Just Tricking! (3 page)

My parents don't think I'm dead – they just want me to think that they
think
I'm dead. All this crap about being good for the lemons . . . that's not what it's about at all. They're just trying to teach me a lesson.

They want to scare me.

Well, I don't scare easily. And I'm not about to be beaten at my own game by a couple of amateurs.

After a long morning of staring at the ceiling, I'm pretty bored.

At last I hear Dad stop digging.

Mum and Dad come into my room. I know what's coming next.

I suck my breath in and try to remain absolutely still. Dad grabs me underneath my arms. Mum lifts me up by the legs. I try to make my head flop around in a convincing corpse-like fashion. They carry me out to the backyard and lay me down underneath the lemon tree.

Dad gets down into the hole – which I can see through my slitted eyes is deeper than I expected – puts his hands back underneath my arms and pulls me down towards him.

My legs follow with a thud.

The mud at the bottom of the hole is cold and wet and almost immediately my pyjamas are soaked through. I'm sure Dad is just dying for me to crack and open my eyes so he can say ‘Just tricking!'

But I'm not going to give him the pleasure. Not now . . . not ever.

Dad climbs out of the hole. Mum begins reading from a small blue book, her voice low and serious.

‘ . . . Ashes to ashes . . . Dust to dust . . .'

Dad is standing to attention, shovel by his side.

I'm starting to wonder if this is such a good idea after all. Dad starts filling in the hole. I don't have to wonder any more – I know.

First I feel dirt hitting my toes. Then my legs. And then my stomach. A big clump lands on my chest and I feel dirt splatter onto my face and mouth.

Something's wrong. It's not possible that I'm such a brilliant actor that my parents really think I'm dead . . . is it?

No, that's stupid . . . they'll crack . . . any minute now.

Another handful of dirt splashes across my face.

And another.

And now I don't know what to think . . . because I'm almost completely buried and I'm having trouble breathing.

I open my mouth to shout, ‘Okay, you win! I was just tricking!'

But a big clump of earth lands in my mouth and I can't get the words out.

It's dark.

It's quiet.

It's cold.

It's boring.

How long have I been here?

Am I dead?

If I am dead, then how come I'm still thinking?

I know one thing for sure. If I ever get out of this – and it's beginning to look like there's not much hope of that – I'm never going to play another practical joke for as long as I live.

Hang on, I can feel something on my stomach. Urgent jabbing and scratching. The weight of the dirt on my belly is lifting. When the scratching starts on my chest, I realise what it is.

Sooty has come to save me! He's the only one who realises I'm not dead! He must be able to smell me, to sense my warmth.

And, as the weight of the dirt lifts, I decide I don't care about playing dead any more. Anything would be better than this. Even school.

I sit up and scream: ‘I confess! You win! I was just tricking!'

I wipe the mud out of my eyes and see my parents staring down at me.

They are shocked.

The sight of me rising from the dead has them goggling at me in horror, their mouths frozen open.

Mum starts screaming. Dad is trying to ward me off with his spade, holding it crucifix-style in front of him, as if I'm some sort of vampire.

‘Dad, it's okay!' I reassure him. ‘I was playing a dumb joke and I'm sorry!'

But I might just as well be speaking another language.

My words don't seem to be having any impact on him whatsoever. He's still brandishing the spade as he and Mum back slowly away from the hole.

This joke is completely out of control. The only one who's glad to see me is Sooty. He's standing at the top of the hole trying to lick my face. I push him away but he keeps coming back for more, like it's a game. At least somebody round here is acting normal.

Then, all of a sudden, Dad drops the spade and clutches at his chest with his right hand. He drops to his knees, his mouth still wide open, then falls forward onto his face.

I leap out of the hole and rush to his side. I roll him over and check to see if he's breathing.

Nothing.

I place my hands on his chest and push with all my weight, just like they showed us in first aid. I push three more times. Then I pinch his nose and pull his head back. I'm about to start mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when Mum screams.

‘Get away from him, you . . . you . . .
zombie!'