

### Neville the Less

By Robert Nicholls

Copyright 2015 Robert Nicholls

Smashword Edition

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### Table of Contents

1. Home Country

2. A Journey

3. Troubles Multiply

4. The Making of Plans

5. Alone at Sea

6. Sharing the Lesson

7. A Penny for your Medal

8. Phase Two

9. Interregnum

10. Plans

11. D-Day

12. Where it Ends

###  1. Home Country

### Neville

Something is happening in Under. Every night I hear creaking and bumping - and the sound of sand being moved, as though the dead forest is coming to life. Which I know can't be true. I know because I asked Mum and she said definitely not. It's a dream, she said. Give yourself a pinch when it happens, she said, and you'll see.

But what is it then? Last night I pinched very hard and it didn't stop. And then Ava started to growl. I would've pinched her as well but I worried that if she started barking, Mum would have to come and she's already got her hands pretty full with the Quiet Man. I heard him last night too, shouting out again. I think he hears the noises in Under too. Things are not very good just now.

### Nightmares

The Quiet Man lay on the couch as he had every day of every week, for the whole of the month and a half that he'd been home, staring into the ceiling.

"He doesn't see us anymore," Neville said to his mother.

"Nevertheless, he knows we're here, Sweet."

"Why doesn't he talk to us then?"

"He can't, Nev'. Not yet. He's got a jumble in his mind and he needs to sort that out before he can talk to us."

A jungle in his mind, thought Neville. Snakes and lions and monkeys and tall, tall trees. Or maybe it's a dead forest, like the one in Under, with things that dig and groan.

"Does he know who I am?"

"Yes, of course he does! He knows you're his son! Nevertheless, he can't talk to you or to me or to anyone - not properly. Not until he finds his way through the jumble. He's got to do that first. I know it's hard, but we just have to try to be patient and understanding. Okay?"

"Okay," said Neville, thinking, He knows I am his son, Neville the Less. He knows but his mind is lost in a jungle and until he finds it, he can't talk.

"How come, if he can't talk, I hear him at night, hollering and shouting? And I hear you shouting back? And I wonder if he's hurting you?"

"Oh, Sweet! He can talk! He just . . . can't decide what things to tell us! And he's never hurting me! He wouldn't hurt me, or you! He loves us both. It's just . . . he has awful dreams sometimes. Dreams that frighten him and that he can't wake up from. Not without help. So I call out to help him; to show him a way to go, to get back to us. That's all it is."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes, nightmares."

"From the jungle?"

"From the jumble, yes. But you mustn't be frightened. Because you and I know that nightmares are just scary shadows, don't we. Shadows that can pretend to be real when there's darkness all around. That's why I keep the light on in the hall all night, see? And that's why he watches so carefully from the couch all day. So that, if those nightmares try to creep up on him, he'll be able to see them for the shadows they are. That's what he needs most of all, Nev'. Just to know he's safe. And when the time comes that he knows his fears are nothing but shadows, he'll be able to chase them away for good. And then he'll come back to us. Understand?"

"So he's watching for them in the ceiling?"

"Yes. I guess so. In the ceiling."

It would make more sense, Neville thought, if he was watching the floor, to catch them coming up from Under. But who was he to question?

"You always tell me to think happy thoughts when I have nightmares. Or to pinch myself. Why don't you tell **him** to think happy thoughts? Or pinch him?"

"Nev', I know this is hard for you. But look. It's true that nightmares shrivel up like little raisins when happy thoughts are around. But your father . . . he doesn't have many happy thoughts just now. Not just now. He's trying! He's trying his best. And he's strong. He's very strong and brave. But . . .!" And he knew she was about to give up on him; ". . . there's just a Bigger Picture happening, Nev'. One that . . . it wouldn't be fair for you to have to think about."

"Is it the war?" he whispered and his mother, suddenly sobbing into her hands, fled from him into the kitchen.

"Or is it us then?" he asked the room, which was empty of anyone who could think what to say.

Later though, when they met in the kitchen, he tried a different tack.

"What is a war, anyhow? How do you get one?"

"Oh Nev'! You don't have to worry. It's a thing that couldn't happen here! But where it does happen, it's because people get frightened and confused by one another - by things they don't understand about one another. And then they get mad because stuff just isn't how they want it to be or wish it was. And they decide to hit out because hitting out's easier than . . . thinking. Hitting and hitting and being more and more frightened. That's what war is."

"But why couldn't it happen here? Don't people get frightened and confused here?"

"Yes, of course they do. It's just that . . . we don't hit here."

"The Quiet Man does! He's a soldier!"

"Yes. And soldiers are made to do things, sometimes, that they hate to do." And suddenly she was angry, bending to him, clasping his shoulders roughly and staring into his eyes. "But you see where that's got him?" The tear tracks were there on her cheeks again and a drop of something clear waggled at the end of her nose.

"Promise me you'll never be a soldier!" she demanded, shaking him so hard the drop fell from her nose and splashed on the floor. "Right now and for all time! Promise me that when you grow up, you'll never fight or hurt or kill or hate or . . . be the kind of person who . . . sees hitting out as the only way!"

Before he could answer, she pulled his face against her breasts, holding him tightly there where he most loved to be, even though the sweet baby powder scent of her always made his head swim. Then, with another drop at the tip of her nose, she pushed him away and went instead to the sink, to splash water on her face. Afterwards, she dried off on the tea towel (which was strictly against the rules) and, as though she'd forgotten him entirely, fell into a reverie, gazing out across the neighbouring yards. Neville waited, wishing she'd come back to him and hold him again. She didn't. But eventually she drew a deep breath and let his name slip slowly, pleadingly out.

"Nevertheless."

Neville wasn't certain why she, and others in her wake, had begun referring to him as Neville the Less. He reasoned, though, that it was probably fair enough since his father, who'd been away at the war and had become, first The Hero and then The Quiet Man, had also once been a Neville. Neville the More, supposedly.

Neville the More, who went to war and left his mind in a jungle.

### Mum

I can't believe I did that! Obvious that Nev' would've been hearing his father's nightmares and fretting over them, but me? I completely overlooked it! He put me on the spot about them today and I managed a half-baked, off-putting explanation that really . . . well, if he took anything from it at all, it'd be a miracle! Then he asked me, 'What's a war! How do you get one?' How do you get one? I mean, like you'd order one made up at the shops or something! I don't know; who knows? There's no explaining it! Not even to a smart kid like him; even one with his sensitivity and imagination! Where would you begin?

I don't know where he got that – the imagination, I mean. Must be nice. If I'd been able to imagine, for example, a person's character being stomped flat by a job they loved and believed in - that would've been helpful wouldn't it? To say the least? Or to imagine what the army psych's really meant when they said, 'Expect some loss of interest. Maybe some nightmares.'

If they'd just said, 'Expect a husk', that would've at least prepared me a bit. Even the treatment! 'Talk to him,' was what they said. 'Let him know you need him in your lives.' This to a man who has no memory of what 'being needed' means, let alone of what our lives are about!

So now I'm trying to imagine a way to explain to a six year old that his big, brave soldier of a father went to war and came home . . . empty. Not empty of everything, mind! Mostly just empty of his son! I mean, he does talk to me - in grunts and whispers admittedly, but he at least acknowledges me. And he's certainly loud enough in his nightmares! But when Neville's around . . . nothing! I doubt he's spoken a word to Neville in the whole six weeks he's been home! Doesn't look at him, refuses to see him! And despite all Nev's determined patience, I don't see any hint of change. I don't know what to do. Not for him, not for myself, not for any of us. All I can say is, thank God we've got Ava. She's our one reliable anchor in a world gone totally stupid!

* * *

"I promise," Neville the Less said to the back of his mother whose name was Mum but was also Bettina or sometimes Betts and sometimes Tina. Once, when Neville was sitting very quietly high up in the mango tree, he'd heard Mister Shoomba tell the Duke of Daisley that she was 'a criminal waste of hormones'. But that hadn't seemed like a real name at all.

"I promise not to be a soldier."

"Good," she answered, coming back from her reverie. "That's good. Thank you. Now what about you and Ava go outside for a while. Get some fresh air. Throw a stick or something. You could both use some exercise, I bet."

"Okay."

"And Nev'?"

"Mmhm?"

"Try not to worry, okay? We just have to stay strong and healthy and brave, you and me. That's what I believe. Be as brave as he is. And be the best people we can be, every minute of the day. He wants that for us, I know he does. And one day we'll get him back, just like he used to be. Okay? That's my promise to you." She smiled her old soft smile. "In exchange for you not becoming a soldier."

### Ava

Ava was a grey terrier with the soft, curly hair of a sneaky poodle ancestor. Most times, her name was Ava but sometimes, like when she caught a rat in the hen yard on Rahimi Island and brought it limp and bloody into the house, she was called 'Bloody Horrible Mutt'! And other times, like when Mister Shoomba found her in Shoomba Territory or discovered her leavings on the soles of his shoes she was called 'Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch'.

Names. Everything, Neville had learned, and everyone, had lots of names. Names were the glue of meaning, even though they were as changeable as the weather.

This day, Ava was laying on the floor beside the couch that held The Quiet Man who had once been Dad and Neville the More. She'd lain there pretty much every day of all the weeks since he'd come home. And if The Quiet Man seldom seemed to sleep, watching ever so carefully for his nightmares to appear in the ceiling, for Ava, sleep was a calling and nightmares, it seemed, gave her a wide berth; presumably because she was, at heart, a Terrier-of-Death. Not with her own family, of course. She was gentle with all of them. Whenever The Quiet Man moved, especially in those rare moments when his hand fell near her, she would rouse right up, nose the fingers carefully and lick them as though to say, 'See? I'm here and on the job. Nothing to worry about.'

"Ava," Neville whispered as he slid onto his bum beside her. "Wanna come outside?"

In answer, she rolled on her back and showed him her belly; pale skin through the fine covering of hair. He gave her a rub and rolled onto his back beside her. So now they were three, staring up into the ceiling.

"Nightmares're up there, Ava," he whispered. "Up there in the ceiling. From the war. From the jungle. Nightmares so bad, you 'n' me'd just be killed by 'em."

Ava wriggled her back against the floor, stretched luxuriously and yawned. And in the voice of the yawn, Neville distinctly heard her say, "I don' sink so."

Neville was surprised. Not that she was expressing an opinion - she did that more and more frequently these days - but that her opinion differed from that of Mum whose wisdom practically never missed the mark. He rolled to his side to ask Ava why she didn't think so, but his mother's finger snaps from the kitchen doorway and the mouthed "Outside!" distracted them both. Ava bounded to her feet and, in the midst of a clear steady look, flicked her eyes doorwards. As if to say, I'll tell you outside. And then, without waiting for him, she trotted from the room.

* * *

Neville was only seconds behind, but by the time he got outside, she'd already disappeared. It would take him five minutes to find her, though admittedly, four and half of those minutes would be taken up by Mister Shoomba who was, as he often was these days, standing at the end of the row of paper barks that separated Shoomba Territory from Home Country. He was studying the Lightning Bug - the derelict boat that had been sinking into the weeds in that corner of his yard for all the time that Neville could remember.

"Used ta be a great little boat, the Bug!" he said when Neville accidentally made eye contact with him. "Take ye to Silly 'n'back, on nothin' but a fart an' a hiccup! Know what I mean? Tell 'er where ye wanna go an' she'd be off like a bloodhound! Bloody pirates down the boat ramp offered me a truckload o' cash for 'er once. They wanted 'er alright! Shoulda flogged 'er off, I s'pose, but who knew she'd wind up land lubbered, eh? Now lookit 'er! Couldn' get a dead mackeral out've a Lower Slobovian fisherman for 'er! How's yer ma?"

"She's got a cold maybe, I think, Mister Shoomba. Drippy nose 'n' stuff."

"Yeh? Might bring 'er some lemons later on then, eh! Bit o' hot lemonade's magic fer the chest. She ever tell ye that, mate? Drink it down or rub it on, either one. What about yer ol' man? Still down wi' the wobblies?"

"His mind's in the jungle, mum says. Because of the war. But he's very brave."

"Course he is! Course he is! Came home a Hero, didn' he? Always a cost though. Tell you what, I could tell you Hero-stories, kid. Make your hair stand on end."

"You been to the war, Mister Shoomba?"

"Not literally speakin', no. But in me own fashion, mate, I been everywhere there is to be an' seen everythin' there is to see. Includin' a fair bit a man's eyeball ought not to be subjected to. Know what I mean?"

"No sir. Were there really pirates at the boat ramp?"

"Mate! Were there what! An' still are, no doubt about it! Ol'Bluebeard an' Cap'm Hook got nothin' on that mob down the ramp! Steal the scales off a fish, they would! Steal the freckles off a barnacle. Be wearin' your buttons in their ears if yer not awake-up to 'em an' that's the God's honest truth. Know why? 'Cause most folks're too chicken-liveried to stand up for what's theirs, 'at's why! Too cock-a-doodle-don't to see the bad uns off, that's what most folks are! Me, I'd wrestle a Taswegian tiger 'f it was gettin' amongst me stuff! Ownership, see? Countryside! Lifestyle! 'At's what it's all about. See that?"

As though it would clarify his point, he waved his hand at the expansive piles of detritus around his yard and house. "That house? That gear? Shoomba belongin's, mate! On Shoomba Territory - of which I'm king. The king ye gotta get up way before crow fart to get anythin' over! 'Cause 'at's exactly what hard experience taught me, see? Take hold an' hang on! 'Cause sure as Hell's a-poppin', someone's gonna come along an' wanna change things up on ya."

"Yes sir. You seen Ava? She came out just a minute ago an' I'm s'posed to throw a stick for her."

"That Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch! Tell ye what, I'll throw a stick right up her arse, I catch 'er over here again! Should be tied up an' you can tell your ma I said so! Bloody dog mess all over Hell's Half Acre over here!"

"Okay. Thanks Mister Shoomba."

"Sure, sure. Listen, you tell yer ma she needs anything, ol' Dennis the Menace Shoomba's her man, eh?"

"Okay. Thanks Mister Shoomba."

"No worries. An' mate? Yer ol' man? Jus' gotta accept it, see. War burns a man up, that's what. Hero or no, it cooks 'im from the inside out! Medical fact, that; straight from the war books. Never be the same again. Ye can write them words down, matey, an' they'll be as true in a year as they are today. So ye may's well just start workin' around him, 'at's my advice. Be the responsible male in your family, eh? Lord o' your manor, like I'm lord o' mine, right? Lookin' out for your ma' 'n' all. Eh? Hm? Yessir, young Neville! King o' that there castle, you, whether you like it or not! You up for it?"

I don't need to be up for it, thought Neville the Less. Because no jungle will ever hold Neville the More. You wait and see! But all he said was, "Yep. Thanks Mister Shoomba."

* * *

After that, he gave up looking for Ava and headed for the cubby he'd hollowed out under the lilly-pilly at the back of the house. Years of pruning had left the bush with a solid outer skin of leaves, tight as the feathers on a chicken. But behind that skin, against the house, Neville had snapped away the dead twigs and made a clear space big enough to sit in or stand up in or even lie down in, if he didn't mind the bed of dry leaves, which he didn't. It was one of several secret places in his and the surrounding territories to which Neville retreated when he needed space and privacy for thought.

As it turned out, however, it wasn't to be private this day, because seated right in the middle, in the best, roomiest part of the cubby, with her back against the house stump and Ava's head cradled in her lap, was Afsoon Rahimi.

"What a stupid man!" she harrumphed as he crowded in beside. "Why do you listen to him?"

"Mister Shoomba? Why? Whaddya mean?"

"Saying your father will never be the same again! What does such a fat lazy man know of Heroes, or anything?" She gripped a friendly handful of Ava's ruff and gave it a shake. "Ava and me - we say, if anything has been cooked from the inside out, it is Mister Shoomba's brain!"

"Well," said Neville, even though he knew how the topic would provoke her, "He knows about pirates! He says there're pirates at the boat ramp!"

"Hah! If pirates were at the boat ramp, they'd've cut open Mister Shoomba's gizzard and put his big ears on a hook for fishing!"

Neville had learned the hard way that it was not always wise to repeat 'Soon's most colourful language. Though tiny, she was nearly two years older than he - almost eight - and possessed of a deep and ready cynicism about life. "If you want to speak like that," Mum had said, "go out to the garage and talk to the lizards!"

"If you want to know about pirates," 'Soon was now saying, "there is only one way. You must talk to Riff and Raff. Once, they fought a whole shipload of pirates, with their bare hands! When they came to take our Anosh, Riff drowned a hundred of them in the middle of the ocean! And caused the others to sail off in a terror."

Her brow furrowed and she hugged Ava close, burying her face in the little dog's ruff.

"So they can't be here can they, Ava!" she murmured. And to Neville, "Anyhow, why would they come? They have Anosh and many others! What else would they want? No. This Shoomba is a liar-man! And I tell you, Ava, you must poop in his yard every day! I will join you. And Neville will join you also. Even if Terrible Bill catches us and scratches our bums to pieces!"

### The Neighbourhood

The neighbourhood which comprised Neville the Less's domain looked like this.

First, there was Home Country, which was the block on which stood the house in which Neville the Less, Mum, The Quiet Man and Ava lived. It had been bought years ago, when Mum was still Bettina and The Quiet Man was still Neville the More and neither Ava nor Neville the Less had been born.

The house was a 'Queenslander' which meant it perched four feet off the ground on wooden stumps, had wide verandas and, in summer with the doors open, could harvest even the slightest breezes, drawing them right through from south to north or east to west. Not through Neville's room, though, because it was an add-on; a little out-of-the-way almost-secret one in a back corner, behind the pantry - part of the changes that had accompanied the arrival of Neville himself.

Neville didn't mind the tininess or the seclusion of his room. Being next to the pantry meant he could help himself to lollies and biscuits to store up as snacks for himself and Ava. It also meant he could creep on hands and knees through the kitchen and the sleep-out to see unseen what Mum and Dad were watching on television. Or listen to conversations on the western veranda which, coincidentally, also overlooked the leafy skin of the lilly-pilly cubby. Then there was the thrilling possibility, already well into the serious consideration stage, of secretly coming and going from the house via the little window that scooped in the summer northerlies. And the best - his long-term plan - (though it had definitely been set back by the arrival of the Things) was the trap door which one day, when he'd gotten up the nerve to make it, would grant him the unimaginably satisfying option of simply dropping out of sight like a magician's rabbit.

'Out of sight', of course, meant into 'Under' - the space beneath the floor joists where the dark-loving Things had recently taken to gathering in the night. It was a space just high enough, maybe for one more year, for Neville to stand without bumping his head. Whether the Things could also stand there, or whether they had to crouch on all fours with their shaggy backs against the floorboards, was a question too awful to consider.

In its favour, even in the depths of the tropical summer, Under was cool and quiet during the day - a space with packed, bare earth and a dead forest of stumps - fifty remnants of once gigantic trees. It was those stumps on which the house rested and to which it was anchored by thumb-thick bolts of iron. Once during a cyclone, according to Mister Shoomba, the house had lifted right into the air and would have blown away entirely but for one heroically unyielding cyclone bolt.

"House swung on that bolt for half an hour!" he swore, eyes ablaze with the memory. "Stretched 'er out to twice 'er length, but she never let go! Durin' the clean-up your ol' man wanted to throw that bolt away but I says, give it to me, I says. 'Cause iron's got the magic in it, see? 'N' 'at piece's got more'n its natural share I reckon! Still got it somewhere here, under the house. Show it to you one day 'f ye like. Crap strewn all over Hell's Half Acre after that blow, I can tell you!"

During wet-season storms and for days after, Under would stream with water - oodles of water - on which Neville could sail stick boats, sending them curling and swirling around the massive columns of wood. And all year round, in both wet and dry times, since the perimeter of the house was lined with shrubs, Under had been one of the places from which Neville could watch the world's unfoldings without being seen. What had begun unfolding there after dark in recent times, however, had been enough to bring Neville's visits there to an abrupt and permanent halt.

The front yard of Home Country looked boringly out onto Station Street, but the back yard into which the wet season rivers drained was the true heart of Home Country. Straight across it, to the west, it was edged by a dense forest of banana palms and the end of Rahimi's animal house.

In the northwest corner stood the stockade, made of old railway sleepers, where papers were sometimes burned. In the southwest corner stood a dilapidated garage over which hung the mighty branches of an ancient Poinciana. Major branches of that tree hung down low enough for Neville to grasp, creating for him a highway onto the flat roof of the garage and into the Duke of Daisley's mango tree; the very one from which he'd overheard Mister Shoomba's 'criminal waste of hormones' comment. From various lookouts in that immense old tree, Neville could spy out the doings in Home Country, Shoomba Territory, the Island of Rahimi and even a little of what happened behind the high fences of the Duchy of Daisley.

* * *

To take them one by one, Shoomba Territory (also sometimes called 'Hell's Half Acre' or 'The Shambles') was to the south, across the driveway from Home Country, through a narrow but dark grove of solemn paperbarks. Beyond the paperbarks, Shoomba Territory was mostly a sea of knee deep grass; a waving expanse where no bush, tree or shrub had ever been allowed to take root and where no child or animal, apart from Terrible Bill, had ever managed to linger unobserved. Nevertheless, the yard had islands of interest, not the least of which was the mouldering little ship known as Lightning Bug.

Neville liked to imagine her as she must once have been - new and fresh and proud. Before she was caught up by the great cyclone. He sometimes saw her in his dreams, twisting and floundering desperately, past the paperbarks blown nearly to horizontal, even while the house in Home Country hung like a kite from its magic iron bolt. A single enormous wave, it would have taken, to toss her to her final resting place in the back yard of Shoomba Territory.

Not far from the Lightning Bug was Holden Rock which, in its former life, might've been an actual car. In its present life it was a dead, weed-raddled lump of rusting metal which had settled so deeply into itself and the grass that its roof reminded Neville of an ancient boulder. And not much further along was Apollo Dungeon, a mildewed van whose dank and rotting interior Neville had only dared to peek at once, through a blackened window. Inside there, Mister Shoomba had warned him, was the deadliest collection of scorpions in the whole northern half of Australia. A raggedy homeless vagrant, he said, had once crawled in there, thinking it a quiet place to sleep the night. The door had locked behind him and he, too terrified to sing out for help, wasn't found 'til three months later, bloated with scorpions that he'd eaten, their venom having vaccinated him against death for all time.

"What happened to him then?" Neville had asked. "Did you make him go away?" And Shoomba had cried, "Couldn't! By then 'at raggedy man was half scorpo' himself! No Sir! Chinee folks'll tell ye, scorpo' poison - if ye survive it - puts ye in touch with the invisible world, don't ye see!"

"Invisible world?"

"Oh yeah!" Shoomba had said, groping the air like a blind man. "All around us, young Nev'! Sometimes ye can feel it, workin' away at changin' things! Hidin' somewhere's right in fronna yer eyes! Knew a mystical preacher in Jimmy-stan once who told me, there's as much what ye **can't** see in the world as what ye **can** see! Maybe more! Nope, for all I know, 'at raggedy man's still there! Beady, poison eyes watchin' out over the whole neighbourhood! Pullin' invisible strings! Keepin' hiself hid! Best you stay right away from there!"

At first Neville was doubtful but 'Soon, when he mentioned the tale to her, had assured him that in this one thing at least, Shoomba was right.

"In Afghanistan, many people know about such things," she'd assured him. "The jinnd - the demons that haunt lonely night time places - they are spirits of the invisible world. Sometimes they appear as a man and can, if they want, be not so bad. Other times they appear as scorpions and will steal away your soul while you sleep!"

"Waah! What can you do then?"

"You can do nothing, of course, while your soul is gone. I think then wise men are needed to chase the demon out, maybe with chains and whips and prayers to Allah. The Things you have in your Under, Neville - if they are such demons, you will never be able to go there at night."

"What can I do? Can I chase them away?"

"No! No way! Not on your own! But I will tell you a thing to say, Neville. You are not a Muslim person, so it might not help but if you can remember this: La-ila-ilala-Muhammed-rasul-i-Allah, they are words that demons cannot bear to hear."

La-ila-ilala-Muhammed-rasul-i-Allah. To Neville, the words were meaningless, but he nonetheless worked at them until sometimes they would roll from his lips even while he slept.

Back in Shoomba Territory though! While the invisible world apparently hovered over it as ominously as it did over everywhere else, most of what was there was very much part of the visible world. In the centre the high house, like the eye of a dark gyre, seemed to draw in endless quantities of partially decayed detritus, pulling and piling it against its towering sides. "It's a Shambles," the neighbours sometimes said, wagging their heads in dismay, and though Missus Shoomba sighed in agreement, Mister Shoomba never did.

"Nosey Parkers!" he would grizzle. "Look to their own back yards, I says! Wanna change sump'm in mine, they gonna have to call in the Es Ay Es!"

The only other acknowledged inhabitant of Shoomba Territory (apart from the possibility of an invisible raggedy man and his scorpions) was evil-tempered Terrible Bill, the big old, square-headed grey tomcat who, when he was not lurking like a panther amongst the ruins, went swimming invisibly and lethally through the tall grass, like a small, furry shark.

* * *

To the west, in back of Shoomba Territory, was the Duchy of Daisley which, in similar but much more focussed ways, Ralph and Enid Daisley proudly defended as one of the last bastions of 'the Australian way of life'. Ralph's and Enid's combined ages may have been close to a thousand, Neville had calculated, and it appeared that every one of those thousand years had been devoted to erecting and maintaining an imposition of barriers, both physical and mental, against the rising tide of rash, unwelcome and, if truth be known, largely foreign inspired upheaval.

"The Duke," Shoomba had once warned Neville, all wide-eyed and finger-waggling, "don' welcome 'truders on any level, mate! Mob o' boy scouts wandered into the Dooky, years back. Sellin' biscuits're sumethin'. Disappeared like crumbs down a plughole! Never seen 'em again! You ever seen 'em? Course not! He got traps in there'ud swallow up a buffalo! He got a little Mongolovian wolf hunter comes around every so often an' moves 'em about - so's ye never know where ye can step! You bet! An' the Duke, he dusts the fence posts for fingerprints every mornin'! An' prods the ground for tunnels! Jus' to see if anyone's gettin' close, see? Yes sir! I go in an' out as I please 'cause him 'n' me are on the same page, see? Plus, I got a nose for traps. Not many do, but me? I can smell 'em a mile off. You? You don' wanna finish up down the wolf-hunter's plug-hole, never seen again, you best steer clear!"

The one thing that had escaped the Duke's control was the mango tree, and that was only because its branches, in flagrant contravention of his non-mingling rule, had reached and intertwined with those of Home Country's Poinciana which, the Duke had more than once sneered, was "not even an Australian tree! One more sneaky damned immigrant, that's what that is!"

The two trees, however, cared so little about origins that they happily colluded in being a combined refuge for any number of un-passported possums, birds, snakes and fruit bats. And together, they'd become part of the intricate web of secret places which made up Neville's personal domain. It had never, unhappily, afforded him a glimpse of the Mongolovian wolf hunter or of any of the traps, but he wasn't surprised at that. Obviously part of the function of a trap was to remain in the invisible world until needed. The views afforded of the visible world, however, from high up in that mango were a privilege that Neville alone enjoyed.

* * *

The Island of Rahimi was where Afsoon lived with her parents, next to the Duchy of Daisley and west of Home Country. It could easily be reached from Home Country by passing through the banana palm forest and sliding along the side of Rahimi's animal house. The Island was an island in some part because the people who lived there thought of it that way, but more so because of Ralph's Folly. Ralph's Folly was a fence - solid wood and four metres high - running the full length of the border with the Duchy of Daisley. It had been the Duke's response, built with his own hands, to the arrival of the Rahimis, and its sole purpose, as he'd loudly and openly declared at the time, was to 'keep out the Riff Raff'.

The naked hostility of that declaration had quietly scandalised the neighbourhood and, unsurprisingly, had added fertiliser to the deeply rooted seeds of mistrust in the already stony soil of Mister Rahimi's world view. For months, relations between the two had oscillated between frosty and scorching, without ever pausing at warm. No one knew where it would have ended had it not been for Afsoon. She, somehow understanding how insults could be killed, had taken up the Duke's challenge, and begun openly referring to her father, whose name was Mohammed, as 'Riff'.

"Riff Rahimi! It has a gangster sound!" she'd laughed. "I think it suits him!" And happily, in the gently smiling way of relieved neighbours, others had begun following her example, even christening Mrs Rahimi 'Raff', though her beautiful real name was Parisa, meaning 'like a fairy'.

"Riff, Raff and Af!" Afsoon had crowed. "That's us! We sound like a rock band!"

Mister Rahimi had made a fist of joining in the laugh, but his real revenge lay in Missus Rahimi's - Raff's - response to Ralph's Folly. She'd immediately planted a dozen cuttings of spiny bougainvillea along their side of the barrier and begun the process of nursing them into rampant health.

"Bright blossoms to see," she'd said in her sweetly musical voice, "but always the thorns beneath. For us, a most suitable reminder."

Thereafter, whenever his mood was down, which was often, Riff would take to pounding on Ralph's Folly with a hammer, claiming always to be adding necessary supports for his plants. Odds had been given and bets taken throughout the neighbourhood on whether Riff's pounding or the Duke's robust architecture would win out. Neither option, of course, turned out to be exactly right.

It's worth mentioning that all three Rahimi's had skin the colour of light fudge and eyes the colour of fresh limes and had come to Neville's neighbourhood only in very recent times. They'd come, Afsoon told Neville, from a place called Refugee Camp. Before that, they'd come from a different place which was also called Refugee Camp and before that, they'd come from a place called Afghanistan. Afsoon had been a baby, apparently, when they started out from Afghanistan, and back then she'd had a brother called Anosh who had been her twin. He it was who the pirates had stolen on the sea, despite Riff's vigorous drowning of a hundred or more in the ocean.

Considering the pity that terrible experience evoked in him, Neville was shocked to learn that some people, like the Duke and Duchess, resented having fudge coloured people build their islands in Australia. Hence the Folly which, his mother had hinted obliquely, was not the only sort of barrier erected against fudge coloured people in Australia. It was all very strange and awful, Neville thought; though no part was stranger or more awful than the theft of a little boy by pirates! He particularly thought of gentle, smiling Parisa. And wondered how she had not died of grief.

"Why would they even want a baby?" he'd once asked Afsoon.

"You must not see it that way," she'd explained. "I have studied on it and I see that they thought they took Nobody. Riff and Raff, you see . . . they gave my brother the wrong name. Because Anosh means 'Eternal' in our Dari language, you see. And nobody's eternal. So really, in calling him Anosh, they were calling him 'Nobody'. It is worse than death to be Nobody, Neville. That makes you exactly the kind of person the pirates want! Because if you are Nobody the whole world will ignore and trample you and then forget you. And so no one will miss you if you are stolen and kept or done away with. The only way it will be like you lived is if you do desperate things. I tell you, if you go to my home now and ask my father who the pirates took he will tell you 'Nobody'. And he will refuse to talk more of it. All to do with names, you see. I could have gone with the pirates. I could do desperate things. But my name was not right. My name, Afsoon, means 'bewitchment' and that is what I am cut out to be. And that is what I will be when I grow up."

"You will? What do bewitchment people do?" he'd asked.

"They channel people!" she'd declared, turning her sea-green eyes on him and opening them very wide. For someone who had learned English as a second language, Afsoon had learned some very complicated meanings.

"What's channel? What's that mean?"

"It means they go inside people's brains, Neville! And sometimes, if they want, they can take you inside their own brain!"

Neville's mouth had fallen open and "Yow!" he'd said. The last thing he wanted - even less than he wanted to fall into a Mongolovian wolf hunter's trap or have his soul stolen by a demon from the invisible world - was to discover someone - even if it was Afsoon - inside his brain.

"Don't worry," she'd said, as though she was already in there, seeing the smoke of fear rise up. "I would not go in your brain without your invitation because you're my friend. But you know, I go in Ava's brain. And I go in Riff's and Raff's brains even though they don't invite me because they are my parents and I must know them if I'm to look out for them. So I sneak around like a mouse, looking at all their secrets. And when I go there, I take Anosh with me because part of him is in my brain because he was part of me before we were born. When the bones of our fingers were formed, his hand was in mine. And though the reach is long, I have not let go. I will never let go."

"Wah! Does he hold onto you back?"

"It is hard for him, I think. But sometimes, because of channelling, I think we are side by side together. Sometimes I think I am a little bit pirate with him, sharing the awful things he is made to do."

"What kind of things?"

"I cannot tell you, Neville. It is too terrible. But I can tell you a secret not even Mister Shoomba knows. And that is, when they are done their terrible deeds, all the pirates go to their Island of Nobodies and you know what they do? They pretend to be others. To be just ordinary people. It is their way of hiding while they watch for more boats and more children."

"I think the Quiet Man might be pretending something. But he wasn't a pirate! He was a soldier!"

"Yes. Back in the war, he was a soldier. But now . . . who is to say? He is in Home Country, yes, but he is also far away. Somewhere lost; like Anosh. Is he not?"

Neville had nodded thoughtfully, wondering if that was what the invisible world was - simply a mishmash of all the things nobody could understand.

"Mum says his mind is in a jungle. And he's trying to find his way out."

'Soon had put her hand on his arm and fixed him with her mesmerising stare.

"You know what I wish? I wish his jungle was on the Island of Nobodies where the pirates are. Because then he might meet Anosh. And together they would find their way of escape."

Neville thought that a fine wish - though it would be better if it was he, Neville the Less, who helped the Quiet Man escape from the jungle, instead of Anosh.

"Someday," he'd said, "if he doesn't get better on his own, I'll go to the jungle. If it's on the pirates' island, I'll go there and I'll find Anosh too. You could come, if you want, and help with your . . . channelling. We could give Anosh a new name that means something better. And we could clear a path in the jungle."

"Yes. Yes, I would go with you, Neville. Anywhere, for that!"

All this meant, of course, especially with Mister Shoomba's new revelation of pirates at the boat ramp, that a journey might well be in order. Where exactly that journey would take them, or even how it would begin, he couldn't guess. But he felt, deep down, that when it happened it might well be as dangerous as a journey into the Duchy of Daisley; as dangerous as the one the Rahimis had undertaken when coming to Australia. And he also felt that the brain-wandering abilities of Afsoon might well be a very handy tool on such a journey.

* * *

Back to Rahimi Island, though! As well as angry Riff and beautiful Raff and bewitched Afsoon, the island held any number of items of fascination. The animal house, for example, was occupied at night by chickens that pecked in the yard all day long and by a trio of white ducks that quacked around the fringes of a small pond on which sailed a metre and a half long replica, made by Riff, of the boat that had brought them to Australia. There was also a nanny goat named Latifeh which Mrs Rahimi - Parisa (Neville could never bring himself to think of her as 'Raff' when her real name was so beautiful) - milked in a space under the house; and there was a pair of stumpy-legged brown pigs.

"In Ganny- stan," Mister Shoomba had once told Neville, "a pig always faces the direction it faced when it was born, d'ja know that? You throw food behind it, it runs backward to fetch it. You throw beside an' it runs sideways. They han't got the energy for all this turning around. Australian pigs, on t'other hand'll spin like a top. True story!"

Sometimes, from the branches of the mango tree, Neville watched Afsoon and her father gathering the animals' manure, the first portion of which always went to feed the bougainvillea that climbed on Ralph's Folly. He especially watched the brown pigs to see if they'd run backwards, but they never did. Mostly they just slept or hid from the heat in the shade of the little shed-sized barn. It was that little barn-shed whose narrow end nosed through the field of banana palms in the north-west corner of Home Country, butting up against the stockade. Its long side, however, ran along the much lower and much friendlier mesh fence that separated Rahimi Island from Cookie Camp.

* * *

Cookie Camp, the property one step further north, which touched only a pin-point corner of Home Country, had no brighter asset than that friendly dilapidated fence. Aside from it, the Camp's defining feature was utter drabness. The house was a vaguely in-between-ish yellow-brown colour and the yard was no better, somehow contriving to have virtually no greenery at all . . . ever . . . at any time of the year. Even the family that lived there seemed slightly out of focus, their spectacularly earnest austerity having banished every colour but that of dust from their lives.

The 'Cookie' of Cookie Camp was Cookie Hughes, Neville's friend, whose simple earnestness had come, by various means, to intrigue Neville, as had that of his young brother, Robert, and even that of his parents, the dour 'Mister and Missus' of Cookie Camp. It wasn't that any of them seemed sad; only constantly vigilant - alert to the lurking-ness of something whose name must always be in mind lest it take offense and desert them forever.

Mister Shoomba, whose wisdom burned brightly concerning all things, both within the neighbourhood and in the far beyond, had explained it to Neville.

"Them Hughes's," he'd whispered, as though it should explain all, "they're born-agains!"

On hearing of this shocking possibility - that of being 'born again' - Neville had immediately asked how such a thing could come about, and that too Mister Shoomba had known.

"Well first of all, ye gotta want it!" he'd winked. "Real bad! Which not everyone does, see; 'cause it all gets to be very tryin' on folks, this livin' business. But if you do want it then, when ye die, ye get someone to bury ye with yer arse stickin' outta the ground, see? Just yer arse!" That story had been interrupted by Missus Shoomba's loudly chirruped 'Ahem!' from somewhere amidst the collection of flotsam under their house, and Mister S' had quickly corrected himself.

"Oh no! 'At's right! 'At's them Madagascar Azbite's do that! Heard o' them? Great sailors, them! 'At's their way o' makin' sure the wind keeps blowin', that is! Very strange 'n' exotic folks, them Azbites. All them Madagas-carts, in fact! Very strange. No, the Born-agains . . . lemme see. The story there, as I recall is, ye wanna be one of 'em, ye gotta . . . !" He'd glanced over his shoulder and found himself under the careful, if still somewhat distant scrutiny of Missus Shoomba. In barely more than a whisper, he'd dashed out, "Ye gotta find the Great Tiggywand, mate! An' tell 'im all the bad things ye done! 'N' say yer very sorry 'n' ud like to try again, see? Then, if he decides yer fair dinkum, 'e might give ye a do-over - let ye come back as sump'm else."

"What's a Great Tiggywand, Mister Shoomba?" he asked, correctly sensing yet another addition to the invisible world.

"Sshhh!" Finger across lips. "'S a spirit, mate. Cantankerous as all get-out. Never know what he's up to; what he'll do to ye once he gets ye in his sights. So ye don' wanna be usin' 'is name too loud 'n' callin' 'im up! Not 'less ye know egzackly what yer doin'. Anyways, ye don' wanna be born again, take my word. Second life got all the fun sucked out've it see? Lookit them Hughes's! Like eggs without yolks! Nothin' there to break the monoto-me."

Neville had wanted to ask more but Mister Shoomba had shooed him away, turning instead to Missus Shoomba and, before beetling off into the house, squeaking something about the sadness of life without a yolk. For his part, Neville had felt the instant need to recite 'Soon's warding verse ten times in a row: La-ila-ilala-Muhammad-rasil-i-Allah. And then he had taken his questions to Cookie who, perhaps as a result of his own wariness of the Great Tiggywand, had declared outright ignorance of the process.

Over time, though, Neville's persistence had won out and Cookie had confessed that, though he didn't know how or why he'd been changed to his present form, he had once, in a former life, been a Whistling Kite. He even took, whenever one of the birds was spotted in the distant sky, to reminiscing about flight.

"I 'member, when yer a kite, ye can see a million kilometres! See that speck up there? I could count the hairs on yer head from up there."

"Why would you want to count my hair?"

"I wouldn't. But I'm just sayin', if I wanted to I could, that's all. An' that's the reason you can't shoot a kite too; 'cause they can see if you got a gun. People, you could sneak up on and shoot, but not a kite. Even if you try to hide it, a kite can see the look in your eye."

Sometimes, when one of the birds swooped low over the Rahimi's chicken yard, Cookie was able to whistle it away.

"Just tellin' 'im," he'd say, "that them chickens 're off limits."

When Neville asked what Robert had been before he was born again, Robert, whose mouth always hung open because he couldn't breathe through his nose, had shrugged his shoulders and whispered, "Doe doe."

"Loaf o' bread," Cookie had declared. "That's what he was. 'Til someone made him into a sandwich an' ate him."

"Was dot!"

"Was too! Just a dumb ol' jelly sandwich."

What the elder Hughes's had been was a secret that Cookie would not share, though Afsoon whispered to Neville that she'd once, accidentally in a dream, found herself inside Missus Hughes's brain. Missus Hughes, she said, had been a famous actress but had used all her acting ability and hadn't brought enough into this life even to act happy, which anyone could see she wasn't. All Neville knew about them was that they had lots of pictures of sad people in their dingy little house and at the drop of a hat they'd drag you into a prayer. He was, in the end, a little sad for them since, judging by their solemn outlooks and the run-down state of Cookie Camp, the fear of the Great Tiggywand had them pretty well cornered.

* * *

The last and most dangerous part of Neville's accessible domain - excluding the Duchy, whose ground he would never trod on but **in** cluding Shoomba Territory, with the unpredictable lurking presence of Terrible Bill and the possible presence of a raggedy, scorpion-eating, in-touch-with-the-invisible-world man - was Boogerville.

Boogerville was the property immediately to the north of Home Country. Its boundary ran from the Home Country stockade at the back of Rahimi's animal shed, down a short length of tropical garden backed by high palings and through a line of shoulder to shoulder bottle brush trees, beneath which wound a broken down, step-over chicken wire fence.

Boogerville was where the Bogart family lived their raucous, argumentative smoke-car-and-music driven lives. The house was a slightly off centre double-storied cube, with a flat roof, a myriad of tiny windows and a mildewed hide, the mention of which never failed to put the wind up Mister Shoomba.

"Ass-bestos!" he'd declare. (Sometimes, when the noise levels impinged even on his peace, he'd replace the 'bestos' part with 'holes'.) "Clouds of ass-bestos bein' shaken loose by that ruckus! Every one o' them Boogers is gonna die young - if they're lucky enough to live that long!"

There were places in the ass-bestos where the light shone through at night and they, Mister Shoomba assured Neville, told the whole story of the Boogers, because they were the result of a gun battle that had raged there one night many years before.

"Useta be nine of 'em, mate. Nine Boogers! 'En one night, rat-a-tat-tat. On'y four of 'em showed up for breakfast. Savin' a fortune on oatmeal, the ol' woman is! An' that choko vine down the back? You ever seen bigger chokos 'n' them? Course not! Choko's the size o' heads because, well . . . I don' hafta tell ye where them other five Boogers're buried, do I? Well known fact: to this day, you get in amongst that vine, ye can feel them chokos lookin' back at ye!"

Two of the four remaining Boogers were kids and, because the Booger-parents were almost always away working in Central Queensland's coal mines, sometimes for a whole week at a time, they were the ones that the neighbourhood encountered most often. Hayley was a grown-up (in her own eyes) sixteen and Beau - Beau the Bum - was a mean and scrawny eleven-year-old. Hayley had her own car, a Ute, the polishing and admiring of which brought her out into the yard nearly every afternoon. Then, often as not, though she was still too young to be properly licensed, she'd speed up and down Station Street, drawing tortured squeals and clouds of smoke from her tires.

