Riddle Gully Runaway Page 3

  ‘Admiring your moves,’ said Pollo, getting to her feet. Will did the same, giggling nervously.

  ‘Punks!’ said Benson.

  ‘Unco!’ said Pollo.

  ‘Dweebs!’ said Benson, a smile creeping onto his face.

  ‘Doofus!’ smirked Pollo.

  Benson pointed to Pollo’s unruly head of springy hair. ‘Fuzzball!’ he said, grinning and jigging from the knees up.

  Will was beginning to feel left out. ‘Thief!’ he blurted.

  Both Pollo and Benson jerked their heads toward Will. No! thought Pollo. She hadn’t gathered her facts yet! It was way too early for a direct assault! And here they were alone in a graveyard with night closing in, with a kid much bigger than them — were they whiskers on Benson’s top lip? — who knew she had evidence against him in the camera bulging in her hip pocket. Her hand drifted down to cover it.

  Benson tugged his cap tight down onto his skull and glared at Will. ‘What’d you call me, Punk?’

  ‘Seef!’ Pollo scrambled. ‘He called you a seef! He lisps, the poor thing. You’ve got to feel for him sometimes.’

  ‘Yeth!’ said Will desperately. ‘I didn’t mean to inthult you … Honethtly!’

  ‘Sounded like thief to me,’ Benson grumbled. ‘There’s not even any such word as “seef”.’

  ‘Yeah, but how old are you?’ said Pollo.

  ‘Sixteen. What’s it to you, Fuzzball?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Pollo, ‘that explains it. See, we’re only thirteen —’

  ‘Nearly fourteen!’ interrupted Will, flinching as Pollo’s elbow found his ribs.

  ‘— thirteen, and in our language a seef is someone who wears their cap sideways … like you!’

  Benson cocked his head to one side. ‘Seef,’ he repeated. He tugged the bill of his cap lower over his left ear. ‘Succinct. Kind of dignified. I don’t mind it.’ A smile curled onto his face. ‘See, if he’d called me a thief I would’ve smashed in Punk’s teef!’

  He saw Pollo and Will exchange worried glances. ‘That was a joke.’ He grinned at Will. ‘You’re the kid who lost his lunch at the rollercoaster today, yeah?’

  ‘The kid? The only one?’ said Will.

  ‘Yep. Just you. You’re distinguished.’

  ‘Great,’ sighed Will.

  Pollo had plenty of investigating to do. ‘So, what’s it like working on a rollercoaster?’

  Benson grunted. ‘S’okay. It wasn’t my idea, but. My uncle made me. Said I had to earn my keep.’

  ‘Your uncle,’ said Pollo. ‘That’s Mayor Bullock, right?’

  Benson grunted again. ‘Small towns,’ he muttered.

  ‘And you’re staying with him?’ asked Pollo, easing into her enquiries.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Will winked at Pollo conspiratorially. ‘How come?’ he said. ‘Are you being punished for something … I mean, thumb-thing!’

  Benson frowned and began cracking his knuckles.

  Pollo jumped in. ‘He only means that a lot of people in Riddle Gully aren’t too keen on your uncle, and it would be a punishment, sort of, to have to stay with him.’ She glared at Will. ‘You don’t need to say anything more, Will. You really must rest that sore throat of yours.’

  ‘My thore throat?’

  ‘All that screaming on the rollercoaster, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Thorry.’

  Benson leaned over Will, bunching the neck of Will’s T-shirt in his fist. He glared from Will to Pollo and back. ‘You, Punk! You, Fuzzball! Do you think you can mess with me? I’m not stupid!’ He let go of Will and shoved his hands in his pockets. He tilted his head back, looking to the darkening sky, breathing sharply. Suddenly he dropped his gaze back to them.

  ‘You know what? I am being punished for something. Whatever you’ve heard is true. I’m a thief; I’m evil; I can’t be trusted. As soon as my gran turns her back I’m going to clean her out!’ He turned away. ‘This place and its gossip make me want to puke.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Pollo, pulling out her notepad. ‘It might be gossip to you, but if someone’s going around stealing from everyone it becomes kind of important to us.’

  ‘Going around stealing?’ Benson scowled. ‘Here? You’re making it up.’

  ‘Why else were you listening in earlier when we were talking about Will’s stepdad being a police sergeant?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ he mumbled. ‘Kills cats, not people.’

