Head Spinners (14 page)

‘Fill this out please,' she said before returning to her seat.

Property Theft Report
was written at the top of the page. I was glad I'd found out the address of the house that had been robbed, because it was one of the first questions. But the rest of the page asked questions that I couldn't answer – means of entry, insurance company, items stolen. Even when I flipped over the page, there was nowhere to fill in ‘description of thieves' or ‘type of getaway vehicle'.

When the couple had left, I cleared my throat and looked at the first police officer. ‘Ah, excuse me, has a robbery been reported for a house on Andrews Avenue?'

‘Sorry, I can't give away information like that.'

‘Well, see, I saw the robbers, so I need to report what they look like.'

Before I knew it, there was another clipboard on the bench, but I wasn't about to give up. ‘No . . . but see, there's nowhere to write what they look like or what kind of truck they were using, and I
saw
them.'

‘Alright,' said the police officer with a slight shrug. ‘What kind of truck was it?'

‘Big!' I said, showing with my hand up high. ‘And white, but old like . . . a real bomb of a truck. And the thieves had leather jackets and bushy beards.'

The officer snorted and called over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Sandy! Call in the Special Forces. We've got a lead.'

By now Sandy was leaning back in her chair, smiling and nodding. ‘Is that so?'

‘Yeah, we've had a sighting – two crims with
beards
.' The officer chuckled.

I let my hand drop. ‘But . . . isn't that the kind of stuff you need to know?'

When the officer saw the look on my face, he stopped laughing and sighed. He disappeared under the bench and then appeared again holding a pile of files. It was about as tall as a thirty- centimetre ruler.

‘See all these?' he said. ‘That's how many burglaries have been reported this month. And unless we catch the burglars with the stolen goods, there's nothing we can do about it.' He shook his head and sighed. ‘Sorry, mate.'

That was the end of my great plan to catch the thieves, but I haven't stopped thinking about them. It makes my blood boil that they could steal stuff and not get caught.

I've tried astral projecting and looking for their secret hide-out or maybe catching them with their loot again. I managed to find their truck once, but it had been dumped in a wrecker's yard, which was no help.

I haven't been able to find anything else. It doesn't help that every time I astral project lately I find myself back in bed, annoyed and awake. It might be because I'm scared of what I'll see out there. Twice in the past week I've had a sense of something out there with me, like a spirit or something else. Mostly though, I think I'm scared of seeing things that shouldn't be happening . . . of not being able to stop them.

If I could think of a way, I'd do it in the blink of an eye.

I've been sitting at the bus stop for fifteen minutes when an ambulance roars past and stops beside the hippy van and our mangled car, but I don't go over to check it out. I'll wait here until the police turn up. Once they've dealt with the people in the van they might have a word to say to my dad about dangerous driving. Not to mention reckless parenting . . .

Finally, a police car shows up. It has the lights flashing, but no siren.

At last. I stand up and walk closer. Dad's in the crowd, talking to a woman as they watch what's going on. Firefighters are working on the hippy van, trying to open the door.

Part of me wants to go back to the bus shelter. I don't want to see anyone get pulled out if they're bloody and hurt. But at the same time, I can't look away.

As soon as the police officers get out of their car, I see it's the two I spoke to at the station. One walks up to a guy in a fire chief uniform while the other goes to help two firefighters working on the van. There's a bit of a crowd in front of the door when they finally prise it open, so for a few seconds I don't see the hippies.

Then two men climb out, and my mouth falls open.

They're not hippies. They're wearing leather jackets and they both have bushy beards . . .

It's the thieves!

I can't believe it. What are the chances? They don't seem hurt. In fact, they're looking around as if working out if they can bolt.

‘Danny!' calls Dad. He points to the bus shelter.

No way. I dash over to the police officer who I spoke to at the station. ‘Excuse me, sir—' I begin, but he holds up his hands.

‘Sorry, kid,' he says. ‘Stay back, please.' But then he looks at me properly and cocks his head, as if he remembers me.

‘It's them, sir!' I whisper, pointing and nodding urgently. ‘The thieves I was telling you about. You know, the ones with
beards
 . . .'

The officer looks at the thieves and then back at me. ‘You know, we did chase up a lead based on your description of the truck, but it was registered under a false name.'

To one side, I see Dad stop walking. He tilts his head and watches me.

‘Look in
this
van.' I work hard to keep my voice quiet. ‘I bet their loot is inside!'

The officer puts a hand to his hip and for a moment I think he's going to pull out a gun. My heart hammers.