Despite the volume of her music, however, Hayley's hours in the yard were seldom particularly worrisome to the neighbours. It was when she was not there that it became something fearful; the hunting time of Beau the Bum; Beau, who'd earned his name by his determined decimation, with his pellet rifle, of all creatures - parrots, fairy wrens, honey-eaters, whatever - that dared to venture across Boogerville's borders. It was the one place in the neighbourhood where even Terrible Bill refused to go.

Once mum had seen Beau shoot a parrot that was on the ground with its feet in the air, drunk on fermented nectar. He'd nudged it with his foot, pondered its predicament, then shot its head off and plodded on. Appalled, she'd complained to Missus Bogart and the very next day, Mister Bogart had got out his bull whip and chased Beau around the house, cracking it around his bum, the sound ricocheting like real gunshots off the high walls.

From that time on, Beau had made himself Neville's number one enemy, even while Hayley, seemingly for the sheer mischief of it, had made herself his ally.

"The Bum's a vicious little cretin," she'd told Neville. "Tell you what. See the old man's old bus there? It's cactus forever. But I got my own little nest in there. My get-away, see? Only way I can get some privacy, know what I mean? 'F I tell you where the key is, when I'm not using it you can sit in it - back seat only. An' I'll know if you touch any o' me stuff. But keep your head down an' you can see what old Beau the Bum is up to, eh? 'F he shoots any more defenceless animals, you tell me and I'll crack his head for him, right? Or maybe get the ol' man to whip his arse. They'd both enjoy that!"

Neville had never gathered the nerve to enter the Boogerville yard, let alone the bus. But as one should when an enemy lives next door, he had taken to studying Beau's movements from the little north-facing window in his bedroom. It was from there that he'd identified Beau's hunting-blind behind the choko vine, thus adding two things to his store of knowledge. One was that there was a second hiding place in Boogerville which, in the direst of circumstances, he himself might be able to use. The other was that Beau's relationship with death was apparently close enough to allow him to be comfortable amongst the watching fruits that fed on the remains of his lost siblings.

* * *

As you can see, the cubby under the lilly-pilly, where Neville had found Ava reclining in the arms of Afsoon Rahimi instead of being available to chase a stick, was virtually at the centre of Neville's world. When we left them there, Afsoon, who was (after Ava) Neville's closest and most understanding friend, was saying, "Ava, you must poop in Shoomba Territory every day! I will join you. And Neville will join you also. Just don't let Terrible Bill catch us or he'll scratch our bums to pieces."

Ava, who knew a great deal about pooping in yards, only stretched and yawned and, in the middle of the yawn, murmured confidently, "I don' sink so." Then she put her head back down on Afsoon's lap and huffed out a great breath, fluttering and moving the leaves beneath her nose, revealing a lurking brown skink which spun in startlement to look first at Neville then at Afsoon and finally at Ava before dashing and losing itself once more amongst the leaves and debris.

Yet another hidden world.

### 2. A Journey

### Two Nevilles

Flying Fox time. I remember you used to call it that. If you have a torch you can see their red eyes looking back at you from the bottlebrush, but I don't like to because it looks like inside their head is on fire. So I keep the torch off and they stay invisible. Still, you always know they're there - that rug-shake noise their wings make. And their squawky arguments! My tree! My tree! Move along! Shut up! No, you shut up!

At first I thought it must be them that woke me up. But then I heard Ava doing that squeaky, back-in-her-throat talk like she does, and so I started to wonder if maybe **she** woke me up. I was all ready to ask her if everything was okay but, before I could, she said, "I don' sink so!"

If you were noticing stuff (which I know you're too busy to do right now) I bet that's something you'd notice about Ava. That sometimes lately she knows what you're going to think even before you think it. I don't know; maybe 'Soon's been teaching her that channelling stuff. Not that I care. I been thinking I might ask her to teach me though, 'cause if I could go inside people's heads like that, then I wouldn't have to wonder about things so much. And you know what else? I could maybe . . . come to visit you . . . in your jungle! And we could do stuff. And if you wanted, maybe I could even help you come back to Home Country! If you wanted to come back, that is.

Yeah, I think I'll ask her about that. But anyhow, when Ava said she didn't think everything was okay, I said, "Why not, Av?" and straight away, like she wanted to show me, she stood up on the bed and jumped her paws up onto the window sill. And what do you think? There was something there! Right against the glass! Just real quick - tap-tap-tapping and then gone!

I wasn't scared 'cause the window was closed tight and the bug screen was across so I got up beside her for a look, but it was so dark! The bottlebrush trees, you know - sometimes it's like they're a whole roof of their own, hiding the stars. All there was to see was the lights shining through the bullet holes at Boogerville. Oh and the little light in Hayley's bus flicked on. But then it went straight out again.

So I said to Ava, "Maybe it's bullets! Maybe Mister and Missus are home and they're shooting up Boogerville again!"

But then, 'Tap-tap'! Just this close, right on the other side of the glass! So quick it made us both jump! But this time I noticed there weren't any shooting sounds so I knew it wasn't bullets. Bet it's a Flying Fox, I thought then. Maybe tried to land on the window ledge to peep in at us and slipped and now it's hanging there by one of its wingy hooks and reaching up to tap with the other! So I slid open the bug screen and gave the window a big shove and said, 'Push off, Foxy! We don't want you peeking in at us!'

There was no wing sound. The ones in the trees stopped arguing, but no wing sounds at all! Then just one teeny little voice, all creepy and squally like bat voices are.

"Pass Ava down to me." That's what it squeaked.

Yeah, it was very tricky alright. But you know, even if I believed it, I wouldn't ever pass Ava out to a Flying Fox! Not when they can scratch you and make you so sick!

"'Soon?" I said. "I know that's you! Why're you out so late? And talking like a Flying Fox?"

And me and Ava both leaned way out to try to look down and see her in the dark but you know what she did? She whacked me on the noggin with a stick! That's what she'd been using to tap the window with, see?

"Keep quiet!" she said, in her own voice this time. "You've got them listening to us now!"

See the mark on my forehead? That's where she got me!

* * *

Neville the Less pulled his hair back to show the mark to the Quiet Man but the Quiet Man didn't look. His eyes were open; not wide, just a bit. But they didn't turn to see Afsoon's stick mark. They didn't turn to see the hurt in Neville's face or the confirmation in Ava's. Neville sighed, patted the red welt tenderly and put his hand back in his lap where Ava stroked sympathy onto it with her warm, damp tongue.

* * *

That's okay, you don't have to look. It doesn't even really hurt, I guess. But I bet you're wondering anyhow, like we were - what Afsoon Rahimi was doing in Home Country, at night, tapping on windows! And hitting people on the noggin with sticks! And talking in a Flying Fox voice and asking for Ava! Which you know, just passing Ava down to her isn't so easy. You 'member how far down it is? And you might not have got to notice yet, but 'Soon's pretty little. I mean, for her age an' all!

Mister Shoomba says that's because people who lived in Refugee Camp only got curds and whey to eat. Like little Miss Muffet. I don't even know what curds and whey are, but Mister Shoomba says, with good Australian food in her belly, 'Soon's going to grow into an Amazon. An Amazon, he says, is a kind of lady who lives in forests and chops off people's heads to collect.

He says when Amazons get too many heads and run out of places to put them, they change around and start to hunt hats instead - to put on all their hunted heads. They can steal your hat right off your head while you're walking down a path, he says. And you won't even know it's gone 'til you reach up to scratch! Or maybe sometimes come into houses at night and creep around, looking for hats. He says if your hat disappears and you don't know why, there's an Amazon around in the neighbourhood and you got to hope she doesn't find any new spaces to put chopped heads. I don't know. I'd just give 'Soon my hat if she wanted it but she doesn't seem so interested. Mister Shoomba says it might be a puberty thing and when she starts to get boobs, nobody's head or hat will be safe.

Do you think that's right? I reckon you'd prob'ly know 'bout Amazons - because of your mind being where it is and all. In a jungle. Do you know?

Okay well maybe I'll ask again another time. Yeah. That's what I'll do. I'll ask another time. 'Cause right then I was pretty sure she wasn't an Amazon. Not yet anyhow. But she was at my window.

I didn't know what to do for a minute after she whacked me but then Ava started trying to get on the sill to jump out and I was worried she'd get hurt and anyhow I didn't like to think about 'Soon being outside, so close to Under, and all alone. So I reached Ava down and 'Soon caught her and then she said, "Now you."

I said, "Why? What's up? Is something wrong?" And she said, "Of course something's wrong! Come out! Or we'll have to do everything ourselves, Ava and me!"

So I climbed out and I scratched my leg getting over the window ledge and I was a little frightened to drop into the dark but 'Soon held onto my legs and it was okay. Still, I guess I made a lot of noise because all the Flying Foxes flew away, all rubbery wing sounds and 'Soon said, "Noisy Neville! They know we're out now and they're going to tell."

"Tell who?" I asked. But then Ava started kind of whimpering and we looked

and saw the light back on in Hayley's bus and her throwing a big shadow across the yard.

"Who's that?" she called out. "Beau? You peeking in my windows? Get your skinny arse back in the house or I'll tell dad! I'm warning you!"

Me 'n' 'Soon 'n' Ava, we kind of slipped in Under - just at the edge - and hid behind the first stump. Not because of Hayley but because of Beau! 'Cause if he really was out, he might mistake us for something and shoot us with his pellet gun! We stayed very quiet for a bit but if Beau was out, we didn't see him.

That was my first time in Under at night. It's not a good place. In the day it's still okay, 'specially with the magic words. It's just the dead forest then and it's nice and cool! But at night, there are noises! Like scratchy, snuffly 'Things' might be there. 'Soon says they're prob'ly demons. They got lots of demons where she comes from and she says maybe some came with them or maybe even with you, to Australia. But I don't know. So far, I just think they're Things.

When you were at the war once, me 'n' Ava found a bandicoot in Under - smelled him out, like, because he was dead and his head was right off. Mum came and buried him and she said sometimes terriers will shake little animals to death - maybe even shake them right in half - and she gave Ava a very annoyed look. Which I don't know what else might shake a bandicoot in half but I don't think Ava would either! Mister Shoomba said it's a very bad thing to bury an animal without its head because the head in one place starts to squeak and the legs in the other place start digging, trying to get it all back together again. He says it's also a big worry for the Great Tiggywand who kind of is in charge of deads as well as born-agains.

Anyhow, it all makes me think that when I put my trap door in the floor, I'm going to need a lock on it. Unless maybe I dig a trap. Like the Mongolovian wolf hunter! I wish it could be Amazons, 'cause then I could hang a hat over the trap and if I caught one, I could say she could keep the hat but we don't want her hanging around in Under. If it's something else, I don't know what to do.

Anyhow, we all heard the noises and I was just going to say what do you think it is, but before I could say it, there were eyes - not red like flying fox eyes, but golden ones. Just two, looking at us and then away and then back. It might've been a demon I guess. Or maybe the dead bandicoot eyes, looking around for the leggy part.

Anyhow, I was glad when 'Soon said, "Come on. We have to get away now."

Her and Ava went off then and I followed but I was too busy looking back at the eyes and I caught my pyjamas on the ant capping and tore 'em. I wanted to go back in the window then, but I needed 'Soon's help to get up to it and she wouldn't.

"Not yet," she said. "I need you. Say your words. Don't be scared."

I lied a little bit and said I wasn't scared; I just wanted to go back to bed. But then Ava said, "Neville the Less." So I went.

I followed them 'round to South Side and through the paper barks to the edge of Shoomba Territory and I figured then she was taking us to poop over there so I said, "I don't have to poop right now! And Ava already did her business too, before bed time!"

"Aha!" she said, like it was my idea and not hers and like I'd said, 'I've got a monster poop ready to do' instead of that I didn't have to go at all!

"Now is excellent!" she said. "If there are demons in your Under, Terrible Bill will be off watching them and sharpening his claws and there will be no danger to our bums!"

And she waded straight out into the grass and pulled down her pants and squatted there in the middle. I knew if Mister Shoomba turned on his big search light and caught her, she'd be in so much trouble! And he'd say it's because she didn't learn to poop right when she was in Refugee Camp and maybe even get her sent back there to learn better! So me 'n' Ava went with her and I pulled down my jammies and pretended, so if she got sent away, me 'n' Ava would get sent with her. But none of us really had to go so, really, all of us were just squatting there, pretending. Which was still a worry because if Mister Shoomba caught us, he wouldn't know we were pretending. And also, what if Bill was finished sharpening his claws? What if he or maybe even whatever Thing it was in Under sneaked up and went for one of our bums?

Anyhow nothing came so we just squatted there and I could tell she was thinking something over. After a while she said, "Look up." I did, and I saw them and heard them at the same time; big birds - night geese - just grey wiggles against the stars, flying over Shoomba Territory. Their voices were like little, far-away people talking in another room when you're almost asleep. Something about them, though, seemed to mean something to 'Soon.

"That's it," she said, standing and pulling up her pants. "Let's go."

Three on the Sea.

Side by side, the three waded out to where Lightning Bug swung on her hidden anchor, Ava leaping against the waves, chesting them aside in her eagerness. At the last, Neville the Less lifted her over the gunnels before turning to Afsoon, so small that she too bounced off the bottom with each step, gasping always for air. He made a stirrup of his hands and she stepped into it without hesitation, the little bones of her foot flexing against his palms.

Inside, the ship was bare and brooding - too long with ghosts even to recognise the sudden presence of life.

"It's funny!" Neville whispered, feeling splinters rise from the derelict's long- untrodden deck. "So long since the storm! Why didn't anyone come to take her back?"

"Going back is only for the spirit world." Afsoon replied. "That's what Riff says. Here, he says, it is only ahead."

Ava, sniffing suspiciously at the broken wheel, seemed to agree, producing a sad echo: "O-o-on-ly."

With no clear idea of what to do next, the three scanned the night. Perhaps there would be some evidence of direction. A light. Maybe even a horizon. But the speckled darkness of the sea stretched away on all sides until it met the speckled darkness of the sky, and the waves sighed endlessly in every direction.

"We don't know the way, 'Soon," said Neville presently, because her wish had finally begun to dawn on him. "To the Island of Nobodies. We would get lost!"

She shook her head, her black hair a shadow against the water, and raised her eyes to the sky.

"Lost. What is 'lost'? What Raff says to Riff when his temper is lost . . . do something, she says. Don't be still. Go find it."

"So what does he do?"

"He beats on the Folly with his hammers. And his temper comes back to him."

Overhead, another flock of night geese was passing, locked in their V-formation, one voice amongst them softly honking out a ghostly tale.

"They know the way," she said. "From up there by the stars, they can see."

"D'you think so?" asked Neville, who was torn between wanting to know and not really wanting to know at all. "I wonder if Cookie was here, if he could tell us?"

In response Afsoon, as though he'd leaned across and pinched her, began to haul on the anchor.

"What're you doing, 'Soon?"

"If we don't look, we can't find," she declared.

And the Lightning Bug, as though it had never known any sense of being becalmed, turned its prow to the south, to follow in the wake of the night geese.

How long they sailed, Neville couldn't tell, but the Evening Star fell into the sea in the west and a sliver of moon rose from it in the east. There was no wind, but it didn't matter because there was no sail to tend. There was no sound of a motor and that didn't matter either, because there was no motor to tend. Even so, long after the last flight of night geese had disappeared, the Lightning Bug continued to skim along, shuddering under the pressure of some power no greater than that of a dream.

Eventually they passed an isolated rock - Holden Rock - and the little ship swung near to see what sign of life there might be. There was none and they sailed on. In a while, Ava placed her head between her paws and let the night air lull her. Neville and Afsoon, however, remained alert, sitting on the boat's rails, each alone in the privacy of their own thoughts.

At a point, out of the deepest of ocean-borne silences, Afsoon sighed and murmured his name, as his mother sometimes did. "Neville the Less." As though the name was part of a clue to some long lost memory.

And Neville, his mind so full of his own concerns over the Quiet Man and the Things in Under, was moved to remember both her pain and her witcherly insights. She caught him looking and, for a moment, the sliver of moon seemed caught in her eyes as she gazed fiercely back at him.

"I want to tell you," she said. "Tonight I was woken to a dream."

"Woken _from_ a dream, you mean."

"No. Woken _to._ It was Riff's dream and it came to me and woke me."

"Waah! How did you know it was his?"

"Because I know his dreams, Neville. And they know me."

Neville swallowed deeply, shivering at the image of dreams stalking the night, tapping the shoulders of people they wanted to inhabit. And what a long, shimmering, bony-knuckled thing it'd be, the one belonging to Riff. Or even to the gentle and beautiful Parisa, both of them having known so much terror in their lives.

"It doesn't seem right, 'Soon - for another person's dream to come looking for someone! And what about secrets! What if it let you see secrets that Riff wanted to keep hidden?"

"I didn't ask for it, Neville. It asked for me. Anyhow, you wouldn't like to know The Quiet Man's secret?"

"What secret?"

"Riff says he must have one. Why else would a man tell nothing at all, he asks. Many men have gone to the war, he says. He was not there alone. Many are still there! So why are his words locked in his throat, Riff asks; unless they're holding back a terrible secret?" She laid a hand on his arm to ensure his full attention. "These are things Riff and Raff - and me through their dreams - we know about, Neville. What Raff says is that whatever unhappy thing is locked away by his silence . . . if others knew of it . . . there would be no more secret! And if there was no more secret, his words would be unlocked. And he would speak again! That's what she says."

The words of Neville's own mother came rushing back to him, clear as a drop of rainwater: 'Soldiers are made to do things.' And he thought to explain that to Afsoon; that neither Riff nor Raff were real soldiers, like the Quiet Man; could not know that soldiers had no choices about what they saw or did. Therefore unhappy things could not be their fault and so needn't be kept secret! So there was no secret. But before he could speak, Ava rolled onto her back and yawned out, "Se-e-cret."

All he could think to say then was, "If someone did have a secret to keep, I think it wouldn't be anyone else's business!"

"Neville," 'Soon said earnestly, taking her hand away. "If a secret makes even a Hero into someone who can't talk . . . how can it not be his own son's business? To help him! To protect him!"

It was an argument too dense and personal for Neville so he veered off, into defensive anger. "Kids don't protect parents, 'Soon. It's the other way 'round! And anyhow again, if people don't want to tell you . . . you can't make them!"

"No. But still. Since he came from the war, he doesn't speak and you have your Things in Under. And since us Rahimis came from the war, we have our missing Anosh. These things are so. And Riff's dream says they are connected to each other and to you and me. And it says, how to fix it is for you and me! That's what it says! Now! Do you want to hear or not?"

He thought carefully. Hearing about one of Riff's dreams - a man who was basically a stranger - would not seem as disloyal as hearing about those of your own father. And also, why would 'Soon want him to hear it unless it told something useful - maybe even something that would help drive away the Things?

"Okay," he said uncertainly. "But just this once."

And so she started. First, it was a dream she'd told before, of pirates and the fighting for Anosh. Riff, drowning men to try to save his son. But with two new things.

"This time, though, it was not Anosh he fought for! It was me!"

"You?"

"Yes. Two pirate kings; in this dream they were saying to Riff - shouting at Riff - 'She is just a girl! A girl is Nobody! Now we will take her too!'"

"And Riff fought for you?"

"He fought. And Raff also fought. Like demons. And many of the kings' pirates were drowned. But not in the ocean, Neville. This time they were drowned in dust!"

"They were drowned in dust?"

"In red dust. And shot with guns and stabbed with knives and struck with rocks and they fell . . . into the dust."

"Waah! And so . . . what happened?"

"In this dream, there were many other families like ours - many others. But they were not enough. Because the pirates too, they shot and stabbed and struck and drowned - two of ours for every one of theirs. And in the end, Riff and Raff . . . they fled."

"They fled? With you?"

"With me."

"But not Anosh?"

"Anosh was already gone. Only me this time."

"But you saw the pirate kings? You saw their faces?"

She shook her head sadly. "One giant man, I saw . . . with no face." She was so still as to have almost disappeared. "There were others with faces, though; one . . . that made me come for you."

"Who? Who was it?"

"It was your father, Neville. The Quiet Man. He was there."

"The Quiet Man? In Riff's dream?"

"Yes."

"With the pirates?"

"Just there. Watching. Watching and . . . not watching."

"Watching and not watching?"

"It was a dream, Neville. Sometimes dreams are not sure of the truth!"

"Well that part . . . that's **not** truth! He's a Hero, 'Soon! He would've been helping! Not helping the pirates! Helping Riff! And . . . your mum!"

"Yes? But what if his secret is that in Afghanistan Riff and Raff were his enemies! And so now, maybe to think they've followed him home to Australia for more fighting!"

"No, that's not right! He wouldn't think that! And I know what you're trying to do too! You're trying to trick me! Into saying it's okay to look in his dreams! But it's not and I won't! 'Cause even if what you said was true, and it's not true, but even if it was, it wouldn't be his fault! Soldiers don't get to say, 'Soon! They have to get orders. They have to follow their orders!"

"Neville, listen! The dream doesn't know about orders. It says only that he was at the war. So maybe, for some time, he forgot who his order said to fight. Riff says a soldier in a war forgets all truth and remembers only to try to live."

"Well not the Quiet Man! He's a real, proper soldier and a Hero and he wouldn't forget!"

"Yes, okay. But why so quiet then, Neville? What secret has stolen his words?"

"I don't know but you watch! When he comes back, he'll tell all about not being Riff's enemy and it won't be anything like the dream said! You'll see!"

He might have swung the tiller for home then, if for no other reason than to instantly remind the Quiet Man that Rahimis were friends, not enemies; that if they were the reason for his silence, then his jungled mind could come home and not be lost anymore. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was apprehension - that the impenetrability of the Quiet Man's invisible world would always defeat him. Or the very visible slump of 'Soon's shoulders, speaking as it did of an even greater loneliness than his own. Then again, perhaps it was simply Ava's quiet little moan: "You'll se-e-e."

"Anyways, 'Soon!" he offered tentatively. "We're just kids! It's not going to help anyone, us going looking like this and listening to dreams 'n' not even knowing . . . how to get anywhere!"

"We said before, we would go together, Neville. Wherever. Have you changed your mind?"

"No, but . . . we don't know what to do!"

He could see anger rising in her now - impatience with his timidity.

"Don't know, don't know! I know this, Neville! Your Quiet Man has not truly come back. And Anosh has not come back! And now they have come for me!"

"Come for you? Who? Who's come?"

"The pirates, Neville! I heard them; heard their voices in the dream! Shoomba and the Duke!"

He was dumbfounded.

"Shoomba and the Duke? No! How? They can't be! They're just . . . ! Anyways what about your name? Your name protects you! You said!"

"Yes, my name. But the dream reminds me too. I am a girl. And girls are Nobody to these pirates. They want us to always be Nobodies. To be stupid. To marry fat ugly men who will beat us. I have seen it now, on television!"

"Waah! But my mum says that stuff can't happen here! Not in Australia! And anyhow, even you said, pirates wouldn't come here!"

"No." Her voice was trembling now, as he'd never heard it before. "I said when they are not pirating, they pretend to be ordinary people. But if Shoomba is the big fat pirate king without a face, Neville? And the Duke is one of his angry soldiers! And they pretend to fish in boats like this Lightning Bug, but then they sail out and capture children! Like Anosh and like me! Sometimes my dream - Riff's dream - it even wonders if maybe it is my whole family will be stolen away from me and who will know me then? Maybe even my friend, Neville the Less . . . maybe he will be a stolen boy, like Anosh! And Ava and me - we will be alone!"

Neville shook his head and stamped his foot, causing the boat to rock dramatically.

"You won't be alone, 'Soon! Nobody has to be alone in Australia! Because bad people are way away, in other dumb countries where people don't know how to think!"

He felt terrible the moment the 'don't know how to think' words were out. It was the sort of mean-spirited selfish comment the Duke might've shouted over top of the Folly. But the wound that was there in Afsoon's eyes was already deeper than any barb of his could reach. She rose to face him, looking up from her tiny height. Somewhere in the sky a bird chimed a single note.

"You are so sure of all these things, Neville. That Shoomba is only Shoomba and the Quiet Man has no secret to hide and no others will be stolen! But still, you are frightened to go with Ava and me."

"Because what could we do, 'Soon? If Shoomba **was** the pirate king, what could we even do?"

"We could kill him, Neville."

"Kill him? Kill Mister Shoomba?"

"If he is the pirate king, he is an enemy. Enemies are killed. That is how to be safe."

"But . . . how?"

She shrugged; a minor detail. "We will find the magic iron cyclone bolt to be our weapon. And Ava too. She will also be our weapon."

He looked away and thought. The Quiet Man, in Riff's dream memory? And Mister Shoomba a pirate king? And the Duke too? And to think of killing? How could she have gotten all that so wrong? And yet, on the other hand! There were the Things! And the Quiet Man's mind was lost in a jungle! And there was an invisible world.

"'Soon, you said before, the Flying Foxes were going to tell! Tell who?"

"I don't know, but I know they watch with the red fire of their eyes. And I asked Cookie about their terrible squawks. 'Are they about the pirates?' I asked. 'Yes,' he said. 'Pirates!'"

Once, Neville had heard Mum and Mister Shoomba talking about 'Soon. Mister Shoomba'd said, "Psycho-Annie in the makin', that one! Psycho-annie-lists'll have a field day!" And Mum had said, "After what she's been through, it's a wonder she functions at all! Poor little mite!"

He'd thought then that something might be wrong with 'Soon - that something about her might be broken. But looking at her now, so deep with determination and focus despite her fear, he knew there was strength in her that neither Mum nor Mister Shoomba could guess at. She was a girl whose parents had drowned pirates in red dust; a girl who could channel minds; a girl who would poop in the middle of Shoomba Territory. And he had no doubt that she would go on. Without him if need be. To confront the stealers of Anosh. To say, 'I am here! I am a girl! I am a Somebody who will fight you!' With every ounce of her tiny being.

So, if there **was** a pirate king waiting at Shoomba Castle where they seemed to be bound, they would certainly be sailing into a very, very dangerous predicament! But if 'Soon, the future Amazon, would talk of killing even now, even before any sign of boobs, and if she had the Terrier-of-Death on side as she obviously did, and if they could find the magic cyclone bolt before meeting Shoomba, then an ever-increasing amount of that danger would be Shoomba's to worry about.

He took off his cap and offered it to her and she, without a word, took it and placed it on her head.

"I'm not frightened," he lied. "I want to stay with you."

* * *

Not too much later, the Lightning Bug swung past another outcropping in the ocean and, by the surprising spectre that occupied it Neville knew it to be the ghastly island called Apollo Dungeon. He would have guessed it anyhow, even without the Ragged Man - likely the very poison-addled, watching-one Shoomba had described - who sat upon its shore, cross-legged, picking the legs off scorpions and eating them, one by one.

"Be too late to stop soon," the man called, waving a spidery shell at them. "Sure you want to go ahead?"

"We're sure," 'Soon called, answering as though it was nothing to find a Ragged Man questioning them from a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. "We're following the night geese. Did you see them?"

"South," said the man, pointing. "Only for the very foolish, that way. Or the very wise. Which're you?"

Afsoon looked to the sky and the sliver of moon caught in her eyes. Then she looked at Neville and the moon slipped back into the sky. She was waiting, he realised, for him to answer; to make his commitment public.

"We're looking for the Island of Nobodies," he called.

"Oh? Well best be on the lookout then, eh! Tricky place to find, that is!"

"Okay. Thank you." And remembering Shoomba's eerie tale of this man's self-appointed task, Neville couldn't resist asking, "Are you watching the invisible world?"

In reply, the Ragged Man gave an exaggerated wink that twinkled even in the darkness and, "It's a wild one tonight innit?" he said.

Neville would certainly have asked if people's secrets could be seen there or if the Things that'd moved into Under had come from there. But it was an awkward, complicated question and before he could think how to frame it, Afsoon cried out impulsively, "Dive in the water and swim out! You can come with us! You don't need to live with such awful creatures!"

"Too right I don't!" the Ragged Man answered, popping a scorpion's tail into his mouth and chomping down. "Which is exactly why I'm staying here!"

And by then it was too late anyhow. Too late for more questions, too late for more answers as the Lightning Bug slid on into the darkness. Neville reminded Afsoon of the story Shoomba had told of this Ragged Man and she declared herself glad they'd left him behind.

"In Afghanistan, scorpion-men and demons go hand in hand," she said.

* * *

In not very much more time at all, a light began to make itself known on the horizon. It grew steadily and, at first, faintly cheered the voyagers, promising as it did an end to the journey. On the other hand, however, it was dim, orange and forbidding, revealing little more than the bleak outline of Shoomba's castle, crouching coldly over the jumble of detritus that swarmed its concrete apron. They drew as near as they dared and Neville let out the anchor. It caught, the Lightning Bug swung lightly to a halt and the three adventurers, with many a nervous glance, slipped silently over the side.

* * *

Shadows. A Shamble of shadows. Shadows that grew from shadows; shadows that were sharp edged and angular, grotesque and huge; shadows that wriggled in the sickly orange light. Almost immediately, Neville's and Ava's and 'Soon's own shadows began a struggle to save themselves, pulling free and being absorbed again - in danger of being swallowed up entirely.

Shadows only pretend to be real, Neville kept repeating to himself. Was that what Mum had said? Or was it that shadows were nightmares?

"What now?"

"We find the magic cyclone bolt! Ava can nose it out, can't you Ava!"

And straight away the shadow that was Ava's began to move with purpose, sniffing and snuffling, pushing under and between. A bloodhound for magic, shouldering around and through and over until, inevitably in so densely packed a place, her enquiring nose gave offence. A stick-like thing with a bulbous head tilted away from her, scraping amongst the objects around it before edging to a stop. Then, with slow certainty, it began scratching and bumping its way back. Above them, in the upper storey, a pair of enormous feet struck the floor.

"What? What? What?" a voice bellowed. "Someone down there?"

It was Shoomba's voice, of course, and its booming challenge froze them all - all but the offended object whose bump had revealed their presence. It moved on, unperturbed, unsettling more objects around it, producing, despite Neville's fervent prayer, further grumbles, nicks and knocks; promises that it had something momentous yet to do. At the last moment Neville had no choice but to lunge amongst the boxes and catch it.

"Intruders!" came Shoomba's immediate and rampant roar from above. "By God, woman! Hand me the weapons!" And before Neville had time even to discover what he was holding, the castle's outside landing was shuddering under the stupendous weight of Shoomba.

"By the powers o' whistlin'!" he was promising loudly. "Not gone when I get to ground, yer done for!"

The threesome had no chance, not even to run. All they could do, as the concrete vibrated dangerously beneath their feet, was shrink into the quietest stillness they knew.

On the stair, a pair of feet appeared, slippered in scarlet and overhung by the hem of a voluminous robe. And then the robe itself, swelling out to cover the great wobbling roundness of a belly. Harrumph harrumph whirrr wuzza wuzza - like an engine angry with its own workings. And then . . . stillness. Head and shoulders still unrevealed. Shoomba, shuddering into his own listening stillness.

For a blink of time Neville felt sorry, remembering the fear instilled by the sounds that crawled up from his own Under. Only in this case, he and 'Soon and Ava, were the Things - a trio of plotters crouched below, listening back. And with the fear, regret, that their plan had been so short sighted. At the very least they should've concocted a soothing lie for 'Soon to plant in Shoomba's mind. Without that, all Neville had was the power of the magic words - the secret prayer that 'Soon had taught him.

"La-ila-ilala-Muhammed-rasul-i-Allah! La-ila-ilala-Muhammed-rasul-i-Allah!" he whispered silently to himself. "Go back! Please please ple-ee-se go back!"

But he was too weak; and Shoomba too provoked. And the great man, be he a pirate king or not, began once more to move. Slower now, and more cautious, bending to look, showing a face which, as it hove into view, was not the expected face - not the face of a foolish and garrulous old man. It was the face of a hunter, aglow with unmistakably sinister capacity. And in his fists there truly were weapons! In the left, what looked like a wrecking ball on the end of a tall spear. In the right, without mistake, a half-metre long club.

'I'd fight a Taswegian tiger if it was messin' with my stuff.' That's what Shoomba had boasted. And from the look of his preparations, that was precisely what he was expecting to find. Any doubts Neville may have had about how badly they'd underestimated the danger vanished in that moment beneath a wave of paralysing fear. In his confused way, he prayed that the wave would spread and the paralysis would reach them all! Shoomba might overlook them; might glance about, satisfy himself that nothing was amiss and retreat to his tower in peace. But no. Ava, it seemed, would have no part of that. If a Taswegian tiger was what Shoomba was expecting, then fang and claw was what he'd find.

"Arrrr." she growled; a rumbling hair-raiser of a growl, launched just as Shoomba's foot reached for the concrete. A growl the menace of which would've caused Shoomba the neighbour to take to his heels. Shoomba the hunter, however, instantly and astonishingly ramped it up a notch and shot it straight back at her.

"Arrrrrrrr!" And then, squinting into the shadows. "Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch is it? Spreadin' your mess all over Hell's Half Acre?"

Ava bowed low on her front legs in acknowledgement and laid her ears back. Shoomba thumped the butt of his spear against the concrete.

"Get off, ye mongrel! Before I set Bill onta ya!"

Given a similar opportunity, to 'get off', Neville would've ducked, run and, if need be, swum all the way back to Home Country. Ava though, in her ancestry, was a creature of a wholly different and darker sort of night. She stepped clear of the shadows, bared her teeth and, in the shadow of a blink, transformed herself from a defiant middle-sized terrier into something that even the Duke of Daisley's Mongolovian wolf hunter would've trembled to see. It was the first time Neville had witnessed Ava's full blown Terrier-of-Death glory, and it would be the last. The next time she appeared to him in this incarnation, she'd be bloodied, crippled and half blind, her magnificence a mere memory.

Happily, he didn't have to know that now. What he did have to know - and it was a shock to do so - was that the killing 'Soon had spoken of so lightly might well be about to happen before his eyes! If her hand, for instance, had fallen on the magic bolt, or even on a discarded cane knife or grass scythe resting within the Shambles! She could be hefting it even now, weighing its capacity for lopping off Shoomba's head while Ava held him mesmerised! It would be done in an instant and the truth - whether he was the pirate king or not - would never be known! He swivelled his eyes - only his eyes and almost squeaked with gratitude. She hadn't moved. Some hesitation, some doubt, was holding her attack in abeyance. He ratcheted his eyes back. Only to find that for Shoomba, no such hesitation was on the cards.

If the patch of clear concrete between he and Ava was to be the arena, he had entered it without hesitation, the spear's shaft now braced under his arm, the club swinging lethally at his side, his eyes locked on those of Ava. Only then was Neville able to see, in that mournful orange light, that the ram's end was already leaden and dripping. With a substance which could not have looked more like blood if it had been spurting from an artery!

"For the last time!" Shoomba growled. And took a step.

"La-ast!" Ava throatily replied. And also took a step.

"Uh-hmm!" A small but necessary squeak from Neville. For Shoomba's sake more than for Ava's - Ava who, rightly so, being totally focussed on her deadly intent, hardly flinched. Shoomba, on the other hand, reacted as though he'd stepped in a nest of fire ants.

"HOE-WER-ZAK!"

His knees partially buckled. He stumbled and fumbled his hold on the dripping battering ram. For a moment Neville felt sure he would fall. Perhaps roll to the concrete, clutch his heart and gasp out an ending.

But no. Astoundingly, like a man for whom battle truly was a second, deeply hidden nature rather than a faint fantasy, he re-gathered himself. Re-gathered himself into a new and doubly formidable balance, with the spear-ram once again centred on Ava. And with the club, its aim ninety degrees to the right, pointed directly at Neville's noggin.

"Who? Who? Whozat?" he rasped, like an owl startled awake at noon.

"Um! Err! Ahh!" Neville answered.

"Eh? Eh? What?"

"It's (gulp) me, Mister Shoomba! Neville!" And because some further assurance of harmlessness seemed appropriate, he added, "The Less!"

"Less? Less? Step out, lemme see ye!"

There was, of course, no alternative. And so, with the greatest trepidation and still clutching the bulbous-headed object that had set these events in motion, Neville arrived within striking range of the heavy club; a club which, in fairness, now revealed itself to be a monstrous, arm-thick cucumber; just as the spear-ram revealed itself to be actually a sodden string mop. Just as Neville's shadow revealed itself to Shoomba to be, indeed, that of a small, familiar boy. Thin tentative smiles crept slowly onto both their faces.

"Well write me a letter!" Shoomba sighed, not quite over-ruling the note of relief in his voice. "Young Lord o' the manor is all! Come callin' on his neighbour!" And with more than a hint of suspicion, "After dark! Right 'n the middle o' me favourite 'tective show!"

His voice was not unfriendly but his gaze and his glance at Ava were not welcoming and he showed no inclination whatsoever to lower his weapons.

"Whatcha want? Is it yer ma? She need me over there?"

"Um!" Neville gurgled in his throat, searching desperately for a plausible distraction. "No! We just . . . I mean me 'n' Ava 'n' . . . !" And he stopped, freezing the peek he so desperately wanted to cast again in Afsoon's direction. Ava, with a sniff of disgust, a perfectly good battle gone begging, sat down, donning once more the disguise of a poodly mutt with nothing more important to do than scratch beneath her chin. The conversational halt did not register at all with Shoomba.

"You tell her what I toldja? You tell her, she needs anything, Shoomba's her man? You tell her that?"

"Um, yes sir. She said to say thank you."

Shoomba nodded in a way that did not seem to indicate belief and Neville joined him, realising that the weakest and least anticipated link in the chain of their quest had suddenly arrived in his hands. Finding the magic cyclone bolt had been their first priority; a firm prelude, they'd agreed, to challenging Shoomba's true identity. But having him make an armed-and-dangerous appearance before its finding, left them with no plan at all! How, then, to proceed? The one thing Neville was certain of was that it should be 'Soon, not he, doing this confrontational work. She it was, after all, not he who had the witcherly powers to peek inside brains for memories of battle and stolen children.

Though now that he thought about it, perhaps that was exactly what was happening! Which would mean that his task had become to concoct a distracting lie! Something that would soothe and inoculate. Despite being caught clutching a hard, heavy Shoomba-owned-and-treasured object in his hands. Which it probably looked like he was intending to steal! Should he put it down? Try to stand it back up? Wait to see what Shoomba did with his mop and cuke? The silence extended excruciatingly.

"So!" Shoomba finally harrumphed, his curiosity shifting toward impatience. "Dangerous to be wanderin' the Territory, Nev'! Un-es-corted! At night! I got me own pits 'n' traps here ye know! Make the Duke's look like flamin' mossie coils! Ddja know that? Not to mention what Bill'll do to ye if he catches ye creepin' 'round! Fact is, he be stalkin' ye right now, ye know! Use ye for bait down a rat-hole soon as I turn me back I expect!"

He gave the cuke a light warning shake, causing it to wobble visibly on its axis - a very ripe cucumber indeed. And Neville, alive to the foolish sound of it but driven by desperation, burped out an ill considered version of the truth.

"Um, the magic cyclone bolt, Mister Shoomba! Me 'n' Ava . . . we were wondering . . . what it looked like!"

"Yeah? Wonderin' in yer sleep, were ye? In yer jammies! Wonderin' an' then wanderin'?"

"Not wandering, no! We came in the Lightning Bug."

"What? Ye did what?"

"Yeah, we were in it and we pulled up the anchor and . . . it brought us here! Like you said it used to do - like a bloodhound. Following the night geese!"

"Night geese?" Shoomba, it seemed, had nothing but questions. "You saw night geese?"

"Yes sir! Twice!"

"Twice?"

"Uh huh!"

"Night geese?"

"Yup!"

"Headin' my way?"

"Yup!"

"South?"

"Uh huh!"

Shoomba's mop-ram finally began to dip and he peered into the darkness where the little ship lay hidden at anchor.

"Well! I can see why Bug'd be curious then!" He waggled the wobbly cuke at the sky and winked a flabby eyelid. "I'm not s'posed to tell about them geese, ye know. Very hush-hush powerful stuff! But since it's you . . . an' yer ma's such a nice lady . . . an' ye come this far . . . I guess I can make an exception. Thing is, if ye see night geese . . . an' ye follow 'em, like you done . . . you follow 'em long enough . . . they lead ye to yer future! Guaranteed! D'ja know that? 'S true! But thing is, Nev', this in't likely to be your future is it? Not here! So ye didn't follow 'em long enough. Get me? You 'n' the mutt, ye wanna jump back aboard an' sail off somewheres else, see? Try the Duchy maybe!

"Now if ye wanna do the test on that, jus' to be sure, ye gotta think about the direction ye come - south. Back in me Go-wally Lumper days the Chinamen useta say south's about Beginnings. Or was it Adventure? Or both? Hard to remember 'cause everythin' means at least a couple o' things to a Chinaman ye see. Very deep, Chinamen are. But anyways, the question to ask yerself is, was it one o' them ye were after? Beginnin's or Adventures?"

And that, of course, left Neville in another predicament. Because first up, if anyone was looking for Beginnings, it wasn't him. It was 'Soon, who'd initiated this strange journey. Though even she, if he thought about it, was well past beginnings. For her, the beginning must've occurred somewhere way back; before the Lightning Bug and the Things in Under; before Riff's dream had come tiptoeing into her head and maybe even before Refugee Camp. Somewhere closer to the time of men at war. So far back that it surely couldn't be Beginnings that the night geese had been seeing from their place, up by the stars.

But if it was Adventure? How could he explain an Adventure that was aimed at changing a future that the past had made entirely terrifying? All of which assumed, of course, that the Go-wally Lumper Chinamen knew what they were talking about!

Neville, being the sort of boy who always tried to make his own understandings fit with what adults told him, thought taking Shoomba's advice, to sail on, was probably much preferable to trying to answer such complicated questions. He could, he thought, wade out, wait for Shoomba to depart and come back for 'Soon. It only remained to talk himself free and he started that by clearly saying, "Um."

"'Sa matter, matey?" Shoomba demanded, obviously wearying quickly of Nev's unresponsive and uninvited presence. "Cancha think? Got this far on yer own an' can't think how ta go?" And then, waving the cuke over Neville's head, "Hey where's your cap, anyways? You be flat out survivin' any more sailin' at all without a cap, ye know! Night geese ain't the only things in the sky after dark! Oh no! Night pelicans! Night pelican shit'll burn a hole clean through your skull bone if yer not wearin' a cap, mate! Hey! It ha'nt been hat-napped by yer little 'Ghani Ama-zanie refo' girlfriend, has it?"

His pleased-with-himself chuckle was barely two syllables long before it was snuffed out by the incensed whip-crack of 'Soon's voice.

"REFO'?"

The word came loud and acid sharp, slashing through the darkness and spinning the hearers like a trio of gimbals. "Arf!" barked Ava in it-took-you-long-enough relief and "Wha . . .?" croaked Shoomba in where'd-you-come-from astonishment. A series of nervous farts stuttered out of Neville's bottom and the cucumber, as though of its own accord, jumped up once again to become an uncertainly threatening club.

"I am **not** refo'!" 'Soon snapped. "My **family** is not **refo**!"

"Oh, hey now!" Shoomba stammered. "Whatcha . . . ! I was . . . ! You never . . . ! Well . . . listen!"

