburb by ringing the bell, and nearly killing yourself into the bargain. Your parents look at you with their best We're-very-disappointed-in-you look and, after he's gone, they give you a long talk about how you mustn't be upset about moving to a new suburb.

You realise that they think you've gone all psycho because of leaving your friends behind at your old place! How embarrassing!

But you don't bother trying to explain. Especially you don't bother trying to explain about Stacey and her father—you know if you did that they'd have you in the loony bin in no time!

For as long as you live in that street, though, you always cross the road when you have to go past the abandoned church!

uddenly you feel an arm shaking you and you wake up and realise the whole thing was just a dream.

(Come on, you know happy endings are boring!)

tacey looks like she really wants to helicopter herself out of there, but there's nowhere much to go, except past your mum. Behind you is the big old fence, three metres of rotting wood and rusty galvanised iron and viciously sharp nails. ‘Come on,' you say, ‘I'll introduce you.'

You walk towards your mother. ‘Oh, there you are dear,' she says. ‘I've been looking for you everywhere.'

‘Mum, this is Stacey,' you say, turning to introduce your new friend. But to your amazement there's no-one there! Just the fence and the long weeds and the three lonely white crosses.

Your mother's ignoring you, as she walks towards the crosses. ‘What did you say, dear?' she asks vaguely. ‘Look at these graves. So sad isn't it. Those poor people.'

‘You . . . you mean you know about them?' you ask. You're finding it hard to concentrate on this conversation: you're looking around desperately, trying to find Stacey.

‘Oh, didn't we tell you? The last owners of this house were killed in a car accident, just down there at the corner, a few years ago. No-one's lived here since. I think it put people off the house. Actually they had a daughter about your age . . . She died in the accident too. I think her name was . . . Tracey? No, that's not it . . . it started with S . . .'

‘Stop, stop!' you yell, with your hands over your ears. ‘I don't want to hear any more.'

But at least you know now how Stacey disappeared so fast.

he men in white coats arrive almost immediately to take you away. You go without a struggle. When you arrive at the doctor's office they strap you to a chair and leave you there. You can hear them talking outside, though. ‘What's wrong with this one?' someone asks.

‘A complete nutcase,' they answer. ‘Like, we're talking total loony here. We're talking not just out of the tree but out of the entire forest.'

‘And so young,' the first person says. ‘It's tragic, really. Obviously destroyed by drugs.'

‘Drugs!' you think. ‘Drugs! You've got to be kidding!' The strongest drug you've ever had was Milo. Do these people seriously think you've been sniffing Milo? Shooting up on Milo?

Then the doctor comes in. He's a little guy with frizzy hair, poppy eyes and a beard that looks like an undernourished pot plant. His hands are shaking; in fact he's trembling all over with excitement.

‘So!' he hisses. ‘What have we here? Very interesting! Obviously a severe psychotic delusional hyperalienation specimen. Now, who do you think you are? Michael Jackson? Lisa Simpson? The Shroud of Turin? Who?'

‘Shouldn't that be “whom”?' you ask.

‘Hah!' he says. ‘Post-prandial neuro-aggressive pedantry! Fascinating! Tell me, how would you like to stay here a very long time? We have nice rooms, excellent recreational facilities, good food, and all you have to do is talk about yourself for hours every day. Would you like that?'

‘Would I have to go to school?' you ask.

‘Oh no,' he says, obviously shocked. ‘Certainly not. You're far too ill for that.'

So you accept his invitation and spend a long and happy holiday in his institution. Gee, why wouldn't you be happy? After all, the first friends you make there are Superman, Princess Diana and the Prime Minister of Australia. Well, at least, that's who they say they are. And they wouldn't be wrong about something as important as that . . . would they?