Just Tricking! (2 page)

I read somewhere about these people who use the power of the mind to slow down their heartbeat, so I figure I might as well give it a bash.

I imagine that my heart is as still as a rock.

A red rock.

A paralysed red rock.

A frozen paralysed red rock.

A frozen paralysed red rock in a deep deep sleep.

It seems like forever, but eventually Dad puts my arm back down onto the bed. Gently.

And he says in a quiet voice: ‘Andy – now listen to me. You're cold and you're not breathing. You're staring at the ceiling and I can't find a pulse. You may be dead for all I know. But then your past record leaves me no choice but to wonder if this isn't just another one of your so-called “jokes”. If you are just playing a trick, then I'll give you to the count of three to get out of bed and we'll say no more about it. But, if you don't get out of bed, and I find out later that you're not really dead . . . well . . . you'll wish that you had been. Is that clear?'

He's trying to trick me. He wants me to nod. But I'm not going to fall for it. There's only room for one practical joker around here – and it's not Dad. He starts counting.

‘One . . .'

I'm not sure I believe that I won't get into trouble if I confess. He sounds pretty serious. I'll probably end up being grounded for a week. And I'll
definitely
end up having to go to school.

‘Two . . .'

What have I got to lose? And, anyway, I've come too far to chicken out now.

‘Three!'

I don't move a single muscle.

Dad calls Mum into the room.

‘Is everything all right?' she asks.

‘I'm afraid I've got some bad news,' says Dad. ‘I don't know how, or why, but it appears that Andy is no longer living . . . that is to say, he is . . . er . . . dead.'

‘Oh no,' she says, and starts to cry. ‘Oh no!'

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad move to put his arms around her.

While they're distracted, I quickly take a couple of good deep breaths.

‘But he was such a good boy!' Mum wails. ‘Such a
good
boy! He had his problems . . . but deep down he didn't mean any harm.'

‘No,' says Dad, ‘I don't believe he did mean any harm – it's just he never knew when to stop.'

Dad's taking the whole thing better than I expected. I mean, he's usually pretty calm and all, but I would have thought, maybe, he might be a bit more upset. After all, I am his son.

‘Oh well,' he says. ‘No use standing around here all day. There's work to be done.'

‘But surely you're not going to work now!' says Mum.

‘Well,' says Dad, ‘somebody's got to dig the hole.'

‘What hole?'

‘We can't just leave his body here.'

‘I suppose not,' says Mum. ‘Where are you going to dig it?'

Dad hands her his handkerchief.

‘I think underneath the lemon tree might be nice – and it'd be good for the lemons.'

‘Yes,' says Mum, ‘it's been struggling a bit lately.'

‘I'll go get the spade and start digging. I'd like to have him in the ground before lunchtime. Before he starts to smell.'

‘Okay,' says Mum, wiping her eyes. ‘And while you're doing that, I'll put the kettle on. I think we could both use a good strong cup of tea.'

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Have my parents completely lost their senses? Are they seriously thinking of burying me in the backyard? Aren't there laws against that sort of thing?

Dad leaves the room.

Mum kneels down beside the bed and kisses me on the cheek. She passes her hand over my eyelids, just like they do in the movies. I'm so touched, I almost forget to close them – but I remember just in time.

‘I don't care what anyone says,' she whispers. ‘You
were
a good boy.'

Mum leaves the room.

I don't dare open my eyes again. I wouldn't want her to come back and catch me with them open. That would really freak her out. And I think she's been freaked out enough for one day.

Maybe I should confess.

But how do I confess without freaking her out even more? After all, if she thinks I'm dead, and then I walk into the kitchen, what do I say? Somehow, I don't think ‘Hi, Mum, I'm not really dead, I was just tricking!' would go down all that well.

But if I don't confess, I'm going to be buried in a cold muddy hole in my own backyard.

I'll have worms gnawing at my eyeballs for the rest of eternity. That's a pretty high price to pay for a practical joke. Even one as brilliant as this.

The lemon tree is right outside my window. I can hear Dad digging. And whistling.

Whistling?

I die and he whistles? What is he – some kind of psycho? Normal people don't whistle when their son dies. Then again, normal people don't bury bodies in the backyard.

But as I listen to Dad's whistle, I begin to notice something strange. It's different from his normal one.

It's too loud.

Too cheerful.

And now it becomes clear.