He was ruffled. Unnerved. Taken aback. Was the whole neighbourhood ensconced in the shadows under his house, waiting their turns to pop out at him? Lurkers he didn't even know yet? Home invaders? Thieves? Camel eating goat-milkers? He braced himself until the shadows had yielded her fully up, frailly alone in the bloody orange light. And only then did a slippery smile slide onto his lips.

"Ahhhh-Ha! Gotcha! Ha ha! Good 'n' proper. Yessir! There ye go! Thought I didn' know you was there, didncha! Hah! No way! Ol' Shoomba had ye sniffed out! A mile back! Seen yer tracks in the dust! Heard ye breeeee-th'n! Oh yeah! Clever Clogs where you come from maybe! But nobody sneaks up on a ol' Aussie Bushy, mate! 'Specially not in his own bit o' bush! Hoh! Me for one! I got the entire book o' the Ways o' Wariness in me head, kiddos. Learned it from the Cheery-patchy Abo's, back in the Moberley Mountains. Long before either o' you tadpoles even knew what a mountain was!"

A speech during which the threatening cucumber-club had become once more, in Shoomba's pudgy hand, a wobbly wand of instruction. And once started, it seemed intent on drawing from him ever deeper clarifications.

"An' what's more, Missy, before ye go takin' all that hoity-toity tone o' voice wi' me, lemme tell you somethin' true! Your lot . . . an' don' get me wrong, I'm not classin' youse as any sorta illegals or nothin' . . . refo's is exackly what yez are! An' it beats the bejabbers outta me why yez aren't fallin' over yerselves sayin' thankyou! Not whinin' about it! Coulda bin left in yer God-forsaken own country, ye know, 'stead o' havin' our Gov'mint givin' ye half our taxes to keep yez from blowin' yourselves up! But still yer all, 'Ooo, look at us, we got it so hard, don't call us names!' Not that I care what they give ye, mind. I don' give a stuff! I got me own in hand! But what's wrong wi' your lot is yer too inward-lookin', see? Clingin' to all them useless habits that gotcha inta yer mess over in Af-goony-stan 'stead o' jumpin' in, showin' some proper gratitude an' learnin' what's the better way! Now just for example, I can tell ye . . . I been involved in all sorts o' gobble-de-gook languages over the years. One time I learned the entire Siamesian dictionary just so's I could explain the priv'lege o' bein' here to one o' them barbarian Siames-ee wogs down the boat ramp. 'Bout as useful as bark on a bird, it was! Poor ignorant bloke - jus' went right over his head!"

The cuke wand wheeled demonstratively above his own head and came back again to point.

"But one thing it taught me, Little Missy, an' I never get tired o' tellin' folks this! There's one language **every** body oughta get edj-u-cated in. An' that's the 'Stralian one! See where I'm goin' here? I mean, if we're gonna have laws, that oughta be Law Number One! 'Cause we're all doin' our best to help youse gooky-talkers but yez aren't always puttin' in yer own adequate effort, eh? Speakers o' the lingo, we know to watch for the clues! Like for instance, 'refo'! Proper word, that! Only a idjit'd not know that. An' ye know for a fact ye got no run-o-the-mill idjits in this neighbourhood, am I right? Not in the 'Stralian part, anyways! Eh? A proper 'Stralian'd be able to see that straight off! Be able t'interpret the talky-talk, ye get me?"

He leaned conspiratorially toward Neville then, waving the increasingly limp cucumber as though it were a spray of water. "They're a caution, ent they, this mob? I was right about the hat though, eh? That'd be yours, wouldn' it, Nev-ster?"

There was a hectoring tone in Shoomba's lecture that Neville found unnecessarily mean - mean enough, maybe, to have actually been spoken by a child-stealing pirate. But Shoomba, having sensed in it nothing other than the deep profundity he always ascribed to himself, barrelled obliviously on.

"Oh yeah! How right can a man be, yer askin' yerself! 'Cause I'd never a doubt she was nearby, ye know! No sir! An' the Amazani thing? Really . . . jus' a little bait on the hook, that's all. Nothin' personal. Just a gift I got. Once lured a five metre croc' out've a swamp the size o' Townsville, I did . . . jus' by yellin' out a description of a ham sandwich! True story! I know all the tricks, oh my sweet word I do! Stories I could tell you pair . . . things I seen . . . make yer eyes pop!"

Afsoon, her eyes already popping with a dark radiance that Shoomba would never in a hundred years fathom, stepped even further into the ghoulish light, which somehow managed to re-enliven the shadows about her.

"Tell the story about the killing then!"

"Eh? What? What killing?" The cucumber club trembled precariously, as though it, independently of Shoomba, had become aware of the ill omen in her challenge.

"The drowning of men in red dust! The beating of mothers with stones! Are all your stories lies, or can you tell the true ones too?"

The cucumber wobbled in a panicked little circle, as though drawing an invisible line around her body, and Shoomba's mouth juddered open. He looked from Afsoon to Ava to Neville; three sets of expectant eyes staring back at him.

"Say what?" he said again.

"Or better yet . . . tell us about your pirates at the boat ramp who steal away children! You know about that, don't you! You, who stands by to watch."

The face of a jovial fat man, Neville learned then, can alter in instants to be the face of a man who has never heard so much as a rumour of laughter. Shoomba's lips peeled back to reveal a sharp little gold tooth. His eyes receded from the light and the skin on his forehead curled into a sea of deep waves.

"Children?" he growled, causing Ava's ears to flatten against her head. "Watch?" And then, swiping at the air with the cuke, causing a weighty half to break away onto the concrete: "You tryna trick me are ye, ye cheeky little heathen? That it? Well let me tell you! Yer smartsy foreign finger pointin' won't ever get by anyone this side o' the water! 'Specially not me! 'Cause I had your number long ago, Little Missy. Me 'n' the Duke, we both had it! When your ol' man was still paddlin' his little boat out at sea, we had it! Get me? An' while I'm on it, don't get me started on that sad little effort he got floatin' on his pond over there, eh! What's that about, we got a right to ask! Eh? Look at us, we got problems, is that it? Well ye know what it tells me? Tells me yer just a ungrateful pack o' whos-its! Ignorant enough to think we don' see! Eh? Look here!"

He flicked the remnant of the cucumber-club away into the darkness. Neville listened for the sound of it splashing into the sea, but it never came.

"Be easier for you," Shoomba sneered, his arm still pointing after the vegetable weapon, ". . . be easier for you to o' caught that cuke, Missy, than to catch a Shoomba out any which way. Understand? You don' wanna be tryin' me on, little refo' girlie! No sir, you don't! You think you wanna know about pirates? No ma'am you don't! Squid bait! That's what pirates make o' cheeky little smart faces like you!"

There were long, thinly stretched moments of silence as he glowered down on her and she, unflinchingly, glared back up at him. Until finally, with something that faintly smelled of victory, Shoomba broke and turned his florid attention back to Neville. And his face, flicking through a series of dark expressions, once again sought out that of the jovial fat man.

"An' another thing Nev' here'll vouch for, won't ye mate, is I never been caught out in a lie! Never! Here! Lookit this! Lookit this proof!"

He dropped his remaining weapon, the mop-ram, and at last lifted the tipped object from Neville's trembling hands. In an instant, he'd pulled off and thrown aside the bulbous head which, as it disappeared, was seen to be a fountaining cobweb brush."Whatchu come to see!" he cried triumphantly, clanking the heel of the shaft against the concrete and waving a magician's hand. "One magic cyclone bolt! Thirty centimetres long when it was new! Metre an' a half now, an' straight as a mast! Now pay attention, girlie, 'cause I'm gonna demonstrate to ye a real civilisation fact - the proof o' magic!"

He spat on his hand, rubbed the gob of saliva into the rod's rusted pocks and thrust the damp end towards them. "Smell that! Go on, smell that!"

'Soon and Neville leaned away but Ava, who understood the language of the nose better than any, leaned forward, twitching from top to tail.

"There! See? Know what she's smellin'? Blood, that's what! There's blood in iron, jus' like there's iron in blood! Neither one o' ye little smartarses knew that, didja?" His head bobbed with the weight of superior knowledge. "Yessir! That's why, put the right piece o' iron in the right pair o' hands an' the invisible world starts payin' attention! Old'm times them pioneers'd stick a chunk under their doorstep. Know why? 'Cause nothin' unnatural'll go near it! Not fairies nor ghosts nor witches nor gooblers! Iron, see? Magic! End of!"

Neville had no wish to smell blood, even if it was stuck in iron. But he was more than a little dismayed, to have had the very salvation they'd sought, in his hands all along. And to've handed it over so easily.

"Yer ol' man had any sense," Shoomba was continuing, "he'd o' kept this bolt! But he didn' want it. Give it away to me like it didn't matter! An' now he's gone an' got his Where-Am-I button broke, ent he!"

"You must give it back!" 'Soon demanded.

"Oh? I must give it back, must I?" Shoomba's smile was sharp and hard. "Well what I think is, I must not be gonna do that! 'Cause it's mine, see? An' I'll tell ye what else! Case you had more in mind than just a look! Last person come tryin' to pinch stuff o' mine, I sic-ed Bill onto 'em. An' they went home lookin' like bio-degraded bio-degradable bags! Get the message?"

'Soon's eyes flared in the dark. "Neville needs it!" she hissed. "The Quiet Man needs it!" Shoomba turned on her, baring his teeth.

"No they don't! An' I'll tell ye why! There's a old Australian story o' Humpty-Dumpty, says all the king's horses and all the king's men, that's what it says! Couldn' do bugger all. An' Humpty-Dumpty, that's him over there! End o' story! So no! My bar stays wi' me. End of."

This was exactly what Neville, whose heart already felt leaden, had not wanted to hear. Nor, of course, had he wanted to hear Ava release a hideous growl or Afsoon flare up so violently that Shoomba was driven a step back.

"Liar! The story is not ended! Nothing is ended!"

Shoomba trembled with suppressed rage and frustration, but she held him with her gaze - fearless, demanding, hopeful and pleading, all at the same time. And Neville the Less marvelled at the sheer quantity of her. But even as his amazement grew, Afsoon's composure crumbled and she came at last to the point where only tears would suffice.

"Give me back my brother!" she cried.

And to Neville's surprise, the half sly, half relieved look of a victor - a thin smile under arched brows - like that of a great man telling a poor servant to leave his house and never return, re-established itself on Shoomba's face.

"You really are 'round the twist, ent ye?" he scoffed. "You got no brother, kid! Yer an only! A loony an' only! An' I got no more time for yer fantasies."

"Anosh is not a fantasy!"

But Shoomba, in his own mind, had won - had no more need to argue.

"Oh sure. Righto then," he said, drawing a deep breath, tainting it with feigned reasonableness and dribbling it back at them. "Whatever you wanna believe! But listen. Lemme give yez both one last lesson, orright? In this country, we got all kina March flies, right? An' we got Mayflies. But yez're never gonna come across no April flies, as long as ye live. Eh? Now what flies know 'bout April that you 'n' me don't, what that is, is an example, see . . . proof positive . . . that there's some things folks jus' aren't meant to understand! Ye follow? An' my advice to you," (giving Afsoon his squarest look) "is to take that as a warnin'. Fer yer own good! Ye wanna drop this pirate-brother-gotta-have-it nonsense right now."

Neville, Afsoon and Ava all looked at him, one agog, one in tears, one with a barely controlled impulse to attack.

"Now! If yez wanted more'n that, ye shoulda stayed on the Bug. Like I tolja, South is Beginnings. Ye want Conclusions, ye gotta go west. That's Chinaman knowledge an' there ain't none truer. Meantime, get yourselves home an' tell yer mums ye need wormin'! An' make sure that Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch don't leave me any dark surprises!"

It likely would've ended there if he'd stopped. But he didn't. Almost as an afterthought, he let a horrible accusation slide out past his gold tooth.

"Ye reckon yer not a refo', kid. But I can tell ye, yer not Australian neither. So what does that make ye? Far as I can see, nobody at all!"

It was a step vastly too far. Neville, chirping with dismay, saw Afsoon launch herself fists flying, into the billowing depths of Shoomba's robe. He saw Ava begin her charge at the lower level, a snarling dart of glistening fangs. He saw Terrible Bill land like a miniature leopard on Ava's back, all claws and hiss and spit and he saw Shoomba falling back instinctively, his magnificent robe shimmering through flashes of iridescent orange, blue and purple.

He even saw the broken end of the over-ripe cucumber-club, as it slipped beneath Shoomba's foot, turning instantly to slush and ripping away the big man's balance. The one thing he didn't see was the magic cyclone bolt that could repel ghosts and fairies and witches and gooblers, which rose so high it flew free of human grasp.

Neville the Less did not even see it coming.

### Sorting out

He was no longer in Shoomba Territory. That was the first thing he noticed. And it was no longer night. That was the second thing. And his head hurt - in fact, on inspection, was found to be decorated with a goose-bump almost the size of a real goose. That was the third thing. Other things he managed to gather included the facts that it was ten o'clock in the A.M., that he was in his own bed and that Ava was not with him, in her usual place at the bed's foot. He rolled gingerly onto the floor and waited while an unfamiliar spinning sensation subsided. Then he crawled out through the pantry to the edge of the kitchen.

Peering around the corner of the fridge to the left, he could just see the end of the lounge and one of the Quiet Man's hands dangling limply to the floor. Beside it lay Ava, once again the mild mannered guardian terrier. So. Her presence there answered one question. And the small sad shake of her head as she looked back at him through chair legs answered another; that not too surprisingly, except for the egg on his head, the journey into Shoomba Territory had produced no changes in Home Country. On the other hand, out on the veranda a conversation was in progress.

"I am **so** sorry!" mum was saying, her voice low and muffled. "I can only imagine that, somehow, Ava got out and he went after her. He's never wandered off in the night like that before!"

"Kids these days, eh Love! When we were their age we were twice as old as them!"

The twice-as-old voice was unmistakably that of Mister Shoomba, once again in its 'I'm-a-good-guy' mode but still incapable of sharing mum's concern for quiet.

"Not a worry though, no harm done over my way! A little twist to me back, but you know what they say about a good man, eh? Ha ha! An' your boy got a head like a macadamia nut, I guess! Hooo! Don't know how that bar got away on me like that! Like it had a mind've its own there for a minute! Blimmin' rotten cuke didn' help neither! Dunno where that come from! Blimmin' fruit bats, fer all I know!"

"Yes, yes." Mum was clearly caught up in her own thoughts. "And that story about sailing in the Lightning Bug? I mean that's just . . . odd! A waking dream of some sort obviously, but . . .! Well I knew he was off centre a bit and imagining things. What with his father's condition and all. But I never . . . he's never . . . !"

"Course! O' course! Just all that weird, made-up where's-yer-donkey stuff kids got in their heads these days. Computer clog, I call it. I give 'im a pep talk t'other day, did he tell ye? No? Well, man to boy kinda thing it was - not really for sharin' wi'the women folk prob'ly. 'Bout real problems I faced in me life, though. Make a normal man's life look like a walk in the bakery, I can tell ye. Seemed to cheer 'im up I thought. Tell ye what - I could spend some time over here if ye like? Chat with the boy. Help you out. Missus wouldn' mind. Can't let our favourite neighbour struggle away on her own, can we? Ha ha!"

"Thank you, that's very kind, but . . .!"

"Sure, sure! Or you could jus' sing out if ye need me, ye know? Jus' leave it like that? I was just thinkin' . . . functionin' adult male on the premise! Alpha male kinda thing. Boys need that! Women too sometimes, come to think of it! Ha ha! Not you, o' course! Nor Missus S' neither; but some women! Ha ha! Anyways, whatever you need 'til yer soldier boy comes marchin' home or whatever . . . you keep ol' Shoomba in mind, eh? Be no trouble ay-tall!"

"Well thank you, Dennis, that's very kind. And listen, my deepest apologies once again. And for getting him home - thank you. Thank you so much. But look, I should let you go. I'll walk you down to the trees, shall I? And I'll get back to tending my injured men."

There was only one way to get rid of a Shoomba and that was to walk it to the edge of the property, park it there, and back away, nodding and smiling all the while at the receding wave of commentary. Neville listened to her footsteps, light on the stairs - one, two, three, four, five. She was on the bottom step before Shoomba hit number two, but they both stopped there while she put a question to him.

"Um! You did say that . . . **she** was there last night as well?"

"Oh yeah! Fiery an' full o' cheek, like always. Real funny view o' the world, them ones. Like they're owed somethin', ye know? Or somethin's missin' 'n' they gonna find someone to blame? None o' my business really, Love, but I'd be thinkin' twice about lettin' the boy mix wi' that lot. Bin through the mill, I know, an' real good people o' course. Got nothin' against any of 'em at all, an' I tol' her exactly that las' night. Happy to have 'em here! But they come wi' their ways, don't they? Catchin' onto bein' normal seems to be just . . . beyond 'em."

The voices moved off and Neville crawled out onto the veranda, straining his ears to hear what else might be said. The words quickly became indistinct, but through the rails he could see that Mister Shoomba was no longer wearing his satiny robe or his stocking cap. In fact his head, which had been bald last night, was back to sporting his usual full head of hair. His 'going visiting hair', as he called it. Which, to say the least, was distracting.

Not as distracting as Ava though, who came click-clicking out onto the veranda at that stage. Her nose was bloodily streaked from Bill's claws, but she poked it bravely and immediately through the leafy shell of the Lilly-pilly. Neville, from his hands and knees position, followed suit and found, not unexpectedly, Afsoon Rahimi, seated comfortably in his private ounce of shade, her green eyes blinking up at him. She poked her tongue and, from the leafy litter, raised the end of a long metal bar - the magic cyclone bolt.

Neville was so startled that he bumped his already throbbingly goose-egged head on a railing slat.

"Where did you get it?"

"From where you last saw it, of course."

"You stole it?"

She shrugged. "You heard Shoomba. I haven't caught on to being 'normal' yet."

It was no kind of an argument and Neville shook his head in reproof.

"I don't care," she sniffed. "It shouldn't be his. It should be yours. Anyhow, see what he did to your head with it? And another anyhow . . . we need it."

"Need it for what?"

She sighed with exasperation. "Has that big noggin bump made your brain dumber, Neville? Tell me, is the Quiet Man talking this morning? Is he better?"

"Uh, I don't think so. Ava just . . . !"

"No, he's not. And has Anosh come sailing home?"

"I don't know! I just . . . !"

"No he hasn't. And last night Riff sat in his little boat on the pond for hours. Fearing still that something bad will happen. It's too much being frightened, Neville! So what we need to fix has not been fixed. That's why we need it."

"But we tried 'Soon! Tried our best and . . . !"

"Neville! Listen. This Shoomba thinks to fool us, with his big sometimes bald head. But you heard him say! He has his pirates at the boat ramp! And even since Riff took us on the sea, he said, he has known my number! My number, Neville! Then he laughs and says I am Nobody! I cannot be Nobody, Neville. It is death to be Nobody. But now us - we - we have his magic! And we have his clue!"

"Clue?"

"He let slip! West, he said. South for Beginnings and west for Conclusions, remember? With the magic cyclone bolt, we must go west."

"But west is . . . Rahimi Island!"

"West from Home Country is Rahimi Island, head-bump! West from Shoomba Territory is . . . ?"

He stared at her blankly, waiting for the answer, though Ava, saying, "Oooh!" seemed to understand right away.

"You see? Ava understands. Because she is a girl, like me. Girls understand things much quicker than boys."

"You mean . . . ?"

"Yes. We tried Shoomba. And I think the dream was showing us how to be more careful. But I think now Shoomba is not the king. I think we must look to the Duke."

And, determined to show himself as smart as any girl, Neville pounced straight away on the obvious arguments.

"We can't go to the Duchy, 'Soon! No one can go there! Especially not kids! There's traps! And anyhow, the Duke can't be the pirate king 'cause you said the king was fat! And Duke Ralph is just skinny! And also he's way too old to've fought at Riff's war or the Quiet Man's war! And most of all, we can't go there because the Duke hates your family! That's why he made the Folly! He doesn't even hardly **know** my family but he hates Riff! No, we can't go there!"

She made a fart sound with her lips. "The dream didn't say he fought in the war, Neville. It said he watched. That's what kings do; they watch. And they decide who to hate. Families like Rahimis, they hate! But look! We have the magic iron now! If we strike first, he cannot win."

Neville stroked his throbbing goose-egg, glanced at the scratches on Ava's nose and murmured, "I dunno, 'Soon! I think Ava's already got hurt!"

"Foof! Ava is too strong and brave to be hurt, aren't you Ava! Listen, Neville. When she lets you come out, come straight to Rahimi Island so we can plan! Okay?"

"Uh. Okay," he said, and his lack of enthusiasm went right over her head.

"Good. Maybe we should ask Cookie to help us too. He can ask the kites to spy out the traps for us. And maybe Beau the Bum too - because he has a gun."

"You want Beau the Bum to shoot the Duke?"

"Maybe. I don't know. If it will make him tell us of Anosh and of the Quiet Man's quietness and your Things in Under . . . why not?"

In Neville's mind, it was all getting very quickly, very much out of hand.

"Well Cookie might help but Beau the Bum won't! He hates me and my family, 'cause mum dobbed him in for shooting drunken parrots. He won't help."

"Hmm," she said in a tone that even Neville understood to mean, we'll see about that.

At that point the crunch of footsteps sounded in the driveway and Mister Shoomba's last encouraging words floated over:

"Don't you worry, Love, I'll be doin' a little night time patrol, I will. Keep an eye out for developments. You chain up the dog though, eh? Bill gets her in his sights again, he'll peel her like a banana!"

There was an indistinct mutter that followed, probably something about 'Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch,' and then mum's almost-escaped-from-him reply: "Righto. Good. I'll do that. Thanks again, Dennis."

By the time she got onto the veranda, Neville was back lying on his bed, stroking Ava's ears. 'Love' was a name he hadn't heard mum called before, so something was new there. But then, he'd never known before that his best friend would steal or that anyone would contemplate enrolling an armed Beau the Bum as an ally. He rolled to face the wall, feeling slightly sick to his stomach about how the future was shaping up.

* * *

The rest of that day, Neville was cosseted and coddled and allowed to move between his bedroom and the living room. But no farther. Ava was offered the door at various times and twice she went out, but both times she was whining for re-admittance practically before the door was closed.

At one point when they were all gathered in the lounge room mum pressed Neville to explain what had drawn him out into the night, and he told her what he felt he could. He left out mention of the unseen presences in Under (no need to frighten her with that since she never went there anyhow) and he left out the plan to poop in Shoomba Territory, which she certainly wouldn't approve of. He also left out the Ragged Man on Apollo Dungeon, for fear the thought of him out there (being in touch with whatever / wherever the invisible world might be) would possibly frazzle her nerves beyond measure.

But he told about the Flying Foxes and about 'Soon at the window; about the night geese and the Lightning Bug and the magic cyclone bolt that'd once saved the Home Country house (though not about 'Soon's theft of it). He even tried to explain Riff's dream and how it was 'Soon's dream too because of her channelling and how the Quiet Man had been in it; how (if the dream was true and dreams didn't always know what was true, but if it was true) as a soldier, he'd watched and somehow also not watched while Riff and Raff and their friends had killed and been killed by the pirates.

When he told that part of the story, mum held his hands and stared into his eyes so intently that he began to wonder if she too, like Afsoon, had the power to sneak inside the brains of people. It seemed to him that he was alone in his but . . . how could you tell? Near the end of the story he remembered the red dust - people being drowned in red dust - and as he told that, he was interrupted by a whimpered "Aaarr!" from Ava.

Both Neville and mum looked to her and then to where she was looking - the Quiet Man. And it seemed to Neville that some flicker or flutter of eyelids might have happened there just a moment before they looked. As if one of the nightmares might've peeped through the ceiling, saw and been seen by him, and pulled back. If Mum sensed it though, she didn't react. Instead, she turned her eyes back to him and began, in her round-about way, to talk about Afsoon.

"Nev', Afsoon or Mister Rahimi or even you or I might dream about . . . I don't know \- flying, for instance. But that wouldn't mean that we can fly or ever could fly; or that we've ever known anyone who could fly! Because no one can! Except in their dreams! Because dreams are just imaginary!"

"Cookie could fly!"

"No, Cookie couldn't fly! He might wish he could or imagine he could, but he can't! And he never could!"

"Not even in another life? Or an invisible world?"

"There are no other lives, Nev'! And no invisible worlds! There's just this life and this world! And we can't ignore the facts of this one just because an imaginary dream one seems more . . . reassuring! Or because this one's being difficult! If we do that, we're no help to the people around us, who need us to be clear and strong. We make them frightened! Like you're frightened for your dad! Like 'Soon is frightened for **her** dad. Like I'm frightened for you! And being frightened never makes things better. It always, always makes things worse. Do you understand?"

He looked at her blankly. Why would she be frightened for him? Did she know about the Things in Under then? And if so, why say there's no invisible world?

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry I tore my pyjamas."

Even that, though, seemed to be the wrong thing.

"It's not about your pyjamas, Nev'!" Her voice was rising, close once again to breaking. "Listen. The Rahimi's have lived through some terrible, terrible times, Nev'. Like nothing any of us want to imagine. And 'Soon . . . she's been affected by it. She's been hurt by it; hurt her in her mind. Understand?"

"D'you mean like the Quiet Man? Like her mind is lost in a jungle?"

"Well no, not exactly. With 'Soon it's more like . . . things she thinks she remembers or knows - things she believes . . . she was actually too little when their troubles happened to remember those experiences, Nev'. She was barely more than a baby! D'you see? So she can't always be counted on to tell even the past from the present, let alone the nightmares from the real!

"And your father . . . he's been through terrible times as well. Maybe even worse, we don't know. But the thing is, for you and 'Soon to go galloping off in the night on imaginary quests . . . that's no help to anyone. It's not going to chase away his nightmares or hers. Understand?"

He didn't really, but he did want to be seen to be trying.

"She's not frightened, you know! She's brave as anything!"

"Yes. Yes I know." And she went on, after drawing a deep breath, to explain that, brave or not, 'Soon was not a good example for him to follow; that perhaps he needed to 'step back a little' from that friendship.

"You're a smart boy, Nev'. You know right from wrong, I know you do! So play with her if you must but . . . don't go losing your good sense, okay? Don't go giving in to her . . . imaginings! 'Cause it's hard enough dealing with what's real, isn't it. If you have any doubts at all, come and ask me. Will you do that? Please?"

And despite his belief that Afsoon really did hold keys to unlocking the Quiet Man's voice, and because of the plea in Mum's face, he said okay. It only took him minutes to realize, though, that it resolved nothing; just left him that little more alone, and the Quiet Man a little more alone, and the Rahimis a little more alone. With hardly any ideas on how to get less lonely.

'Hardly any ideas', of course, didn't mean exactly no ideas. He had one, which he tried out not long afterwards, when she was out of the room. Leaning very close to the Quiet Man he whispered, "Red dust." There was no reaction. He pressed on.

"Okay, I'm just going to count to ten and if you don't move your hand, I'm going to say that means Riff's dream was wrong and you weren't there, okay?"

And he counted. And the hand stayed still.

"Okay. Now I'm going to count to ten again, and if your hand still doesn't move, I'm going to say that means you have an idea for getting you and Anosh escaped and come back. Okay?"

He counted. Still there was no movement. Excellent! If Neville the More had an idea then, really, the pressure was off Neville the Less! Although, it occurred to him, there was a chance that that answer didn't actually tell him all he needed to know. He thought about the next question for several minutes before asking it.

"If your idea needs me 'n' Ava 'n' 'Soon to help . . . move your hand."

He waited and Ava waited, both focussed intently on the hand that lay across the belly of the man. It didn't move. They looked to one another and blinked. Sighs of relief tentatively gathered in their lungs and would surely have escaped had someone else's not beat them to it. Probably it was more a huff than a sigh, but still - it was from the Quiet Man. And when they looked to his face they found, to their astonishment, that he was looking directly at Neville - actually, apparently, seeing him! It was a look more hollow than solid, more pleading than questioning, but it was nonetheless followed, hoarsely and barely audibly, by a query.

"Pyjamas?"

Neville swallowed, unsure if he could credit his ears - or his eyes. He shook his head to break his tongue loose, then nodded; and barely perceptibly, the Quiet Man also shook his head, then nodded. One shake, one nod. And his arm rose. For a moment it seemed that he might touch the bump on Neville's forehead but instead the arm fell across the No-Longer-Totally-Quiet Man's eyes, blocking out the room and Neville the Less and Ava, the Guardian Terrier.

Neville spent the rest of that recuperation day in his room, thinking. The Quiet Man had looked at him, spoken to him! And he'd moved his hand. 'Move your hand if you need me 'n' Ava 'n' 'Soon to help,' was exactly the question he'd asked. And the whole arm had moved. And yet Nev'd also, more or less, promised mum that he'd step back from his friendship with Afsoon. How was that going to work?

Twice he went back to the lounge for clarification, but the silence had settled there once again. At dinner, he told mum what'd happened and she nodded, smiling broadly: "There, you see? That's good! That's a good sign! We just need to keep talking to him - sharing with him - trying to involve him in our regular life! You and I together, Nev! We're all we need. We can do this!"

When night came, the Flying Foxes returned to the bottlebrush trees outside his window, the lights went on and off in Hayley's bus and the bullet holes in the walls at Boogerville winked as merrily as ever. Eventually the knocking came at his window as he'd somehow known it would and, though he desperately wanted 'Soon's thoughts on the new developments with the Quiet Man, he pulled Ava under the blanket, wrapping his arms and legs around her to keep her still and quiet. She shouldn't be out there in the night, alone, anyhow, he told himself. If we don't answer, she'll go home. Hopefully, having had enough sense to stay out of Under.

Not long after, the knocking stopped. But then the Quiet Man shouted out in the panic of a nightmare and Neville heard Mum's voice hushing him, crooning to him. Neville immediately hopped to his knees and opened the window.

"'Soon? 'Soon?" But she was gone.

### 3.Troubles Multiply

The next day, Neville's forehead-egg was considerably reduced and it was only a matter of time before Mum, worn down by his sulky presence, shooed him and Ava outside. They went straight to the lilly-pilly cubby, which was empty. They went to the banana palm forest and tried to see around the animal house into Rahimi Island, but his promise to mum kept him from going farther. He waited, hoping 'Soon would come through to Home Country, but she didn't. Inevitably, impatient with his dithering, Ava disappeared into a patch of undergrowth and Neville decided that, if he had to be alone, he'd at least do it in a place where he could see what others were doing. He skinned up into the Poinciana tree, tiptoed across the garage roof and swung himself over into the waiting arms of the Duke's Mango tree.

Right away, from the lower branches he was able to look back into Shoomba Territory where he spied Shoomba himself, edging amongst his treasures, lifting and moving things, pausing to scratch his head, even partially re-enacting a slip and a fall and a flick. Where was that magic iron cyclone bolt?

From a little higher up Neville could partially make out the Duke and Duchess in their walled-in courtyard. The Duke, it appeared, was sharpening wooden stakes with a hatchet, leaving the Duchess to lay them out for planting around the perimeter. He studied them for awhile and thought, if they were leaders of a pirate gang, their disguises were very good. But then so too was the Duchy's, looking more like an ordinary, if densely planted back yard than a land strewn with traps designed by a Mongolovian wolf-hunter!

Eventually he moved higher, to a place from which the inner reaches of Rahimi Island could be seen. The little two storey house on its high stumps; the lake with the two metre replica of the refugee boat; the animal house that bordered Cookie's Camp; Latifeh the goat, straining against her tether, and the two brown pigs and the dozen chickens wandering in and out of view, raising their separate little clouds of dust. Of Riff there was no sign, but the lovely Parisa was there pegging out clothes, bending and reaching with all the slow grace of a dreaming butterfly.

And Afsoon was there too, on her knees, wearing Neville's cap, scraping at a large rectangle she'd etched into the dirt. She was using the end of the magic iron bar to loosen gobbets of soil. It was obviously unwieldy and awkward, not the right tool for such a job, but she gripped it in two hands and persisted, apparently trying all the while to explain something to Parisa. The pigs at one point drifted close to hear and Parisa nodded thoughtfully, moving her lips in answer. And then, as though he had sung out her name (which he definitely had not), 'Soon turned to look up into the distant mango tree, shading her eyes to peer at precisely the patch of greenery that shielded Neville.

* * *

How he was tempted, then, to whistle or shake a branch or shout out to confirm for her that he really was there, but Mum's plea that he 'give the friendship some distance' held him back. So he sat stilly on his branch, which was stout as an elephant's leg, his feet dangling and his arms and chin resting on a higher one. He felt like the very worst, most useless, most undependable, most 'Less' Neville that the world had ever seen.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like if he disappeared. Just evaporated into the air. Just sprouted wings and flew away with Cookie's kites. So he could be a little speck in the sky but still look down with his telescope eyes and see everything. The whole world. Maybe even the invisible world! He tried to imagine these things but while he was working on it, a humungous other question began to be born in his mind. It wasn't clear but it had something to do with wars and how they could be far away and near, all at the same time. How someone could both watch and not watch, all at the same time. But the question's focus wasn't clear. Was it a 'why' or a 'how' or a 'who'? He tried very hard to look away from it but it grew like a blister and, like all blisters, though it became increasingly numb on the top, it also became increasingly sore on the inside. And it never even got close to making sense.

No more sense than that graceful, gentle Parisa, whose eyes sometimes glistened when she looked at him and whose hand sometimes touched his face had once cradled her children but also picked up stones and sticks to fight like a demon. Or that someone had stolen a baby. Or that Neville the More, who'd once laughed and bowled cricket balls in the back yard of Home Country, had gone to be a soldier, to beat bad enemies, and had come back as a Quiet Man who couldn't bear to look at his own family.

Eventually Neville made a decision. He would climb down. And if, when he reached the ground, he landed facing the house in Home Country, he would keep his promise to Mum and go back to sit with the Quiet Man. Who knew? Perhaps, having spoken a word already, about pyjamas, he might just decide to speak more, about the war or about the jungle where his mind was or about what sort of help he needed for escape. If, however, Neville landed facing Rahimi Island, he would break his promise and go find out why 'Soon was digging that hole and what she had in mind for the magic cyclone bolt and how she was going to find out if the Duke was the leader of the pirates who'd stolen Anosh.

Down the Mango, onto the roof, across to the Poinciana and only two metres from the ground - that's how far he got before the hissing grabbed his attention. And there she was - 'Soon - sitting on the ground on the Island side of the trunk. A rhinoceros beetle the size of a chook's egg clung to her arm and, under her prodding finger, hissed like a steaming kettle.

"I thought you said you would come over," she said, barely looking up as he dropped to the ground in front of her.

"I . . . I don't think I'm allowed."

"What about going west?" she said. "For conclusions. Like we said."

So he told her about the Quiet Man's hand not moving, indicating that he had an idea, and then moving, indicating that he needed help. He also told her about the word that was spoken and about Mum's belief that 'Soon sometimes mixed up dreams and reality and so she wanted him to 'step back' from their friendship. He tried to let her know that Home Country troubles were complicated enough; that there was probably no room for chasing pirates. Not just now. Maybe later. 'Soon made no comment, only nodded and, when he said no more, climbed to her feet.

"So. I'll go then." She placed the still hissing beetle on the tree's trunk and, "Hush," she crooned. "No need for you to be worried. Your home is all around you. Go back to your family now."

And she turned to leave. Had she been talking to the beetle? Or to him?

"You got stuff to do at home?" Neville asked, needing suddenly to stall her a little longer.

"No. I'm going to Cookie Camp. And then to Boogerville."

"Boogerville! You shouldn't go there, 'Soon! It's dangerous!"

She shrugged. "Everywhere is dangerous, Neville. I'm not frightened."

If he knew anything at all, he knew that! She who had sailed them off in the Lightning Bug and stood up to Shoomba and gone back to steal the magic cyclone bolt. She who would prowl the night alone when the Things were also prowling.

It made Neville suddenly both angry and disappointed. The disappointment was with himself, not only for having made rash promises to Mum, but for having **wanted** to make them - for being glad to have an excuse to stay out of danger. The anger, though, was with 'Soon, that she was so certain she could find out all the secrets and that he must help her. So certain that the Quiet Man's war and Riff's war and the pirates' war and probably all wars were just one war and that people who were there to help, sometimes were only just there to watch.

"What about the Quiet Man's idea?" he demanded as she walked away. "What about helping him?"

"'Pyjamas'," she said over her shoulder, "is not an idea, Neville." Then she stopped, looked at him sadly.

"Neville, I know why Riff will not speak of the war and of Anosh. It's because he is ashamed. Ashamed that he could not protect us. Your Quiet Man, though . . . I don't know his reason. His family is safe! So ask yourself, why does he not speak, this man who was there and not there; watching and not watching? What is his shame?"

"I . . . ! He . . . ! He isn't ashamed! You just don't know! Soldiers have to be brave enough to do things! To do what they get ordered! And now. . . his mind is in a jungle! That's all!"

He said it in a confusion of defence and even as he said it, somehow it didn't make sense. And he grew angrier still, hating his own stupidity, for not understanding - for doubting.

"Have it your way," 'Soon shrugged, as though the rightness or wrongness of things in his life mattered not at all. And she walked off through the banana palms.

"I will!" Neville shouted after her. "And I don't think you're so smart either!"

He whirled about, looking for something - something to throw after her. There was nothing. But his eye fell on the rhinoceros beetle, making its slow, ponderous way back up the trunk of the Poinciana. He swept it to the ground and stomped it dead, crushing its coal black horn and its carapace and all of it into the dirt.

"That's what happens when you just come into someone else's Home Country!" he shouted, as though both it and Afsoon would know what he had done. And for a moment, he felt so lordly that he looked around for another target. High in the Poinciana, the other beetles clung silently, camouflaged against the undersides of branches, waiting for the killer to pass.

"Ava!" he shouted in frustration. "C'm'ere! We're going home!"

It wasn't until he got to the house that he realised she wasn't with him.

### Neville

Things are very, very bad. It's been all night and Ava hasn't come home. Mum and me went out after dinner last night and called and called, but there was no sign. Mum says she'll smack Ava's nose when she finds her. And she'll tie her up as well, like Shoomba said. Maybe tie her in Under and leave her there all night, to teach her a lesson.

When she said that, I made her get the torch and shine it in Under. I said, 'We can't go there, but we can look with the torch,' and she said, 'Of course we can go there, silly. It's our house.' And she crouched in amongst the dead forest but the Things, whatever they are, hid from her. Still, even from the edges, even with the shadows, I could see all the holes dug by bandicoots and a big dip where something has scraped out a nest for sleeping. And on two posts there are deep scratch marks.

I tried all the prayers I know, all night.

"Please come home. Please let Ava come home."

But she hasn't come. I remember 'Soon saying, when we were on the Lightning Bug, that nobody ever comes back. Anosh never came back but Anosh was just a baby and Ava's a full-grown terrier and a Terrier-of-Death at that! Still, what if the Things in Under got her and were too strong for her?

Mum says that's a silly thought. She says there **are** no Thing's in Under and that nobody'd want to hurt Ava. She says ringing the neighbours to keep an eye out will be best and that, if Ava's not back in a day or two, we'll put up posters.

From up here in the mango tree, I can see all over the neighbourhood, except for most of Boogerville and parts of Cookie Camp. But I can't see any sign of Ava.

Stuff has been moved out from under Shoomba's castle, though, and I can hear him banging around in there again today, so he seems to be looking for or chasing something. The Duke and Duchess have got nearly all their sharpened stakes in the ground but he's still sharpening more and I guess he's just putting new ones in all around the Duchy, so anyone who tries to get in will be stabbed. I saw Robert wander through the yard at Cookie Camp and I heard Hayley call out to someone over at Boogerville, just before she sped away in her Ute. 'Soon's half-dug hole on Rahimi Island looks like a grave.

### Hayley

He's a cute kid. Weird as hell, but harmless and Hey! With my family, who'm I to criticise? And I do remember telling him once he could use my bus sometimes, when I wasn't there - just as a sort of get-away, 'cause I knew things weren't real good over home, what with his ol' man being a basket case and his mum having to cope with all that

Anyhow, to add injury to insult, apparently his mutt's gone missing now and the poor little bugger's in a state. Which I concede is the only actually believable explanation for him wandering over here in broad daylight and straight into Beau the Bum's sites. I mean literally! Into the yard and into B' the B's gun sites!

The story is that Neville ('the Less', he calls himself. Isn't that cute?) . . . Neville was down by our big choko vine, not quite amongst the leaves, but peeping in like he expected something to reach out and grab him. And Beau, true to his bummy nature, having commando-ed his way into the weeds under the bus, took a pot shot at him. I was inside the bus but the sound of that pellet gun going off under my feet had me straight out and onto him. Killing birds again, I thought. But no; it was our little lesser Neville he had, pinned down and terrified.

Beau reckoned it was just a warning shot but you never know with him. Usually his warnings come **after** he's shot something. So I gave him a slap up the back of the head and told him, if he didn't get out of my sight in a nanosecond, I was going to tell dad on him, which would mean the horsewhip and no more guns for at least a month. Mum and dad are both working away at the mines this week so I wasn't sure if Beau'd listen. Anyhow, he probably wouldn't mind the whip. But losing the gun'd kill him, so he took the smart option and sulked off into the house.

I gave the Lesser Neville a bit of a rattle as well, and accused him of being a cretin - too stupid to understand that Beau the Bum is a psychopath in training.

"He kills stuff, Neville! That's what he does! You think he wouldn't shoot a kid who's knocking off his ol' man's prize chokos?"

"I-I-I wasn't!"

"Ye-ye-yes you were! And the fact that you're not bleeding from somewhere only means he was playing with you! Another two minutes and you'd've been wearing a pellet up your arse, for sure! Is that what you wanted?"

"I wasn't stealing! I was looking for Ava."

"Oh yeah? So Ava's taken to eating chokos, has she?"

"No. But if she got confused and came over here and Beau the Bum . . . well, I thought he might've buried her there . . . with the other kids."

"Other kids? What other kids? What're you talking about?"

I had this awful, sudden picture of Beau shooting Cookie or Robert Hughes, from over the back and burying them under the chokos. Or even that cute little Rahimi kid. So I did listen, but he started on this ridiculous convoluted story about dead kids from **my** family. So then I had this awesome idea and I cut him off dead. I told him I'd have to tell his mum he was flogging stuff from our garden and telling whoppers to get out of it (which'd probably kill her to hear) unless he agreed to come back on the weekend and put in an hour polishing the Ute.

So I know that was mean and selfish and all that; that I should've taken more interest in the missing bow-wow. I know that now. So I'm an after-the-fact learner. So sue me.

### Mrs Hughes

He came to me shivering with fear and confusion, which is hardly surprising considering the lack of conscience, let alone the godlessness, that suffuses this entire neighbourhood. His home as much as any! My husband and I are pacifists but Neville's father, quite blatantly, is a man trained to kill his fellow men; presumably an eager recruit to one of those endless Middle Eastern wars. As a result of which I gather he's been struck down - incapacitated in every way - PTSD'ed, as they call it. I've been to visit and seen for myself and it's tragic - but hardly unforeseeable.