Thank goodness, it's just a notebook. The officer nods once and walks over to the other officer before they both peer into the van.

The thieves frown at each other and their bodies tense. One says something and they both step back from the crowd.

Slowly, so no one will notice, the thieves walk away.

What can I do? Those guys are big and there's only one of me. I glance around, trying to think. Dad's glaring at me but there's no time to explain. I can't let those thieves get away. Not after trying so hard to catch them. Not after seeing them steal that TV . . .

I think back to the night I first saw those thieves. It gives me an idea.

‘Hey, Bob!' I call out. ‘There's a spider on your back!'

I'm not even sure which one is Bob, but soon it's obvious. He's the one waving his arms around, turning in circles and yelling, ‘Where? Where? Get it off!'

The other thief stops to look. And the police spring into action. Their handcuffs come out and they move fast, shouting orders at the thieves and taking command.

Those big guys and their beards are put into the police car and taken away.

Just like that the thieves have been caught. I can't believe my luck.

Dad walks over to me with a big grin on his face. He looks like he's just won the lottery, not totalled our car.

‘All's well that ends well, eh, Danny?' he says and ruffles my hair. ‘Good sometimes comes from bad.'

‘Yeah, what are the chances?' I say. ‘Those two thieves had all their loot in that van.'

‘Really?' he says and smiles. ‘Looks like it all turned out for the best. How about we get those fresh rolls before we catch a taxi home? I've given my number to the cops and the tow-truck driver. And I've already called Mum.'

‘Ah . . . okay . . .' I say slowly. The way Dad's smiling, it almost seems like he expected this to all work out.

So we head off down the footpath. Just like that.

I keep looking at him as we walk. ‘So, are you going to tell me what you were doing?' I ask eventually.

‘Well, what do
you
think I was doing?' Dad asks.

‘I don't know,' I grumble. It's bad enough having a crazy dad, but it's even worse when he doesn't admit that he was acting weird.

We find a bakery a few blocks away. Dad even buys us a couple of meat pies to eat on the way home.

After Dad calls a taxi, we wait on the corner. It's the middle of the afternoon by now. A family wanders past eating ice-cream and teasing each other about the football.

A bus pulls up and rumbles for a while before rolling away. I wonder why the man sitting at the bus stop doesn't get on.

He's wearing a business suit, and now that I look closer I can see creases on the arms and legs as if he's slept in it. I've seen this man before . . .

He's the one I saw when I was astral projecting, the one who was looking through rubbish bins for food. To everyone else he looks like a businessman waiting for the bus, but I know he's not.

‘How about a meat pie while we wait, hey Danny?' says Dad.

‘Yeah . . .' I mumble.

The meat pies smell like a feast.

I can't just stand around without doing something. I step towards the man. ‘Excuse me, sir, do you want these?' I say. ‘We bought too many.'

The man frowns at me.

‘We don't need them. Really,' I say, and leave the bag beside him on the bench. He's looking hungrily at the bag as I turn away. I don't want to make a big deal about it. I head back to Dad, trying to work out how to explain why I just gave his meat pie away. He must think I've gone loopy.

‘See, it's like this . . .' I begin. Then I bite my lip. ‘It's hard to believe . . .'

‘I know, Danny. No need to explain,' says Dad. He's smiling, and it's more than just a happy smile, it's proud and meaningful and understanding.

‘You
know
?' I ask.

‘Know what?' grins Dad with a wink.

A look passes between us as it finally sinks in. ‘You know!' I say again, and now I'm grinning too.

Finally, it all makes sense. Not just the way Dad understands why I gave that man our meat pies, but all the other weird stuff he's done – causing the accident, giving my bike away, even throwing out the noodles. To everyone else those things seem crazy, but that's only because they haven't seen the things we have. They don't know the secrets people keep and the things they do when they think they're not being watched.

Suddenly I'm glad I came with Dad today. Maybe I'll hang out with him a bit more. We share a pretty big secret, after all.

The presence I feel on the astral plane is not a ghost or angels, it's even better.

It's my dad.

It seemed like a good idea
at the time.

Well . . . no. If I'm being completely honest, I thought it was a risky idea that no one was going to find out about. I guess it wasn't until I'd made it into the jeweller's that I really thought about the seriousness of what I was about to do.

The shop door jangled shut behind me and I blinked in the darkness.
Who turned out the lights?

I blinked again.

The lights weren't out, they were just dim. Hundreds of rings and pendants glimmered like fireflies in a cave.