  ‘Well, why were you crawling around behind the stalls? Yeah, I saw you. It’s handy for you, I bet, that we small-town folk are so trusting with our things.’

  Benson glared at Pollo and Will, a tinny trace of music leaking from his dangling earphones into the damp twilight air. He opened his mouth as though to say something … then shut it again. Shorn Connery snuffled at the long grass around Benson’s hi-tops but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Pollo waited, her pencil poised. Benson suddenly jabbed his finger at the notebook. ‘You can think whatever you like and you can write whatever you want to write in that … that lame journal of yours. It won’t change who I am.’

  He turned to go but discovered that Shorn Connery had developed a taste for the laces of his left sneaker. He waggled his leg but Shorn Connery hung on grimly, enjoying the strange meld of flavours in the dirty shoelace.

  Pollo seized the opportunity. ‘So you don’t deny it then! It is you nicking all the stuff and stashing it in the forest!’

  ‘I’m not denying anything’,’ said Benson, in a tug-of-war with Shorn Connery. ‘And I’m not apologising to anyone in this mangy little town — not to my uncle and especially not to you. You can write that in your pad and stick it up your jumper!’ There was a tearing sound as Benson’s shoelace ripped free of Shorn Connery’s molars. ‘Gotta go, Fuzzball, Punk,’ he said. ‘It’s a nice clear night — I’ve got a lot of stealing to do.’ He jammed in his earphones and slouched away.

  Shorn Connery stood looking after him. Baa-aa-aah!

  ‘Don’t bother with him, old buddy,’ said Pollo. ‘He’s bad news.’ She tousled the thick wool between Shorn Connery’s ears. ‘You, on the other hand, were brilliant once again — stopping him from leaving. I’d never have wangled that confession out of him otherwise!’ She turned to Will, her eyes bright. ‘You heard him! He practically took my notepad and wrote this week’s Coast column for me!’ She began scribbling in her notepad. ‘I’m writing it all down so I don’t forget a single word.’

  ‘He’s a strange one, alright,’ said Will. ‘I wonder if we could find where he hides his stash. We could, you know, double-check our suspicions.’

  Pollo shrugged. ‘No need. He admitted to everything.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t deny it,’ said Will.

  ‘Same thing,’ said Pollo. ‘And he said he wasn’t apologising for anything.’

  ‘Not to you, especially!’ said Will.

  ‘And that I could write what I wanted about him.’

  ‘And stick it up your jumper!’ added Will.

  ‘You know, Will,’ said Pollo, her eyes narrowing, ‘not every single word he said was relevant.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No. And I’d just as soon you left it to me to sort out what was and wasn’t. I am —’

  ‘— Youth Reporter for the district,’ said Will. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Pollo slipped Shorn Connery’s lead over his head. They began picking their way across the cemetery toward the track that ran behind the houses in their street, shivering as the temperature of the spring evening quickly fell.

  ‘Listen, Will,’ said Pollo. ‘Do you think you could wheedle a few details out of your stepdad about what exactly has gone missing? But don’t tell him why you want it! I want my story to be breaking news — a masterpiece of investigative journalism! Something people will talk about for years!’

  ‘I s’pose I could try.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Pollo. ‘I’ll make an assistant super-sleuth of you yet, Will Hopkins!’

  C
HAPTER FIVE

  Pollo had to wait until Thursday to see her story on Benson Bragg in print. As soon as the home-time siren went, she pedalled through town and up the main street to Sherri’s shop — the Riddle Gully Second-Hand Emporium Specialising in Maps, Curios and Local History — where she and Sherri routinely looked over Pollo’s latest column, hot off the press.

  Pollo knew Sherri through her Aunty Giulia. But unlike Aunty Giulia, who was all about manure and stock breeds, Sherri had piled-high brightly dyed crimson hair and dangly earrings that tinkled when she laughed — which was often. Sherri was a bit like a mother to Pollo, the way she talked about stuff and looked out for her. Pollo was sure her mum would have loved Sherri too if she’d still been around.

  Pollo grabbed a clean copy of the Coast newspaper from the metal stand on the footpath and flung open the glass door of the shop, setting the door’s bell jingling and Bublé the budgerigar twittering.