Hs mother is a woman of fine intention, I'm sure. Despite being still young and apparently very attractive (if the comments of men in the neighbourhood are to be given credence). And I make no judgments, but I have heard Dennis Shoomba's voice booming out his coarse laughter from their back veranda and I know he's been seen prowling between their houses after dark, with and sometimes without a torch. A man with few scruples is Dennis Shoomba and what he'd get up to under the very nose of his stricken neighbour (not to mention his own wife), I dread to think. Temptation finds fertile ground in men of his ilk.

Anyhow, I gather that only moments before coming to me, little Neville received some sort of fright from the Bogart children next door. 'Boogerville', is how he refers to their home. It's mean-spirited, I said to him, to attempt to diminish people by labelling them with crude pejoratives. He spouted some nonsense about it being a different country - that we all lived in different countries. As though the neighbourhood was some kind of Barely United Nations. I naturally explained to him that that was not the case. Australia is Australia. We are one. We are many. From all the lands we come. And our common tasks are to love one another and to practice forbearance.

I asked, then, (by way of illustrating my point) about his little friend, Afsoon, who all the neighbourhood knows, of course. She's such a bright intelligent little girl, which is surprising, considering what a . . . fragmented existence hers has been. A little more self-regarding than I believe is healthy for a child, but I imagine medical specialists would (and undoubtedly one day will) find purpose in that. Anyhow, my understanding from Cookie and Robert is that she plays a significant role in young Neville's life so I thought to use her as a symbol of how we can be different and together, all at the same time and must labour to get along. Apparently, though, he and she are not seeing eye to eye at the moment.

"So the Bogart children then - had they invited you into their yard?" I asked.

"No. But Ava's gone missing."

"Ava?"

"Ava's my dog. She's a terrier. A Terrier-of-Death. But she's gone missing."

A 'terrier of death'! Can you imagine the sort of round-the-dinner-table talk that would've given rise to that concept? No wonder the child is fearful and confused. And it only got worse.

"First," he said, "I thought the Things in Under might've got her. Then I remembered it was daytime when she disappeared and the Things only wake up at night."

"Things?"

"Yeah. 'Soon taught me words to keep them away, but I think they only work in daytime. At night, you can't be sure."

And he recited a line of mostly nonsense syllables but which, to my astonished disbelief and without doubt, contained the words 'Muhammed' and 'Allah'! I was simply struck dumb! Not that I disapprove in any way, of course, of foreign religions! Belief is belief and must be respected! I just had no idea! And I truly wondered if his mother had any idea either! Neville, on the other hand, was bundling on as though it meant nothing.

"So then I thought maybe she got into Boogerville and Beau the Bum shot her and buried her in the chokos with the dead kids. But I didn't see any fresh dug dirt so now I don't know. Can you get her back?"

My Lord, I thought to myself. The poor little man's mind is like a garden that's being tended by demons. 'Under' and 'Things' and 'dead kids'? One barely knew where to begin!

"What do you mean, sweetheart? What do you mean, 'Can I get her back'?"

"Well, like . . . get her born again. From the Great Tiggywand."

"The great what?"

"Tiggywand. Mister Shoomba says you can be born again if you find the Great Tiggywand and tell him all the bad things you've done! I don't think Ava's done many bad things, except for pooping in Shoomba Territory sometimes. But he says, if you say you're very sorry, sometimes you can come back; maybe as something else. I'd like her to come back as a dog again, but she doesn't have to be a Terrier-of-Death. Maybe an Alsatian or a Saint Bernard - she'd like that. And I'd teach her to only poop in Home Country. But anyhow, I don't know where to look 'cause The Great Tiggywand's a spirit and anyhow Mister Shoomba said it could be dangerous unless you know what you're doing. But I figured, 'cause you were born again, you'd know!"

I simply had to sit at that stage, and required him to do the same.

"Darling, are you taking any medications that you know of?"

"No."

"Ah. Well that is surprising! And you're sure this is what Mister Shoomba said? A spirit called The Great . . . ?"

"Tiggywand. Yep, that's what he said. I asked Cookie and he said he was born again from a whistling kite. And he didn't know what you were, but 'Soon said she bumped into your dreams and she knew you were a famous actress."

"Bumped into my dreams?"

"Yep. By accident. She doesn't do that on purpose. Except for Riff's dreams, but they're partly hers anyhow, I think. And Anosh's dreams, except that his dreams are maybe real and he's part of 'Soon anyhow, so maybe his dreams are hers as well, 'cause they were born twins."

"Afsoon has a brother? A twin? I . . . ! Well! I must say!"

I'm not generally one to make negative assumptions about a family's internal workings. Especially not one in such a state of disruption as young Neville's. (Or of Afsoon's, for that matter!) But how could one fail to draw terrifying conclusions from such an outpouring? The children! If not properly guided and protected, they are surely Satan's easiest, most vulnerable targets.

"Neville. You have a cut on your forehead. And a bruise, darling. A large bruise. If someone was hurting you, you know you could tell me, don't you. And I would help."

He opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better and merely nodded. But I could see the need and, again, the confusion, in his eyes.

"Alright then. You've come to me today, and that's a very good start. So I must tell you two things. Firstly, Neville, Mister Shoomba is a . . . he's a man who is . . . not always truthful. Do you know what I mean?"

"He's a liar?"

"I don't say 'liar'. Liar is a very strong word. But you must keep a doubtful eye on him; not let him . . . stimulate your imagination too much. Because he will try, believe me. His stories . . . serve his own purposes; no one else's. Am I making sense to you?"

He touched the bruise on his forehead then, in such a way that made me wonder, but he nodded - which made me wonder more.

"Okay. And the second thing then, is your little friend, Afsoon. I don't know how your mother feels about this . . . relationship . . . but . . .!"

His fingers moved to the cut at his hairline, then, and he said, "Mum says I should try to be less good friends with 'Soon. She says 'Soon has too many adventures in her mind."

"Ah. Excellent. Your mother is a wise woman. Now! What I'd like us to do, you and I, is for us to pop down on our knees and say a little prayer together, would that be okay?"

"To The Great Tiggywand?"

"No! Well! Call him what you like, I suppose. What's in a name! But understand! This isn't to be about getting your dog to be . . . born again. 'Born again' is . . . ! Well, it's not . . . what we need to be praying about just now."

And I had a bit of an epiphany then, of what **was** important; and that perhaps some sort of ground work had, in fact, been laid. "This 'Thing in Under' that you mentioned, Neville. It's very good to be aware of the evils that lurk in our lives. They are real, I promise you, and we must be ready to rebuff them. Okay? So a little bit of what we're praying for is to keep us safe from evil. You see? Now you pop down on your knees and see what kind of a start you can make while I fetch Cookie and Robert to join us. Okay?"

And when I got back to the kitchen with the boys, he was gone!

### Neville the Less

What an awful morning! I sneaked into Boogerville to look for Ava, but Beau the Bum saw me and tried to shoot me! Hayley says I'd have a pellet up my arse if she wasn't there to save me. But now she thinks I was stealing chokos which I don't even like chokos! And as well, I'm worried that Beau really will pellet my arse, first chance he gets. One good thing, though, is that there was no fresh dug dirt so at least I'm pretty sure Beau didn't shoot Ava.

So, but just in case, I went to Cookie Camp to ask Missus Hughes about getting Ava born again, which I thought, if something **has** happened to her, would be a really good surprise for Ava. If she came back as something really big - so big and scary that nothing would ever dare to bother her again - I know she'd like that. I'd like it too.

Missus Hughes didn't want to help with that. But she did tell me that 'Soon was right about Mister Shoomba - that he's a tricker and maybe even a liar. And she told me Mum was right about 'Soon - that she's mixed up a bit.

I feel bad about 'Soon being mad at me. But I guess that's part of her mix-up - like thinking everything's about her and Anosh and the pirate king and not even about The Quiet Man at all who, after all, if we helped him, might be able to tell us important stuff that would help her find out about Anosh. Maybe he could tell why Mister Shoomba and the Duke would be at the war and watching. Mister Shoomba says the Quiet Man will never be able to tell, but maybe that's part of Mister Shoomba being a tricker, though I don't know why he'd want to trick about that.

Missus Hughes also told me that the Things in Under really are real! Which I think is right because I think Mum would be saying they weren't real just to try to make me not worry. I wish I knew what they were.

Missus Hughes wanted me to pray with her to the Great Tiggywand which I thought would be good 'cause then I'd find out how that worked. But then she said we couldn't ask him to re-born Ava. I don't know why. But I thought, if I can't ask for that then I don't guess I can ask for anything bigger either; like getting The Quiet Man better. Or helping 'Soon get Anosh back. Then Missus Hughes went to get Cookie and Robert and I heard her going mad at Cookie for saying he used to be a whistling kite. If that's supposed to be a secret, he really shouldn't have told me. Or he should've asked me to promise not to say that I knew.

Anyway, now I guess Cookie's mad at me too, like Mum and 'Soon and Beau the Bum. I ran away from Cookie Camp without praying so probably Missus Hughes and the Great Tiggywand are mad at me too. I miss Ava. And I miss 'Soon. I wish I hadn't promised to be poorer friends.

### 4. The Making of Plans

### Beau the Bum

After leaving Missus Hughes, Neville tried the lilly-pilly cubby for a brief while and the green haze of its cover was as soft and welcoming as ever. But for the first time, having Under at his back, even though it was broad daylight, was worrisome. Especially because Ava wasn't there to put her head on his lap or snuffle at the little lizards or warn him of sneakers. Not even the magic words seemed to help.

He thought of going up into the mango tree, but the prospect of looking out over the surrounding yards, in most of which it seemed, he was unwelcome, made him sad. He thought of going back to Boogerville and letting Beau the Bum kill him with an arse pellet but that, he knew, would make Mum sad. The best thought, and the one he settled on, was to sneak onto Rahimi Island and hide in the animal shed with the brown pigs and the chooks and Latifeh. If he was lucky, Parisa would come to collect eggs and find him. Then she'd take him to 'Soon and 'Soon'd say she was sorry for not caring about The Quiet Man. On the other hand, Riff might be the one to come into the animal house, hoping the smell of dung would dull his terrible memories of losing Anosh and drowning men in red dust.

This last possibility was very worrying but, despite that, Neville began the trek across the back of Home Country. He crossed the grassy area where the rivers from Under drained in the wet season and he passed through the dense shade of the Poinciana, into the banana palm forest. That's where his courage failed. He sat down. He cried a little bit, for loneliness. He lay down amongst the polished green skins of the palms and watched a darkness creep up on him, like a fog.

Before long the light had left the forest entirely, leaving it black and silent and looming in all directions. Except for one spot, directly ahead in his line of vision. There he saw the shape of a bare hill silhouetted against an oily, gun metal sky. On top of it were the outlines of five, maybe six people who, he felt certain, would not be able see him, lying down there in the foresty darkness. But somehow they did because they all reached up and waved in his direction. And he tried his very hardest to wave back but he couldn't move; couldn't even call out. Then, one by one, the figures turned and walked down the other side of the hill, out of sight. He lay there, paralysed, with no idea how to get to where they were going. He only knew that those waves were meant to be good-bye.

Then there was a sound. A sound like . . . someone crunching up a scorpion! And a voice! The voice of the Ragged Man from Apollo Dungeon! "There is a path, Nev'. Keep looking."

Neville did look about for that path but the darkness was as thick as paint. A gooey, gluttonous, eyeball covering paint! Paint out of which a Thing - an awful Thing - perhaps an Under Thing - suddenly reached its iron finger to jab him painfully in the ribs. The soft echo of the Ragged Man's voice disappeared and in its place came a loud, harsh, barking jeer.

"Hey Nubble! You dead out here?"

The body of Neville the Less popped up onto its bum. His eyes filled with light and the bleakly looming forest transformed itself back into a warm green stand of banana palms. And the awful Thing with the iron finger resolved itself into the all too solid and frightening figure of Beau the Bum with his pellet rifle.

"Whatcha doin'?" Beau growled as Neville scrambled to his feet. "Yer dobbin' ol' lady wise up to yer pathetic self an' throw ye out?"

Neville goggled and said nothing. He could quickly wrestle the wrinkles out of his legs, but the effort to wrestle his thoughts out of that black forest with its retreating people and past the hidden Ragged Man with his impossible instruction, was taking considerably longer.

"Talkin' to you, Nubble!" Beau insisted, jabbing him a second time with the rifle barrel. "Cat got yer tongue? Ol' Terrible Bill get it while yer were sleepin'? Huh? Want me to shoot yer weeny off?"

Is it a choice, Neville wondered; even as his weeny shrank in awful anticipation and his tongue wobbled into an unsteady, "N-n-no!"

"N-n-no?" mimicked Beau the Bum. "Well I'm prob'ly gonna anyways. In fact, next time I catch you hangin' even one sad little toe over my place, you can bet on it. Weeny off! Got it?"

"Y-y-yes!"

"Y-y-yes? Man yer pathetic! What're ye doin' here anyways? Me dumb-bum sister says someone's pinched yer mutt. Who'd'ye think'd want a useless little turd tank like that?"

"She's not useless. She's a Terrier-of-Death."

"Yeah, an' I'm Roger the Robot. Listen, that choko vine is off limits, see? My yard is off limits. Even if you're invited on, which you aren't ever gonna be, that choko vine'll still be off-off-off limits. First an' last warning, right? Now get outta my way, ye dozy little nose-picker."

Neville's feet hopped him briskly to one side but his tongue, perhaps suicidally celebrating its avoidance of being gotten by Bill, rattled out, "I know about the other kids."

"What? What other kids?"

"The dead ones. The ones that got shot for eating too much. I know they're buried under the choko vine. Mister Shoomba told me. He told me about the bullet holes in the house, too. If I told the police, they'd come and dig up those kids and arrest all your family and put you all in jail."

Beau the Bum's eyes narrowed. He squinted back across the yards, to the grey block of a house at Boogerville, trying for all he was worth to understand what was being said to him.

"I wouldn't tell them though," Neville raced on, intent on taking every advantage he could of Beau's confusion. "I just wanted to see if Ava was there as well, that's all - if maybe there was some new dug dirt."

"And did you see any?"

"No."

"Did you see anything else?"

"No. Just leaves. And chokos."

"Okay. Right. And no . . . dead kids?"

"No. Nothing. Just leaves and chokos."

"Right. Okay. Yer either smarter'n you look, Nubble, or a total dumb-ass."

"Neville."

"What?"

"I'm Neville."

"Right, right! Whatever. So why you sleepin' out here in the banana palms, Nub'? Have a blackout? Lost? Too simple to find yer way home? Which by the way is right there!"

"I wasn't sleeping. I was . . . planning."

"Planning? Planning what?" He raised his rifle and took careless aim at some invisible thing in the Poinciana.

And here was a dilemma for Neville. How much can one actually tell a boy called Beau the Bum or, sometimes, (even by his sister) Murderous Little Cretin - a boy who has cold-bloodedly shot the heads off drunken parrots and might, on a whim or a dare, shoot the weeny off a dreaming neighbour?

"I guess . . . planning how to find out about pirates," he said. "'Cause 'Soon's brother was stolen by them a long time ago and now they might be coming back for her."

Beau's mouth fell open just a crack.

"Pirates," he said.

"Yeah. Riff killed hundreds of 'em with rocks 'n' sticks and drowned 'em in an ocean of red dust and so did Parisa - Missus Rahimi - when they lived in Afghanistan or in Refugee Camp, I'm not sure which. But still, some of 'em got away. With her brother. Anosh."

He half expected Beau to laugh at him, or maybe just push him aside and carry on his way, but all he said was, "Cool!"

And so, with that little success behind him, Neville went on to tell of his and 'Soon's trip in the Lightning Bug, following the night geese and seeing the ship-wrecked Ragged Man on Apollo Dungeon and being bashed on the head by Mister Shoomba with a magic iron cyclone bolt which 'Soon had later gone back, alone, into Shoomba Territory to steal.

"No way!"

In answer to which, Neville parted the hair on his forehead, to show more clearly the bruise.

"Wa-a-y! What, and she's got the bolt now? What's she gonna do with it?"

"She's gonna use it to get Anosh back from the pirates. And maybe . . . !" This was the hardest part of all. ". . . maybe help The Quiet Man get home."

"The Quiet Man? That's your dad, right? Hayl's says sometimes when she's sleepin' in the bus, she can hear him shoutin' out. Stuff about bombs an' like, 'Stay back!' kinda stuff. 'Get the kid!' He's like, weird, right? But a hero, too! Bona-fight hero! Been off killin' the loopies in somewhere else! So, but he's already home! Why ya talkin' like he isn't?"

It hadn't occurred to Neville before that moment that the neighbour's might also be able to hear the Quiet Man's nightmares. The bomb stuff they'd understand: he'd been, after all, in a war. But what would they make of the shouts, having no knowledge of the jungle and the nightmares in the ceiling?

"He's only sort of at home. 'Cause his mind's still in a jungle somewhere."

"In a jungle? Where? Where zat?"

"I don't know. But he's got a plan to get it back again. He just needs some help is all."

"Some help? And so that's where the magic iron bar comes in, right? Yow! So you're makin' a plan! What is it? What's the plan?"

"I . . . I don't know yet. But . . . !" And for the first time he knew this to be true. "Me and Soon're gonna make one up. 'Cause she can channel people's minds and know stuff about 'em. And that's where we have to start 'cause it's all tangled up - the war and the jungle and the pirates and Anosh and the things that live in Under and Mister Shoomba and the night geese and the Flying Foxes and the Ragged Man on Apollo Dungeon and . . . and everybody. And prob'ly whatever's happened to Ava, too, if you didn't shoot her."

It was massive, Neville had suddenly realised. And as 'Soon had said, massively complicated. And it was clear from Beau the Bum's wide eyes and open mouth and white-knuckled grip on the pellet rifle, that he also knew it was massive."So," the big boy muttered. "Pirates!"

"Yep. 'Soon says we might have to kill the pirate king."

"Kill him! Whaah! You reckon you could?"

And though Neville didn't know the full extent of 'Soon's Amazonian standing (or even of her continued friendship, for that matter) and though the absence of Ava, the Terrier-of-Death, was a definite handicap, he still had to answer in the affirmative: "I guess. If we have to."

"I could too," Beau whispered. "I could kill a pirate king." He snapped off a shot into the Poinciana. Something black fell. Maybe a rhinoceros beetle. "See that? If I get to go to the war one day, I'll kill more bad guys or pirates or whatever 'n' your ol' man an' Riff 'n' Raff ever dreamed of altogether. Like the best sniper ever!" And after a pause he said, "I could help you, you know! You 'n' 'Soon. With your plan. When you get it figured out, you let me know, an' I'll help. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You ever shoot a gun, Nub'? Wanna have a go with mine?"

"No."

"Why not? Don' wanna be a hero like yer ol' man?"

"I promised Mum. I said I wouldn't be a soldier."

Beau's eyes fell into a distant stare as that thought crawled uncomfortably into his mind.

Then, "You really do need me, don't ya? I mean, 'f you don' wanna be a soldier, that's your stupid business. But . . . like the pirates, man! Who'll fight 'em if ye don't have soldiers?"

"Dunno," said Neville softly. And he realised clearly, for the first time, that he was not only trapped between his promise to Mum to step back from a friendship and his promise to 'Soon to help; he was also trapped between a second promise to Mum - to not be a soldier - and an unspoken one to the Quiet Man, to be a help. A fact which Beau also seemed to see.

"Well listen!" he commanded. "I reckon whatever plan you come up with's got Buckley's o' workin' if ye haven't got a soldier! Like me! Understand?" And, on a further note of clarification, he demanded, "An' you! You gotta make a choice, mate - mummy's boy or hero! Figure it out, Nub! Figure out who y'are!"

But that was the one thing Neville absolutely had learned from seeing all those people - possibly all the people he knew - disappearing over the hill, leaving him alone in the darkness.

"I know who I am!" he said sadly. "I'm Neville. Neville the Less."

### Parisa

In Australia, we are blessed with good neighbours. Even Mister Daisley and Missus Daisley - Duke and Duchess, the children call them - really, we've known so terribly much worse.

At the start, when Mister Daisley shouted very loudly, with great anger, for many days and weeks while he built his fence, then I thought, 'Oh, this will end badly.'

Because I felt how that anger passed into my Mohammed and, after his years of endurance, how it bent him; bent him like a stick - so tense that even the weight of a tiny word might break him apart. Please," I whispered to him: "please, you must turn your ears away." "No!" he said to me. "No more. I turned away at Yakawlang when the Taliban came and shouted just so! And did it help? No! After the shouts came bullets!"

"This is not Yakawlang," I whispered again, pleading - "not even Bamyan province. This is Australia. There are no Taliban in Australia. And more, the Taliban did not build a fence like this man does. A fence is good. A fence is not bullets."

I feared for us all in those days! Even for Mister Daisley. Because there is an ending to what any man can endure and no man should be made to see that ending. This one - my man - was wise and gentle when first I came to know him. Not like so many who care for the happiness of their goats more than for the happiness of their wives; worry more over what their friends will say than what their children will learn. This one was a teacher who taught lessons of faith and kindness. Even when the starvation came and the people ate grass and earth just to have something in their stomachs, though it broke his heart, he taught that Allah - God, was still there, in the earth and the grass. Then the Taliban came.

"Naughty people", the Taliban said: "you have eaten all the grass. Now you must eat bullets."

Many women with their children fled to the mosques. "Naughty people," the Taliban said, "to flee from our bullets. Now you must eat fire."

I escaped. But my Mohammed's gentleness did not. It burned away with those many lives. After that time, I saw such rage in him - I didn't know him. It was me who said, "We must flee this country. We will walk until we meet the sea," I said. "Then the four of us will find a boat, and we will become safe in another land."

And so we did. We walked and we rode and we camped and we lived on the thin grace of others. Then we found a boat and I thought maybe, just a little, the hope began to return to his eyes. But on the sea, such terrible things! All of us there, so lost and alone and frightened - the children; they, at least until then, were innocent.

When they came, in Mohammed there was no fear. Only rage. Like a demon had taken the place of his heart. It burst from him like a great firework and on that desperate day, how we all welcomed it and praised it! How we grew from it ourselves, letting it wash away our own fear - even our mercy! But when it was over, we were still lost - even more so, and in different ways - and still alone. And the children, no longer so innocent. And we were fewer. Much fewer.

Now Mohammed - he knows there is no limit to the awfulness and despair God has prepared for men who think they know Him. 'When Man is perplexed, God is benevolent.' So goes the saying. Does it follow then, that when Man is arrogant, God must be spiteful? I don't know. But Mohammed, he blames himself for what happened. And maybe a little bit me. And very much, God.

But we do not speak of it together. Long ago we said, "No more talk! We cannot undo, we cannot forget. But we do not have to speak of it." But lately I see him whisper with Afsoon and see them go quiet when I walk by. I pray for him to find again his faith and kindness and to teach these things to our daughter.

So I say we are blessed with good neighbours in Australia. And even more, we are blessed with Afsoon who learns the new customs and teaches us, as though she is the mother and we are the children. I think she is the jinn's magic bowl, that one - able to hold all things. When Mister Daisley in his anger named us 'Riff' and 'Raff', it was Afsoon who explained, in Australia, to call someone Riff and Raff is to call them worthless people - unless it is done with a smile of friendship. Then it is to say, you and me, we are partners in knowing that someone who believes this thing is foolish.

And more, she says, in same fashion, Mister Daisley is given the title of a great man - a Duke - to gently remind that, in this country, 'worthless' and 'great' live side by side as neighbours. So together, the neighbourhood strikes at Mister Daisley's hatred with ridicule and at Mohammed's with a smile.

But still, always we must remind ourselves to **look** for the smile. **I** must look for the smile. And I must be sure to point it out to Mohammed \- because, for number one, smiles are better than guns. And for number two, for Afsoon, Australia must become the home country.

And for number three, we must survive here because there is no place else.

* * *

One boy, I cry for a little bit. He is Neville, who is Afsoon's special friend and, I think, mine. I cry because he reminds me of a boy in another time - a boy I cannot speak of. But Neville reminds me. Perhaps because he is small and gentle and full of imaginings.

Neville the Less, he says. "I am Neville the Less." I say, "Why are you 'less', Neville?" And he says, "Because I am not as much as The Quiet Man."

This Quiet Man is Neville's father, the soldier, who fought in our country and became a hero; but a hero like my Mohammed - one whose mind has become locked against the world. The child tries not to see how the father is diminished. What the father tries not to see . . . is a thing that cannot be named. Because to name it would be to give it life in the world.

So I say it is good that people in this young country have chosen to help the people in my ancient one. Just as it is good for a child to want to help its father. But all things old are marked by dark friendships that lie in wait for the young. And where war has been . . . there the friendships are cruel and deceiving. From war nothing, no one, emerges cleaner or better.

I pray that in this country there will be no such terrible learnings for the children - for Afsoon. Or for Neville, who lives behind no fence, but only a patch of banana palms. Or for any of the other children either - Cookie and Robert from next door, and the one called Beau, from further away. They all meet and play their innocent children's games. Neville and Afsoon, I can see, are special friends - maybe because both go home at end of play to fathers who are broken. But still, so far, there is innocence.

Afsoon tells me yesterday of a journey on a great sea, in a derelict boat and, at first, I am terrified! I think, how can she remember that time? She was hardly more than a baby! And if she remembers that . . . what else?

"What did you see when you sailed?" I ask.

"A man in a dungeon," she says: "alone with scorpions."

"And so?" I say. "Nothing more?"

"No mama," she says. "Nothing more."

And then she speaks of Neville the Less and the small dog also in the boat, and of magic, and she shows a piece of iron that she says was once another thing. And so I breathe a little easier. Imagination, I think. Pretend! With large coincidence!

"So where is your friend?" I ask then. "For two days, we don't see him! Has he become so much 'less' that he has become invisible?"

"He was wounded," she says. "On our journey."

"Ahh!" I say, and a piece of puzzle drops into place.

Yesterday she has used her bit of iron to scratch a hole in the yard. A large hole, and she works hard and goes deep and when she is satisfied, she lies down in the hole.

"Is it a cave?" I ask.

"No," she says. "It is a grave. I want to see what death will be like."

So I take her hands and pull her out and say, "No, my lamb. Death will not be like that - like in a hole, looking up at clouds. It will be like being on clouds. And it will not be until you are a wrinkled crone, old as a mountain, with children and grandchildren and waterfalls of love in your heart."

And together we fill in the hole. And today, Neville is back. And Cookie and Robert too and all four, they whisper plans. Perhaps another adventure on their imaginary sea. Or, more likely, a search for the little dog, Ava, which has wandered away.

"Did you think of putting up some signs?" I ask as I pass them by.

"No, mama," says Afsoon. "But it's a fine idea."

### Neville

Most of the flock swirled in a slowly revolving column high over the showground, the better part of a kilometre away. But a pair had broken free and drifted northward, coming in low over the neighbourhood. Lunch time and they were looking for dead things, of which (with the help of Beau the Bum) even the residential yards provided a small but useful supply. As they passed, Cookie called out to them, whistling and chirping and gliding earnestly across the grass on outstretched arms. One, with a rare curiosity about the living, paused in its hunt, coming back to look down on him.

"Nuh," Cookie soon said to his three companions. "He hasn't seen Ava. Could be dead under a bush though, he said. He'll come back if he spots her, he said. Can't hide anythin' dead from a hungry kite."

Cookie was the only one comforted by that communication.

"She's not dead under a bush!" 'Soon snapped, provoking a firm shake of the head in Neville, a shrug of the shoulders in Cookie and a finger up the nose in Robert. "Someone's kidnapped her, that's what I say!"

"But why?" Neville asked. "She hasn't hurt anybody!"

"No. But if someone has learned that she could? Then maybe . . . to protect themselves! Or maybe as a way of warning us."

"Warning us about what?"

"About going on journeys and asking questions! About trying to put things right!"

That was a hard concept for Neville - that someone would so hate the idea of putting things right that they'd risk being maimed by a Terrier-of-Death.

"Who would it be?" he asked fearful even of imagining such a being.

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Think, Neville! Which fat man saw her fangs only two days ago? And which other angry man is his friend?" Dipping the upper end of the magic iron bar, the bottom end of which was lodged in the newly replaced dirt of her grave, she gestured toward the Folly.

"We should go ask," said Robert immediately. All three turned to look at him as though one of the birds had just dropped him into their midst from the sky, and Cookie snapped a knuckle against Robert's disheveled little noggin.

"Go home, Robert! Ye bread loaf!"

Cookie may have hoped to provoke tears, but the days when he could easily do that were gone. What he generally got these days was defiance.

"Okay," Robert said firmly. "But I'b tellid' bub you were talkid to the kites!" The words, as always, finding no resonance in his blocked sinuses.

"You do an' you'll be sorry!" hissed Cookie, grabbing a fistful of Robert's shirt and, "You ca't stop be!" Robert hissed straight back at him.

"I'll pound you!"

"You do a'd I'll tell dad! A'd he'll powd you back!"

"You little fink! I hate you!"

"You ca't say that! We're brothers! Dow I really ab tellig!"

A brief twisting and shoving match ensued, only to be suddenly ended by a new voice, a sneering, sinister one that seemed, at first hearing, to be coming from one of the brown pigs.

"Tattle-tale, tattle-tale," it hissed, "hangin' from a bully's tail."

All four children spun and gawped and who they found was Beau the Bum, with his pellet gun, leaning nonchalantly against the corner of the animal shed. "When the bully takes a pee," he smirked, seeing he had their full attention, "you c'n have a cuppa tea." How long he'd been there they couldn't immediately say, but long enough, clearly, to have heard Cookie and Robert's argument.

"You go on, Robert! You go tell yer oldies. An' ye better show 'em yer weener while yer there."

"Huh?"

"Tattle-tailers get 'em shot off, is all." He nudged the stock of the rifle with his toe. "Didn't ye know that? Oh yeah! Might's well get it out right now an' let everyone say goodbye to it!"

Robert's, Cookie's and Neville's hands all floated into pockets from which weeners could be protectively couched. It wasn't quite enough, though, to still Robert's tongue.

"All I said was we should ask the Duke if he's got Ava. You ca't shoot a weeder off for that!"

"No?" Beau snorted. "Well you still be better off, me shooting yer weener, Nose-pick-boy, than you goin' talkin' to the Duke. Duke's a crazy man!"

"You're a crazy bad." whispered Robert suicidally and Cookie knuckled his noggin a second time, fearing protective duties were about to be thrust upon him. Beau, however, took Robert's assessment as a compliment.

"At's right!" he snarled fearfully. "You better b'lieve it! But I'm crazy smart, see! 'Cause let me tell ye: you go knockin' on the Duke's door, yer just warnin' him. You say, 'You got our turd-tank?' 'N' aside from anythin' else he's gonna do to ya, he's naturally gonna say, "Nuh." 'Cause he's prob'ly plannin' on cookin' up some dog chops on the barbie, see? 'N' where are ye then? Nowhere, that's where! Except, he's onto ya."

The three boys gazed at him in wonder. The wisdom of a nine year old boy was truly an awesome thing. Although the common sense of a seven year old girl could sometimes be almost as impressive.

"So what would you do, Mister crazy-smart Beau the Bum? Make telephone threats against his weener, I suppose! So he would then call the police and have you put in jail!"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes.

"Whatchu call me?"

He had no idea how far beyond fear a person could be until Afsoon Rahimi stepped forward and narrowed her own eyes. "Have you ever had a witch creep into your brain at night," she hummed menacingly, "to leave hungry nightmares?" Beau's head bobbed back as though someone had aimed a gob of spit at it.

"That's right!" she continued, tilting her head at the three boys. "You can threaten them all you like. But if you threaten me, I warn you! I'll steal all your secrets while you sleep and leave only spiders in your head."

He gulped. He looked to the boys to see if any were smiling. None were. He'd been threatened plenty of times before by girls, most notably by Hayley. But the worst Hayley could do was put him in a headlock, drag him down and grind her knuckles into his skull. Stealing secrets and leaving spiders was an entirely new and uncomfortable kind of possibility.

"I don't threaten girls," he mumbled. "Wouldn't be fair."

"No," she said unflinchingly. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. And it wouldn't help us figure out what we can do to get Ava back either. So what would you do?"

Beau waved his arm heavily, as though tossing a hand grenade into the air.

"Easy!" he said. "Dress up as a policeman and say you have to search his house. Or . . . sneak over at night and light his shed on fire! And hide, and when he runs out to put it out, go in his house and look."

"And what if Ava is in the burning shed?"

"Okay, a fire in the yard then. But yez'd have to use petrol or somethin' to make it get real big real quick; to get both the Duke an' Duchess outta the house. Or better even - I could borrow me sister's Ute and drive around in the middle of the night and tie a rope onto the Folly an' pull it down and leave note says, 'Give the mutt back or your house'll be next'. What about that?"

"Police 'ud cub," muttered Robert.

"Huh?"

"Police. He'd call the police. Ad they'd arrest Deville 'cause they'd theek he did it to save Ava. 'Cause she's his dog."

"No they wouldn't, dummy! 'Cause they'd be too busy arrestin' the Duke for dog stealin'! He's prob'ly got a whole flock o' dogs locked up over there. D'ja think bout that? Maybe sic'n 'em on each other to fight? Tearin' into each other? Rippin' out throats an' all? D'ja ever hear about that, Smart Arse Rupert? An' anyhow, if we stole some big boots - maybe from Shoomba's place, cause all that kinda junk's jus' lying around there - if we did that an' left some big footprints, then who'd they arrest, eh? D'ye know that? An' why're we even worryin' anyways, 'cause the police'd take one look at Nobble an' say, 'Nuh! He wouldn' have the guts to do that!' Look at 'im! Nobble the Nuthin'! He's too chicken even to shoot a gun case his mummy finds out!"

"Am not!" said Neville.

Beau immediately broke the barrel, loading the requisite huff of air, and jammed a lead pellet into the bore.

"Here then!" he demanded, holding it out. "Show us."

Neville's hands stayed in his pockets. Clutching for comfort as well as for protection, his weeny and, fixing his eyes on Beau's tattered sandshoes, he shook his head.

"Don't wanna," he said and Beau, with a bark of knowing laughter, turned to offer it, first to Cookie and then to Robert, both of whom also shook their heads.

"See what I mean?" Beau laughed. "What a useless crop! Wouldn' know a fart from yer finger. 'At's why yer standin' around here chuckin' off at each other steada doin' somethin' real! What I reckon is, if 'at dog's waitin' on youse for help, it's totally dead meat."

"Give it to me."

It was Afsoon, standing as tall as she could, holding out a tiny hand. A look of cunning stole across Beau the Bum's fox-like face.

"Tell ye what," he said; "You c'n have a shot. I'll swap yah – one shot o' me gun for that magic iron bolt."

Her hand fell and, though her eyes remained locked on his, she shook her head.

"Hah!" he laughed again and, looking up, he spied Cookie's friendly kite drifting in over the animal shed, not twenty metres above the ground. The pellet rifle came up. Phut! Four children gasped and the fifth smiled gleefully as a feather plumped out of the kite's breast and, for a moment, the bird's wings folded. Then they opened again and, with three hard beats, carried it away, low and out of sight.

"When yez finally figure out that ye want some real help," Beau the Bum declared triumphantly, "ye know where to find me." And he turned and walked away, back toward Boogerville.

Neville, trembling between awe and shame, wondered at the terrible forms 'real help' might take in Beau the Bum's mind. He looked to the others to gauge their reactions. 'Soon, having lifted the iron bar from the loose earth of her grave, placed its weight gently into his grasp and cast a small grimace of he what took to be understanding after Beau. Robert, still not convinced that one couldn't simply ask, wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked for guidance to Cookie who, with a sudden gasp, clutched his chest and folded up like a dropped rag.

* * *

Dinner was finished and Neville was up to his elbows in dishwater when the idea came to him. In the living room, Mum's voice could still be heard, bird-like and pleading, while the Quiet Man's was gruff and stilted. Neville had been thinking of the dinner just past, when they'd all three sat at the table to eat; which was not generally, these days, something the Quiet Man chose to do and was therefore described initially, by Mum, as another 'positive step'. Whether she still saw it that way, Neville thought, was doubtful.

For most of the meal, Mum had filled the silence with forced normality, talking about Ava's absence and of 'putting out feelers' to the dog-pound and all the neighbours. She'd also talked of the comic slippage factor in Shoomba's wig, of his offer to help with 'chores' around the house and (in mock confidence to the Quiet Man) of his sly and leering winks.

That thought had drawn (despite the QM's continued blank look) a rare and genuine laugh from Mum and the comment that, "Men must have their dreams, I suppose." Which Neville thought was an odd thing to laugh about, considering that some dreams were actually nightmares.

His own opportunity to join in came when Mum's monologue began finally to slow and she turned to him for support.

"Why don't you tell dad what you did today, Nev'? I'm sure he'd like to know! Wouldn't you, love? "

The Quiet Man had nodded, briefly and shallowly, without raising his eyes from the little blocks of potato which he was stacking into a wall across the middle of his plate.

"Um, well, I looked all around for Ava. I looked in Under to see if maybe the Things'd got her."

"There are no 'Things', Nev'! I told you! It's just night-time animals."

"Oh! Yeah." (So clearly she was sticking to her story in that regard!) "Anyways, I went over to Boogerville then, to look in the chokos, but she wasn't there either. And I went to Cookie Camp but Cookie's mum wanted to pray about stuff and I didn't so I . . . I went to the banana palm forest."

He wondered about, and decided against, telling of seeing everyone walking away over the hill and hearing the Ragged Man; even of breaking his promise to Mum and seeking out Afsoon.

"I saw Cookie and Robert and Beau the Bum. Beau shot a kite."

"He shot a kite?" Mum declared. "How could he shoot a kite? The things never land! He wasn't shooting in our yard was he?"

"Um, no." It wasn't technically a lie, of course, since a bird in the sky isn't actually in anyone's yard.

"It was flying over and he shot it in the air. A feather came out but I guess it was okay 'cause it flew away. But then, after Beau went away, Cookie fell down. We said, 'What's the matter?' and he said shooting a kite was like shooting him because he used to be one before he was born again. And I guess that's true because there was a bleeding spot right in the middle of his stomach and Robert had to help him go home."

Mum gasped. "My God! Shooting that gun around other people! What on earth does that boy use for sense? Well that's it! His parents are going to cop a spray over this! I know they both have to do shifts out at the mines but they have to know - they can't go away and leave a gun in the hands of that kid! You're to stay right away from him, Neville! Away from him and out of their yard, understand? He's a hazard to life and limb, that boy!"

She'd addressed her outrage directly at Neville but when she finished, both she and Neville realised the Quiet Man had abandoned his potato wall and was also staring directly at him, a look of horror on his face.

"Shot a kid?" he whispered.

Neville was amazed. For the second time in a week, the Quiet Man had spoken to him. He might soon, he thought, have to find a different name for him.

"Right in the stomach!" he nodded, glancing uncertainly as the untended potato wall collapsed slowly onto the peas.

"Wait on!" Mum demanded. "You said he shot a kite! Tell me again! Why was Cookie bleeding?"

Neville didn't understand that connection either but the question, at last, brought them to the topic he'd wanted to broach all along - about the whole 'born again' thing. He'd begun wondering if maybe animals and such could just partly die and then be born again but stay a little bit of what they were before. That would explain how Cookie could still talk with the birds and feel the strike when one of them was shot. And, in his own mind, it would also explain how scary things like the Things in Under (which no amount of weak denial by Mum could get rid of!) . . . how they came about. Maybe they were mixed up parts of a lot of partly dead, partly alive animals! Like half a bandicoot, but with teeth like a bear and claws that let it climb like a possum and eyes so it could hunt like a cat. The question he asked kind of incorporated a lot of that. Before anyone could answer, though, something - maybe the sudden collapse of his potato wall - had made the Quiet Man begin to shiver uncontrollably and, actually, to cry!

That was when Mum had sent Neville scurrying off to the kitchen to deal with the dirty plates. And it was there, while up to his elbows in soapy froth and contemplating the apparent unanswerability of so many questions, that Neville the Less had looked out the window, seen the lights blink on in Shoomba Territory and given birth to his idea.

### 5. Alone at Sea

The Lightning Bug, as he waded out to it, was snoozing quietly on a calm sea. He sensed it waking, though, as he reached over the gunwale to place the magic cyclone bolt on its deck.

He'd not really wanted that stolen bolt but, "It's your house that it saved in the Great Storm," 'Soon had insisted. "You have to have it and guard it."

So he'd taken it. And when he'd shone his torch out the window, preparing to drop into the darkness without her there to catch him or Ava there to protect him, he'd been more than glad that she'd insisted. Without it, crawling out his window, with the red eyes of the Flying Foxes on him and the Things in Under waiting just out of sight, would've been impossible.

The moment his feet touched the ground he waved it about to make its presence obvious and raced through the enchanted words: La-ila-ilala-Muhammad-rasul-i-Allah. Only then did he dare to shine the torchlight into Under. The shadows of the dead forest leapt back and forth but, as he'd hoped, no Things dared to reveal themselves. Clearly, Neville the Less with magic words and a magic cyclone bolt was a figure to be dealt with much more carefully than Neville the Less on his own, who would surely have been chowed down as an instant snack.

Lightning Bug's anchor came up so easily, it seemed virtually to have swum to the surface on its own and before it had left the water the little ship was swinging off on its self-selected way. So confident was the course, in fact, that Neville (not knowing which way to steer anyhow, there being no night geese to follow) decided to simply assume that together the Bug and the magic of the bolt had his journey safely in hand.

Had anyone been on that sea in the following hours to see the little ship's passing, they might've thought her unmanned. But Neville was there, lying alone and lonely on his back on the deck. He knew that 'Soon had forgiven him enough to have come with him if he'd asked; but he also knew that the answers he was seeking, if he got them, might not be to her liking. And if they were not? Time enough then to risk her witchy displeasure.

Happily, the solitude, the night air and the canopy of stars seemed to give Neville a sense of peace that had not been available to him for some time in the house in Home Country. The coolness, the lightness of the breeze, the sense of space - above and all around - they made him want to breathe deeply, in and in, without ever having to breathe out. He thought that if soldiers could breathe the air like this, they would stop being soldiers, never again wanting to leave even an enemy without the taste and smell of life flowing into them.

At a point, he sensed a diversion in the course, the breeze wafting from a slightly different direction. He sat up and saw the barren outcropping of Holden Rock receding in Lightning Bug's wake. Good, he said out loud. And again, tapping the ship's deck appreciatively with the magic bolt; good for you.

For a time then, he sat with his chin on the gunwale, dreaming and wondering where Ava might be, where Anosh might be and where, as he stared into the ceiling and built his potato walls, the Quiet Man's mind might be. With no answers there, he moved on to wondering at the violence that crawled through the world. The war, wherever and whatever it was; the Things in Under; the shooting of birds, the stealing of children. The building of Follies. And then to say you were sorry and be born again. To start over. To start over. All the while the sea pulsed like a great, slow heart and the little ship aimed itself surely into the darkness and the magic bolt lay still and protective in his arms.

Until finally, unexpectedly, the Lightning Bug drifted to a stop. Neville squinted into the darkness.

"What's happened?" he said aloud.

