Spud – Exit Pursued by a Bear Read online

  ‘But you can’t blacklist boys from using the bogs just because they’re lurkers,’ I argued.

  ‘On the contrary, they are completely and utterly free to use the bogs for no payment whatsoever,’ stated Boggo with his open arms demonstrating his generosity. ‘It’s just the urinal that falls under my jurisdiction.’

  I found myself nodding absent-mindedly as I took in the splendour of a poster of a feisty old granny in leather riding a Harley Davidson. Underneath it was written:

  CAN YOU GO THE DISTANCE?

  There was an excited knock on the door.

  ‘Piss off, Garlic!’ shouted Boggo immediately. He hurled a hockey boot which missed the door by some distance and clattered into his bookshelf instead, sending half a shelf of pornography and both of his primary school hockey trophies crashing to the floor. Boggo appeared not to notice his blunder as his focus remained on the door where Garlic was attempting to jimmy the handle with his electric toothbrush. When that failed, the Malawian commenced pounding on the door and shouting questions at Boggo about the Europeans as the shrill ringing of the telephone sounded from the room next door.

  ‘You see what I have to put up with down here, Spud, my oath to God it’s sheer hell.’

  I had to concede that things were a little chaotic when most of the Normal Seven struck up a lewd war cry outside and the house began ringing once again.

  ‘Chaotic!’ snorted Boggo. ‘Oh, I’d settle for chaotic all right, this is worse than a frikkin’ Bombay fish market. My oath to God it’s chronic. Could easily cost me ten per cent in my exams.’

  ‘Okay, I can understand Vern, Garlic and Runt getting blacklisted from the urinal,’ I reasoned, attempting to return to the original purpose of my mission, ‘but why Sidewinder?’

  ‘Hygiene, pure and simple,’ replied Boggo like the matter was out of his hands and beyond his control.

  ‘Hygiene?’ I repeated, wondering where he might be leading me with this new line of thinking.

  ‘Well, do the trigonometry, Milton,’ he said. ‘The dude’s dongle points due west, if you get my drift.’ Boggo used a long bony finger to demonstrate the left leaning nature of Sidewinder’s sidewinder. ‘So unless he faces the window at right angles to the urinal when firing off, then he’s definitely going to spray on the wall or the step and contribute dramatically to the aroma problem which I’m sure you’ve picked up around here.’

  Boggo sauntered over to his cupboard and gave his armpits two short blasts of deodorant each before continuing. ‘Nothing personal against Sidewinder but, let’s face it, the guy could cause mass devastation on a full tank with a morning glory.’

  Once again I found myself nodding away in agreement as the sly Boggo defused my questions with his typical cunning and warped logic. With a friendly pat on the back I found myself out at the urinal and the door of Boggo’s room snapped shut behind me.

  ‘Which animals do they shag, Spud?’ blurted Garlic with eyes filled with wonder and desperation. ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘What?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘The Europeans!’ trumpeted Garlic.

  ‘Giraffes,’ I replied, and made a break for it, leaving the sound of hysterical laughter from the Malawian echoing around the bogs.

  FRIDAY 22ND JANUARY

  06:10 Just awoke from a sublime dream involving Eve and a taller version of myself enjoying a romantic picnic with champagne and fine cheeses in a grassy vale beside a lake. Unfortunately, nothing physical happened but it was obvious in the way that Eve ate her cherries that she was being deliberately flirty. I had less than five hours of sleep but felt my most rested in years.

  Inspired by my vivid dream, I pretended to be making a full and lengthy inspection of the first year prep classroom after breakfast but despite Eve’s office door being wide open, I didn’t so much as lay eyes on her. No doubt Sparerib has bailed her up at home with boring conversations and unnecessary demands to iron his underpants.

  08:20 The Guv still hasn’t returned. Rumours of his operation it seems are true. Reverend Bishop refused to say what was wrong with him but made it sound like it wasn’t all that serious. Not sure why everybody is being so evasive when talking about The Guv?