  ‘Goodness!’ cried Sherri from behind her desk. ‘It’s Wonder Woman come to rescue me from a terrible fate!’

  ‘Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you! It’s just that this week’s column is the juiciest I’ve come up with for quite a while,’ said Pollo. She found her column and spread the newspaper in front of Sherri, then came around to look over the older woman’s shoulder as Sherri read aloud.

  DIAMOND JACK’S BACK

  Riddle Gully has been rocked of late by a string of jewellery thefts. Has the infamous bushranger Diamond Jack, ancestor of Mayor Bullock and his family, risen from his grave to help himself, once again, to the riches of Riddle Gully, as he did over a century ago? Items gone missing over a two-week period include earrings, wristwatches and an antique emerald ring.

  Fortunately, this reporter, in a rollercoaster investigation, tracked down the culprit — who cannot be named for legal reasons — and obtained a full confession to the thefts. In addition, he was heard by this reporter to say: ‘It’s a nice clear night — I’ve got a lot of stealing to do.’ He also expressed his intention to rob an elderly relative. The culprit, who has a recent history of stealing, showed no sign of remorse. Police have been informed and the matter is now in their hands.

  Pollo jabbed the page. ‘See how I got “rollercoaster” in there, Sherri? Hint, hint, eh?’

  ‘And the mention of Mayor Bullock’s family and the elderly relative,’ murmured Sherri. She looked up at Pollo. ‘Is this article about who I think it is? A certain young man who’s staying with his grandmother?’

  Pollo grinned and nodded. ‘You got it! I never mention Benson by name because he’s only sixteen. But read on! It’s when you read both articles that you see how cunning I’ve been.’

  MAYOR SCALPED AT FAIR

  In other news, a raven provided last Sunday’s Riddle Gully fair with a novel climax. As Mayor Bullock presented the gold medal to local farming boy, Thomas Mobsby, the bird swept down and relieved the mayor of his infamous toupée. (See photo and full results of fair on page 7.)

  The bird eluded capture and is thought to be nesting comfortably in the vicinity of Riddle Gully. Fortunately for the mayor, his 16-year-old nephew, Benson Bragg, has been staying in Riddle Gully for approximately two weeks. In a suspension of usual school routines, he appears to have been hunting for his uncle’s missing toupée, Mr Bragg having been spotted in the forest on the outskirts of town.

  ‘See how the times match up,’ said Pollo, ‘and the bit about his suspension? I slipped that one past the editor, I did!’

  Sherri blew through pursed lips. She rose from the desk and opened the door to Bublé’s cage, inviting the little bird onto her finger. ‘Mayor Bullock’s not going to like this one little bit,’ said Sherri, scratching Bublé’s head, ‘or dear old Mrs Bullock, for that matter. You’ve as good as told anyone who can put two and two together about Benson’s suspension from school and the reason behind it — that bit about his recent history of stealing. And you’ve pointed the finger at him for these Riddle Gully thefts. Do you think that was wise?’

  ‘But that’s the thing,’ said Pollo. ‘I haven’t just used what you told me. I’ve done some real investigating — like Woodward and Bernstein!’

  ‘You know about the Watergate scandal? That happened in the seventies. I barely remember the details myself.’

  ‘Woodward and Bernstein were Mum’s heroes, according to Dad. They brought down a crooked USA president, after all.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve done some proper investigative reporting like your mum would have, good on you, I suppose.’ She stroked Bublé’s back with her thumb. Pollo saw the frown flickering on Sherri’s face.

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like the stories?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just that there’s … there’s something a bit fishy about Benson’s confession. Are you sure he meant it? He wasn’t just being ironic, was he?’

  ‘I-what?’

  ‘Ironic. You know, when you say the opposite of what you mean in order to show you mean the opposite.’

  ‘What?’ squawked Pollo. She goggled at Sherri. ‘Why on earth would anyone talk like that?’

  ‘I agree, it gets messy sometimes,’ said Sherri. ‘I went on a date once with a fellow a friend had described as “charmingly modest” when she actually meant he was a tiresome toad who boasted about himself all evening. I didn’t pick up her tone over the phone. Golly, I couldn’t wait for dinner to finish. I even skipped dessert.’ Sherri held Bublé up to eye level. ‘We haven’t made that mistake again, have we Bublé?’