"I think you've arrived," said a familiar voice from behind. Not loudly, not in a frightening way. Just a warm rumble, like the sound of far, far off thunder. "Or at least," it continued, "your ship thinks you've arrived."

### Ragged Man

Neville turned from port to starboard and saw that it was indeed true. Not three metres of sea separated the Lightning Bug from Apollo Dungeon. And sitting mildly on the Dungeon's edge, like a weathered seal in a dull glow of sourceless light, was the very man he'd come to see - the man who'd pointed after the night geese, not three nights before and who had told him somehow, as he lay dreaming in the banana palm forest, that there was a path. A scorpion was on the man's shoulder, another on his sleeve and dozens more fidgeted around him on the rocks.

"Hello Neville," said the man.

Neville nodded. "Hello, Ragged Man."

They sat studying one another for a long moment, until the Ragged Man decided to say, "Nice boat!"

Neville nodded again. "Nice . . . island!" he said, at which the shoulder scorpion raised a pincer and appeared to whisper in the Ragged Man's ear. The Ragged Man shook his head, picked up the scorpion, popped it into his mouth and, around his crunchy mouthful said, "I see you found your magic bolt."

It wasn't a question but Neville held it up to show anyhow.

"Good one," said Ragged Man. "One o' my favourite storms, that was!" And after a moment, "So, howja go with that Island of Nobodies thing?"

"I . . . I guess we didn't find it. But I got a question."

"Course ye do! Course ye do! Be disappointed if you didn't." He pulled a stick-like leg from his mouth and tossed it into the sea.

"Actually, it might be a few questions."

Ragged Man turned his palms up. "Mate, I got answers I haven't even made up yet."

"Um, it's the Quiet Man, mostly."

"Uh huh?" Ragged Man nodded his head, then shook it, clucked sadly and fell silent, waiting.

"Um, well, you see. Mum says his mind's in a jungle. And so he can't think what to say. And mostly that's right, but then he said 'pyjamas'. And then at dinner he said 'shot a kid'. And at night he hollers out and I think it's about the Things in Under. And then he didn't move his hand when I asked if he had a plan to escape from the jungle and come home. And then he did move his hand - his whole arm actually - to say he needed me 'n' Ava 'n' Soon to help!"

"Yeah? Wow! Strange, eh?"

"Yeah! So I'm thinking that his mind is in a jungle alright, but maybe it's a little bit at home too. Like two places at once maybe. 'Cause sometimes he can say stuff and sometimes he can hear me. And he's got a plan! Even if he can't tell me what it is! And mostly I want to help. But I don't know how."

"Mostly?"

"Well 'Soon - she can channel people, see, and look in their dreams, but I wouldn't let her look in the Quiet Man's, only in Riff's - she says she thinks the part of him that's lost has prob'ly got a secret . . . something awful - maybe about the war. And the part of him that's not lost is too ashamed to want to remember or tell. So he's okay with it being lost."

"Oy! She's a smart one, eh!"

"Yeah, so she says the way to help is to find out what the secret is. Then there'd be no reason for his mind to stay lost and that'd be how we can help him come back together and talk again!"

"Mmm. So you're sayin', if there's a mortifyin' memory out there, you want him to get hold of it and tell you what it is?"

"Um, I don't know. I want him to come home and be like he was again. But I don't want him to have to tell something awful and be ashamed!"

"Ah, I gotcha. So whaddya gonna do?"

"I dunno! Ask you, I guess!"

"Me? Why me?"

"Well, 'cause in the banana palms, you said there was a path. And also, Mister Shoomba says you're prob'ly watching out over the whole neighbourhood. And the invisible world!"

"Oh he says that, does he? An' still he does what he does! Tsk! Interestin'! But alright then, lemme see if I got the facts right. You're thinkin' that maybe your Quiet Man could talk if he wanted, but he doesn't because he's a little bit frightened; and you would if he would, but the fact that he hasn't, has got you so you're not even sure if you should! That it?"

"Um. I guess. Not 'frightened' though. He was a Hero in the war, so not frightened."

"Was he now? A Hero? Well that's a fine thing, innit! My word! Well, your lucky dip answer then is . . . you're right. About the two places at once idea. Seems some folks get to some places that get pinned into a mind so hard they can't be shaken out, dun matter where the rest o' the body goes. 'N' 'Soon's prob'ly right too. 'Bout the bein' ashamed thing. Nothin' chokes the conversation out've a person - even out've a Hero - quite as quick as bein' ashamed!"

"But if it was something to do with the war, like 'Soon says, then it wouldn't be his fault, would it? And he shouldn't be ashamed!"

"Well that makes sense too, dunnit. What if it was a bad thing?"

"Then them who told him to go there should be ashamed!"

"Yep! Yep! Good point! Int'restin' point!"

"So . . . if I find out what the secret is, will he come home again, and talk again?"

"Oh yeah well! He gonna come home alright. One way or another."

"Well . . . if one way is the way I want . . . what's the other way?"

"Now on that, my friend, I can only speculate! But just for instance . . . he might talk an' say a lotta stuff some folks 'ud prefer not to hear!"

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, put yourself in his shoes, Nev'. Imagine finding someone wanderin' around in your head, nosin' about in your secret cupboards. Think ye'd be comfy wi' that? Or would ye maybe be tempted to try shockin' 'em outta there? Maybe by showin' 'em somethin' way more awful in them cupboards than anyone could've expected."

"Oh," said Neville, quite downcast because one of the reasons he'd refused 'Soon's offer to look in the Quiet Man's dreams was exactly that - an inkling of something awfully awful that she might see, that he definitely didn't want anyone to see.

"'S definitely a tricky one," Ragged Man was continuing. "I mean most people got something in 'em they wouldn't want put on show: mostly just petty, mean, nose-pickery sorta stuff. But there's those got true horrors in there, mate. Horrors they'd rather eat a floorboard than risk havin' put on show."

"I'd eat a floorboard . . . before I'd be ashamed of the Quiet Man, or hate him. No matter what!"

"Yeah? Well there's dark and muddled places you ent seen yet, mate. Maybe a peek at his secret'd change your mind."

"No it wouldn't! You don't have to believe me but it wouldn't."

"Nev', I want to believe you. More than you know. Thing is though, the human head is miraculously confusable. Can be in one place, like we said, an' think it's in entirely another! Or totally believe a thing when it feels good an' totally forget it when it doesn't. 'F you wanted to put your faith in somethin' Nev', humanity'd be about your poorest choice!"

"So . . . but he moved his arm - to say he needed help!"

"So he did! An' good son that you are, you're out here, havin' a go! All I'm sayin' is, if he gets a handle on what's irkin' him an' gives ye some more clues . . . it's anybody's guess if you'll still be interested. 'S all I'm sayin'."

Neville fell silent. What sort of stuff could be irking a Hero like Neville the More, so much so that he couldn't even give proper clues on what it was? Unless not giving clues was the actual clue? Because the irksome thing was that he has such a hopelessly disappointing promise-not-to-be-a-soldier son as Neville the Less!

"Okay," huffed Ragged Man. "I can see a miracle o' self-destruction takin' hold in a certain head that's right nearby, an' I'm not enjoyin' the view. Let's move on! I'm a busy hermit, here, an' I ent got eternity up my sleeve."

"Um, well. I guess I really need to know about the Things in Under!"

"Ahh!" Ragged Man's frown flipped over into a broad grin. "Now there's an int'restin' topic!" He scooped half a dozen scorpions onto his lap and shuffled forward until his feet dangled in the sea. "So tell me! You seen 'em?"

Nev' shook his head. "I saw eyes once. But mostly I just hear them - moving the sand and scratching at the dead forest. Always at night. They make Ava's hair stand on end. Or at least they used to before she got lost. And there's a kind of a dip where maybe one sleeps."

"Oo-hoo-hoo!" Waggling his fingers by his ears, monster style. "Weirdy dudes, eh? You scared of 'em?"

Neville, already feeling bad about not being up to the Quiet Man's needs, was about to say, 'Not really.' But then he thought of Ragged Man's view of the invisible world and, "Yes," he had to say. "Real scared. I might not be if I knew what they are. Or what they want. Or even if they're real."

"Awright! And your mum says they're not?"

"She says they're just my imagination. Or animals. We went down once with the torch and they weren't there. I thought maybe they were hiding."

"'Course they were hiding! Your mum's a scary lady! Who else? Anybody else looked?"

"Cookie's mum didn't look but she's born again so I reckon she might know stuff about 'Things' and she says yes they are real. She says they're Evil Lurkers, which is kind of what I thought. And the Quiet Man . . . he doesn't go out, but I hear him shouting in the night sometimes and sometimes it's like, 'It's Under there! Don't move! Don't move!'"

"And so, you think . . . ?"

"So I think he knows they're there. And I think mum's just trying to pretend so I won't be scared, but I am. I'd rather know for sure. So . . . what do you think? Are they real?"

"Oh, real as your leg, Nev'! My word! An' common as toenails which, who d'ye know hasn't got some o' those? Even I useta have a couple in **my** Under! Wa-a-y down deep! Weirdest lookin' contraptions you ever saw! Yep, first trick is to find out who your particular ones belong to; an' what they're waiting on. How long they been there?"

"Um, well, since the Quiet Man came home from the war I guess."

"Ah! There ye go! War Things! Come draggin' their sorry ugly selves back in the QM's luggage! Ye know, if that's the case, you prob'ly aren't even s'posed to know they're there! Yah! Maybe you should just do like yer mum does, an' ignore 'em!"

"I tried but . . . they jus' seem to get worse!"

"Do they? Now that's strange! You been to the war yourself?"

"No. I'm never going to the war. I promised Mum."

"Okay! Alright! So . . . they come back with him, but they're pickin' on you! Why would that be, I wonder?"

"I dunno. But if I could pretend they weren't there, they'd go away?"

"Oh sure! Pretty much! Maybe. Or maybe not! Depends, I s'pose."

Nev' scratched his head. "On what?"

"Well, like I say, partly on whose they really are; an' then partly on what started 'em off! I mean, usually War Things need a War Person to deal with 'em! One o' which, as far as we know, you're not! An' then o' course, there's the little question of how big they are! Like if they're little whoop-dee-do bug-eyed noise makers, then okay, ignorin' 'em might work out for yah! But if they're big pointy, nasty, churn-up-your-thinkin'-apparatus Things - I guess that's a who-o-le different story."

They both glanced into Ragged Man's lap where the scorpions, which had settled into an attentive, listening circle, launched into fits of unhappy hissing.

"Well we don' know which they are, do we?" the Ragged Man said to them, rolling his eyes from side to side. "Sheesh! Just givin' the full picture, for cryin' out loud!"

He tilted his head and winked conspiratorially. "Talk about your little bug-eyed noise makers!"

A couple of pincers were raised in his direction and, "Yeah, yeah," he said, putting out a finger to push them gently down. "Yer terrible to behold, for sure."

And then to Neville, "Anyhow, the big, bad, creepy ones, Nev'. . . ye haven't got many choices. Ye want 'em gone, someone's jus' gotta get in there amongst 'em!"

"Why? What to do?"

"What to do? To find out! Whadda they want? Whadda they signify? What made 'em come there in the first place? What would it take to tame 'em? I mean, sometimes even the dirtiest, worst, most repulsive Things in creation can turn out to be almost tolerable, ye know! If yer willing to risk looking right into their crossed-up old pink an' yellow eyes! But if they're not an' if nobody deals with 'em, they just gonna percolate away down there forever, gettin' worse 'n' worse! Yes sir! Why, I seen folks spend years tryin' to avoid havin' a good hard look at Things; only to turn around and find the whole entirety o' their common sense has been nibbled away!"

The scorpions, apparently pleased with that answer, clacked appreciatively, prompting others across the island to join in, and the Ragged Man, bowing at them from the waist, smiled quite radiantly.

"But what does it mean exactly . . . to 'get in there amongst 'em'?" asked Neville, fearful that he already knew the answer.

"I'm not tellin' ye! No way! Uh-uh! It's big-time risky an' I surely would not recommend it to anyone who has an otherwise option."

"But what is it?"

"Okay awright then! Ye got it outta me! What it is, is to actually go down there into whatever Under is in question, see? It's gotta be alone, without even a torch or a friend or a stick or a Terrier-of-Death - nothin' but yourself. Ye get down there in the bleaky black dark an' ye wait! Wait 'til however many Things there are - there might be a heap of 'em or there might be jus' one horrible big lonely snot-dripper - wait'll they come snifflin' out to see what they can make of ye. 'Til all ye can hear and smell is the snarl and spit and stink and gurgle of 'Thing'! The tooth-gnashin', ear-wigglin', eye-gogglin', bum clenchin' nastiness of 'Thing'. An' ye know what all that is, doncha? All that horribleness? That's fear! Not theirs! Never theirs! It's yours! Your fear! So then ye take a big deep breath an' ye let it sink in! Up your nose an' down your throat 'n' in your ears 'til - if it takes that long - 'til even the fluff in your belly button turns blue! If ye can do that - if ye can know that fear all the way, without runnin' off, ye got it half beat. 'Cause often as not it turns out to be just about stuff that was beyond your imaginin'. Ye know, like the stuff in them secret cupboards we talked about! Stuff ye wouldn' ordinarily believe could happen in the world. So anyways, what ye do then is, when yer all but choked to death on that fear and ye feel that Thing's just about to pounce on ye an' ring yer neck, ye shout out, 'Hey! Don' I know you?'"

"And that's dangerous?"

"Dangerous! Nev', it's like hairs on your head, the number o' people who don't survive it! What it is ye see is, that horribleness - that scariness - that fear - when ye get close to it, it's got kind of a sweet, sticky, liquorice voice that a lotta folks . . . get hypnotised by! It starts whisperin' to 'em, sayin', "Yeah, you **do** know me! I'm the best, most powerful friend you ever can have! You wanna get some respect in this world? You wanna know me even better."

"So lotsa folks can't resist, see? An' pretty soon that meanness an' nastiness an' muscled-up-ness - instead o' them pushin' it away like they should, they pull it in. An' whammo! They look in the mirror one day an' see exactly the 'Thing' they're most afraid of!"

"Waaah!"

"Yep! Crazy, eh? 'Course that's not everybody, don't get me wrong! There's a few - it's possible they can get a whiff of all that horrible blustery scariness an' still be able to think, 'Whoa! That's just not a good way, brother!'"

"What's a good way then?"

"Almost anything, mate. That doesn't involve fear." He sighed deeply. "Seems like a long time since I seen that lesson get learned. Like I say, I'm all but lost me faith."

Neville was shaken by this entire revelation, strange and obtuse as it was. And couldn't help doubting that he'd have the courage to go into Under to confront Things that were made of fear. 'Soon might have it. Ava would definitely have it. Even Beau the Bum would probably have it. But Neville the Less? Never. And anyhow, the really big question wasn't 'Who would go there?' The big question, it seemed, was, 'Who would survive?'

"I don't get it! Why do there have to be Things at all? Ugly horrible Things and even war an' shooting an' pirates an' big walls like the Folly an' mean people?"

Ragged Man looked around wistfully at the barren outcropping that was his home, and sighed.

"Mate! That part o' the invisible world cannot be explained. It just is. Ridin' along the path beside us. The only question worth considerin' is, what's the best part o' the path to walk, to get around it!"

"What is the best part?"

"Now how could an old raggedy man like me know that, Nev'? Might be able to come to a thought about here," gesturing around him, "but figuring it out for your side o' the water, that's your job. Look around, ask around, think it over. One thing I can tell you is, there's an awful lot ridin' on you findin' a strategy."

At which one of the scorpions from his lap scrambled up his shirt front, hissing and clacking its pincers. Ragged Man picked it off and swung it toward his open mouth. Then he stopped, gave it a sideways look and put it back on his lap. To Neville's questioning glance, he said, "I only eat the liars. Can't abide me a liar."

Something about him, Neville noticed, seemed to be fading, as though the stars might soon be visible right through him. As though, if this was the only story to tell, a Ragged Man might as well simply save himself the effort.

"Right," he said, and even his voice suddenly seemed tired and hollow. "There's a lot goes on around here ye know, 'n' for all the good it does, I am the only one keepin' watch. You got what you come for?"

It was Neville's last chance.

"Um! My mum says there's no such place as an invisible world!"

"Does she? Well, she's got her story. An' you 'n' me, we got ours, eh?""Why would she say it though?"

"Have a guess."

"Um. Maybe . . . she just doesn't want me to know?"

"Bingo! And why not?"

"Um. Because there might be stuff there that . . . is too scary?"

"Oh? Any idea of a 'for instance'?"

And Neville thought of the Things in Under. And he thought of 'Soon's desperate search for signs of her lost brother. And he thought of the Quiet Man's secret. And he thought of his own fear that the Quiet Man might not want, ever again, to be father to Neville the Less.

Ragged Man waited a long moment, until the nature of Neville's answer was clearly registered on his face.

Then, "It's all about fear, isn't it Nev'. Not knowing. Keep that tucked away in some invisible world an' . . . ye might be able to hang onta yer hope. That's the most important thing of all."

"But what if there isn't any hope?"

There really was a star visible now, right through the middle of Ragged Man's head.

"What if there is? Imagine that there is. Just waiting to be found."

These were not useful answers. Certainly not ones he'd envisioned when, while staring out the window above the sink-full of dishes, he'd seen Shoomba's lights come on and been reminded of the mystical sea that lay between there and Home.

"I heard you in the banana palms. You said there was a path. I thought you'd be able to help."

"Didja? What, point it out to ye, ye mean? Start ye off on it? Howja know I haven't done that?"

A pair of scorpions skittered to the edge, to stare across the little strait of water that separated them from the Lightning Bug. On their way, they passed right through Ragged Man without seeming to realise he was there. He put his hand down to cover them and they ran through his bones as if they were air. His chest had become little more than a grey smokiness and his voice, when it came, was as thin and crinkly as rice paper.

"Doin' a bad thing," it whispered. "an' bein' ashamed of it, Nev' - that's not so awful. What's way worse is doin' a bad thing an' not bein' ashamed of it. Refusin' to see it! That's the worryin' one."

And then, his last words: "Gets lonely in these little boats, don' it? Maybe that's a place to start."

And with that, the Ragged Man was gone, as surely as was the Great Storm that'd once lifted the Home Country house from its foundations. Other sounds washed in; the whisper of the sea and the faint hiss and clack of the scorpions. Neville actually thought he heard some faint words embedded in them: 'Soon's name and 'The Folly' and maybe something about Ava. And 'a strategy'! Get a strategy! He tried to listen - tried to pay attention. But it was all too faint and indistinct and confusing.

And, distractingly, there was the pair of scorpions that'd run through Ragged Man. They seemed almost to be arguing. Then wrestling. Which resulted in one flattening out the long, coiled spring of its tail, while the second positioned itself over the barb.

Both fixed their tiny black eyes directly on Neville and he found himself unable to pull his own gaze away. The legs of the bottom one jittered this way and that. Until suddenly the flattened tail snapped back into its curl, catapulting the top scorpion, a small, black, flailing mass, across the water and straight onto the bones that only just managed to keep Neville's heart from bursting out of his chest. He gasped, jumped, swiped, fell, hit his head and the whole of Apollo Dungeon, along with the consciousness of Neville the Less, disappeared from view.

### 6. Sharing the Lesson

Neville's dream took him on a meandering search, back through the dark forest to the silhouetted hilltop from which people had waved him goodbye. It **was** lonely. He wanted them to come back - all of them - whoever they were. Instead, what did come back, flying into his face, was the widening vision of a flailing, pincer-clacking scorpion. It came out of the darkness, in slow-motion, and he knew before it was close enough to see, that it would have a human face. In the dream he prepared himself for it to be the pinched little fox-face of Beau the Bum or the chubbily fluberous face of Mister Shoomba. But it was neither of those. It was, unbelievably, the face (or rather **a** face) of the Quiet Man, teeth bared, the evil black barb hanging like a bayonet above cruelly purposeful eyes. The recognition jolted Neville straight out of bed and onto his feet.

He gawped and reeled into a room that was already occupied, by a boy in sweat-damp pyjamas; a boy whose mouth was twisted in panic, whose eyes dripped terror beneath a white, head-hugging bandage. For an instant Neville thought a stranger had sneaked up on him in the forest and touched him awake. And then, recognition. It was himself. He was back in his room again, framed by the backwards image of his own mirror.

He drew a shuddering breath and started to call for Ava before remembering. She would not be there. She was lost somewhere in the surrounding lands. He looked for the magic cyclone bolt and, amazingly, it **was** there, leaning as casual as a tramp in a corner. One hand reached for it, the other went to the latest throbbing goose egg on the back of his head, and before either hand made contact, the floor lurched away, leaving him on hands and knees, clinging to the vinyl. He lowered himself the rest of the way, pressing his cheek to the floor for the coolness. He'd been in the Lightning Bug, at Apollo Dungeon. There'd been a scorpion. Now he was home. How had that happened?

A small circle of words bobbed on the surface of his mind, like a life ring from a sunken wreck: 'Refusing to see. That's the worrying one.' But what was there to see? Perhaps if he looked now, again, more carefully, he'd see that conditions at Home Country had altered - or even improved. He slithered through the dizzily spinning pantry to the edge of the kitchen, there to secretly assess the condition of the new morning.

In the lounge room, the Quiet Man was lying as usual on the couch, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling floorwards where, in other times, the damp comfort of a terrier's tongue might have waited. So no change there. Out the back door, however, a sight he'd not seen before. A variety of matching Shoombas slowly circled one another in the big veranda chair, each noisily and identically sipping tea and munching biscuits. Unseen, Neville squinted, closed one eye, then the other and finally pressed his cheek to the cold floor.

'That's different!' he thought.

It was so different, in fact, that he was a little panicked. If 'Soon was right about Mister Shoomba (and the possibility had not yet been eliminated) then there was a potential pirate of a neighbour relaxing and sipping tea on the Home Country veranda! Did Mum know? Did anyone know? Shouldn't someone be shooing him away?

And then, as though they'd all suddenly heard this thought, the revolving Shoombas condensed themselves into one, which clunked down its tea cup and began to grizzle.

"Arp arp arp! 'At's right! 'At's what'll I'll do then!"

The big chair creaked with gratitude, a board on the veranda floor popped and, as quick as that, Shoomba was on his feet and moving toward the screen door, behind the base-plate of which, lay Neville's already damaged and bandaged noggin. In exactly the place where, if he didn't get fallen on, he would surely at least be stepped on. It was like a trap had come to his home to catch him while his head was too confused to escape and, in one more second, it would leave him lifeless on the floor. Mum would find what was left of him, crushed to juice, lying half in the pantry, half in the kitchen.

'What's happened here?' she'd ask and Shoomba would say: 'Sorry, love, I've squashed your little Neville. That wet spot there is all that's left.' And, 'Jeepers!' she'd answer, just like Beau and Hayley's mum once would've: 'Well I guess there'll be fewer of us for breakfast tomorrow then!'

Even as this scenario was flashing through his mind, the huge paw of Shoomba landed on the door's handle and set the rail in front of Neville's face to rattling. Too quick, too late for Neville to react with anything but limpness and resignation. The end was at hand.

The door, though, at the moment that it should have opened, didn't. All became still. Then the handle snicked back into place and the veranda boards creaked again, clear evidence that Shoomba was backing away toward the edge of the veranda!

"Wharr!" Neville heard him rumble a second time, followed by, "Wassat? Stinkin' Shaggy Little Bitch come back? Eh? Zat you? Arrr?"

Neville fancied he could hear the click of eyeballs as Shoomba studied the back yard. There was the sniffing sound of a man tasting the air and the Ragged Man's description came back to him: 'one horrible big lonely snot-dripper, sniffling out to look ye over.' It was exactly the incentive he needed.

By the time Shoomba'd contented himself and returned to the door, Neville was back in his bed, tucked under the sheet, with only the tuft of hair above his bandage left to show it was really him. He listened tremulously to the snort of disdain Shoomba directed into the living room. He jumped when the tea cup clattered against the metal drain board. He held his breath as the footfalls approached his room and he bit his tongue when, through the weft of the sheet, he saw his bedroom door ease open.

Nothing could then have tempted Neville to move; certainly not Shoomba's tricky needle of a question: "Ye right?"

The shadow lingered a long snuffling moment in the doorway, until finally issuing forth a surprisingly mean assessment: "Ahhrr! Woman's way too good for you pair!"

And then, though Neville prayed fervently that it would leave, the shadow emitted a different sound again, a grunt of recognition. And instead of backing out, it stepped all the way into the room.

"Ahh!" it smiled, slick as a pickpocket, leaning to inspect the magic cyclone bolt. "So ye got it in here have ye! Little thief! Wouldn' let go of it las' night, wouldja? Glued to yer fingers las' night, wun' it? My word! Not jus' the ol' Lightnin' Bug yer makin' free with, is it, eh?" He leaned close to the sheet and whispered darkly, "Places in the world . . . they wrap stealers in sacks 'n' drop 'em in the river. D'ja know that?"

Neville was terrified. He imagined that the pounding of his heart must surely be setting the sheet over his head to flapping like a flag. Why wasn't Mum here, to order Shoomba back into the kitchen and out of the house? Or Ava, to bark blue murder and maybe amputate his big fat leg? Or even 'Soon, to slam the heels of her hands against the great belly and frighten the wrinkles out've him with a witcherly spell? Even Beau the Bum would be welcome to wander in with his air rifle if it would send Shoomba reeling off - preferably minus his weener or dying of an arse pellet. Someone! Please! Anyone!

But there was no one. He was alone; 'lonely in that little boat' were the Ragged Man's last clear words, and how true they were! And how wrong the feeling was!

It seemed an age until, through the thin crosshatch of the sheet and the narrowest slit of eyes he saw the Shoomba-shadow step back, having apparently decided, for the moment, to leave the magic bolt in place. The shadow dragged its wig from its head, used the shag of it to wipe its brow then turned to the mirror and arranged the damp thatch back on its noggin.

"Bolt's still mine, but!" it muttered to itself in the glass. "Can't give sump'm an' just take it back, no way!"

And then, finally, it went, shuffling out through the pantry to the back door. Before it exited the house, though, it floated a final sneer over its shoulder - a sneer Neville was certainly meant to hear: "Sacks in the river for both o' yez, if I'm asked! Hopeless pair o' Nevilles!"

Footsteps sounded across the veranda, down the stairs and he was gone. He was gone but still, in the ensuing silence, Neville remained frozen, as quiet as a worm beneath his sheet. He could not have moved even if a new scorpion had crawled into his ear and shouted his name. Even his tears were too frightened to fall. Because after all, really, though he'd hoped for change, he would never have wanted it to be one that allowed Shoomba to drink tea and clump about in Home Country! The only thing in him that tasted remotely of something other than fear was the thought of that mean thing Shoomba had said: 'Hopeless Nevilles'.

Okay, maybe he could say that about Neville the Less. But not about Neville the More! Not ever about Neville the More. Neville the More was a soldier and a Hero who - even if he had secrets whose eyes no one was allowed to look into - had a plan! A plan that would bring his mind home, safe and whole again, through all the dangers of the world. And then he would put Home Country and all the neighbourhood back to rights! And when that day happened, Shoomba would think at least three times before making remarks about rivers and hopeless Nevilles!

* *

Neville was, of course, clinging to an interpretation of what the Ragged Man seemed to have said. The Quiet Man's mind would make it home, was one thing - probably - one way but hopefully not another. If only it could keep from getting swallowed up by the nastiness of the Things that'd come home with the rest of him from the war. Or something like that.

And he had definitely said that the Things could be gotten rid of! And if **they** could be gotten rid of, then surely so could Shoomba! All you had to do was be brave enough to not get hypnotised by them - or him. It was all part of the same problem, really - the Things in Under, the Quiet Man's mind being lost and Shoomba's scornful dismissals. All part of the same thing. Probably.

The problem, of course, was that it was all so complicated. Every time he thought he had all the bits nearly in order, they ran around and mixed themselves up again, which on this morning made his already bumped and aching head hurt more and start spinning faster. He cast his mind back to Apollo Dungeon and those final sea-and-scorpion whispered words. Something about a place to start. 'Soon and Ava. The Folly. A strategy.

He sorted them and pushed them about and almost, he thought, got them into sensible order before he was distracted and they once again scattered. The distraction was a tickle, whisking across the tips of the tufts of hair that stuck out above his bandage! His heart jumped up and his muscles froze, all but those in his eyes, which jittered about frantically. Sure enough, there was another shadow! But this time, not the looming, sneering one of Shoomba. This time it was the small and oh-so-wonderful one of Afsoon Rahimi!

"Come out of there," it whispered urgently. And he did, straightaway, without so much as a skerrick of hesitation.

"Did you see him?" he croaked.

"Yes! He's gone home for something I think. But I'm sure he'll come back. Is there room under your bed?"

"He came in here, 'Soon! Into the house! Into my room! I don't know where Mum is!"

"I do. She's going 'round the neighbours to tell about you - that you been sneaking out in the night, twice now. She'll be ages. Raff is forcing peppermint tea into her for her nerves. Then when she gets to Cookie Camp, she'll have to pray with Mrs Hughes 'cause Mrs Hughes thinks you're being abused. I heard her tell Raff this morning. When I heard what you did, I sneaked over here and hid in the Lilly-pilly, right under Shoomba's big, shiny nose! He almost sniffed me out but when he looked at me, I made him think I was a little stump. He's s'posed to be keeping an eye on you. He said he would, so he'll come back for sure! I think he wants to know what you're finding out when the Lightning Bug takes you! Why did you go without me! Did you go looking for Ava? Did you find the pirates?" And, lightly touching his bandage, "Did they attack you?"

He threw the sheet off and got unsteadily to his feet.

"I went to ask the Ragged Man on Apollo dungeon. About the Things and the Quiet Man! And he told me . . . he told me you were right all along, 'Soon! C'mon. I think I got an idea!"

### Contact

"And so the Ragged Man said maybe you were a little bit frightened but I said no, you weren't frightened, you were a Hero and he said yeah, but sometimes even heroes have Things they aren't brave enough to look at. And he reckons probably the Things in our Under are that kind of thing, from the War maybe, and that's sort of what 'Soon said too! He said they're prob'ly only to do with you, not me or mum or Ava, so I should prob'ly ignore them but if I can't, and if you can't either, then they'll keep on being there until they kind of get their way or something.

"So I said what if I don't ignore them and he said that might be very dangerous and could give them a chance to get bigger and be more! But he said maybe that's why you wouldn't tell me your plan, because heroes know it's not fair to let other people do dangers that they don't really want to do themselves, so they just keep all their Things locked up, even though that means the Things keep the Heroes locked up as well.

"So first I thought, Okay, I'm only a kid and I get very scared so I wouldn't be able to do much anyhow and you prob'ly know that but before Ragged Man faded away, he said, 'Don't be lonely!' So then I thought of Ava and 'Soon 'cause they're both real smart and brave and are my best friends. And 'Soon's been to your same War and she already said, even before Ragged Man, that if we knew more about your secret 'n' stuff then you might come properly home and even though you might feel real bad about that . . . I hope you wouldn't. An' then maybe you'd know how to help 'Soon get Anosh back. And that might make her feel better and maybe you too!

"This is 'Soon here, if you don't remember. So anyhow . . . I decided. To chase them away."

* * *

The story had tumbled out of Neville like water out of a bucket and 'Soon had bathed in it in wide-eyed silence. If the Quiet Man had noticed any of it, however, he'd kept the fact hidden behind his arm. At least until the mention of 'Soon and Anosh and her having been at his war. When he told that part, the Quiet Man raised his arm. His eyes flickered about the room, like moths looking for a light; until eventually, they fell on 'Soon. And then they steadied. Until, without taking his eyes from her, he croaked, "Esme shoma chist?" And 'Soon, wide-eyed, took a step back.

"Afsoon," she whispered. "Afsoon Rahimi."

"Afsoon! Koja zendegi mikonid, Afsoon?"

"Aya," she said, pointing a trembling finger toward Rahimi Island.

"Aya englisi parsi sohbat mikonid?"

"Yes. I speak English. My family . . . we are Australians now."

"Oh." He looked about the room blankly, his eyes pausing not at all on Neville the Less. Then, "You're here now?"

"Yes. We came on a boat."

"On a boat?"

He pressed his hands to his face, fingertips digging in across his forehead, and Neville turned his eyes to Afsoon. She shook her head lightly, knowing the questions, but hardly a single one of the answers.

"It's Dari!" she whispered. "The language of Riff and Raff; from Afghanistan!"

Neville was once again flummoxed. He'd hoped, of course, that the Ragged Man's story would provoke the Quiet Man to speech - to make him maybe pop up and say, 'No! You can't put yourself in danger for me!' But for him to speak this way made no sense! If he knew that they understood the Thing-problem and the danger of confronting them. . . and were willing to help anyhow . . . what did it mean that he started talking this other language? Was it part of what happened when a person's mind was lost? Did they forget even things like what language to speak; what things they needed; maybe even who they were?

Inspirationally, Neville thought of the photo, taken back when Neville the More was just newly The Hero. It showed him in his soldier's uniform, being presented with his medal, and the actual medal was also captured there, inset into a panel on the photo's edge. Neville lifted it from the shelf and, touching the Quiet Man's arm said, "This is who you are."

It was, of course, an assurance as much for himself as for The Quiet Man and it seemed for a moment to be working. The Quiet Man's arm still hung in the air but he squinted, like a person really trying to remember. He studied the photo, looked a question at Neville and then, without warning became, in a startling second, the creature from Neville's nightmare - the scorpion with the face of a man - teeth bared, eyes cruel and purposeful, the hand hanging like a barb above his head.

"Gom Shoo!" he rasped at 'Soon. "Pedar sag! Madar jende! Gom shoo!"

'Soon gasped and stumbled back. Her mouth juddered open and closed, and tears filled her eyes. She backed all the way to the door, her little fists clenched before her.

"Shoma ra cheh mishavad?" she cried. "What's wrong with you?"

And without waiting for an answer, she fled.

It was all Neville could do not to chase after her.

"What . . . ? What did you say?"

The face was blank again, the arm descending once more to cover the eyes. "I told her to go home. And you . . . leave me alone."

When Mum came home, having excused herself from Mrs Hughes's prayers and none to subtle accusations of child abuse, she found the photo of her Hero on the floor in the hall, torn behind smashed glass. And though she looked and looked, her hero's medal was nowhere to be found.

### Resolve

There was, after that encounter, only one real need in Neville's mind. And that was to find and soothe Afsoon. For all their sakes. Because first of all, if Neville felt sorry for anyone tackling Ava, the Terrier-of-Death, he felt equally fearful for anyone provoking the mind-scouring retribution of the pre-Amazonian witch that was Afsoon Rahimi. Which the Quiet Man . . . all unknowing . . . had almost certainly done.

But secondly, and even more importantly, what would happen if Riff found her weeping and she told of some terrible curse The Quiet Man had directed at her? He might come raging in defence of his daughter, bringing his own nightmare of killing experience to mix with that of the Quiet Man! And then what? Perhaps the war would be on again! And if it started here in Home Country, where could anyone go to escape it?

* * *

She wasn't in the Lilly-pilly fort. Nor was she in the banana palm forest or the animal house. She wasn't in the mango tree look-out, or in any other possie that he could see from up there. He was coming to the terrible conclusion that she had indeed gone home. Which meant that there was nothing for it but for Neville to go there, to put himself before Riff and beg for understanding for the Quiet Man. And also to put himself before Afsoon and beg her not to give up on their freshly renewed alliance.

He tried to marshal arguments but only one seemed to fit and that was that, without her, finding the secrets that would bring the Quiet Man's mind home, finding what had become of Anosh and freeing Ava from whatever dire happenstance had imprisoned her - all that would be impossible. Without the two of them working together the placid unity of Home Country, Rahimi Island, Shoomba Territory, Boogerville and Cookie's Corner - maybe even the Duchy - would be left spinning chaotically, like a top creeping toward the edge of a great table. A fall would come if they were not united in their efforts to stop it. Neville was manfully bound for Rahimi Island, to try to explain this when an unexpected voice stopped him in the banana palm forest.

"Ssssst!" it hissed. "Noodle! C'mere!"

It was Beau the Bum, lying nearly flat on the ground in a particularly dense concentration of stalks. His pellet gun lay beside him.

"Why are you lying on the ground, Beau?"

"Camouflage, dipstick! Get down! I don' want anyone to know I'm here."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause if nobody sees me, nobody can blame me. Get it? Now get down!"

He grabbed Neville's arm and dragged him, unresisting, to the ground. In a way, Neville was grateful because, even though Beau the Bum was a bum, a few more moments to steel himself against the sadness of 'Soon or the wrath of Riff were not unwelcome.

"You find yer mutt?" Beau asked when they were comfortably settled to left and right of the gun.

"Not yet. But she's a Terrier-of-Death. Whoever . . . whatever's got her . . . I wouldn't want to be them."

"Okay look! I was gonna offer to go searchin', but if that's the way it is . . .! Look, Noodle. That little sheila's in the chokos. She can't be there."

"'Soon? She's in the chokos?"

He nodded. "Cryin'. I told her to get out but she yelled some kinda jibbery thing at me - sounded like swearin'. An' she chucked a choko. Them things . . . ye could kill a black dog wi' one o' them chokos! You go get her out."

It was, without doubt, exactly what Neville most wanted to do. Even despite the prospect of swearing and the chucking of chokos.

"I'll owe ye a favour, Noodle. Honest. I'm good for it, okay? Just get her out!"

* * *

The first choko missed him by a mile. The second thudded into the ground like an iron shot-put, directly at his feet.

"I hate him!" she howled. "And I hate you! And I wish I **could** go home! Stupid country!"

"I don't want you to go," Neville sniffled, choking back his own tears. "Look! I brought you something!"

"I don't want it! Leave me alone! What is it?"

"His medal, see? I took it. I smashed the glass and took it!"

Her hands as she reached for it, were so small, her nails dark and shiny.

"Look, see?" he pointed out. "Afghanistan. That's what it says. But on the back it's just got the emu and kangaroo. It doesn't say it's for a hero. I always thought it would say that, but it doesn't." And though it hurt him deeply to be the one to say it, it was important that it be said, "'Soon, I don't think he's a Hero at all!"

She sniffled into her sleeve, mopping up tears and nose-drip and, "What did he say to you?" Neville asked gently.

She shook her head, looked at him fiercely and, spitting on the ground, held the medal out for him, dangling it from its stripy ribbon.

"I don't want it," she said.

"Okay," he answered. "Me neither. I don't want it either."

So she put it on the ground between them and they sat quietly, side by side, looking out through the green foliage, past the chokos that were almost as big as heads and that could sometimes seem like they were looking back at you because the souls of dead Boogerville kids were in them. Beyond the green curtain, Hayley's decrepit bus and Beau the Bum slouched against one another, waiting to take possession once again of their yard.

"If you did go back - back to Refugee Camp or Afghanistan," Neville said, "I'd go with you. I wouldn't want to stay here where there's liars."

She pulled her knees up and pressed her face into them.

"I wish Ava was here," Neville said after a bit.

"Me too. And Anosh. I wish they were both here."

"Things'd be better, wouldn't they?"

"Way better. Wa-ay better."

In the yard Beau raised his pellet gun rifle and aimed it into the chokos where they were sitting. "Doosh! Doosh! Doosh!" they heard him mutter before lowering it back to the ground.

"Stupid boys," she muttered. "Stupid weener-heads. It's all guns and shooting. They're why everything's all wrong."

"Me 'n' Cookie 'n' Robert - we don't have guns!"

"You will. Someday you will. And you'll all be soldiers and go off and be glad there are wars to fight and people to make frightened of your big scary selves!"

"Not me! I'm not ever going to be in a war. I promised Mum. And I promise you too!"

She looked at him askance and sleeved her nose a second time.

"Really?"

"Really! You can . . . !" He'd been about to invite her into his head, to see how resolved he was, but he stopped himself at the last moment. Because what if, as the Ragged Man had intimated, there were unrecognised lies of his own lurking somewhere there? Then he would surely lose 'Soon forever. "I bet Anosh wouldn't either," he finished softly. "I bet he wouldn't even be a pirate if he could stop. I bet he'd just want to . . . find something just ordinary to be."

She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, grinding out the last of her tears.

"I don't want to be ordinary. Not ever." She turned over the medal; the mountains of Afghanistan on one side, the emu and kangaroo on the other. "Which one do you think is me?"

He began rocking, tapping his head lightly again and again, against one of the head-sized chokos. Everything was so confusing and bad - the Quiet Man not being Dad or even a Hero any more; the Rahimis having to ride on a boat from Refugee Camp and having to lose Anosh to the pirates; the Duke hating Riff and building his Folly; someone stealing Ava and Beau the Bum shooting the heads off drunken parrots and Shoomba seeming to be Mum's friend but saying 'hopeless Nevilles'!

Something has to change, he thought to himself. But how? The Ragged Man had said such confusing things. Fear is what feeds wrong things, he said. Don't put up with it, he said. Imagine there to be hope.

'Soon looked at him through red-rimmed eyes that were full of sorrow. "What?"

He'd said the words aloud: Imagine there to be hope. He'd thought the Ragged Man had given him no useful answers. But suddenly, the thing that he'd known that morning, before 'Soon'd dragged him from his bed, he knew again.

The Quiet Man was scared of Things that had followed him home from the War. Scared they might get inside him! That was why he'd lost himself in the jungle! To hide from them! And he couldn't ask for help because . . . because he was ashamed of being scared!

"I still have to do it," he said to 'Soon. "Get rid of the Things in Under. That's the place to start!"

"You can't go by yourself," she said. "I will go with you."

"No, 'Soon. Ragged Man said I had to go alone - that they wouldn't come out for someone they don't belong to!"

"Why would they come out for you then Neville? If he's right, only the Quiet Man should be able to go! And he won't!"

Somehow the false hero's medal had come back into Neville's hand. He gave her his levelest look; one that he hoped would disguise the fear already bubbling up in him. "No. But I'm the next, aren't I. I'm the next Neville. And I can hear them, so they have something to do with me. I don't know what, but I have to be the one! And once they're gone . . . he'll come back! And he'll be able to tell us about the red dust and help chase the pirates and Shoomba'll stay away and we'll get Anosh and Ava back and everything'll be fixed!"

* * *

She didn't believe him, at first. Not even that he'd have the courage to try. But she was quickly mesmerised by his self-encouraging explanation of how their problems would melt away. If the Things had Ava (he said) it would be just the help she needed to break free. And if the War Things were gone the Quiet Man would also be free. Which would mean that Home Country would be back to normal! After which they (Neville and Ava and 'Soon, with the help of the Quiet Man, who would be a Hero again) could turn their minds properly to Shoomba and the Duke and the pirates and the Folly and Anosh.

By the time he'd finished, 'Soon's old animation was almost restored. So much so that she'd allowed, even encouraged Beau's joining in to help make a plan. The first obstacle, for example, to 'getting amongst' the Things was that it had to be at night, because after dark was the time they liked to come out.

"Spotlights!" Beau boomed. "I can get 'em! And guns! Real guns, if ye like!"

'Soon looked at him darkly and Neville, with his recent promise still ringing in his ears, knocked the offers firmly back.