  11:00 The announcement of the trial cricket teams usually indicates what side you’ll make for the coming year and the jostling crowd around the notice board meant that the moment of truth had finally arrived. The whole thing is a diabolical lottery and what with the sudden and unexplained disappearance of The Guv who was meant to coach the 1sts, one would presume that goblin man chose the teams instead. I sensed that my karma was definitely bad with Sparerib after dreaming about romping his wife for three nights in succession. The unhealthy energy in the air reminded me of last year’s fiasco when spinner prejudice sentenced me to three weeks of vermin cricket with the likes of Garlic and Vern. Understandably, I approached the notice board with some hesitancy and began with the 5ths/6ths trial match and moved upwards without breathing. My name wasn’t down in the 3rds/4ths trial match either. Eventually, I could bear the agony no longer and allowed my eyes to scan down the first team for Saturday’s trial. And there it was – J Milton, down to bat at number 8.

  I refused to allow myself any emotion until I was back in the safety of my room where I celebrated uncontrollably in fluent gibberish.

  Dare I say it and curse myself? For the first time in my life I feel like I’m on a bit of a roll.

  18:00 Boggo talked the Crazy Eight into signing up for the senior social at St Mary’s Convent next Friday night. I initially gave it the thumbs down but since momentum is on my side I thought it could be a strategically clever move, and besides Boggo reckons convent girls are notoriously filthy between the sheets.

  20:30 Rumours of a midnight Fragile Five nightswim have been circulating. Fatty and Rambo have elected to keep guard and attempt to catch them in the act.

  SATURDAY 23RD JANUARY

  05:45 Fatty shook me awake and hauled me out of bed because he said major shit was about to hit the fan. Over a cup of tea and a buttermilk rusk he excitedly filled me in on the dramatic events of last night.

  The Fragile Five’s (FF) nightswimming effort, which appears to have been planned by Plump Graham and Meg Ryan’s Son, deteriorated rather dramatically upon return from the dam. The FF discovered the chapel window, through which they had just escaped, was locked from the outside by means of Rambo’s unbreakable Japanese combination lock. True to form the FF panicked and galloped down the gallery stairwell only to find all the lower doors bolted from the outside. In desperation, the second years sprinted back up the stairs and into the bell tower where they chanced upon a large figure shrouded in a white sheet (Fatty) who had been instructed by Rambo to make like Macarthur on the bell ringer’s platform. The FF took one look at the enormous apparition looming over them, screamed like a bunch of small girls, and fled. Poor Rowdy exploded into hysterical sobs as they careened back down the steps to the gallery and had another yank at the chapel window which stubbornly refused to budge thanks to Rambo and the Japanese.

  Then Rambo fired up his reign of supernatural terror. It began with playing one long and creepy note on the organ and ended with him screaming, ‘I’m gonna eat you!’ and leaping off the pulpit with his arms outstretched onto a huge pile of cushions set out below. The overall effect of Reverend Bishop’s ceremonial robes was that Rambo apparently looked like some terrible flying Satanic creature. The shattered FF gave up on escape and spent the rest of the night huddled together for safety in the gallery of the chapel.

  06:00 A straight-faced Simon phoned Viking and alerted him to the fact that all of the second years had gone missing in the night. Our housemaster arrived at 6:07 half-dressed and already in an immense rage. He immediately sent the prefects out on a search of the house and surrounds for the missing boys. With utter fury he shouted, ‘By fuckery, if these little shit-stirrers are found to be bunking out I’ll meat cleaver them to death!’

  It didn’t take long for Ra
mbo to make the ‘discovery’ and Viking was led to where a pile of sleeping bodies lay huddled together in the chapel gallery.

  ‘What in God’s name is the meaning of all this?’ he roared after galloping up the steps.

  ‘We weren’t bunking out, sir,’ said Plump Graham in a quivery voice. ‘We just wanted to make sure that we were early for chapel, sir.’

  Three major problems with this feeble-minded excuse immediately presented themselves:

  Nobody arrives early for chapel

  There are no chapel services on Saturdays

  Two of the Fragile Five were dressed in speedos and the others only in their underpants

  17:00 My winning momentum has stalled. I made a duck in our batting innings in the trial match against the 2nds, although it must be said that Yobbo Skelton took a blinding catch in the gully to see me marching back to the pavilion without troubling the scorers. Even worse, I didn’t even have a chance to bowl because as I was measuring my run-up for my first over, a cloud burst and within ten minutes the field was waterlogged. Sparerib made us hang around for an hour and a half of watching the rain fall before he finally called the game off. Will I still be in the 1st team when the side is announced on Friday? That will be the true test of whether momentum is still going my way or if the worm of happiness has turned south and sour.