  ‘But you yourself told me Benson was a thief. That he’d stolen something at school.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sherri. ‘That’s partly what worries me. Poor Mrs Bullock. I hope she speaks to me again. She loves that boy to bits.’

  ‘Huh! Even when he’s planning to rob her too?’

  ‘To be perfectly frank, Pollo, I simply can’t accept that part of your story.’

  ‘The truth is sometimes hard to accept,’ said Pollo.

  ‘True, but I wonder … would you have suspected Benson in the first place if I hadn’t shared that snippet from his grandmother; if I’d kept my mouth shut?’

  Pollo folded her arms in a hunch. ‘Well, a reporter has to start digging somewhere.’

  ‘Hmmm … Heaven forbid that the truth be allowed to sit quietly and mind its own business.’ Sherri carefully returned Bublé to his cage.

  Pollo narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you being ironic, Sherri?’

  Sherri sighed. ‘Yes, Pollo. I’m afraid I am.’

  *

  Pollo pedalled away from Sherri’s shop, her face twisted in a frown. What did Sherri know? Of course a reporter had to sniff around, dig stuff up — otherwise no one would know anything about anything. And, of course, she’d have suspected Benson sooner or later. She’d practically caught him red-handed behind the tents, hadn’t she? His confession was just the icing on the cake. Pollo wheeled around a corner and found herself pushing towards the edge of town. What she needed was a long, hard pedal up the hill to the lookout. It usually helped her let off steam.

  When she reached the turn-off to the lookout, she saw something that sank her spirits even further. It was a familiar sight outside the roadhouse. In front of the bowsers, a sheep truck idled. The back of the truck was loaded with animals four tiers deep, the twitching ears and sniffing snouts of those on the top tier just visible. Down the side of the truck, legs protruded between the slats. The sheep were jammed together so tightly that, had the truck suddenly turned a somersault, it was doubtful the poor creatures would have budged. Lucky Shorn Connery wasn’t there to see it.

  Just then the roadhouse door opened and two figures emerged — one in shorts, navy singlet and work boots and, following him, another in a baseball cap, black T-shirt, hi-top sneakers and …

  Hang on! Pollo squinted. That was no truckie! Benson Bragg ambled across the forecourt, bobbing his head to whatever was pumping through his earphones. He swung up into the cab alongside the driver and swivelled his cap’s bill
to the front to shield his eyes. The driver revved the truck’s huge engine, eased onto the hardtop and rumbled away, the doomed sheep staring dolefully behind.

  Good riddance, Benson Bragg, thought Pollo. Riddle Gully’s better off without you.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pollo and her dad, Joe, stood by the car at the end of their driveway in the pink glow of early evening. Pollo was twitchy with excitement. Friday night at last. She’d been waiting ages for this moment. Joe di Nozi shuffled and scratched. He’d been dreading it. He cleared his throat.

  ‘If you’re asked to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable, just leave, okay? Walk away. You get what I’m saying?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Walk away.’

  ‘Because if a person doesn’t respect your limits it means they don’t respect you.’

  ‘Limits. Respect. Roger.’

  ‘Who’s Roger?’ Pollo frowned at her father.

  ‘Roger? It’s two-way radio talk for “I understand”.’ Joe di Nozi rubbed his nose. ‘Where do you get all this stuff from anyway, Pollo?’

  ‘Sherri.’

  ‘Sherri. Of course, I should have guessed.’ In the car’s side mirror, Joe adjusted the collar poking from his jumper and checked his nostrils.

  ‘Well, she knows a lot more about dating than you do, Dad.’

  ‘No need to rub it in. I have my pride.’ He put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Don’t fret about me, love. I’ll have a good time and I’ll see you at lunchtime on Sunday. It’s me who has to worry about you.’

  ‘Dad, I have my books, a stack of DVDs and a fridge full of junk food. Not to mention a science assignment. And Aunty Giulia and Uncle Pete or Sherri are only a phone call away if I need them. We’ve been through all this.’

  Joe di Nozi sighed. ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing. Two nights away …’

  ‘You’ve been wanting to meet Wanda face-to-face for ages, Dad, and she lives too far away to do it any other way. You can’t drive hundreds of kilometres to Wanda’s place and then across to her cousin’s wedding in one day. You’d be asleep by nine o’clock with your head in a plate of pavlova.’