"No. They won't come out if there are lights. Or guns. The big problem," he said, "is that it might get very noisy. I mean noisy enough for Mum to hear. And if she does, she'll come to see and fetch me upstairs and the Things'll hide 'til she's gone. And then it won't have worked!"

It was the basic practicality of that thought that finally convinced 'Soon of his determination.

"What if Beau and me were there, waiting in the darkness? When she comes to fetch you, we could take your place. First me, then Beau, one after the other. So if the second one fails, the third one might be enough to chase them!"

To Beau's great relief, Neville was unsure.

"I don't know if they'd stay for you. They don't know you. It's me and the Quiet Man they know. I bet I could take the magic cyclone bolt though! 'Cause it belongs to the house so maybe they won't recognise it!" (He would, he thought, have to get home very soon and hide that bolt before Shoomba returned to claim it.) "The real problem is to think of a way to get Mum to go out! But she won't. Not at night. Not without leaving someone to watch us - 'specially after me going off other times in the Lightning Bug."

"Hayl's!" Beau exclaimed. "We need Hayl's! She's cunning as a rat! Wait here!"

In short order he'd fetched his sister from the Boogerville house, the four of them had shifted into the bus and, true to Beau's promise, Hayley was demonstrating just how dexterous rat-cunning could be.

### 7. A Penny for Your Medal

The good news when Neville got home was that Mum was back in the house. The bad news was that so too was Shoomba and together they were standing in the hall, discussing the ruins of the picture frame.

"Cryin' shame, Love," Shoomba was saying. "You workin' like a navvy here! Keepin' life 'n' limb together. An' here's your thanks, eh! Here's your thanks."

"I don't know, Dennis. Maybe it just fell!"

"Yeah, yeah - course it did. Maybe that nail jumped outta it's hole an' straight back in again. Or maybe that hangin' wire crawled up an' threw itself off. Or might be one o' them 'Underpants Things' young fella goes on about got wind of a Hero on the premise an' decided to make comment."

Even Neville could hear the implied ridicule and was glad to hear the warning note rise in Mum's voice.

"Dennis . . . !"

The tone was one Neville knew well but Shoomba, sensing the coming-apartness of Home Country, had grown recklessly confident.

"Now now!" he boomed. "Truth between friends, Love, 'at's all I'm sayin'! Better to hit them ol'facts face on than have 'em creepin' around behind ya, ye know what I mean? Bad 'nough your older bloke's at the bottom of his game without young fella goin' off his rails too. 'At's all I'm sayin'. Ye deserve better, Love. 'At's all I'm sayin'."

On another day, Nev' would've shipped out straight away - gone off to hide his shame at being 'off the rails'. But not today. Today he wasn't ashamed. Nor was he off the rails. Today he was a boy with new clarity and a new strategy that had those rails right firmly under his feet. It was a day which would see the end of either himself or the foul beings that stood between the Quiet Man and his journey home, and neither Shoomba nor Mum nor any level of shame they could press on him would be enough to daunt him.

"Neville!" Mum's rant began the moment he stepped into the room. "Where've you been? And what on earth has happened here? Did you do this? This frame . . . it cost me nearly a hundred dollars to get this picture framed! And now look at it! It's ruined! And the medal! I can't find the medal anywhere! Your father risked his life for that medal, mister, and you better pray it's not lost! You . . . who's supposed to be in bed, recovering! From a **second** smack to the head! Not sneaking off on your silly fantasy adventures! Not wandering the neighbourhood! There's to be no more of that, d'you understand? Not in the daytime, not in the night time! Not anytime, ever again! Not unless I specifically tell you to go! Understand? What if you had a concussion and collapsed somewhere and I couldn't find you? Or you fell out've a tree? Or you collapsed in Rahimi's pond and drowned? Eh? Did you think of any of that? Did you think what would happen then?"

She paused for breath and Shoomba jumped in. "Only stepped out for a minute meself! Get some neighbourly precautions under way! Wouldna let him go if I'd been here. No way! No sir! Wouldna got past me!"

And then Mum again. "D'you hear that, Neville? Mister Shoomba was kind enough to give up part of his day to sit with you - after finding you **again** in his yard, in that silly boat, in the middle of the night!"

"Now now, Love," Shoomba interjected again, patting her arm. "Toldja I'd keep an eye out, an' I did. Man's no better'n his word, 'at's what I always say. No need for thanks."

"D'you hear that? 'No better than his word!' That's what a man is, Neville! Not someone who says one thing then goes off and does the opposite! You gave me your word not to go off, didn't you! Yes you did, don't deny it! And I believed I could count on you, but no! Just half an hour, I'm gone! Half an hour that I should be spending here, looking after your father, but instead I'm out trying to tee-up the neighbours to **also** keep an eye out for you! And what do you do? You let me down! You take advantage! You sneak off . . . again! It's too much, Neville! I can't deal with you turning crazy on me! Not on top of everything else! Do you hear me? I can't deal with it! It's got to stop!"

Tears tumbled from her eyes then and, with a last flutter of her hands, she fled to her bedroom, leaving Nev' alone with the hulking neighbour, the brooding Quiet Man, the broken glass and the absence of the medal. And every one of her questions unanswered. Shoomba stared after her. Then swung his shifty attention, first to the shattered frame and then to Neville the Less.

"Medals," he said.

"I don't think I gave my word," Neville mumbled.

"Coulda had a trunk load of 'em meself," Shoomba boasted. "Over the years, ye know? Services rendered. But did I wan' 'em? No sir! 'Cause whadda they mean, eh? All stuffed wi' them foreign sayin's: 'Bona Fide Inertia,' 'Post Mortem Per Capitum'. Whatever. Run 'em off by the hundredweight, they do. Thousands - outta leftover bits o' aluminium foil! Didja know that? Not worth a pea in a pod! No sir! Keep your medals, says I. Let me be a no-medal man who stays on his feet an' keeps his word, that's what I say. Stays on his feet an' keeps his word. That's the true measure."

A sly, self-satisfied smirk had parked itself on his face like a smear of butter. He pushed his wig back an inch, the better to show his bobbing eyebrows, and gesturing toward the Quiet Man, said, "See there what I mean? Flat out an' not a word at all, let alone one worth keepin'! Some's up to it, ye see, an' some jus' burns out! Medal don't save ye if yer one o' them! Eh? Uh? You bet! I seen hundreds fall by the wayside, mate, jus' like your ol' man. Not me though." He waggled his toes, openly pleased with himself. "Still on me feet, me. Still dancin'."

He started toward the door but turned at the last minute. "Oh, an' speakin' o' dancin'. I'm expectin' to see me iron bar danced back to me pretty smartly, eh? An' don' leave it too long, neither. Wouldn' wanna burden yer ma with tales o' stealin', would we!"

* * *

The rest of the day passed. Neville cleaned up the glass as best he could and propped the broken frame with its scrunched picture on the table. He made himself a vegemite sandwich and then, because it seemed right, made two more. One, he placed on the coffee table next to the Quiet Man, the other he placed on the bedside table beside Mum. Both parents lay with their backs to him. Neither acknowledged him.

How lonely can you be in your own house? He wanted Ava to be there with him. He wanted to talk more with 'Soon about the plan. He wanted desperately to tell Mum that she was wrong about the Things in Under; that they were real and terrible and far more important than any medal; that it was them who were inflicting nightmares on the Quiet Man and that if Neville the More was going to be brought fully home, (which Neville was committed to achieving, despite Shoomba's assurance that it could never happen), then those Things had to be faced up to and gotten rid of. He wanted to reassure her; to tell her all would be well: because, finally, he had a strategy that was going to start the process of fixing everything. Even if it killed him.

Neville also wanted to tell the Quiet Man that he didn't hate him for not being a Hero. If the medal had **said** it was for being a Hero, he probably wouldn't have taken it and he certainly wouldn't have left it abandoned in the chokos. But in this one thing at least, Shoomba had been right: what was the purpose of any kind of medal if it meant a person had to hide his mind in a jungle; or that whatever he did to get it meant Riff and Raff Rahimi had to drown men in red dust and ride in a boat and lose Anosh to pirates? And in one other thing, Shoomba'd also been right: that if anything was to be done, it would need to be done by someone who was still on his feet.

Neville actually did, in the spirit of honesty, say much of that to the unresponsive Quiet Man, fairly certain he'd be free from all reproach. And he added softly, speaking through his own sandwich, "I know you have your own plan and it prob'ly is just for me to do nothing. But I got Ava to think of too, and 'Soon and Anosh, and I don't think it can wait. So the best I can think is . . . just to start . . . like Ragged Man said. So tonight, I'm going to get rid of the Things in Under. Once and for all. It's all of us or all of them."

The Quiet Man, as expected, made no acknowledgment and Neville turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he started to say, "So if you hear some noises later . . . !"

But he didn't finish. The Quiet Man's arm was raised, straight up toward the ceiling; and his fist was clenched, like a defiant remnant of a flag atop a short, muscular pole.

### The Battle Begins

He put himself to bed very early and feigned sleep when Mum peeped in to check on him. He smelled her soap, heard her breath and, here at the end of the day, felt her fingers brush lightly at the hair above his bandage, much as 'Soon's had done at the day's start. He would've liked to say goodnight to her, and maybe sorry and thank you, but she would've lingered then, and there wasn't time for that. So he let her go. When the knocking began at the back door, half an hour later, he could hardly hear it over the scrabbling, mewling, cacophony of noises the Things in Under were making - in preparation, he assumed, for the coming battle.

He knew the scenario at the door already, of course. It would be Hayley, run across through the bottlebrush, beneath the shrieking Flying Foxes, seeking Mum-the-nurse's help to deal with Boogerville chaos. Beau the Bum would be the victim, seeming to be wounded with his own rifle (though how, or even if, Hayley was going to fake that wound had remained her private information).

"No!" Hayley would insist. "We can't tell the oldies! They're out! Everyone's out but me 'n' Beau! I got him in the tub so's he doesn't get blood all over the place! The ol' man'll kill him if that happens!

"No, I can't call an ambulance! There's no ambo' insurance and the ol' man'd kill him 'n' me both - 'n' maybe the ambo's as well! If you say he needs the hospital, I'll take him in the Ute! I promise! But I don't want to unless I have to because they'll have to report him, and Mrs Hughes had the Child Welfare down on us already - says the way he's left to run amok's just like abuse! They'll take him away and lock him up, I know they will! Please! You're the only one I know! Please come!"

If anyone could coax a tired, disconsolate Mum out into the night, it would be Hayl's, the high school drama teacher's 'wonder child'. Even the Things in Under diminished their ruckus, probably to listen in awe to the passion of her appeal. (Neville imagined their Thing-y paws poised for a round of applause.) And sure enough, at the end of a grumbling demurral, Mum's tiptoe footsteps sounded in the pantry. She peeped, Neville rasped a little snore in the back of his throat and she left. Moments later he heard their whispered passing below his window and popped up to watch the path of their torch-light, wending back through the bottle-brush.

Before the Boogerville door had closed, he was into his sandshoes and ready to go. No time to change from his pyjamas. No time to check on the Quiet Man. No time for any hesitation whatsoever. Only time to snatch up the magic bolt and ease the screen door closed behind him.

* * *

On the east, south and west sides of the house, shrubs and palings obstructed every entrance to Under. A person could get in, but it required a degree of vulnerability - a lie down and a wriggle - which was doable in the daylight but certainly (not least because of snakes) excessively stupid in the dark. On the north side, however - the Boogerville side - a boy of Neville's size could thread his way through the windblown old shade house and, once past the shield of ferns and shrub cuttings, walk with barely a need to duck, straight into Under.

Physically, it was a doddle done daily. Mentally, after dark, it was akin to climbing into an open tomb, with the recuperating ferns looking an awful lot like lopped heads, hanging from stiff knots of hair, and the potted shrubs slumping like discarded bodies.

He had forced himself to leave his torch behind, doubting his resolve to have it and not use it, which would've meant both alerting the Things to his approach and signalling to them that he was too frightened to meet them on their own terms. The magic cyclone bolt, however, was non-negotiable.

Before entering the shade house he took one last look up, to where the stars twinkled here and there through the branches of the bottlebrush, and he wondered if he would see them again. He wondered too at the silence that had fallen out of the night, as though everything had stopped to watch, to see if he would really do it. Even the busy racket of the Things had faded almost to nothing - only a light, distracted, intermittent drumming. Which might've meant they thought he was still above. But might, on the other hand, simply mean that they were impatient for his arrival.

He drew breath and stepped under the shade cloth roof. Two steps. Three steps. Five more and he would be at the edge of Under. He paused though he knew he mustn't; blinked his eyes to accommodate the darkness. Could he really do this? Were they really ready to show themselves? He sniffled, squinted and felt the hairs on his head prickle awake as, at his shoulder, silent as stone and black against black, one of the dead-body shrubs began to rise up, slowly but purposefully, until its headless top nudged one of the lopped heads and set it to swaying, ever so lightly.

"I'm here," the disembodied head squeaked.

Neville's breath stuttered to a complete stop in his chest as his stomach climbed past it on the way to this throat.

Me too, he wished he could say. Or I'm ready. Or I'm not afraid. But nothing came. "If you can't do it," the disembodied head squeaked again, "I'll go for you."

A whiff of air pushed through his throat, whining like a broken pump.

"'Soon?"

"I am here."

"No! You can't be! You have to go!"

"I said I would be with you, wherever you went. So I am here. Whatever will happen, will happen to both of us."

"I have the magic bolt, 'Soon! If it isn't enough . . . then nothing's going to work! At all! Ever! You have to go!"

She was silent and, as she had been that night in Shoomba Territory, all but invisible. Still, he knew the look she'd be giving him. And he also knew that, grateful as he was for her presence, she could not stay. Having her there, ready to rescue him, would be like having the torch in his hand, ready to bring saving light. If he was ever going to be any use to Neville the More, he had to do at least this one task on the terms that were given. And he knew himself well enough to know that he could only be sure of being brave if that was his only choice.

"Go home, 'Soon!" he snapped. "You can't help with this!"

At first he thought she was going to refuse. But then she sniffled and moved toward him, to pass him by. But at his shoulder, she paused and whispered almost straight into his ear.

"Those are the words your Quiet Man said to me, Neville. Gom shoo! Go away! I went away from Anosh and lost him. I will not let you be lost too."

Somewhere, high, high overhead, the faint nasal honking of a single night goose could be heard. No chorus of answering honks. Just one goose, terribly alone in the vast dark sky, going south. She stepped past him and disappeared from sight while Neville, now truly and at last alone, took the last fateful steps to the edge of the Home Country house - to the edge of Under.

He knew the width of the space. Knew the first trees of the Dead Forest were to left and right of him, though no more visible in the blackness than the dozens of others beyond. For all anyone could tell, the house was floating again, as it had in the high wind of that long-ago storm. Indeed, as though shuddering to remember the task given it in this place, on that terrible night, the magic bolt began to throb in Neville's hands. He raised it and held it out in front of him, as blind as any eyeless boy (which, for all intents and purposes, he was). Then, with one last look behind, he stepped into the darkness.

It was cold. And damp. Earth that the sun never touched. He tried to speak. Swallowed. Tried again.

"I came. I'm ready."

His voice was barely a croak in the great hollowness of Under, but it brought to life the scratchy snick of movement. And seeing in his mind their sinister attention turning his way, even though knowing his task was to wait until they were all around him, Neville couldn't stop himself jabbing into the darkness with the iron bar. Thunk! One of the dead trees, set to thrumming. The sound rattled through the rest of the forest and reverberations stung Neville to his bones.

Still, an instant of relief. Followed two seconds later by a sound which, far from fading, began to grow in intensity, rapidly becoming an urgent drumbeat on the floor over his head. Boom boom boom! Percussive! Banging and crashing! Faster, louder, more sudden and more threatening than anything Neville could've anticipated. Panic flooded him. He stumbled back toward the shade house, getting not even a full step before something crossed up his feet and dumped him on the sand. As he fell, his grip on the magic bolt, as Shoomba's had been on that fateful night, was lost and, in an unexpected instant he was disarmed. On his bum, up to his wrists in the cold loose sand with booming, moaning and shouting bouncing at him from all sides.

He tried to roll to his knees, sought desperately for some clear image in the lights that flared at the edges of his retinas. Off to his left. Low down. Almost at eye level. The golden eyes again! Rising out of the sand \- out of the terrible depths of the sand. Somewhere, choked off howls, not his own, and then a webby gauze sliding like another skin across his eyes and lips.

They were too quick! Not slow and sly like he'd imagined, but sudden and horrible and eager. Grasping and blinding! Wrapping themselves about his head, dragging him down into the earth. Desperately, he scrabbled at his face, at the spidery dry grip , inadvertently mashing cat-pissed sand into his mouth and nose and eyes. A scream rose and died in his throat, torn apart and fragmented by the choking grit and, in a mad instant of certainty that he would die, Neville imagined 'Soon, lying in the shallow grave she'd dug for herself on Rahimi Island; remembered the men who'd been drowned in red dust, somewhere far, far from here. His mind filled to overflowing with a black, blind, suffocating terror and he knew - knew at last, beyond all doubt why the Quiet Man's mind had fled so irrevocably, so irretrievably, so recklessly into the jungle.

Still, even with that, a lightning bolt of self-pity burned its way down his spine. Why did she leave? He'd told her to go but she'd said she would stay by him wherever he went! Where was she now - a witch, an Amazon, a girl brave enough to steal a magic iron bolt? Now when he needed her!

And he gave up. Terrible to say! He had lost his weapon, his friend and his courage and now foul slavering Things might be on him, sniffing their way closer! It didn't matter. He stopped fighting the filmy creature that was wrapped about his head and threw himself flat, crying, mewling, groping into the darkness, shuffling his fingers through the dead grit. Until, magic as it was - perhaps knowing that he and this house were its to defend - the iron cyclone bolt crawled, cold and lethal, throbbing with power, back into his hands.

He gripped it desperately, feeling immediately the essence of it flowing into him. And he came back. With no other thought than to survive, he came back - rolling from side to side, flailing blindly. This way, that way! Whatever drooling, long-fingered, flesh-ripping creatures had surrounded him, however they may have lassoed his head with their awful filaments, they could not have expected the deliriously murderous power with which this weapon had imbued Neville the Less.

For what seemed an age, there was nothing! No contact! Only the air and the earth and voices, howling along with his own, crashing through to him, speeding closer. Muffled, shrieking and unintelligible. They were certainly coming! Gutted, bloody, fur-covered, half-alive Things. Coming for him.

With every ounce of his endurance, with all the puny strength of his little arms, he swung that magic iron bolt, beating the earth, the air, even his own legs, into a bruised lather. He didn't grow tired. He didn't grow sore. He grew only more defiant. Until finally, the meaty thwack of contact! And the despairing cry of the stricken.

"Uuhhhhnn!"

And just like that, the yammering voices stopped. The sand next to his head hissed and peppered against him as a Thing, its suckers surely only inches from his throat, collapsed in agony. His pause was barely measurable, as he commenced again to swing and pound with his bar, spitting blood and sand onto the invisible corpse. The vicious joy of victory suffused him. He had promised Mum not to be a soldier, but the promise was beyond him! He would! He was! At least for this moment, with this superb weapon. He was the Neville the Mighty! And it felt good! And he knew that, like his best friend, he would not be lost. Not be taken for a Nobody. Not by anyone! Not without a fight!

The light was unexpected - first blinding, then crazy with dancing shadows.

### 'Soon

First I thought, what can it be, that sound? That booming! Then, when I saw him fly from the house I thought, he is alive again! He is a soldier again. And this is how a soldier will kill. Fast. While running. In a moment he will be past and I will be cut down, dead and a ghost and I will never free my Anosh and never be in the arms of my Riff and Raff again.

I tried to light my torch, to show him it was only me. A small child, not worth his hate. And maybe be saw, because instead of striking, he swept me up. I tried to shout! Let me go! I will leave Home Country and never come back! Please!

I don't know if I succeeded; his arm around my chest was so strong. Crushing the air from me. And his hand! So cold! Cold as a dead one's hand! And there was his own voice!

"Stop!" he was shouting. "Stop stop stop!"

But I could not stop. I kicked with all my strength. I tried to bite. I bashed his chest with the back of my head. I wriggled my hands to pinch and scratch. But he was a man, so strong, with no feeling, and he ran on with me in his arms, around his house, under the bottlebrush. In the shade house, my face was knocked with ferns and plants and I cried out. Then he tripped against pots and fell on me! His moan - like a beast - and my own cry, together - as though, in that fall, we had become one creature with two voices!

My wind was gone then, but I heard the change in him; to new words - to the old words - tangling and tearing them in his throat.

"Moazeb bash!" Watch out! And swearing; worse things even than he'd said to me in the morning. And he let me go. As though, after carrying me, he'd found me to be only a lump in the earth after all! And he went on, crawling over me, his knees hammers against my back. And all around, I heard the breaking of plants and pots beneath his fists.

In those moments, even as I was being broken to death by his weight, I knew. Even without going in his dreams, I knew. Something had possessed his body. Something was drawing him to that place where Neville the Less had gone to fight the Things. With my last strength then, I reached for the Quiet Man, tangled my hands in his clothing, trying, now that I was free, to cling to him, to hold him back. Because what I couldn't tell was, is it Neville he will kill? Will he kill his own son? Or is it the Things that must beware?

I could not hold him. For three, four paces, I was dragged like a dog on a chain. Until something - not my little weight, I think, but something else in the darkness of his mind - caused him to stop. He turned, pressed me to the ground - pressed my hands to my chest. Not hard. Not to hurt. But to stay.

"Tu khoub khohi shod!" he hissed in my face. You will be okay! His breath was of whiskey. And then, with a shout of hope, he crawled away into the darkness. And so, for the first time I thought: maybe it's not killing that he goes for. And I remembered the torch on the cord about my neck.

* * *

It took a long time to teach my fingers to work again. When I got it lit, I saw the Quiet Man fallen to the sand beside Neville. Blood ran on his face and it looked, in the torch's light, to be steaming hot; like it might sizzle where it fell. Even as he rose, he was pressing Neville hard into the sand, as he had pressed me; and pressing the magic bolt to Neville's chest.

I shone the torch about quickly, to see what Demons might have joined the battle, but there was only Shoomba's Terrible Bill, looking like a small version of the Quiet Man, his back arched as high as a chair. Both Bill and the man looked into my light, their golden eyes blazing with danger, and both hissed through bared fangs. Then Bill turned and did what any sensible creature would do; he fled, away from Home Country.

I might've wished to run away also. But I thought, there is already blood. If I take my light away, how will they know each other? And then, how will Neville not be lost, as Anosh was lost?

So I stayed. And I thought, if this is the fury of soldiers, how could my Anosh have survived? I had not seen; could not know. But if my friend, Neville the Less, was to be taken, it would be different. I would know how and by who. Whatever befell him, I would be witness. If nothing else, I would know the shame of that man.

The Quiet Man squinted into my light then and to my surprise, what I saw in his face was not death. What I saw, I think, was relief.

He held out his hand, beckoning fiercely. Give it! Give it! I couldn't go closer but I threw the torch to the ground beside him and he snatched it up, turning it straight back on me. And suddenly, all my vision was of the ruined plants and pots and broken things at my feet; and above them, a blinding circle of light.

### Mum

I was gone twenty minutes. No longer, I swear! A neighbour kid had a lead pellet from an air rifle lodged in his foot. (He said his sister shot him: **she** said he shot himself. Not that it matters. In a house with guns, inevitably, **someone** will be shot!)

So, why was I even there? I mean either one of them could've pulled the pellet out! Probably with less pain because, I'll tell you what, I made no effort to go easy on him! Or her! Especially considering how ridiculously smug they seemed; like getting me mixed up in their mayhem was the whole point of the exercise.

"Do you know what lead poisoning'll do to you?" I squawked, waving the bloody pellet in his face. "It'll leave you twitching and insane and peeing in your pants, that's what! And then it will slowly and agonisingly kill you! Understand? You don't have to be shot through the heart to be killed! You know? You should be seeing a doctor, not me! And get rid of the damn gun!"

Probably did me more good than them; but at least it took a bit of the edge off their amusement.

So twenty minutes! Tops! And in that little time, my post traumatically stressed husband who, for the past two months has been all but catatonic - uncommunicative on every level, particularly with Neville - numb in every corner of his being - had somehow got himself outside! Under the house! And into a huge one-sided rant with his son!

Which . . . even that would be great! Wonderful! If it weren't for the fact that he was scaring the living daylights out of Neville - and little Afsoon from over the back! Bailed up like a pair of beaten puppies, they were - huddled against one of the stumps - being harangued with the most dreadful, heart-rending back-flash of horror!

I mean Neville . . . is the most vulnerable kid alive! In the past couple of months, for God's sake, he's convinced himself that monsters have begun gathering under our house at night! He's terrified of his own home! So to not only be wrenched out of bed at night - which I suppose must be what happened - but to find himself then dragged off into the actual place of his nightmares . . .! I mean, should I be surprised that he's managed to crack open his father's skull in the struggle?

And as for Afsoon, I still haven't fully sorted how that poor little creature got involved! Though I can make a guess. Her family are Hazaran refugees, which obviously means that, together, they've already been through more needless terror than this entire neighbourhood, thank God, will have to know in its entire collective lifetime. I have a feeling that not all of them made it to Australia. So the effect on Afsoon - beautiful as she is - I'm sure it's that that's left her with this uncontrollable need to be wandering and watching in the neighbourhood after dark.

She's totally unconcerned about herself, mind you, because she has this idea - and Neville believes it too - that she has special mind-reading powers that, I don't know, keep her out of danger or something. Even though, at the same time (and I don't doubt this is where Neville got the idea) she seems utterly convinced that there actually is some sort of established evil that's . . . got her marked. (I don't know; maybe if you **could** look inside people's heads, that's the sort of thing you'd really see!) Anyhow, aside from all that, she's just the most intelligent, exotic and beautiful kid you'd want to know and I've been sorry to have to make an issue out of their friendship. Her mum and dad are lovely too.

So here's the thing. Having seen what PTSD can do to adults, I'd be the last to think that kids couldn't suffer from it just as acutely. And there's this weird fantasy that keeps running through my mind. What if, in her bloodied view of the world, she sensed some connection between her family's and my family's experiences? The Afghan connection? The war connection? I sense it; why wouldn't she? How tangled would that be?

Anyhow even that's not the real problem. The real problem is that, up until last night I'd've sworn all of us were safe as houses in this neighbourhood - in this country. Despite Shoomba's well-known penchant for peeping and the Hughes's sanctimoniously judgemental observations and the Bogart's gun fetishes and the Daisly's parochially exclusive definition of who 'belongs' and who doesn't. But now a child - Afsoon - has been actually, really, physically hurt! By my husband, of all people! Who, before I heard what I heard last night, I would've thought the last person to hurt a kid!

Now? I just really . . . need to figure out how frightened I need to be! For all of us!

### The Quiet Man

I tried ignoring them. I tried warning them. Stay away, you kids! I can't be responsible! But they found me out; sniffed me out.

It's my training, that's why. Everyone knows I'm trained. Things that've been hidden \- I find them. Always under something; under the roads, under the carts, under the burkas . . . under our feet. Well hidden. But I know the signs. And I have the nose as well. Special talent. But I can't be trusted, see? Because sometimes I miss. And sometimes - was it sometimes, or only the once? - I didn't tell.

Someone pointed him out. Rummaging in the barrels, looking for . . . I don't know what he was looking for. Whatever it is they look for. Something salvageable. Six years old. Maybe eight. Nev's age. We saw each other - us watching and him smiling, all dark hair and white teeth. And I saw the dirt around the barrel's base. Loose. Wrong colour, wrong texture. I might've missed it, if they hadn't pointed out the kid. But once I looked, I knew. And I didn't tell. Didn't call out. Instead I thought, right! Let them know what it feels like. Let them do one of their own this time; instead of one of ours.

And I looked away, up at the sky, around at the buildings, down at my rifle. I think he found what he was looking for. I heard him grunt - a little boy grunt. Feet braced, sinking further and further into the soil. Yanking. Until . . . Gaboosh!

Shards of metal and glass, erupting into the air. Like confetti. A cloud of confetti. And inside the cloud, a pink Rorschach stain. What do you see? I see what used to be a pair of arms. Now just a pink mist, settling out of the air.

And on the boy, blood, everywhere. Except the eyes. Miraculous eyes. Saying, what happened? What happened? Pointless to explain then. But still, I went to him. Too late. Much too late. But how could I not?

"It wasn't us," I said when I got to him. "We didn't put it there."

I doubt he heard. Doubt he could've heard, even if I'd been shouting. Bled out in seconds. And that's when I stopped looking in eyes. Anyone's eyes. But especially kids' eyes. No more kids, please. Not too big an ask I'd've thought. Just no more kids.

But they found me out. Someone shot, they said. And then, kids going to do my job! Looking for the I.E.D.'s. 'Things', they called them; under. Didn't even know the right name. So this time I stepped up. They're okay, I think. But did that make it right? Make it better? I don't know. Doesn't feel like it.

But that was definitely it. I'm not going looking anymore. I'm staying right here. If they want me, they'll have to come get me.

### Riff

We are safe. Another night passes and we are safe. But still, the neighbour brings Afsoon home, limping and crying, after dark.

"How do we not see her go?" I say to Parisa. "I watch so closely. But still she goes by me."

"Maybe," says Parisa, "she is truly the witch she claims to be."

### 'Soon

I have lied to Riff and Raff. I told them I had a dream of Neville the Less's Ava - that she was outside our house, calling me to help her get home. And I was sad not to find her, so I lay down on the ground and cried. And then the Quiet Man came out to see who cried and in the dark he fell on me. But I am okay.

I cannot tell them - not Riff, especially - the story the Quiet Man has told us, about the Things from under that can steal a boy's arms. Ai-ee-dee, he calls them. And the way he says it . . . it is like a cry of fear.

"You were asleep?" Riff asked. "Or awake?"

"I don't know. Asleep, maybe."

"What is wrong inside your head, daughter, that you walk in your sleep?"

I didn't answer. He didn't expect an answer. But I thought, look inside your own head, father. And see what you see.

### 8. Phase Two

It was an unsettling morning, right from the start. Still no Ava to lick him awake or to comfort the Quiet Man. And no magic cyclone bolt in the corner. And stranger still, when he got up, no Quiet Man on the lounge, no Mum in the kitchen.

### Mrs Hughes

Chaos in the neighbourhood! Cookie saw lights reflected on the wall of his and Robert's bedroom last night, and came running to tell.

"An ambulance at Boogerville!" he was saying, (meaning, of course, the Bogart house). As though a carnival had come to town.

I checked and he was right. Hardly surprising mayhem should erupt there! So I sent him straight back to bed because, obviously, it wouldn't be right for the boys to be thinking the neighbours' troubles are our interest. But I went myself down to the back fence. Not to be nosey, you understand. You can't see through anyhow because of the choko vine on their side. But I did just want to hear if there was anything I should do to help. From what I could gather, a shooting had occurred! Awful! Just awful!

I wanted, of course, to call out but (the possible presence of guns notwithstanding) I knew it would be awkward. So I sent Mister Hughes to have a look because, I said, if there are things like that happening in the neighbourhood, I said, we have a moral duty to know about them - to protect the children. He went to the Rahimi's corner, thinking the choko vine might be thinner there. But it seems not. When he came back he said he'd had to climb over and had gotten tangled in a quite dense bit of it and, by the time he'd gotten free, the kerfuffle in Bogart's yard had died away. **But** . . . there was a kerfuffle of a **different** sort, for Goodness sake, occurring at Neville and Bettina's house!

Since my chat with poor little Neville last week . . . (I hate thinking of him as 'the Less'. But it just suits the timid little fellow so well. And it does help to distinguish him from the father. And also, 'Once heard, never forgotten,' as they say.) . . . anyhow, since then (and ever so much more so after last night!) I've been awfully concerned for the well-being of that family.

The gist is that Mister Hughes heard something that sounded very like pleading! Incomprehensible words, he said; and crying. And then he saw little Afsoon Rahimi, possibly injured, being assisted back to her home by Bettina and Less - back through the banana palms. All of them crying!

Mister Hughes's first thought was that violence had spilled out of the Bogart yard. Then again, he thought, considering what he'd just found in the chokos at the corner of the properties, who was to say where it had begun?

"Did you step out and ask if you could help?" I asked Mister Hughes. "What the trouble was? If there was any need for alarm? If we should call the police?"

"I was about to," he said. But he heard Mohammed Rahimi's voice coming through the palms and little Afsoon's tears turned into a full on sobbing story about that lost little dog, of all things! And how she'd wanted desperately to find it; and something about being on the ground and being tripped over. An accident, apparently, but oh dear!

Mister Hughes says he did then step out of the darkest of the shadows, prepared to offer the clarifying assistance that a Christian must offer in times of confusion. But at that same moment his hand, which'd been fumbling in the bag which he'd just stumbled over, half buried amongst the chokos . . . his hand emerged with terrible confirmation of our suspicions. It was a pistol!

Where did it come from? Well! There was no telling at the moment, of course, but a clue has subsequently been provided. Because also in the bag was an Afghanistan service medal! Which can only have belonged to a certain recently returned serviceman! And we all know who that is! Needless to say, so shocked was Mister Hughes on finding himself suddenly and lethally armed that he turned away without speaking and came directly home.

All of which has left us in the most awful state of worry! We've long been aware, of course, of Mohammed's furtive little night time watch over his own property; obviously paranoid about his family's safety. By all accounts, dangers were often abroad for people of their background in Afghanistan. So we understand that. And we've prayed for him also to understand that he's in a Christian country now, where such things cannot happen.

By the same token, we've just about become reconciled (not comfortable but at least reconciled) to Dennis Shoomba's torchlight prowlings. He claims, of course, that he's observing the wild life, but we all know it's not the out-of-doors wild life he's hoping to see. Blinds down after dark! That's the rule around here!

They, as I say, are two that we've come to think of as 'unsettled' neighbours and we've just about come to grips with them. Sometimes Ralph Daisley's name also comes up, but what he gets up to behind his ridiculous 'Folly', to my way of thinking, is not a concern. Out of sight, out of mind as they say.

Now, however, it seems that an armed ex-serviceman, with an uncertain state of mind, might've been added to the mix! (Well, no longer armed, hopefully, since Mister Hughes's happy confiscation of that horrid weapon.) And also added into the mix, it seems, are children! Why on earth - how on earth - a fragile thing like Afsoon Rahimi - a girl-child, as well - would be out after dark, alone, in a neighbour's yard! With those awful disturbed men on the loose! It's like allowing a lamb to stroll about in a kennel full of wolves!

Our first impulse this morning was to call the police and, at the very least, hand the pistol over. But how much **more** tension would **their** presence add to the neighbourhood, we asked ourselves. Mister Hughes's alternative idea was to hide the object away on a high shelf in the hallway where the boys can't stumble across it! And then to plan a gathering of all the adults around at our house for an hour or two of discussion, reflection and prayer.

Personally, I dread to imagine what sort of mischievous, misguided belief systems are present in our neighbourhood but I suppose, God willing, the light of Christian salvation can be shone into even the darkest of corners

* * *

So no Ava, no mum and no Quiet Man. And when Neville looked out the kitchen window, through the shaggy butts of the paperbarks, he was greatly shocked to see that there was also no Lightning Bug. The little ship's anchorage was marked only by a patch of brown, wilted grass, in the centre of which crouched the corpulent figure of Mister Shoomba. He was clad, unusually, in camouflage tee-shirt and shorts, from which his pallid limbs protruded like pale sausages. When Neville spotted him, he was bending, hands on knees, peering unashamedly at the shrubbery that surrounded Home Country's Under. Neville, with equal measures of reluctance and curiosity, felt it his duty to go forth with questions.

Shoomba started nodding the moment he came into view.

"So!" Rising and holding out his arms to indicate the emptiness in which he stood. "No more night time travels for you, young sailor! No, nor none for your little 'Ghani mate, neither!"

"Where's the Lightning Bug, Mister Shoomba?"

"Can't tell you that! Might be deep-sixed, for all I can say! Scuttled! Crashed! Swamped! Shipwrecked! Might be stole away! High-jacked off onto the big ocean by some sneaky thieves! Eh? We got a few o' them in the neighbourhood, as you 'n' me both well know, eh? Whaddya think o' that then?"

If there was an intended bait in that for Neville, Neville was not about to bite it.

"Who'd take her, Mister Shoomba?"

"Who'd take her? Who'd take her? Ye mean other'n a person who'd steal a commemorative cyclone bolt from under me very own personal castle? Or a perfeckly useful war medal from his own fam'ly? 'Zat what you mean?"

"I . . . I . . . I . . . !"

"Yeah, you you you! 'At's who I'm talkin' about! D'joo steal her? Didja?"

"I . . . I . . . I . . . ! No! It wasn't me!" Neville was deeply regretting his decision to come out of the house.

"What about yer 'complice then, eh? Yer little 'Ghani Amazanie witch friend. She steal my boat?"

Neville wanted to say no straight away but then . . . how could he know? He and Mum had taken 'Soon home in tears after the Quiet Man's upheaval. But whether she'd stayed there was anyone's guess. Perhaps she'd decided to visit the Ragged Man on her own, as he himself had done! Perhaps she was still out there on that limitless sea! Maybe caught at last by the pirates and taken away to the Island of Nobodies!

"I . . . I . . .!"

"Awright, awright, don' go gettin' yer boiler in a knot. I know it wunt neither o' youse. Not this time, anyways."

"Who was it then? Was it the pirates at the boat ramp! You said they would've given pots of gold for the Lightning Bug once. Could they have come an' stole her!"

The suggestion sparked a notable outburst of sarcasm from Shoomba and a revelation that the boat wasn't the primary thing on his mind.

"Pirates? Whaar hem hem rrr, sure, le's jus' say that's who done it! Bloomin' pirates took her! Say! You didn't tell no one I gave up me captainship didja? 'Cause pirates can't tolerate ships without captains, ye know. No way! Snap 'em up quick as twist your ear! On the other foot, though . . . !"

He leaned in close to Neville, for the sharing of a confidence.

"I think you 'n' me better hope it **wunt** them, eh? 'Cause if they saw the doin's ' round here las' night, they mighta figured this whole neighbourhood was a ship without a captain! Might be they'd wanna move in here next! Start sortin' things out! Know what I mean?"

Neville's heart flip-flopped in his chest. He knew, of course, what 'last night's doin's' referred to, and wasn't at all surprised that the ruckus had caught Shoomba's attention. But he hadn't considered the possibility of it capturing anyone else's - pirates, for instance - attention. And for them, 'sorting things out' could only mean attending to unfinished business with the Rahimis - the taking of Afsoon. But would they dare try anything with the Quiet Man now on the alert, along with Riff Rahimi? And if they would do that, would anyone at all in the neighbourhood be safe?

"D'you mean . . . ?"

"I mean," Shoomba sneered, pulling wide a bloodshot eye, "I see what I see, see? An' what I seen las' night an' what I see this mornin' tells me seein' off the Lightnin' Bug was just the start o' what needs doin'! 'Cause it ain' all plum duff 'n' nestle-berries 'round here is it!"

He gestured vaguely at the Home Country house which responded with a short rapid shake of the Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow bush at the edge of its Under. And that's when Neville realised why the Quiet Man was not in his usual place on the lounge.

"It's the . . . it's my dad," he said, doing his best to feign casualness. "He might've thought of some work to finish! In Under! I guess."

In his mind, he ticked off the 'work' already 'completed' by the Quiet Man: starting with dragging 'Soon and falling on her and half-crushing her. Followed by putting out her torchlight and pressing her and Neville to one of the dead trees in Under and pulling Mum in to make her sit as well; and sobbing out a story of a smiling boy whose arms were exploded away.

"Kinda work?" Shoomba demanded. "I thought he wunt up to work?"

"Uh . . .!"

* * *

The true answer was exactly the stuff Neville would **not** be talking about, to Shoomba or anyone else - unless maybe that anyone was Ava, who would listen without comment. Or 'Soon who had been there and who, as the story of the explosion unfolded, had reached across to Neville and replaced his fistful of sand with her own tiny, damp fingers.

* * *

After Mum and he had taken 'Soon home - or at least as far as the banana palm forest, where Riff had intercepted them - they'd gone back to Under, where the Quiet Man remained, still weeping softly. Mum had ordered Neville to wait upstairs but - and it was a memory of Mister Shoomba, telling him he must 'look out for your ma', that'd provoked him - Neville had refused. For the first time ever, he'd directly defied her, determined to be part of whatever was to happen; to defend her to the death if indeed more death was what the Quiet Man had in mind. And so, together, they'd threaded a path through the agonised despair of Neville the More.

He'd become quiescent at the end, subdued; letting them coax him back upstairs and into bed. And afterward, in the kitchen, mother and son had stared bleakly at each other's hands, folded and forlorn on the table.

"Well, that was a thing, wasn't it?" she'd finally whispered, trying gainfully to smile.

"Mm-hm."

"I think Afsoon wasn't hurt too badly."

"Mm-mm."

"We'll check on her tomorrow, what do you think?"

"Mm-hm."

"Remember when I said to you, war makes people do awful things?"

"Mm-hm."

"Well what he told us about that boy, if it's true - and I suppose it probably is - that's an example, Nev'. Even good people, who only want to do good things - when they're shown too much awfulness . . . they can start to forget."

"Forget?"

"Forget who they are. What they stand for. What's important. What's right."

"Like getting your mind lost in a jungle?"

"In a jumble, yes. Good and bad, right and wrong, it all gets in a jumble."

"Truth and lies?"

"Well yes, I suppose truth and lies too, sometimes. Why? What're you thinking?"

He was thinking about the medal.

"He's not a hero," he said. "The medal didn't say Hero on it."

"Oh honey! Is that why you took it? Because it seemed like a lie?"

Neville shrugged. It didn't **seem** like a lie, it **was** a lie.

"Did you know he wasn't a hero?" he asked, which was another way of asking if she, as the Ragged Man had implied, was also a liar.

She looked at him and saw, for the first time ever, a flicker of distrust in his eyes.

"Nev', I knew that medal wasn't for being a hero. But I also know that not all heroes get medals. What's much more important is that your father didn't go to the war hoping for medals - or to be a hero. He just went to help."

There were deep shadows under her eyes. She had always been beautiful to Neville but just now she looked like someone with a very, very bad ache somewhere inside.

"He didn't help that boy!"

"No. He didn't. And I . . . I can't explain that, Nev'. I can't understand it. Because I know, deep down inside, that's not him. He's a good and caring man, Nev'. So you know what? I'm not going to focus on what he did there, under those awful conditions. Conditions I can't bring myself even to imagine. No, instead, I'm going to focus on the fact that helping is what he started out to do; what he wanted to do; what we all need to be doing. Not turning our backs. If he turned his back that once, something else made him do it. I don't know - fear maybe. But he needs our help now, Nev'. **Our** help. Yours and mine. Are we going to turn our backs?"

My help? he thought. If Neville the More was a 'good and caring man' and still couldn't even save a war-boy, what use could a dumb little Neville the Less be? Which was, of course, (more or less) the same question he'd asked the Ragged Man! And the Ragged Man had said . . . ! What? Something about . . . !