I can still turn around,
I thought.
If Mum and Dad find out what I'm doing they'll kill me.

‘Can I help you?' someone called from the back of the shop.

I gulped. My hand hovered over the bulge in my pocket. I glanced at the door behind me. At least no one from outside could see me. In the gloom I could just make out the shop owner standing behind the counter. He was bald and stubby, not much taller than me, with old-man-spectacles halfway down his nose.

‘What can I do for you, young man?' he asked, resting his elbows on the counter.

I took a breath and stepped forward. ‘The sign outside says “Jewellery bought and sold”.' Using just my thumb and pointer finger I pulled a padded leather box from my pocket, laid it on the counter and pushed it towards the old man.

I didn't even like touching the box, let alone what was inside. For the past two weeks I'd kept it wrapped in a green shopping bag and jammed at the back of my wardrobe with last year's smelly sneakers.

The old man flipped the lid, picked up a magnifying glass and licked his lips.

I wanted to close my eyes or turn away, but I couldn't. I leaned forwards to see as the old man examined the watch. It was about the spookiest thing I'd ever seen.

It had a deep-blue face and a black circle in the centre where the hands were attached. It looked exactly like a staring eye. I tried to ignore the shiver creeping up my spine.

Only a month before, that watch had been on a withered wrist on the other side of the world – the withered wrist of my great-grandmother.

I'd never met my great-grandmother. I'd never even been to Greece. But when she died, all her belongings had been shared among her family around the world – her furniture to everyone in Greece, vases and artwork to family in the US, and for my family in Australia, the jewellery.

Dad was the only one in my family to inherit anything that wasn't jewellery – he got a worn-out recipe book. Not that he even knew how to cook. Mum always moans that neither of us help out in the kitchen.

The man looked up at me. ‘Well, well, well,' he said. ‘I assume you don't have a certificate of ownership?' He glanced at me as I shook my head, then back at the watch as if he didn't want to take his eyes off it for long. ‘I think I can make an exception . . .'

Seeing him want the watch so badly almost gave me second thoughts, but deep down, I knew this was my only chance. If I didn't sell it now, I'd never be able to come up with a story that would cover me as good as this one.

There was no way I was letting that thing anywhere near
my
wrist. For all I knew, my great-grandmother had been wearing it when she died . . .

It was much better to sell the creepy thing so that some
still living
old lady could put it on
her
wrinkly wrist. That way, everyone would get something they wanted. It made complete sense.

The old man was breathing as if his nose were a wind instrument. ‘I'll give you three hundred dollars,' he said slowly. ‘I'll have to replace the band and, of course, spend time working on it.'

I bit my lip. That was enough for what I needed. But was it fair? For all I knew, the guy could be a total crook.

I shook my head. ‘Three hundred dollars? It's worth way more than that,' I said, trying to sound tough.

The old man smiled. Or maybe he snarled. ‘Think so, do you?' he said, looking over his spectacles. ‘I can go as high as three hundred and fifty but that's my final offer.'

‘Okay.' I tried to swallow. It was hard to breathe. The glowing pendants and rings seemed to be eyes, watching me.

Five minutes later, I was sliding into the front seat of our car, blinking in the sunlight.

‘All done?' asked Mum.

‘Yeah, thanks,' I said vaguely, but I could tell she was about to ask another question. ‘Nothing worth buying, though,' I added. There was no way I was going to tell her what I'd done.

Mum nodded. ‘No point wasting your hard-earned money, Tony.'

She could say that again!

My hand slid to the bulge of notes in my pocket. It was more money than I had ever owned. And I knew exactly what to do with it.

My sisters, Clio and Poppy, were standing at the front door when we got home. They were each wearing about two kilograms of make-up and their hair was wrapped up in towels.

‘Did you get it?' they said at the same time, jiggling up and down like toddlers who need to go to the bathroom, except Poppy is fourteen and Clio is fifteen.

Mum held up two tubs of hair gel, and all three of them disappeared into the bathroom. The girls had callisthenics exams later that day, which was fine with me as it meant I could have climbed onto the roof yelling
Watch me fly
, and no one would have noticed. All part of my plan.

Dad wasn't going to be so easy to avoid though; I sucked in a breath when he walked out of the kitchen.

‘Home from cricket already?' I said.

Dad held up a salami sandwich about the size of my head and grinned. ‘You better believe it, sonny-boy.' Which meant his team had won. ‘How did the garage sale go?' He held off taking another bite while he waited for my answer.