  20:00 I opted against watching the house movie (Dangerous Liaisons) despite it starring the beautiful Michelle Pfeiffer and the disturbing John Malkovich. I’m very close to finishing Bonfire of the Vanities so I made for the cop shop hoping to find a quiet spot on a comfy armchair to read. Instead I found Fatty eating a chip bunny and Rambo smoking at the fire grate. It appeared as if they were having a debate about the fate of the Fragile Five.

  ‘Spuddy, you’re never going to guess what happened,’ gabbled Fatty excitedly.

  ‘Viking wants to lash them eighteen strokes each,’ interrupted Rambo on a smoky exhale before chortling to himself and taking another deep drag. I wasn’t really sure if beating somebody eighteen strokes was even legal, let alone good form.

  ‘Viking scoured the school rules this afternoon and found nothing limiting the number of strokes a boy may be caned,’ added Fatty as he licked his fingers and mopped up the remaining crumbs on his plate.

  According to the residents of the cop shop, Viking has accused the Fragile Five of a multitude of crimes, including truancy, nightswimming, deviancy, vandalism, bunking-out, bunking-in, crass deception, blasphemy, soiling hymnbooks, and being underdressed in the chapel within thirty hours of the commencement of a service. This all added up to eighteen strokes each to be dished out at 20:00 tomorrow evening in Viking’s office.

  ‘One of them could definitely die,’ said Rambo, looking rather pleased about developments.

  ‘Eighteen strokes is pushing the line of barbarism even by apartheid standards,’ cautioned Fatty.

  ‘Perhaps one of them will commit suicide,’ ventured Rambo in a low voice. ‘Now that would be deeply ironic.’ I left Fatty and Rambo to their disturbing conversations about death and headed to my room with a cup of tea. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of drawing close to the end of a great book and Bonfire of the Vanities was screaming for attention.

  Despite not having any pictures or posters up yet, I really do like the feeling of being alone in my long skinny room. School is far more enjoyable when you have the right place to hide from it.

  SUNDAY 24TH JANUARY

  How fantastic to be in matric and finally shot of the laborious institution of free bounds. I always wondered if sending the majority of the school off the premises on a Sunday afternoon ever did any good. Now I see that it most definitely does. Matrics, post matrics and staff get to have the run of the place and for three short hours the school is a place you would never want to leave.

  After seeing all the boys off from the house bench, Rambo and Boggo took on Fatty and me in a three-set marathon tennis match. Rambo continued his one man rebellion against the school rules despite being a prefect. His large juice bottle was filled with strong vodka, ice and Oros, which he forced us to taste before knocking up. We lost in the third set tie-breaker when Boggo’s relentless goading of Fatty’s anorexia-paedophilia finally took its toll as my partner lost his temper and smashed a forehand into the net and the next over the back fence. He then served two double faults to end the match and shouted, ‘Shot a lot, Boggo, for screwing up a great tennis match!’ and stormed back to the house without shaking anyone’s hand.

  Weirdly, Rambo’s tennis improved with every cup of ‘jungle juice’ he drank, although his voice was slurring terribly when he called out the score in the final set.

  17:00 Roll Call

  I knew something was wrong the moment I noticed Plump Graham’s expression.

  ‘Where are Rowdy and Stutterheim?’ I repeated, this time in a far sterner voice. Whispering and murmurs of interest flared up among the other boys, so I ordered the three remaining members of the Fragile Five to see me afterwards in the cop shop and continued with the roll call.

  As expected, the three offered very little information about the whereabouts of the missing boys other than to say that Stutterheim and Rowdy were last seen sitting together at breakfast. I ordered a house search which turned up nothing. I went through their possessions and by the looks of things some clothes, toiletries and bags were missing from both their lockers. Simon wasn’t in his room and Rambo had passed out after too much jungle juice and tennis. Instead I took matters into my own hands and marched down to the phone room where I kicked Meg Ryan’s Son off a call and dialled up Viking’s internal extension.