"Mate?" Mum said. "You okay?"

She reached for his hand, but he quickly retracted it and wedged it under his bum. It was a refusal that hurt her, he could see. But in the big scheme of things - in the Big Picture - she'd lied to him. Maybe she was even lying now, saying the Quiet Man was good, even though he let a boy's arms be exploded. So if her feelings were hurt just a little bit, maybe it was time she knew how that felt.

"Okay," she said, folding her arms on the table, retreating into Mum-mode. "Would you tell me, please. Last week, you wouldn't go under the house after dark because of 'Things', remember? Even though I promised you they were only imaginary! But you were there first tonight, weren't you? Your father says he went down there to fetch you! So what were you doing, Nev'? Did 'Soon coax you out? Were you not able to say no to her? What?"

He shrugged again.

"Ragged Man and Mrs Hughes both said the Things **are** real. They come from nightmares."

"Oh did they? Well . . . that's . . . that's very silly of them. And who is 'Ragged Man' anyhow? Ragged Man who? Is that a name you've given one of the neighbours?"

He couldn't understand why she was being so obtuse. Why keep denying the obvious?

"They are real. And I know it and he knows it! I even heard him shout about them at night . . . about Things that are hiding in Under. To watch out, 'cause they're there."

"Oh Nev'! Baby! The 'things' that he was shouting about . . . they aren't monsters! Not like you're thinking of!" Her volume began to rise, the hollowness under her eyes to deepen. "They're bombs, Nev'! Like the one that killed that boy! Bombs that frightened people've hidden under things - under the road and under cars and under . . . barrels! To try to frighten and hurt other people who are different from them; because that's the only way they know to deal with their own fear! Your father's job in the army was to find those bombs and . . . turn them off! You understand? Before they could do their damage. And it was in Afghanistan, Nev'! A country far far away from here! Far away from Australia! Far away from our home!"

At the last, she'd reached across the table and grabbed his arm, shaking his hand out from under his bum.

"You can't judge him, Neville. That boy . . . being killed like that. It's awful and unforgivable. But it was put there by someone else. Not your father. And you tell me what you'd rather! Would you rather your father was blown to pieces along with him - trying to save him from his own people? Is that what you'd rather?"

He saw, as she glared at him, pinching and shaking his arm, that some of the shadowing on her face was actually smudged blood. Perhaps foot blood from Beau the Bum. Or maybe 'Soon's blood, from the broken pots. Or even the Quiet Man's blood. Maybe all three. Wherever it was from, the sight of it on her face was so wrong that it made Neville's own head wound ache. But it also put an end to his impulse to cry. He glared straight back at her, or rather at the smudges until, with a little flick and a push, she let him go

"Go to bed!" she ordered. "Go, and leave me alone!"

This time, he slid off his chair and stood up. He wanted to explain that it wasn't what he'd rather. Not at all. But that image of the boy - looking, smiling, and then, no arms - then dead - that also wasn't what he'd rather.

"Ragged Man," he said, "says that the Things can be sent away. Even the worst, most horrible Things. If someone's brave enough to go where they are. And give them a proper good look."

She looked at him coldly.

"That's exactly what your father was doing in Afghanistan, Neville. Trying to chase bad things away. Being just that brave. But sometimes the things . . . are stronger. They get inside you. They take over. And they send parts of you . . . somewhere else. Next time you're talking to your 'Ragged Man', why don't you ask him about that."

She got up and went to the sink, turning her back on him.

"Go to bed, Neville. Please. Let's get this day behind us."

So he went. He washed and he watched his hands turning in the water and imagined them exploding away. Mum said it wasn't the Quiet Man's fault. But the Quiet Man himself said that he knew the bomb was there. He didn't put it there, but he saw the signs. And he didn't call out. So how was it not his fault? That was very confusing.

It wasn't until he was lying in his bed, listening to the Flying Foxes in the bottlebrush and thinking about those blood smudges on Mum's face that the other thing she'd said came back to him. Sometimes the Things can get inside you; send parts of you away and take over the rest. Ragged Man had said pretty much the same words. What could that mean? Could it mean that, while the Quiet Man's mind had been sent away to the jungle, the part of him that'd come home . . . not only wasn't a Hero - it had become one of the Things?

* * *

"Kinda work?" Shoomba was demanding. "I thought he wunt up to work?"

"Uh . . .! I don' know. Have you seen my mum?"

### Shoomba

What a gal that Tina is! Hubby's got more shell-shocks 'n a earthquake fulla oysters an' her kid's spooked like nobody's business. But she keeps soldierin' on! I give 'er a lotta credit. Lotta support too, comes to that! Keepin' an eye out for the boy, for one. Give 'im the benefit o' me wisdom. Boy needs a man to keep him on track, see. Boys an' women both. An' her ol' man, as I say's been about as useful as a fork in a soup factory. Ever since comin' back from the war.

Not that I'm in their house offen enough to know but, like I said, I've took it on meself to keep an eye out for both of 'em. For the good o' the whole neighbourhood, really. Neighbourhood Management, 'at's what I call it.

Hughesy's little woman, she says I shouldn't be out there but far as I'm concerned she don' know her arse from a pelican. Fine to be a Do-Gooder but if ye don' know what good needs doin', what's the use've ye? Like why, f'r instance has that kid took to gettin' out after dark? Ramblin' about the neighbourhood with his little 'Ghani mate from 'round the back? Which is dangerous, innit? I mean, if they were older, I'd reckon it was shaggin' shenanigans an' say good on 'em! But bein' the age they are, I'd bet me hair piece they're up to real mischief!

When I say 'mischief', what I mean is, for one thing, the little buggers've been playin' about in the ol' Lightnin' Bug an' for another they flogged an iron bar from under me house! Which didn't have no particular value except that it's mine, so there's a principle involved, innit! An' who knows what kids'll do next when they start gettin' away wi' stuff like that, eh? Steal the dust off a bunny, ye give 'em half a chance!

Little girl claims to be a 'Ghani witch, ye know? An' by God, she corners ye for long with them green eyes, you'll well believe her!

I knew a girl once really was a witch. Owned a ferret. She'd talk to that ferret an' that ferret'd run up her arm an' whisper in her ear an' she'd tell us what it said an' it was stuff no ordinary kid should know about, I can tell you! End o' time kinda stuff sometimes. Irma, we called her. Irma-geddon. World endin' today, Irma-geddon? Don't remember her real name. Had the same sorta eyes as the little 'Ghani, 'cept hers were black 'cause she was Viet-manese. Had a lot o' the Cong around in them days, after that war. Weird how things change but kinda don't, all at the same time. Me, I reckon we all do our bit to hold things steady, the better off we all are.

Anyways, Neville ('the Less', I call him; poor sad little fart of a character) . . . he gets on wi' the 'Ghani like a house on fire, an' more power to him, I s'pose. Might be just the ticket for throwin' some good Australian values into her - an' all the rest of her mob as well!

I've heard ol' Neville, the ol' fella, shoutin' an' carryin' on in the night, sometimes. When I was on me patrols, like. Couldn't tell for sure if he was targettin' Tina or the Less or just the heebie-jeebies in his head. What I can't get through to Hughesy's little woman is, that's why I pop through the trees an' have a squiz in the window sometimes; jus' to see he's not doin' neither of 'em no harm, see? Part o' me civic duty as Neighbourhood Watcher, as I see it. Anyways, fine lookin' woman like that deserves a bit o' watchin' 'f ye ask me.

Anyways, reason I'm talkin' about her is, last night I'm out in the paper barks, listenin' to the Flyin' Foxes - that wop-wop sound o' their wings 'n' all that crazy-woman screechin' they do - I kinda like that. When suddenly, the whole neighbourhood starts comin' apart! Stuff like what woulda made Irma-bloody-geddon light up like a Christmas tree - ferret an' all!

First up, there's this bangin' on Tina's door (which naturally tells me to creep a little closer) an' it's that snotty little Hayley sheila from Ass-bestos Central nex' door, yellin' about someone bein' shot! That brother o' hers, she reckons. An' I'm none too surprised 'cause any one o' them Boogers'd shoot a fly off your finger, they're so hot to kill stuff. So I listen a bit an' I see Tina go off over that way to help an' I'm just about to follow on across their yard - to see what's what, like. 'Cause I got me First Aid bandage 'n' all, though it's a few years outta date.

But before I get outta the tree-shadows, out creeps this other little arrangement from Rahimi's side. It's flickin' a torch beam around an' I see it's the witch, so I pull back 'cause, for all I know, she could be callin' in the ghostly horde, eh? Well she don' see me but she don't linger neither. Whoop! She's straight around t'other side o' the house, outta sight! Now I can't be sure what she's up to, but I start to reckon, like usual, it's the Less she's after; temptin' him out for one o' their night time preambles again! Which I'm satisfied to be thinkin' to myself: 'That'll be yer last, young larrikins! 'Cause I already got the wreckers comin' tamorra to haul that ol' wreck of a Lightnin' Bug off to the tip!'

The kids don' know that, o' course, but that's what I'm thinkin'; an' I'm also thinkin' that in't the only surprise the little buggers're in for. 'Cause in a coupla minutes, they're about to run smack into the Neighbourhood Watcher! An' sure enough, minute're two later, out comes the Less. Carryin' me iron bar, no less! An' he's off around t'other side where the witch went.

So I'm very cunning then, 'cause I deke down the back fence line, through the banana palms an' over to Hughesy's corner so's I can see what's cookin' without lettin' on I'm there. I remember bein' distracted by the sound of a night goose goin' over an' when I look back down, jus' like that, the witch is there, right in the middle o' the yard! Alone! Jus' standin' there, waitin', torch off! And I reckon she's prob'ly like, usin' some kinda mind power thing or somethin'! Maybe talkin' to that goose! Maybe gonna get it to shoot back an' lay a gold egg on her shoulder!

It didn't, o' course but . . . an' here's where the nutso bit cuts in . . . all hell did start breakin' loose! First, there's this bangin' starts up in Tina's house. An' I know the only one left in there is ol' Neville, who's s'posed to be coma-toast! But there's this bangin' an' then there he is, up an' runnin'! Out the back door an' across the veranda! An' the witch - like this is what she's been waitin' for - she winks the beam of her torch on him, jus' for a sec', an' I nearly drop me bundle an' make a run for it meself, he's so wild. Down the steps! On the gallop! Never a pause! He snatches her up under an arm an' **he's** off around the house where the Less's gone!

What the criminy? I says to meself.

An' then, straightaway, there's this almighty crashin' an' bangin' in the shade house down there! Stuff bein' broken! Kids shoutin'! An' part of it's this 'Mohammed Ali' gibberishy stuff an' I'm thinkin', Holy Bloody Dooley! Them kids really are possessed! An' he's killin' 'em! An' I'm lookin' around for a weapon I can use to go save 'em 'cause what're ye gonna do bare handed against a trained killer? So what'm I findin'? Nothin'! Some chokos hangin' over from Ass-bestos Central! But ye can't go up against a trained killer with a bloody choko! A bit o' the vine, I says to meself! Use it as a garrotte! Once knew a man useta garrotte drop bears up in the Warrumbungles! Ye can do it if ye take 'em by surprise!

So I'm there, tryin' to twist off or bite off a bit o' bloody choko vine but they're tough as nuts, see, an' that's when I realised . . . I need to put together a survival pack! If I'm gonna be facin' a neighbourhood that's comin' amuck like this, I need supplies! Coupla knives, maybe. Bit o' rope, (case I have to go up a tree). Big torch. Some apples. Stuff like that!

Anyways, I'm there tryna chew me way through the bloody choko vine but pretty soon I think it's too late anyways. 'Cause it's all gone quiet! Not totally quiet, but quiet enough. Just some cryin' goin' on an' it's kids so I figure, at least he hasn't killed 'em. In fact, for a bit I wonder if maybe it's the other way 'round! Maybe they killed him! With me iron bar!

I don't mind tellin' ye, I'm about piddlin' in me boots by this time an' mentally, I'm addin' a walkie-talkie to me survival kit. 'Cause if I had one, I'd be buzzin' the missus and gettin' her to set up a diversion o' some sort. Set bloody Bill on fire or somethin'. Maybe even call the police!

(Actually, not that. Not when folks've already got problems enough. An' which, the Missus prob'ly wouldn' do anyways 'cause she's not sympathetic to me patrols. Even when I told her this mornin' - 'You coulda been raped an' murdered in your bed, woman!' I told her - 'f I wasn't watchin'! Maniacal bloody perverts o' one persuasion or another, wanderin' all over Hell's half acre out there!' An' did I get so much as a thank you? No sir! Just asked me to pass the marmalade! Bloody woman!)

Anyways, long story short; I hear Tina leavin' Ass-bestos Central, she gets to passin' the shade house an' ol' Neville hisses out her name an' next thing, they're all under the house an' whisperin' an' everybody's cryin'. Naturally I creep down as close as I can, an' you know what I think I'm hearin'? Bombs! Talk about bombs! An' I'm reminded ol' Neville's got some trainin' there so I mentally add maybe some kinda shield to my survival kit, in case I gotta disarm some bloody banger he's cooked up.

I don' know how long this goes on for. Don' ask: I can't tell ya! But after a bit there's an ambulance shows up in the Boogers' yard, for whichever one of 'em is shot, I guess. An' I gotta pull right back into the vegetation an' lie down flat to stay outta everyone's sight. So I'm there an' after a bit the ambulance goes an' eventually Tina comes out from under the house with the Less an' it appears they're takin' the witch home. BUT, outta the banana palms pops Riff Rahimi! Which, who knows how long **he's** been lurkin' there?

( Actually it can't o' bin long, ye'd think, or he'd o' come runnin' to save his kid! Though who knows what t'expect from a 'Ghani? I mean, foreigners got their ways, haven't they? I mean to say, if their kid thinks it's a witch, what ignorant sort o' thinkin' might be goin' round the parents' heads?)

(Which in't to say there's anything wrong with 'em, o' course! No sir! Fine people! Good people! Can't blame foreigners for bein' ignorant, bein' born without our advantages 'n' all. Be good if all 'at foreign baggage got confiscated at the border, though. 'At's my opinion. Like they say: When in Rome, do what the Pope does! Clue in, move on, catch up. 'S a new country. Which is why, though I prob'ly shouldna, I couldn' help meself makin' a little foray into their yard after all the rest o' this kerfuffle was over. I mean, if the Lightnin' Bug's gotta go, why should their little raft get a reprieve, eh? But there ye go. An' anyways at's a different story.)

So the final kicker las' night is, (an' this is right outta left field) while they're handin' over the witch, I see this **other** shadow come slitherin' over Hughesy's corner and it's got this package in its hands an' I can see it's Hughesy himself! An' he steps out an' kinda coughs a little bit an' shows a pistol! A pistol! Kee-rist on a cracker! Ye gotta respect a man who backs up his cough with a pistol!

Now, thinkin' back, I don't reckon the others actually saw Hughesy at all, 'cause he backed away pretty quick an' they were pretty involved with whatever story the witch was makin' up. But o' course, this mornin' I'm thinkin', what do I gotta add to my survival pack if the bloody religo's've taken to carryin' guns?

Naturally, I laid low 'til the coast was clear. I was out at the crack o' Doom this mornin', though, to see the wreckers load up the Lightnin' Bug. Tina come by an' apologised: "In case you heard any uproar in the night," she says. "We had a bit of a drama," she says. Like maybe the popcorn'd gone off or somethin' an' not bloody eructations about bombs an' all.

"No no!" says I. "Well maybe I heard a ambulance one point! Over at Booger's was it?"

"Just the start of it," she says and then she says she's off over to Rahimi's to "check on things" but I doubt she knows the half o' what there is to be checkin' on in this neighbourhood!

Someone's under the house over there. I thought at first it'd be the Less an' I was thinkin' o' goin' over to squeeze his version o' the story out've him. But then he come out from inside. So it's ol' Neville, the returned bomb specialist, under there. The Less says he's "finishing some work". 'What kinda work?' I says, an' the kid clams up. I'm gonna go get started on me survival kit.

### 9. Interregnum

Yet another day went about its job of passing. At Boogerville, Hayley cruised out to her derelict bus, slipped inside and locked out the world, while Beau the Bum limped down to the green shield of the choko vine and did the same. They'd concocted an elaborate explanation for his foot wound - an ambitious tale involving the juggling of various sharply pointed objects - which the ambo's had accepted with eye-rolling incredulity.

Sometimes lies are just necessary. For example, if the ambo's had heard the word 'gun' \- even if it was only 'pellet gun' - they'd've had to call the police, who'd've had to see requisite gun licenses, one of which no Boogervillean for generations past, would ever have deigned to acquire. There'd've been hell to pay. In the event the ambo's had merely administered, along with a tetanus shot, a lecture on the need for proper footwear when juggling potentially piercing objects.

The lie, of course, would also have the added benefit of soothing the parents when they returned because, no matter how convinced they might be that a brother-sister squabble was at the heart of things, they would find strange comfort in the spectacle of even a sullen agreement between their off-spring. And that would surely make it easier, just this once, for them to overlook the presence of civil authorities on their property.

So. A quiet victory. But for Hayley, one tainted by weirdness. Sure, she'd had the pleasure of Beau's surprised howl when she shot him. And sure, the plan to lure the Less's mum out of the house so he and Afsoon could tend to their monster hunt had worked a treat. And sure, they (at least on Hayley's side of the divide) had gotten away with it.

But there'd been creepinesses that required further thought! First, the whole of the Less's family had flipped out and finished in a weeping huddle under their house! Even the old dude, who was supposed to be virtually catatonic. That was, to say the least, unexpected. Enough so to send her, after seeing the ambo's off, creeping amongst the mossy butts of the bottlebrush; just to check the extent of the flippage.

A number of things.

First, from behind her chosen tree, she'd seen the Less, his mum and Afsoon emerge from under the house in a sniffling little cluster. So - no big surprise \- the monster hunt hadn't gone well. Secondly, while they were crossing the yard, she'd seen a sinister shadow materialize at the back fence. A large and significantly Hughes-ish form, climbing up and over, out of the chokos!! Her first thought was that he was secondary to the main event; just an old God-botherer caught out pinching chokos!

But then it occurred to her that he was going in the wrong direction! Into the Less's yard instead of into his own, which clearly suggested an intent to spy on the distraught threesome! Which, to be fair, was exactly what she was doing herself though she was doing it out of concern, not nosiness, and had absolutely no intention of intervening. Hughesy, on the other hand, might well have it in mind to unload a heap of self-righteous disapproval, in which case her neutrality could no longer be guaranteed.

Her dander, in other words, was rising even as Hughsey stepped forward and uttered his plaintive little cough. The threesome were almost to the banana palms and were so involved in their own drama that they'd not yet noticed him but Hayley was barely a millisecond away from moving to their defence. Then the third thing; Hughsey's presentation of a pistol! A real pistol! A morality lecture, she could deflect, but a pistol? Maybe not!

Following immediately on that was the materialising of Riff Rahimi out of the palms. Happily his appearance (perhaps because of Riff's not-so-distant experiences in a war zone) seemed to cause Hughesy to re-think whatever plan he'd had in mind and to melt unnoticed back into the shadows.

And the weirdest thing of all - the last thing - was the audible heart-stopping gasp that came not from any of the exposed and vulnerable people in the yard, but from a towering philodendron, only half a dozen metres off to Hayley's right.

And so she'd allowed her dander to be overruled by curiosity. She'd waited. Waited until well after Riff and 'Soon had disappeared through the palms; until well after the Less and his mum had fetched their returned soldier back upstairs; until well after Hughesy had slithered back into his own yard. A good half hour; shivering with the effort of stillness, aching with the need to pee. Pondering the improbabilities of life in this neighbourhood. Until finally the philodendron's leaves had parted and yielded up the rotund figure of Dennis Shoomba.

In the new light of day, those were the three creepinesses that Hayley was puzzling over when her raging little brother, Beau the Bum, began to beat on her door.

* * *

Over the back fence, in the drab little kitchen of Cookie Camp, Mrs Hughes was seeking telephonic guidance from Pastor Paul.

* * *

"Yes. Yes. Well he couldn't leave it there, could he! There are children in the neighbourhood! Loaded? I don't know if it's loaded, nor would I have any idea how to find out! Well obviously, one could pull the trigger, but that's not going to happen is it!

"No, I don't know. Not a new one, I shouldn't think. All I know is, it's very heavy. Yes. Wrapped in a flannel and half buried. Yes, the neighbour's yard. Not in the open, no. Hidden in a patch of choko vine. Why was he there? Well what difference does that make? The issue is, a gun has been found! Having been left out of doors where anyone could stumble across it! Yes, well, obviously anyone who happened to find themselves inside that choko vine. Really, Paul, I don't understand your obsession with that.

"Talk to them? Really, do you think so? I mean, obviously that was our first thought. But my fear is, you know, that . . . well it's a wild sort of a family, you see? Anyhow, we think it probably belongs to another neighbour \- a returned serviceman who's actually quite unstable just at present. But if it belonged to the property owners - and we're by no means insisting that it does, but if it did - there's always the chance that they have more! And if so, would our disclosure of our knowledge bring us into their firing line . . . so to speak?

"Yes. No. Of course not. Well police aren't out of the question, certainly. No, it's safely hidden in the top of the closet at present. Yes, no, well that's right, it's not doing anyone any harm while it's there. Okay, well we'll give it a few days then and put the query into our prayers. See what eventuates. Right. Thank you, Paul. Yes, we'll let you know. You too. Okay. Yes. Okay. Bye for now."

* * *

That was the conversational snippet overheard by Robert and reported back to Cookie.

"A gun?" Cookie said. "A real, loaded gun? In the top of the closet? No way!"

"I'b dot lyi'g," said Robert. "Dot loaded, I do't thi'k. But I bet it's there."

* * *

Next door, on Rahimi Island, Riff went out early and, in his slow study of the morning, discovered a small mayhem. Three of the four white ducks sailed serenely, as they always did, on the pond, but the fourth lay broken and dead on the earth of Afsoon's filled-in grave. And when Riff went closer, he saw that the boat, the little eight foot replica he'd made of the crude vessel that'd brought him and Parisa and Afsoon and too many others to Australia, had been holed by a large stone and was awash in the pond. There had been no warnings, no hints - no reason for this. But there was a boot print.

His heart fierce with anger, Riff prowled the yard. Nothing more was amiss. He studied the boot print. He heard the voices of the Duke and Duchess, laughing beyond the Folly. And then, because if he didn't do this he would do something much worse, he took up his hammer and his packet of nails and began to pound on the wood. Nail after nail; after which he beat on them some more to bend them into hooks that would hold an entire jungle of Parisa's thorny bougainvillea.

Parisa, when she came down to question his racket, saw what he had seen and understood. She pushed loose earth over the little duck and tried, vainly, to right the sunken boat. Then, with a single-mindedness equal to Riff's, but with much greater tenderness, she brought Latifeh the goat in under the house and, began to wash her, making a careful, methodical search for ticks, none of which had ever been found in this yard.

Afsoon, though she felt like her entire body had been sprained, had been at pains to seem unaffected at breakfast. Everything was fine, she'd told them. Not to worry. But when Riff had demanded a promise that she would not again go wandering in the after-dark neighbourhood, she'd declined.

Riff's fury had been palpable. A disobedient child, he'd sworn, was worse than no child at all. That was the point at which he'd marched downstairs, made his discoveries and been driven to renew his attack on the impenetrably anguishing world. Parisa, before following him, had tried one last time to understand her daughter's obstinacy.

"Why, Afsoon? Why must you disobey your father? You know, he only wants to protect you. That is his job. That is his life. You take his life from him when you disobey! What do you do that is so important?"

They couldn't know that, as of this morning, she was nearer than she'd ever been to being able to make such a promise. And the reason for that was the Quiet Man's story about the exploded boy which, in Afsoon's mind, despite all her previous conviction that somewhere he remained alive, had become not the actual, but the symbolic story of Anosh.

"Mama," she'd said. "Is Anosh dead?"

That was the point at which Parisa had risen silently and followed Riff into the yard. She was twenty minutes into the grooming of Latifeh before Afsoon, having cleaned and tidied the kitchen, joined her and asked again, "Mama. Is Anosh dead?"

Parisa gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

"Anosh will always be alive, Afsoon; in our hearts."

"Yes. But in our lives, is he dead?"

Parisa stroked the goat lovingly, as though it was her lost child, and refused acknowledgement. In the yard, the body of the white duck lay like a flag of surrender.

"The pirates," 'Soon asked. "Did we dream the pirates?"

Again, no answer. But it didn't matter. 'Soon had found in the Quiet Man's story at least some of the truth about the dream she'd siphoned off from Riff. The part, for instance, where the Quiet Man had been at Riff's war, watching and not watching. Watching a boy, but not watching **out** for that boy. And so, the red dust also made sense.

She picked up a brush and joined in the grooming of Latifeh, who shuddered with pleasure. Shoomba and the Duke had also been in that dream. Out at the Folly, the hammering became suddenly more intense and oaths in the Dari language could be heard. 'Soon knew from experience that a nail had crumpled against the implacable Australian hardwood and Riff, in hatred of both the nail and the fence, was hammering it sideways into the wood.

"I wish I could've helped," she said softly, either to Latifeh or to her mother. "To kill those men." Latifeh didn't react but Parisa lurched to her feet in sudden and blinding fury, knocking her chair to the floor.

"You know so much!" she cried, pointing a shaking finger at Afsoon. "You know nothing! You hear? You are a foolish child! And you will not . . . not ever again in my house . . . speak like that! I forbid it!"

'Soon stared in astonishment. Raff, Parisa, her mother - this woman, was normally as unflappable as a stone. But now, she stood, swaying, like an animal designed for fleetness, but born in a cage. Resentment and hopelessness were etched on her face and she panted, pushing back her hair, straightening the long western style dress she'd taken to wearing, as a way of 'fitting in'.

Until finally she fell into a distant but too near memory at which she bared her teeth and snarled bitterly. With all the strength of her mind, Afsoon reached out and she saw, for certain, that the pirates had been terrible, terrible . . . and their smell was still there in her mother's mind, ever and again to be defeated and repressed. When control finally came and Parisa was released, she said softly, "Get a towel and dry this goat." And then she stalked away, up into the house.

This one time, 'Soon did as she was told. And when she was done, she took Latifeh out into the yard where the brown pigs grunted at the sun and the three remaining ducks swam on the still, flat water of the pond, circling the sunken little replica of the boat that'd brought the three Rahimi's and their countrymen across the sea to Australia.

When Parisa came back down stairs, fully composed again, but unsmiling, to gather the eggs, she saw Afsoon walking, a shuffling, heart-sore, resigned kind of a walk, into the banana palm forest.

* * *

In Shoomba Territory, Dennis Shoomba, after his morning chat with Neville the Less and being made aware of the More's under-house activity, spent the day assembling his survival pack. He was, he felt, a man with a creative genius. That's what he told Missus Shoomba when she called down to ask what the ruckus was about.

"Exercisin' me creative genius, love!" And to himself, "Best take me unawares, you mob! Or by God, there'll be more'n a duck with its neck wrung!"

* * *

In Home Country, there was no sense of quietude about the Quiet Man. Under the house, he dug a foxhole - a shallow, lie-down sort of a foxhole with ramparts, just deep enough so when he lay in it, no part of him could be seen. Then he snipped away bits of the surrounding vegetation, just enough to allow clear one-way vision. He ran an extension cord and set up a pair of spotlights that could be turned on from upstairs. He spread the broken pottery more evenly about the shade house floor, so no one could approach unheard.

His wife spent her day tracking his movements and gently remonstrating.

"What're you doing, Nev'?"

"Just a few adjustments to the perimeter, Teen'. Feeling good. Been inactive too long."

"That's great! That's great. But you don't need to do this, you know. This is . . . I mean, you're home now. We're all safe here. No need to . . . !"

"No, no! Sure! 'Course not! Listen, what's for lunch? Why don't you go see to that and I'll be up shortly, okay? Where's Nev'? He up there with you?"

"Uh, no. He's not with me. I wanted to keep him in but . . . he got it in his head to look for Ava again and I thought that would be better than . . . ! You know, what you're doing here is a little bit scary!"

"Ava's gone?"

"Yes. I told you. A few days now. Just gone walk-about, I expect. I've put up posters and spoken to the neighbours. I'll check the pound today. I'm sure she'll turn up. But you know Nev'. Single-minded as the day is long. He wanted to look again so I let him."

"Is that wise, Teen? I mean . . . the neighbours . . . !"

He flicked his eyes toward Rahimi Island and she said, "They're just neighbours, Nev'. All good, caring people. No one would let anything happen to our boy."

She went back upstairs to make lunch. And Neville the More carried on with his preparations, muttering, "They've taken Ava. That means they're close. Boy should be near at hand, that's all I'm saying."

* * *

In the Duchy of Daisley, Ralph and Enid heard Riff's thunderous attack on their fence and they smiled, knowing it to be a fence of integrity. They heard Dennis Shoomba, banging and buzzing under his house and smiled again, thinking of the troubles people bring on themselves by their long-term tolerance of disorder.

* * *

Neville crept into Under to retrieve the magic iron bar, but he couldn't stay there, or in the lilly-pilly fortress - not with the Quiet Man's muttering, puffing defensive preparations taking place so near at hand. Nor could he stay in the mango tree - not with Riff's relentless attack on the Folly taking place below on one side and Shoomba's mysterious hubbub on the other. He could not slip into Hayley's bus, or even into a possie in the chokos, because an argument had broken out earlier at Boogerville and the last thing he wanted was to be caught up any further in their troubles. Especially if, as seemed to be the case, their troubles related to his troubles **and** had resulted in Beau being unexpectedly foot-shot.

Where he came finally to a resigned and weary halt was flat on his back on the corrugated iron roof of the garage, looking up through the red flowers of the Poinciana. He thought he would be content to stay there all day but, in time, his mind got bored and wandered off. It wandered first to the base of the Poinciana where lay the husk of the rhinoceros beetle he'd so heedlessly stomped the day before. It wandered secondly into the tree-top to see if, somewhere amongst those tiny-petalled flowers, a glossy beetle mum and her little beetlings were still vainly awaiting the return of their hapless adventurer. It leapt, then, from the image of those patient black, hook-legged insects, to a more restless image, of black, hook-legged Flying Foxes with red burning eyes; and then to yet another, of the black, hook-tailed scorpion that'd catapulted into the Lightning Bug. And by that route, it finally reached the destination it had been seeking all along - the Ragged Man of Apollo Dungeon.

'Why are there ugly horrible Things in the world?'

'Figuring that out is your job. Look around, ask around, think it over. There's a lot riding on you finding a strategy."

A strategy. Figure one out! Ragged Man had been able to describe a strategy for getting rid of the War Things from Under. It didn't seem to have worked for Neville, but now the Quiet Man was down there amongst 'em, in Under, just like Ragged Man had said must happen. So this then was a sort of new strategy - to let the Quiet Man take control. Perhaps they had something to do with the terrible tale of the killed boy in Afghanistan. 'Soon had said all along that there was something shaming from the war and she had a habit of being right.

It had taken great courage to tell that secret. Mum said so. The courage of a Hero, she said. So he surely was one, even though the medal didn't say so. Heroic enough to chase anything away. Unless . . . unless . . . the other thing the Ragged Man had said . . . somehow they got inside him and made him one of them! In fact, what if they'd done that at the War! And that was why he'd let the boy be killed! The thought was terrifying. Not the least because it was clear from the Quiet Man's frantically unquiet behaviour that some struggle was continuing on inside him.

All this complicated reasoning actually began to make things seem a little clearer for Neville. Not totally clear and certainly not more comfortable, but at least a little bit sensible. The answer to the big question he'd asked Ragged Man, though - how he could help - that was still unclear. And now things were possibly on the urgent side because, after all, if all the Quiet Man's current preparations were a sign of a battle going on inside him . . . how long before it was either won or lost?

Neville strained very hard to get his own mind all the way back to Apollo Dungeon, to hear again those fading-away words from Ragged Man! Find the strategy. Something about the Folly! And something about 'Soon! And maybe . . . some other stuff that was . . . that was . . . !

They were crucial clues, Neville knew. Crucial insights almost on the point of revealing themselves; but suddenly sent scuttling back into hiding as Neville's mind, sensing a sprinkling of leaves and a shuddering of branches, gave up its wandering and sprinted for home. And Neville, opening his brown eyes, was confronted by 'Soon's green ones, peering down at him from a very near perch.

"I'm glad you're not higher up," she groaned. "In the mango tree. I couldn't have climbed up there."

She dropped down onto the roof, drawing a hollow thunk from the metal and a strained gasp from herself.

"Did he hurt you?" Neville asked, reaching to steady the branch.

"Yes. I'm all broken. My insides are porridge."

"I'm sorry. I don't think he meant to."

" No," she said. "I know."

Gingerly, she placed her bum back on the branch and Neville rose to sit beside her. From inside their shield of leaves, they looked out across the yards until, with sad surprise, she noticed the bare spot in Shoomba's yard.

"The Lightning Bug! It's gone!"

"Yup. Blown away, Shoomba says. Or stolen by the pirates."

He tried to be light and off-hand but knew, as 'Soon did, that something important had gone from the neighbourhood with the loss of the little boat.

"I wish it wasn't gone," he said. "If it was here, we could go to Apollo Dungeon again. We could take sandwiches and grapes this time, and give them to the Ragged Man, so he'd tell us where the pirates are. Then we could kill them with the magic cyclone bolt and get Anosh back."

Privately, of course, it wasn't really the pirates that he wanted to know more about. But they were the nightmares in 'Soon's family and 'Soon was his friend and she'd been hurt trying to help him. It was the least he could do in return.

She didn't respond. Over in Home Country, the Quiet Man appeared, furtive and nervous, walking the Boogerville boundary. At the big philodendron he paused, bent and retrieved something - a cloth the same shade of red as the hanky that Shoomba sometimes wore on his head. He studied it for a long moment before putting it in his pocket and moving on.

"We'd need Ava, of course," Nev' said, thinking that, if anyone could sniff out a Thing hiding in the Quiet Man, it'd be Ava. "But at least your family'd be right then."

At the corner of Cookie Camp, the eyes of Mister Hughes appeared, peeping surreptitiously over the fence before slowly subsiding from view, only to rise again when the Quiet Man had passed.

"Anosh is dead," 'Soon said flatly. "He won't come back."

Somehow, Neville was only a little surprised.

"You've let go of his hand?" he asked, remembering the strength of her grip on his, when the Quiet Man was telling his story.

Down below, the Quiet Man reached the banana palms. He stopped, glanced around and stooped, peering through to Rahimi Island where Riff's hammering tempo was finally flagging. Over in Shoomba Territory, a ghastly figure chose that moment to clank out from under the house. It was clad in cricket pads, coated in tin, draped across the chest with ropes and topped with a welder's helmet propped up like a great grey beak. It lifted each leg experimentally, waved each arm independently and turned to stumble back under the house. On Rahimi Island, the hammering stuttered to a stop.

In the echoing silence, Neville and 'Soon sat on their bough above the roof, shoulder to shoulder, still as a pair of doves. Below, the Quiet Man finished his stealthy circuit of the yard, stopping at the base of the Poinciana to speak Neville's name, once, softly, before moving on. Neville wanted desperately to answer but found that he couldn't, possibly due to the witcherly forbidding in 'Soon's gaze. Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended to be deaf and blind. Pretended that it was his own mind rather than his father's that was now lost in the jungle - a jungle so dense that no words could penetrate it. Especially not words as empty as 'Neville the Less'.

Happily though, pretend is not reality and some voices are more insistent than others. The one that eventually wended its way through to him was, of course, 'Soon's.

"It's safe," she whispered. "He's gone inside." And he felt her tiny weight leave the branch.

She was wearing his hat; the one he'd offered to appease her potential Amazonian head-hat hunting instincts. And though she was bent a little to one side from damage caused by the Quiet Man, and though she had a fresh sadness in her eyes from the new knowledge that her beloved Anosh would never come back to her, and though her father (somewhat like his own) was in an agony of impotent rage that left him beating helplessly on a needless barrier of a fence - despite all that, Neville saw only strength in her. She was, he thought, like the magic cyclone bolt - apparently light and slight but imbued, as the iron was with unknowable power; the power of blood. Unlike himself who was imbued with no power at all.

"I decided," he said, and he did so exactly as he was saying the words, "'Neville' might be a wrong name. Like 'Anosh'. I bet it means something that says you're Nobody. When you can't think how to help anybody at all, you definitely start to be Nobody."

She put her little hand on his shoulder and repeated words she had said to him once before: "It is worse than death to be Nobody, Neville. You must not allow it."

There was an echo there, and he recognised it straightaway, of something the Ragged Man had said: Imagine there's hope. Just waiting to be found.

"But if our name says it's true . . . !"

"If it was true then no one would see or hear you. But I see you, Neville the Less. And I hear you."

Neville looked around the neighbourhood, which suddenly seemed to be empty of people.

"I think if I find the medal and give it back, it might help him remember that the War Things shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be anywhere."

"Yes."

It was empty everywhere except in the Duchy where, out of everyone's sight but theirs, the Duke himself stood, arms folded, rocking on his heels, gazing and smiling at his rock-solid fence.

"And get Ava back too."

"Most absolutely," she said. "Now you're talking."

### Fists

For the briefest moment, Neville thought the choko vine itself had taken hold of him: thumping his ribs, flinging him to the ground, smacking a great stone into his stomach and oofing the air out of him. Two things quickly disabused him of that idea. First was the unmistakably musty odour of Beau the Bum. And second was the nasty, saliva-laden toad-croak of Beau's voice.

"Where is it, Nubbin, you little creep? One minute! That's all you got, boy! Then I'm gonna pulp you! Hamburger-ize you! Squish you like a bug! One minute, Nubbin! Tell me where me stuff is or you die!"

He was a boy possessed of terrible intent, as amply evidenced by the knee he was grinding viciously into Neville's belly and the immediate start, without waiting the promised minute, of the hamburger-izing process. It began with the wrapping of a grubby fist around each of Neville's ears and moved quickly on to the winding of them, as though they were keys and the interposed head was a sluggish jumping jack. Neville couldn't move or breathe, for the pressure of the knee. He couldn't think for the pain in his ears. And he didn't doubt for a minute that Beau's thready voice would be the last thing his poor ears would ever hear.

He was surprised then, to have one of his ears suddenly released and allowed to spin back into equilibrium. And for it then to still be able to hear 'Soon's voice, crying out.

"Stop it!" it was shrieking. "Get off! Get off!"

It was a cry that preceded, in quick succession, a flurry of slaps by a small hand against a very hard noggin, the horrible, dust-raising thump of a body landing beside him and, from a second throat, the same painful gagging sound that was emerging from his own - the one a person makes when breath has abandoned their lungs and fled the neighbourhood.

Neville had been at the point of crying for mercy, but those sounds brought something strange and frightful to life in him. It began with a choked denial that, despite the puny breath behind it, belted out of him; as though, if he expelled the last of his air with sufficient speed, some of it might to dive into 'Soon's paralysed chest and save her. And it continued with an unquenchable flailing that paid no homage to Beau's strength. Feet, knees, hips, arms and elbows - all suddenly, terrifically, almost hysterically complicit in making something a great deal More out of the Less. Making him into a creature that flipped, kicked, rolled and punched with such ferocity that the one ear on which a grip had remained either came off or came free - Neville didn't care which - and the crushing weight of the Bum's knee slipped away.

In Beau's mind, that should've been concession enough. But it wasn't. For several following seconds, the new creature that was Neville scratched, clawed, kicked, battered and growled with wild abandon, planting almost as many bruises on himself as on his attacker. And his breath came back, and with it, words - awful, terrible words. He didn't know many but the volume and passion with which he delivered them struck Beau as being a very ominous sign indeed.

Not that Neville could ever really have gotten the best of Beau; Beau would seriously have died before allowing that. But the fending off was distracting enough to allow Hayley a powerful two-handed grip on her brother's wounded foot and that, finally, was enough to achieve Beau's grudging retreat from the field of battle.

### Hayley

Okay, so here's the goods. Totally awesome, getting a free shot at old B' the Bum, even if it was just at his foot! And I was purest genius at getting the Less's mum distracted while he went on his monster hunt. Like, if it'd been Hallowe'en, I'd've been given a medal or something!

But it's got very uncool since then. It's the Doofus Combo' that's got me worried. Hughesy and Shoomba. I mean, if it was just Hughesy - the Holy Ghost that Walks - I reckon I could come to grips with him getting about in the night. Pulling the pistol still throws me a bit because, like, for a dude who's into peace and prayer, it's most especially heavy duty! I got a clearer idea on where it came from now, which I'll tell you in a minute, but still . . . the dude got it out on show!

Or, vice versa, if it was just old sleazo Shoomba on his own, I could prob'ly get a grip on that! Even him popping outta the bushes where he'd been hiding for like ages, which I know because I hid where **I** was for ages, trying to figure out why that bush was making noises.

But the two of them together? I mean you have to say to yourself, that's mega-weird! Obviously there's a connection because like, what're the odds they'd both be scoping out the neighbourhood separately, on the same dark night? No way! Oh, we're all curious about the war hero o' course - 'specially considering he's all unstable 'n' like that. According to the rumours, that is, which like, what's the point of rumours if there's no truth in them? But still! Being spooked enough to hide in the bushes and wave guns around is not being curious! It's being brain-bent!

And now I'm thinking on it, it'll be a foggy Friday when I believe those dudes aren't slippin' through everyone else's yards as well! As for example, I actually **saw** Hughesy climbing out of ours! And also I just wonder if it's just the two of them! I mean, that wrinkly old possum the Duke is one o' their mates! Was he out there with them? Was he maybe lurking back in the chokos and just too cunning to show himself?

Makes your skin crawl, dunnit? Prob'ly right outside my bus while I'm gettin' dressed or whatever! Hooh! How creepy is that? Which you might think, now **I'm** getting paranoid but like I said, listen to this!

Turns out my brain-dead brother had - past tense - 'had' one of his psycho-stashes hidden in the chokos! An' there was a gun in it! Yeah! For real! Maybe even loaded! I mean it's old as rocks, is that gun! Been in the attic like, at least since Poppy died which, Poppy was our grandad and a lovely old guy, wog to the core, who brought all kinds of cool stuff from Italy when he came to Australia after they had their war over there, back at the beginning of like, time. And the Bum sniffed it out and being as I said, mostly brain-dead, decided to flog it. Whatever it is goes on in the Bum's head, it's got nothing to do with normal thinking so good luck with asking him why!

But the point is, he had it in some waterproof stuff out in the chokos and now it's gone! And if you reckon it's gotta be the one Hughesy was waving about, I reckon you gotta be dead right!

All this came out because today the Bum discovered it was missing and, like the clueless junior psycho he is, got it into his head that the Less had taken it. So he set to thumping crap out've him. Then Afsoon tried to get between them and she started copping it as well. Though I think they shook the Bum a bit. Gave almost as good as they got, judging by what I saw.

Anyhow, after I pull them apart and make the Bum tell me what he thinks he's doing, I break the news to him.

"It wasn't them, ye noik! It was Hughesy!" And I tell all three of 'em what I saw. After which Beau, ever the deep thinker, reckons, "Well I'm goin' over there an' get it back!"