‘Great!' I said, pulling the wad of notes out of my pocket.

Dad placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Well, good stuff. I'm proud of you, Tony.'

I developed a sudden fascination with a fly rubbing its wing together on the wall. The truth was, the garage sale had been a total flop.

The afternoon before, I'd sneezed my way through two hours of sorting out all the old stuff in the garage, looking for things to sell. In the morning I'd set everything up in the driveway and sat around
not
making a lot of money. Unless you call twelve dollars and seventy-five cents a lot of money. It turns out rusty old scooters and tatty magazines don't exactly pull in the big bucks.

‘Earning money feels good, doesn't it, son?' said Dad. ‘It feels a whole lot better than just getting life handed to you on a silver platter.'

He still had his hand on my shoulder as if we were sharing a big father–son moment.

‘Yeah, Dad, you're so right,' I mumbled. Guilt flickered in my gut, but not for long.

This whole situation was Dad's fault anyway. Well, Mum's and Dad's. They think we live in the Dark Ages, or some other time before kids were allowed to have fun. We're not allowed to have any games that need batteries or a power socket. We're lucky to have a TV.

On its own this wouldn't exactly be the end of the world, I guess. Like, I'm a wiz with card tricks and I'm pretty good at climbing trees. But I have to live in the twenty-first century, with friends who live in the twenty-first century too. Nico and Andy play computer games
all the time
. And when they're not playing games, they're talking about playing games, while I stand around with nothing to say. Whenever I go round to Andy's place, I always end up dead or with a really low score because I'm not as good as they are.

Yeah, that's heaps of fun.

So over the holidays I ramped up the begging, and three weeks ago my parents finally gave in. They said I could have a game console. But there was a catch: I had to earn the money myself.

At first I was really excited, but I soon realised I'd entered a whole new world of torture. It was going to take
forever
to earn enough money. If I washed the car
every week for a year
, I'd still only have enough for the console itself, not any actual games. Those things cost heaps.

It wasn't until I found myself sitting in the middle of a bunch of garage-sale junk, not making any money, that I hatched the plan to sell my great-grandmother's spooky watch. I mean, it was just sitting around in the back of my wardrobe, doing nothing useful …

‘Tell you what, Tony!' said Dad and wiped a crumb from his cheek. ‘Why don't we go shopping now? As a reward for all your hard work.'

‘Really?' I was so surprised I almost couldn't speak.

‘Just let me have a shower,' said Dad, and disappeared.

I could hardly believe it.
Just a quick trip to the shops
, I thought,
and my life will be perfect.

How wrong I was.

sale!!! this week only!

Posters and streamers were everywhere at the games shop. It looked like a party. But it wasn't until I saw a big red star slapped on the game I was planning to buy, that I really got into the mood. 15% off!

‘I think I can afford an extra game disc,' I said to Dad.

He looked dazed by all the signs and flashing lights. If he'd been a cartoon character he would have had spinning spiral eyes.

‘If you say so, Tony,' Dad muttered.

I grabbed everything I needed before he could change his mind.

The guy at the counter picked up my game and frowned. He glanced over his shoulder then looked at me. ‘You know, I shouldn't be telling you this, but that game's on special because it's almost out of date,' he said. ‘They're bringing out a new version next week.'

A new version? Now that the guy mentioned it, I remembered Nico saying something about new gear coming out. Imagine what he'd say if I was the first to get it! But at the same time, I'd waited so long for this. I was so, so close . . .

I looked at Dad.

He shrugged. ‘It's your money, sonny-boy. Your decision,' he said.

It's my money
. The wad of notes felt heavy in my hand. For a moment I thought about what I'd done to get them.

‘Okay, I'll take it!' I said quickly, so that I wouldn't have to think it through anymore.

The next thing I knew, I was handing over the cash and picking up a big box with two games discs balanced on top. It almost felt
too
easy, as if I'd just swapped some paper for the solution to all the problems of the universe.

All the way home in the car I read the instruction manual. I couldn't believe the console was really mine. My very own, that I'd be able to play whenever I wanted. Maybe I'd even get good enough to beat the guys!

‘Do you want any help setting it up?' Dad asked when we got home. He looked relieved when I told him I'd be fine.

My cat Suki appeared as I was sorting out the colour-coded cords. She touched her nose to the console before rubbing against my arm.

Soon it was ready. Brilliant! I picked a disc, humming to myself while I inserted it into the console. I could hardly believe this was happening. The controller felt amazing in my hands.