  ‘Yes!’ barked the voice of my housemaster.

  ‘Sir, it’s Milton,’ I said.

  ‘What’s going on, Milton?’ he replied with terrible dread lining his voice.

  ‘Sir, I think Rowdy and Stutterheim might have run away.’

  ‘Fantastic, just fantastic!’ he roared with hideous sarcasm. ‘Milton!’ he barked. ‘Meet me outside my office in three minutes and bring along anybody who can shed light on the matter, or anybody else who needs to be interrogated or beaten!’

  I roped in the remaining members of the Fragile Five and headed downstairs to wait for the housemaster. A haggard looking Plump Graham, Sidewinder and Meg Ryan’s Son followed me out the house door, ignoring the commotion under the stairs where a large crowd of boys were carrying Vern head first into his room. Outside the light was fading.

  Viking arrived in a billowing white Hawaiian shirt open to the stomach, blue tracksuit pants, and brown ethnic sandals. He was nowhere near as furious as expected, although this proved to be only a temporary lapse as he blew his top when I summoned the remaining Fragile Fivers into his office.

  ‘You bastards again!’ he roared and stood up violently. He pointed aggressively at Plump Graham and boomed, ‘When I’m done with you lot, you will know the true meaning of suffering!’ The tirade continued for at least five minutes as the Fragile Five wilted under the firestorm of Viking’s wrath once more. After the shitting-on ended with several vile and imaginative threats in quick succession, Viking composed himself and in an acid voice said, ‘Now I hope you lot have some news about the disappearance of Rowdy and the other boy?’

  Meg Ryan’s Son admitted that besides seeing the missing boys at breakfast they had nothing further to report. Viking blew his top again and gassed all over the remaining members of the Fragile Five with incredible force and from a dizzying height. After threatening them with prolonged torture, he upped their nightswimming punishment from eighteen to twenty strokes for wasting his time on a Sunday and kicked them out of his office. I felt a little bad about being responsible but reasoned that after eighteen strokes from Viking, a further two would make little difference.

  Thankfully, Simon became involved after spending four hours hitting cricket balls from a bowling machine in the nets. After hearing my story he said he would take it from here and disappeared into Viking’s office for further meeti
ngs.

  19:00 With Simon in Viking’s office, Rambo man down with a hangover, and Fatty on a marathon call to Penny, I finally found some tranquillity to finish off Bonfire of the Vanities. I fell well short last night when a sudden dreamless sleep overcame me. I made a cup of tea in the annexe and returned to the deserted cop shop where I reclined on the couch with the book in my lap.

  Unfortunately, my tranquillity only lasted long enough to read three quarters of a page, before there was a timid yet relentless knocking on the door.

  ‘What?’ I shouted, attempting to sound ferocious and unapproachable.

  I immediately regretted not staying silent when the glowing face of Garlic poked around the door.

  ‘Spud, you’re in here!’ he announced. ‘I thought you would be out looking for Rowdy Stutterheim?’

  ‘Rowdy and Stutterheim,’ I corrected.

  ‘You mind if I pull in and hang snake?’ asked Garlic in an obscenely loud and pleading fashion.

  I found myself in a terrible predicament. All I wanted was to be alone to read in the cop shop with my cup of tea and, to be honest, having lame chats with the Malawian about Rowdy and Stutterheim made me want to abandon everything and retire to my room.

  ‘The cop shop is only meant for prefects,’ I ventured boldly, hoping that Garlic would take the hint and press on. He didn’t.

  ‘Simon and Rambo said that a matric could come in if he had permission from a prefect,’ retorted Garlic.

  ‘Oh really?’ I replied.

  ‘Hey, you’re a prefect, Spud! That means technically you could invite me in.’

  ‘I suppose technically I could,’ I replied, desperately attempting to think of an excuse that could fend Garlic off.

  ‘Please could I come in, Spud?’ he begged in a pitiful voice. ‘I don’t mind even sitting on the carpet.’

  It was impossible to refuse and Garlic was hugely delighted finally to be allowed official entrance into the cop shop.