An' the Less says, "They were in Home Country?"

And Afsoon goes deadpan and says, "They have come!"

They're all three all googly-eyed and I have to take 'em one at a time, so it's Beau first.

"First off," I says, "you can't just go and ask for it, ye dill!"

"Why not? It's mine! He stole it!"

And the Less says, "Why would they be sneaking in Home Country?"

And 'Soon says, "They're looking, Neville. Finding out!"

She sounds like she's got a pillow stuffed into her left lung, poor kid, and maybe some kinda scary outlook stuck in her head but, for the minute I gotta concentrate on keeping the Bum from whatever hari-kari he's intent on committing.

"He stole it **after you** stole it, Beau! I don't even know if it's possible to steal stolen stuff. And anyway, there're gun laws in this country, you know? Duh?"

"Who gives a rat's? It's mine!"

"Fine fine! Okay, let's say you do go over and claim it. You got a receipt to show you bought it, right? An' you got I.D. that says you're eighteen and allowed to own it, right? An' a licence that says you got it for reasons other than because you're a criminal head case in training, right?"

"Well what'm I s'posed to do then? Just let him keep it?"

I'm already over this because I know the only way to put Beau off an argument is to start a different one. And anyway, the other two're getting all aeri-ated about something else and I figure, while I'm fending off cockeyed delusions, I best do theirs as well!

So to finish Beau, I says, "Listen mate! You don't want it back! First up, it's a friggin' thousand years old and just waiting to blow somebody's hand off. And second, Hughesy reports it to the police that he found a gun in our yard and you front up saying it's yours, you're dead meat! The neighbours! The law! Dad! Think about it, Beau! Just exactly how bad do you need to be murdered?"

And I turn in time to hear 'Soon saying, ". . . finding out if the Quiet Man is still a soldier! If he can still protect you! Or anyone! Or maybe if he can be on their side!"

"Their side! Their side of what?" squawks Neville.

"Their side of the war!" she says and her whole tone and voice are like, Sorry, mate, but that was your gerbil we just killed!

"The war? No no no! It's not a war, 'Soon! It's just the Things! Just them!"

She shakes her head. "The Things are **from** the war. You know that. And the war is everywhere. That's what Riff's dream says."

"Waah!" the Less says. "But why? Why does it have to be here?"

"I told you, Neville!" says 'Soon, "They have come for me! And maybe for you! They have Anosh and now it's for me and you and maybe Beau and Cookie and Robert and Hayley too. We have to fight now!"

"But Mum says . . . ! I mean . . . she promised a war could never come here! And I wouldn't have to be a soldier!"

"Ha! Good luck with that one!" snorts the Bum, rubbing at these new scratches on his face and 'Soon says, "Neville. This morning, before I found you on the roof, I went to the Quiet Man."

She's all apologetic sounding and he's like, no way!

"You went to the Quiet Man? In Under?"

She nods. And I gotta tell you, after seeing her limp outta there last night and seeing how beat up she is today, and how confused about who's doing what for why, I'm thinking like, whoa! This kid's either majorly damaged brain-wise or she's got more balls than a tennis court!

"I don't know what's happening there," the Less says, and you can see the poor little guy is just on the brink o' being emotionally shattered. "I don't know if the Things got him. Or if they're gone."

"He prob'ly doesn't know himself, mate," I say, without any real clue what Things he's on about but just trying to take a little of the pressure off. But he ignores me and says to 'Soon, "Did he tell you?"

"No," she says and she's got this little cough and she's holding her ribs like maybe she's eaten like a bowl o' pins for breakie. "But something is there. Like with Riff when he hammers on the Folly. Something terrible is inside."

"Did he . . . did he try to hurt you?"

She shakes her head.

"Did he talk to you?" he squeaks and she nods.

"I asked him about the exploded boy."

"Exploded boy?" says I. "What the . . . ?" And she tells us the story; which blows my mind like, totally, because he's like, supposed to be a hero or something!

Then, "He says he would take it back," she says to Neville. "That's what he says. Because the war will follow him always, he says, until it is made equal - until he is punished. You see? He knows this. He says Ava might be only the beginning. And that maybe you . . . maybe even your mum . . . !"

She stops and Nev's just staring at her like he's been smacked with a fish but Beau reckons, "What? Him 'n' his mum what?"

So I cuff him on the back o' the head and say, "Think about the story, dumb-ass! If you wanna get back at someone for letting your kid get blown up, whaddya do?" Which, like, I'm immediately sorry for because it's like I'm like saying someone wants to plant a bomb in the Less's shorts or something, and the little dude's already gotta be Panic Central! And o' course, I most definitely don't believe any of it. But then, I can't shake these images of Hughesy and Shoomba and I gotta ask to see if we're all, like, on the same page.

"Did he say who, 'Soon? Who around here'd be wanting to punish him for something he did over there?"

She doesn't answer because the Less has suddenly reached out to touch her arm and it's like one o' those really deep, 'But I loved that gerbil!' minutes and he says, "Anosh! Was it Anosh that he let get killed?"

And she says no, it was another boy and Beau squeals out, "Who the frick is Anosh? What's goin' on? Why aren't we talking about my gun any more?"

But I remember this story about Anosh being another Rahimi kid who died, somewhere between here an' there, and suddenly a light goes on for me. "It's your mob!" I blurt out. "Your mob from Afghanistan! That's who he thinks is coming to punish him?"

And Beau reckons, "What mob? Ye mean Riff? Riff's gonna murder Nubbin's ol' man? An' Nubbin? Holy far out crap! When?"

But Afsoon's shaking her head. She doesn't know. "I asked him," she says, "if he was okay today. In Dari: 'Haleton khoob ast?'"

"Oooh what?" says Beau. "In your gibbery language? How's he s'posed to know that? Why didn't ye talk to him in Australian?"

"He knows!" she says and, talking to all of us now, "And I wanted him to know - I want everyone to know. Who I am. Riff and Raff, they try to hide who they have been. So they will fit. Not me. I say, if people hate me for being only this, then . . . best we both know."

"What I know," shouts Beau, "is that you're a pack o' fruit baskets!" And he starts walking in circles, scratching his head, which is what he does when he's got like, no clue. Not the Less, though. He asks, real quiet, like he's not sure he wants to hear the answer, "What did he say? When you asked! Is he okay?"

And she shakes her head.

"'Aya mitivanid be nan komak koni?' That's what he said. It means . . . can you help me?"

"Can you help me? He wants **you** to help him?"

"He wants **us** to help him, Neville the Less. You and me, together. And I said yes to him. Because you have lost a boy in the war, I said, and I too have lost a boy in the war."

"Oh!" says Neville. And there's a bit of light bulb moment. "Is that why he asked in your language? Not in Australian?"

This brings the first hint of a smile I've seen from her all day but I'm too weirded out by the whole like, twenty-four hours up to now to care.

"Okay!" I say. "On the off-chance you two got any idea what you're talking about, it's time to share! Just something simple; in simple Australian for me, please. Like for starters . . . help him do what exactly?"

They both look at me like they're each a hundred and I'm three.

"What we said!" the Less tells me. "There's a Thing inside him. A bad Thing. We have to help him get rid of it. So he can come properly back and chase the pirates and the war can end. And everyone will be safe again."

"Not just chase," she says. "The pirates must be killed."

"Right!" says I. "Everybody into the bus."

* * *

Half an hour, prob'ly; that's what it took. Like I generally got half an hour to waste on kids! Well, not 'waste' actually, 'cause these kids got monsters on the brain and somebody's gotta take 'em in hand and shoo 'em away, see?

First I say to 'Soon, thinking it'll show how ridiculous the idea is, even though she's obviously like, half ga-ga with trauma, "So you're thinking there're guys - pirates or something - wandering Queensland looking for you? Is that right?"

And she says, straight-faced and sombre and she's all this crumpled, battered, pathetic little nothing-of-a-kid: "Not looking anymore."

"Listen!" I say. Because it's just wrong for anyone to be so scared; like desperation is all they got left. "Here's how it is, kid! Pirates are in Disneyland; not Queensland! We got no pirates here! And no crazy-assed other kinda 'Things' are inside anyone! You just got nosey bigoted neighbours is all!"

And I'm saying it, but at the same time I'm thinking about the Doofus Combo-slash-Trio, whichever it is. Ol' Shoomba lying so quiet under that philodendron and I have to wonder! Man! How can I be sure? I mean, where does that amount of crazy come from? What's it for and why's it all of a sudden there? To have Hughesy sliding up over the back fence with the Bum's gun - which, though I forcefully remind myself is technically not even his, he still pulled it out when Riff came on the scene! And the Duke, wherever he is, whatever he's doing over there; even if he's just taunting the poor old Riff with his friggin' fence. Why? What's he want? What's he getting out of it?

I'm kind of briefly brought back to earth when Beau whoops, "Not just nosey!" Maybe thinking I've finally joined him in his loopy little mind-warp. "Robbers!" he goes on. "Nobody got a right to come in my yard an' pinch my stuff!" Which (again, technically) I'm absolutely agreeing on. "Youse gotta help me get it back." Which actually, I'm not so much agreeing on. 'Cause it seems like the very least of the problems at hand.

"We don't care about your gun," the Less says. "I came looking for the medal, that's all. I have to give it back to the Quiet Man."

"Well ye don't get medals without guns, Knob-head! It's both or neither!"

And the little Less just glares at Beau and the little dude's already all scratched and punched up from their tangle, but he's got this new look in his eye like he'd go another round at the drop of a five cent piece. And little Afsoon's all kinda scrunched and holding herself together, but still looking somehow just as ready. An' I'm thinkin', these kids . . . all they prob'ly need's a little organisational help an' they could prob'ly straighten out this whole mess an' get back to being like, just kids!

"So listen," I says, 'cause it's like, obvious I gotta know the whole story: "what's this medal you're on about?"

"It's the Quiet Man's medal," the Less says. "I left it in the chokos but I shouldn't have. Now I want it back. That's all."

The Quiet Man. That's what they call the Less's ol' man 'cause he's like, catatonic (or was, before last night's big break-out!) Which now that I'm thinking of it (and it doesn't escape me that saying this out loud'd make me sound as paranoid as they are!) . . . I'm thinkin' Afsoon's idea about the Doofus's - them trying to see whether the QM's still a soldier or not, could make a kind of half-assed sense! I mean really!

I'm nowhere near believing this 'pirates' caper, understand, but like, what difference **would** it make to them what state he's in? And I have to laugh that they picked last night to check him out! I reckon he gave 'em heaps to think about today!

"The medal was in the bag with my gun," the selfish old Bum's saying, getting into it now that stuff he cares about is on the agenda again. "Youse put it down, I picked it up an' now it's mine! Finders keepers! Anyways, why do you care? You said it wasn't even a hero medal!"

About now I see this fierceness getting even bigger in the Less's eyes and I reckon maybe not even Beau's threats to shoot his weener off would stop him today.

"It's a Going-to-Help medal," he growls. "And it doesn't say he **wasn't** a hero. So I don't care. I want it back."

"Well you can't have it back! 'Cause it's gone with the gun!"

"Well you go get it back then!"

"Go get it back yourself! Maybe someone'll give **you** a Going-to-Help medal! Ha!"

And on like that, yada-yada, while I'm busy thinking about this problem so it's Afsoon who finally gets between them.

"Stop it!" she snaps. "Fighting each other won't help. We need a plan." And they all turn to look at me.

### Cookie, Robert and the Boogerville Gun

"Whaddya thi'g, Cook? Is it real?"

"Course it's real! Feel how heavy it is!"

"Ar't you scared it'll go off?"

"Nuh. You have to pull the trigger for it to go off. See these other little lever-y things \- they don't do nothin'. See? Ye can move 'em an' . . . nothin'."

"Why do ye thi'g they got it?"

"It's not their's, stupid! You said mum told Pastor Paul that dad found it in Beau the Bum's yard! Remember?"

"Yeah. But why was he there? A'd why do you thi'g he picked it up a'd brought it ho'b? Did he steal it?"

"Course not, Robert. Dad wouldn' steal anything. I bet he was just trying to help. You know, like, here's a lost thing, I'll just pick it up and return it to its owners."

"But he did't retur'd it! He brought it ho'b. Do you thi'g it's because he was'et supposed to be over there?"

"You know what I think? Mister Shoomba told Neville there're spare kids buried in the chokos at Boogerville. They couldn't feed 'em all so they got ridda some. I think this is the gun! And dad's just looking out for Beau the Bum and Hayley by keeping it. That's what I reckon. I reckon Beau the Bum found the gun and hid it so him and Hayl's wouldn't get shot! And dad just found it. Maybe they even put it where he'd find it so he'd look after it! And one day, when they've both gone out and got jobs and it's safe, dad'll give the gun back!"

"Oh! That makes se'se! God'd like hib for doi'g that! What about this other thi'g? The medal?"

"I don't know, that one's got me a bit stumped. It says Afghanistan on it. That's where 'Soon came from. And where Neville's dad went to the war. So it might be one of theirs. But I can't figure why it would be in the bag with the Boogerville gun!"

"It's a very dice, shidy medal. Baby Beau stole it, like he stole the gud, a'd thed just hid theb together!"

"Yeah, Maybe."

"I thig you're right. I thig you ca't get a medal 'f you do't go to a place. So it bust be Deville's dad's or Afsoo'd's dad's. We should give it back."

"Yeah. But what if we give it back to the wrong one and they just keep it, and the other one finds out. Then we could be in big trouble. I reckon we'll just put it all back in the cupboard for now. And it's just between you an' me, Robert! Okay?"

"Okay. A'd Cook?"

"What?"

"D'you thi'g bub a'd dad are havi'g edy trouble feedi'g both of us?"

### 10. Plans

### Shoomba's Plan

Lookee here, see this? Me camel pack! Straps onto your back, see, an' ye get this tube over yer shoulder so's ye can drink jus' by turnin' your head! Four litres back there! Man could stay out all night, quiet as ol' Terrible Bill himself an' never give himself away. Put a tot o' rum in there an' yer proof against the cold as well. Weather man says there's a front comin' through, so why not?

I once saw a front come through - could see it in the rearview, comin' straight down the road behind me. Sun on the bonnet an' hail the size o' mud crabs on the boot. Foot to the floor I was, but couldn't outrun it. Afterwards, that car looked like bran' new comin' toward ye, but a total wreck goin' away. Like some people's lives, I reckon. Tasmania, that was. My opinion is it's colder than a chicken's foot down there, every day o' the year.

An' what else I got here, I got the old cricket pads for shins an' mitts and I got this chest guard which, I wanted kevlar o' course, but this one's genuine imitation leather over a folded tarp' that I've wrapped around and tied off with twine. Home made, that is. Coupla these corrugated iron strips down the front an' I reckon you'd need a dum-dum bullet to get through that. Got me jockstrap which I can't show ye for modesty's sake an' me ol' motorcycle helmet which, ye could knock on that with a four be two and not disturb any o' me thoughts at all. And o' course there's food an' a knife an' some rope an' the mobile phone an' me pencil torch and a writing pad so's I can keep track o' suspicious comin's and goin's. An' this here gadget - this is night vision goggles! Nineteen bucks on ebay. Why wouldja not?

What I'm gonna do is, I'm gonna take up two or three positions out there in the yards, startin' tonight. Be like the Scarlet Pumpernickel, slippin' from one spot to another so's I can get a good gander at all sides an' just record what sorta funny business is goin' on around here. 'F I have to stay out all night, then that's hunky-dory with me 'cause a man's got everything he needs for that kinda endurance work. An' it might jus' be that I'm all there is stoppin' that burned out bomb fanatic goin' off his gourd and plantin' jelly-g'night in the septic tanks or that other bird-nervous refugee jumpin' the fences like Hiram Bloody Highjumper!

Gonna jus' touch base with Hughesy before I start - make sure the bugger doesn't shoot me by mistake. An' maybe with the Duke too; case he might like to take up a rear-guard position. Or better yet, let me set up a step ladder against the Folly for one o' me positions. That'd be a particularly fine view.

### Hughesy's Plan

Mrs Hughes and I, we've prayed mightily for guidance on this. And we've spoken on the phone to Pastor Paul. It's not that the Lord's avoided leading us to the path; only that He seems to have left us at a place where it divides! We of course have utter faith in the decisions He takes on our behalf, but we certainly know we're being tested when we're shown a crossroad rather than a simple signpost.

The major issue is this gun thing. Firstly I wondered why I would be led to it and prompted to pick it up and bring it into our home if it was then to be left high and untouched in the hall closet! Was it simply His way of moving it from less responsible to more responsible hands? Perhaps to safeguard the vulnerable who might either be tempted to misuse it or, indeed, might find it being used against them?

Or, on the other hand, (and this was Pastor Paul's observation) might it be an invitation to make use of it? After all, a gun is a gun! And guns, even when only displayed, imbue their controllers with an undeniable air of authority; and authority which has the weighty nod of a Lord-given pistol behind it could obviously be used for the betterment of many things in this world, let alone in this neighbourhood!

One would, of course, never assume a permission to take actual action against one's neighbours. But there is an un-Godliness out there which, indisputably, has begun to impact families throughout the neighbourhood. And it is, of course, one's burden to protect not only one's own family but also the vulnerable in other's! A blatant example would be the apparent source of this weapon - the Bogarts, whose children are being raised without apparent conscience, care or supervision.

Also, Cookie and Robert have recently spoken about the Rahimi girl, quite confidently stating that she is, of all things, a 'witch'! There are biblical references to witches, of course - that they be stoned with stones; put to death and other such outmoded commandments that served in less tolerant times and we certainly don't subscribe to any such foolish notions in this modern era. We don't, for that matter, believe there truly to be witches. And judging by Cookie's recent apparent foolishness - that he once existed as a whistling kite - we're wise to prefer that our sons not mix with those who do maintain such primitive beliefs.

Not that we're singling out Afsoon Rahimi for blame. Some part of Cookie's ridiculous notion, I'm quite certain, has come from young Neville ('the Less', as they call him) - who's totally misconstrued the concept of being 'born again'. In short, things being what they are, we're considering banning our boys from contact with all these neighbourhood children. We'd've done it already were we not so leery of seeming judgemental or provoking parental backlashes.

So our plan, arising out of our prayerful confession of confusion (which was doubly answered by Pastor Paul's wisdom and by Dennis Shoomba's most unusual urge to visit us) is this. First of all, the gun stays in the closet. It stays there because (the second reason) we more or less resign ourselves to the uncomfortable fact that Dennis has appointed himself the head, shoulders and body of Neighbourhood Watch and intends to undertake a surveillance of the yards for some period of time in the night.

We appreciate that he's chosen to inform us, though it's only acknowledging an activity that we've all been aware of for a long while. Still, it's disturbing to think that he might be armed and probably more than a little convinced that he has a leading role to play in the unravelling of our neighbourhood crisis. Of course we remonstrated with him, but he's convinced himself (and somewhat strengthened our suspicions) that the returned soldier's mind has become unstable; somehow allowing past war experiences to blend into present times. (That probability had, in fact, occurred to me after hearing the ruckus from their place last night.) And so, for the time being, the gun stays in the closet and we watch and wait.

There is one more thing - a more proactive thing, and I'll brook no objections to it. I intend, perhaps this evening or tomorrow evening, to do a more thorough search of the Bogart's choko patch. If there're more weapons out there, for the good of us all, I'll be taking charge of them

### Neville the More's Plan

I've set up trip wires. And spotties. I've rigged the hose to the guttering and near the bottom of the steps I've got a skein of wires between car batteries. I've cut up all the ping-pong balls, pulled the cores from the toilet rolls and raided the Cool Packs for potassium nitrate. Cut up candles for the wax and used up all the vinegar and baking soda and plastic drink bottles. Just simple smoke bombs and flash-bangers, but that's all I can manage at short notice. Diversionary value only, but that's okay. Disorientation's the key. The last thing I want is for anyone else to get hurt. Not at this early stage. Not if I can help it. Still! I'll try to get down to the shops tomorrow for some heavier duty stuff, just in case. Fertilizers. You can make some potent stuff from fertilizers.

A night of watching ahead. Keep everyone safe. And if I can, take a prisoner. Make 'em tell where Ava is.

### Mum's Plan

It's ironic. When he was vegged out and unresponsive, I'd've given anything to have him come back to life. Now he's alive again, but so panicked and paranoid that I'm not sure any of us - especially the neighbours - are safe.

I've rung the doctor, but she's tied up at the hospital and can't come. I've rung the DVA and they're sending someone out this afternoon. They're already talking heavier sedation - anti-anxiety stuff. But he refused all of his pills last night and again this morning. Not that they worked particularly well before - certainly not well enough to keep the nightmares at bay. If I don't get any better help than this, I'm going to grind up half a dozen to slip into his dinner. And hope he takes in enough to knock him out for the rest of the night.

### Hayley's Plan

There were only two things Afsoon and the Less wanted. One was to get that medal back from the Hughes's. I told them, I said, it's only gonna be a service medal, ye know; he can prob'ly get it replaced. But they said no, it's the one he was given and it's the next best thing to a hero medal. And they're both convinced that giving it back - not him having it, but them giving it back - will be a way of telling him . . . I don' know . . . that what happens at the war stays at the war. Or something like that.

And the harder thing they wanted was to find that little pooch. Well, I said, you're stuck there because, if she was still in the neighbourhood, somebody would've caught her and bounced her on back to you! And they reckoned that was true of everyone but the one person whose yard nobody's game to go into - the Duke. So they've got it in their heads that that's where she is; that she's snuck into his yard for a crap or some unthinkable sin like that and the wrinkled old gumball has thrown a rope around her and dog-napped her!

I got a plan to get the medal back for them. It's already underway, in fact. First I had to talk to Cookie Hughes, so I got the Bum to lure him down to the back fence, which he did by lobbing chokos at the poor little dude while he was moping in their yard.

"Listen, mate," I says to him. "I don't wanna cause any trouble for youse, but I saw your ol' man in our yard las' night, an' now somethin's gone missing."

Straightaway his lips go all kinda twitchy and his cheeks flush and suddenly he can't look me in the eye (not that he was ever tops at that). So I know he knows what I'm talking about. So then I make a little mention of the cops and the Lord Jesus and stealing camels through the eye of a needle and like that and I say, if he knows where that little sack is stashed, and maybe if he got the medal out've it and gave it back - 'cause it's got like, sentimental value to a friend of ours - if he can do that, maybe we won't be needing to press charges for trespassing and theft.

Of course Beau goes off about getting the whole sack back and how they're next on his list to have their peckers shot of if they don't co-operate. I don't know if that kind of stuff works, but it's all poor ol' Beau's got to offer. Anyhow, I really think the gun is prob'ly better off over there than over here. Nonetheless, Cookie gives this sad, frightened little nod and goes off.

So I'm pretty sure the medal's coming back. As for the pooch, I'm still working on that. Somehow or other I wanna find a way to get a lotta people behind the Duke's defences; and find out for sure if he's the culprit.

### Neville the Less's Plan

The Quiet Man's finally told me what I can do to help him, but now I don't know. He wants me to help him guard the yard tonight and he's shown me how to use the bombs he's made. He says they won't hurt anyone; they're just smoke and noise, he says. But it seems like going to war, sort of - using bombs. And I promised mum I wouldn't. Not ever. But it seems I might have to anyhow because of what 'Soon said about all of us kids being in danger. And if his bombs really won't hurt anyone, then I can see why it's a good idea because, in Under last night, I hit the Quiet Man a lot of times with the magic cyclone bolt and I thought I was doing real good until I found out it was him and now he's got bandages and bleeding and I didn't want that.

Anyhow, I don't know what he thinks is going to happen. I don't think anything is. It hardly ever does. So I guess I'll wait with him and see. I made 'Soon promise not to come over in the dark because of the traps.

### 'Soon's Plan

I have promised Riff and Raff that I will not sneak off to Home Country tonight. I wonder what the demons do to liars.

### Ragged Man's Plan

He wanted to be shown a path, I know. That's what everybody wants. Show me the way! Past the dead ends, the knock-downs, the disillusionments. The sweet, sweet juices of temptation! Lead me not into Regret or Resignation. Or Self-delusion. Lead me instead to Self-satisfaction. As if they had any clue what was good for them; what they deserved. As if I'd want to see them spared any trouble or embarrassment. As if such a thing was even possible..

Anyhow, destinations are not all they're chalked up to be and that's a fact. For starters, every fool and his cat can sit down anywhere along the way and convince themselves they've arrived somewhere! Stoppin' here. This feels right, here. What they're really sayin' is, it's scary out there without an anchor. Simple fear. Ye know? Don't make me taste it Ragged Man! Don't make me see it! Don't make me go on!

Well why not? Not like any of it's my problem! Selfish gits! Anyhow, I'm more interested in the simple ones - the ones who never arrive. Who just keep bumpin' along, hopin' for somethin' better. Not for their own sake. Not because they got an idea they think is grand. Just 'cause they can't help but care. A little compassion's all it takes. A little forbearance. A little charity. If there aren't at least a few walkin' that path, then there's not much point to any of it, really, is there?

Look over there, on the horizon. See what I mean? There's always stuff going on over there. Which is good! Gotta explore the horizons if ye want any say in the Big Picture. But that's my horizon, see? Not theirs! Their horizons, most of 'em, are hardly past the neighbour's fence! That's what I'm talkin' about! Immovability. Intolerance. That's where my faith in humanity got shot through the head. On the other hand, I like that kid. I got a feeling about that kid. He's little and he's nervous but he's got that sort of simplicity of soul, ye know? I like his sort. The world could use more o' his sort. That's what I reckon. I'm going to go have a look - just to see how he's getting on. How he finishes.

### 11. D-Day

### Afternoon

Neville couldn't believe his ears at first; or his eyes when he peeped into the living room. The voice and outfit were both much more formal than the last time they'd met - more correct and deferential-seeming. But the uniformed man from the DVA, who had shown up shortly after lunch and was now sitting in the living room with his cap on his lap, was definitely a man in disguise.

"Thank you so much for coming on such short notice," Mum was saying and, "Not in the least, Ma'm!" Ragged Man was answering. "The welfare of our brave returned soldiers is our paramount interest down at Veteran's Affairs."

"Good, yes. Excellent. It's ours here as well. As I'm sure you can imagine." "Imagining is my particular talent, Ma'm. And this young man in the doorway - would I be right in imagining him to be your son?"

"Neville! Come in. My God, look at you! What's happened to you? You're all scratched up! And your clothes! And the bandage on your head! That was clean, new this morning! Are you alright? You look like you've been in a fight!"

"Um!"

"Oh Neville!" Her despair was palpable. "We'll talk about this later, young man! In the meantime, this man is from the army. He's come to chat with us and your dad about . . . changes in how he's behaving. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your . . . !"

"Mann," said the Ragged Man, rising quickly and holding out a hand to Neville. "Major Mann. Two 'n's. And you're another Neville, no less!"

His back to Mum, the Major smiled broadly and winked a deep, conspiratorial wink, even as Neville reached out to shake the proffered hand. The alteration of both their names, however, nonplussed him somewhat and he had to suppress an instinct to correct. I'm not Neville **no** Less; I'm Neville **the** Less, he wanted to say; and you're not Major Mann, you're Ragged Man from Apollo Dungeon! Seeming to anticipate the urge, Major Ragged Mann barrelled on.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Neville. A young man a father can be proud of, are you?" And flicking a gesture at the scratches on Neville's face, "Going to be a soldier like him one day?"

"Um, no." With a glance at Mum: "I promised I wouldn't."

"Oh, well, good-oh then!" He looked Neville up and down, plucked a tuft of grass from Neville's hair and handed it over. "Not for the soldier thing, I mean! For sticking to your promises! That's a Big Picture item, that one is." He waggled his eyebrows happily and repeated, " **Big** Picture, for sure! So! What's your dad up to, Nev'? Being a bit hard to understand is he?"

"He's . . . building defences. That's what he told 'Soon this morning."

A gasp from Mum. "Your father talked to Afsoon? This morning? Where? He didn't go over to their place did he? Oh, why didn't you tell me?"

"I just found out. She came here and talked to him in Under in the other language - like they did yesterday. To see if he was okay, she said."

"Well I guess he **was** over at her place in a sense, wasn't he!" the Major chirped. "The bigger sense, I mean! In Afghanistan? But good on her for coming to check on him, eh? After what that little girl's been through? Keeping on caring - that's the one that shows true worth, you know. Anyone ever tell you that, Nev'?"

Neville nodded. "You did, out on . . . !" But the Major cut him off again.

"So what's the report then? What did he tell her? Is he okay?"

Neville shook his head. "He still reckons he could use some help."

"Does he now? Does he now? Well that's interesting, isn't it? Interesting he understood that other language, I mean. Because we already knew he wanted help, didn't we! You and me . . . and your mum. All of us, we knew that. And I bet he knows that's what we were here for, eh? To help as best we can? So the big question then is . . . how. Did he tell Afsoon? Help building his defences, maybe?"

"Um. Maybe. But I don't think . . . ! I mean . . . ! I think maybe it's . . . !"

He didn't want to tell in Mum's hearing that the help he'd been asked for involved smoke bombs and flash-bangers and keeping watch on the yard. It wasn't actually fighting but it obviously had the potential to be soldiery.

"Tell you what!" the Major interjected, once again saving Neville the difficulty of evading. "How would you feel about showing me where this 'Under' is, so your dad and I can have a natter about it, huh? You wouldn't mind that would you Ma'm? If Neville walked me around to where the Lieutenant is holed up? Sometimes a good chat, you know - one on one with someone who's been where he's been, seen what he's seen - sometimes that's as good a place to start as any. Knowing you're not alone in the boat, if you see what I mean." He winked again at Neville, making an exaggeratedly crooked O of his mouth. "Then I'll come back and speak with you again," he finished. "That be okay, M'am?"

And without waiting for a proper answer, he was shooing Neville out the door. Neville, happy to feel the weight shifting from his shoulders to those of Major Ragged Mann, hurried across the veranda and down the steps. The Major, though, was in an observer's state of mind. First he stopped at the railing to study the green shell of the lilly-pilly, as though he knew of the hidden fortress within. "Peaceful," he said. "Private. A good choice." Then he surveyed the backyard boundary: the leaning garage under the spreading Poinciana, the banana palm forest, the back of Rahimi's animal shed and the planted boundary corner where Cookie Camp and Boogerville met Home Country - all the way down to the big philodendron and the start of the bottlebrush trees.

"Calm before the storm though, I imagine," he sighed. "Generally how it goes."

Immediately following the words, there was a little hiss and a clack that made Neville wonder if the man's teeth had come loose. A moment later though, when the Major raised his military cap to place on his head, Neville saw a pair of black armoured scorpions drop out of it onto the man's shoulder and scuttle out of sight into his shirt pocket. No sooner were they in than they turned and raised the pocket flap, allowing their two pairs of eyes to re-emerge.

"So Nev'!" the Major said, having paid them no attention whatsoever, but signalling a private word. "Tell us how you went with the Things! Dja have any luck? Or are they still Under - with your dad?"

"Um . . .!"

"It's just I had this feeling . . . upstairs . . . maybe that's what you were about to tell. When I asked what sort of help, you know? And I thought, since your mum's doing her best to pretend they don't exist, maybe we should keep this part between ourselves."

"Yeah, well, um. I tried, like you said. I went down to Under."

"You did? You went down? In the night? When it was dark?"

"Uh, yeah. Except . . . !"

'No lights? No weapons? No friends? No . . . Ava?"

"Well, I had the magic cyclone bolt."

"Oh yeah? Risky! But okay, how'd that go then?"

"Well 'Soon was . . . !"

"She was nearby, right? But not with you when you went in?"

"No. Not with me."

"So you went on your own! Wow, man! I mean, even with the magic bolt, I'm impressed! Wooo! I had a feelin' about you, ye know, but yeah! I'm impressed!" The scorpions clacked and hissed, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than the Major was showing.

"So, and what! Dja actually see 'em this time?"

"Um. Not really. My bandage," he touched his head where it hung, again askew, though not as seriously as it had been in the night. "It came loose and it . . .! I couldn't see! And I thought it was . . . ! But then the . . . !

The scorpions clacked and hissed in, Neville thought, a particularly derisive manner but the Major, putting his hand to their pocket retreat, pushed the flap closed, causing them sullenly to pull their heads in. Their argument continued on in a muffled way, in the pocket, but the Major chose to ignore them.

"Prob'ly the magic bolt put 'em off," he said. "They wouldn've liked that. But they'd've seen you, Nev', and that's important. They'd've known how determined you had to be to go even that far! So you didn't get a chance to, you know, actually get amongst 'em? Like we talked about?"

"Well I got too frightened and I . . . I tried to hit them with the magic bolt. But I don't think I got any of them."

"No? Missed them all?"

"Well . . . I hit the Quiet Man. He came down and it was so dark! And he came so fast. It was an accident. I thought he was . . . !"

"What . . . one of the Things? Coming to get you? And in the panic and confusion, you bopped him with the bar?"

"Uh huh."

"More 'n' once?"

"Uh huh."

"Well! That's great, isn't it? That he came, I mean, not that you bopped him! And in a way, that means you did get amongst 'em! How'd he know you were there? Were you shouting out, like, 'Help! Help! They've got me!'?"

"Um, I think it was because I told him earlier I was going to try to get rid of them. I didn't think he heard, but maybe he did."

"Evidence says yes, Nev'! Damn tootin'! Heard every word and came to help! That's important! That's great! Means he's figured out they're his, see? He knows it's up to him to face 'em down. So . . . anything else?"

"I think . . . he told his secret. About a boy that got killed in the war. And he saw how to stop it but then didn't. Not 'til it was too late."

"Oy! He saw how to help? An' then didn't? An' the boy died? He toldja that?"

"An' then he cried. An' Mum cried an' 'Soon cried an' I cried. It was awful."

"I bet! I bet! For all four of ya. So, but 'Soon was right about him havin' a secret then, eh? Smart girl, she is! An' whaddya think now then? Are ye ready to give up on him? Ashamed of him? D'ye hate him? Ye ready to eat that floorboard?"

"I don't know. I thought I was ashamed of him when he wasn't a Hero. Then I thought I didn't need him to be a Hero if he could just be Dad again. Now I think maybe . . .!"

"What? You think maybe what?"

The argument in the shirt pocket came to an abrupt end, the pocket flap went up and the two sets of insect eyes re-emerged to stare at him.

"I thought . . . if he could do that to that boy, maybe he couldn't be Dad again either. Maybe it was like you said . . . the Thing's got inside him. And then it was just Thing . . . with the Quiet Man stuck on. But . . . I'm getting his medal back. To help remind him to not give in. To be who he's supposed to be."

Clacking, hissing, worried noises erupted from within the pocket and the flap slowly fell. "Good one! Good one!" the Major said. "That's gotta help, ye'd think, eh? And then we'll see. Give it some time an' we'll see."

* * *

Neville left the Major at the shade house, indicating the path of broken shards through which he must walk to Under. Then he headed back upstairs to face the music with Mum. On the way though, he heard the preliminary greetings between the two men.

"Hold your position, Lieutenant. Just checking perimeter placements. Are we secure?"

And the Quiet Man issuing a snappy, "Yes Sir, Major Mann, Sir! Good to see you up and about, Sir. I'd heard you'd been wounded."

"We've all been wounded, one way or another, soldier. Don't think I don't know that."

They've met before, Neville thought. How could that be? How could Ragged Man from Apollo Dungeon actually be Major Mann from the war - and someone known to the Quiet Man? It was a question with no answer and he was a boy with no room in his mind for another unanswerable question.

He wandered apprehensively upstairs, where he was made by Mum to endure a merciless disinfecting of his physical cuts and scratches as well as an equally merciless attempt (again) to readjust his attitude. He wanted to say that the injuries were from falling out of a tree or being attacked by echidnas or being trampled by Latifeh the nanny goat but, with the lie-hating Ragged Man right below them, it seemed unwise. So he confessed instead to a truncated version of his encounter with Beau the Bum.

He'd accidentally lost the Quiet Man's medal, he said, and Beau had found it and been reluctant to give it back but had now seen that it was the right thing to do and was going to fetch it from his secret hiding place. And they were friends again.

"So you had to fight with him to get him to agree?" Mum demanded. "What about your promise to me - to not be a fighter?"

"Sorry," he said, thinking that demanding the return of The Quiet Man's medal and then defending 'Soon against The Bum, especially when all she was trying to do was help him, was not so much being a fighter as being a friend.

Even that, though, Mum saw differently.

"Better to let him keep the medal, Neville, than get in a punch-up about it! It's only a bit of metal after all! And by the way, no you're not friends with Beau again! I've told you before to steer clear of him. And I mean it! Once you get that medal back, you're to stay entirely out of their yard and away from him. Permanently! Understand?"

* * *

He understood. Once upon a time, he'd even have thought it was a good idea. Out on the back steps, he sat to wait and to hear what little he could of the conversation between Major Ragged Mann and the Quiet Man. Words like 'surveillance' and 'preparedness' and 'ordnance' made their way to his ears, but they were random and unconnected and meaningless.

As he waited, he saw Shoomba tiptoe out to peer over the Duke's back fence. He had a pencil and a shard of paper and appeared to making notes - or a map. Neville snigged up against the house to make himself less visible, and watched. If Shoomba was picking out the traps left by the Mongolovian wolf hunter, there might be something important to learn. He wondered if the Quiet Man could be laying similar traps in Under and he also wondered about the fate of the Lightning Bug and who might be keeping an eye on things on Apollo Dungeon and eating up the liars while Ragged Man was away being Major Mann.

When he came back to himself, it was to find that the Major had emerged from Under, alone, and was, as the Quiet Man had done, walking the visible boundaries; studying bark markings amongst the bottlebrush, lifting the leaves of the philodendron and sniffing a chewed-looking tendril of the over-hanging choko vine.

At Hughesy's Corner he stopped and squatted, Indian style, before the ashes of the incinerating slot. Even from his seat on the steps Neville could hear the faint rumble of the Major's voice, carrying on a low conversation with the riders in his shirt pocket.

Neville rose and headed across the yard. He had new questions, specifically about the rightness of helping the Quiet Man tend his flash-bang bombs through the night. What might the Quiet Man do if he was left on his own? What encouragement might get him to throw the bombs away. He'd barely begun to speak, though - barely gotten the Major's attention - when a new voice sailed like a clear hard little pebble, over the fence.

"Pastor Paul!" It was Mrs Hughes. "Is that you over there?"

She'd been forking desultorily at the bare earth on her side of the fence, her ears peeled for new developments in Home Country, and the Major's mumblings had finally rewarded her patience.

"I thought I heard your voice!" she declared as her head bobbed up and her eyes flicked about the yard, taking in the Major and Neville but also, at a scoop, every singular detail of the yard, including its deceitfully peaceful and unperturbed atmosphere.

"Why hello, Dorothy!" Major Ragged Mann declared, smiling broadly, doffing his cap and, at the same time, providing a name that Neville had not known existed. "Lovely day isn't it? What're we up to today? Cleaning up the garden, are we?"

"Yes! Yes!" she declared, though Neville knew nothing resembling a garden existed in Cookie Camp. "Well . . . !" And with a meaning glance at the Home Country house she added, "Keeping an eye out for the, you know . . . 'notifiable weeds' I mentioned to you on the phone?"

She allowed her gaze to rest on Neville then and, in her sad concerned voice said, "How are you today, Neville? Is everything . . .? Oh my! Are those fresh scratches on your face? Goodness! And on your arms, Neville? Oh you poor little mite! What . . . what've they been doing to you?"

"Nothing Mrs Hughes," he said immediately and defensively, knowing that her mind must already be turning to prayer. "I just . . . !" And with Major Ragged Mann's wide expectant truth-seeking eyes also on him, "I just got in an argument with Beau the Bum. It was my fault. It's okay now!"

"Beau the . . .! Oh my!" Doubt, disbelief and visions of lethal weapons danced through her mind and she pointed a rigid finger at the Major. "Pastor Paul is a man you can absolutely trust, Neville. A godly man. If you need someone to talk to; if you need any advice. Or me. Or Mister Hughes. You know you could come to us any time at all, don't you, dear? Day or night! You'll always be safe over here!"

Neville nodded. What else could he do? And Major Ragged Mann, who seemed now also to be Pastor Paul, smiled and emitted a confident chuckle.

"That's very true, Nev'! Safe as houses over there. Right out of harm's way! Whenever you decide 'Things' have got the best of you all in Home Country, you just have to hop over the fence and you're out of it!"

Neville could tell by the added emphasis that the 'things' Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann was referring to were **the** Things in Under. He also noted a faint jostling in the man's shirt pocket, as though the creatures in there had heard a good joke and were nudging one another in the ribs. It made him feel a little bit angry, and a little bit feisty.

"I'm not giving up yet," he said, letting it burp out somewhat louder than he'd intended. And it wasn't a lie because, just for that moment, he really wasn't afraid!

Mrs Dorothy Hughes clapped her hand to her mouth, as though the mention of giving up had released her own worst fears. She'd surely have climbed over the fence to capture him and take him away for a bible bashing if Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann hadn't frozen her with a tsk and a frown.

"Very generous, as always Dorothy'," he said firmly. "And I'm sure young Neville's pleased to know there's help at hand if he needs it. Makes us all the more confident doesn't it?" And only he knew whether the 'us' meant him and Neville alone, or the three of them, or everyone in the neighbourhood. "Confident that things'll work out as well as well-meaning people can make them. Whichever way that happens to be."

"Amen to that," she said.

"You bet," the Pastor replied.

"Mysterious ways, I suppose."

"Keep you guessing, alright."

"Have you spoken to . . . ?" A flick of the eyes toward the house.

"Oh yes. Interesting. Very interesting."

"Is there . . . anything we should know?"

"Oh well! Plenty to watch for, I'm sure."

"Ah! I see! Will we hear more then?"

"For certain. Won't be long at all."

She nodded and stepped back from the fence. He nodded and wagged his eyebrows at Neville. Neville shrugged and folded his arms in a way that would've, if she'd seen it, reminded Mum of his father. She wouldn't have had time to dwell on it, of course, because her attention would've been grabbed by the popping open of the flap on the man's shirt and the excited emergence of a black scorpion. It virtually flew out, hissing and clacking its pincers and the man had to make two grabs before he caught it in his cupped hand. Neville was prepared to see it gobbled up but instead, all it received was a 'Shush' and an unceremonious plunking into the hat which was even then travelling back to the man's head.

A great sigh then fell from Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann's lips and, "Got any bananas ripe?" he said to Neville. "I'd kill for a hand of Lady Fingers!"

So they walked into the banana palm forest. There were no bananas in season, but the dense cool shade seemed to soothe the man, as well it might after the wild barrenness of Apollo Dungeon.

"Ahhh!" he ahhed, breathing deeply. "It's the good life you've got here, Nev'. And plenty of it to go around too! That's a thing not everyone can see, ye know! The 'enough to go around' bit, I mean."

Neville shrugged again. It was good in the banana palms, for sure. And up in the mango tree and in the lilly-pilly fort and sailing in the Lightning Bug. Not much of anything else was good though. Eventually Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann finished his deep breathing and said, "The other thing she was right about - Afsoon, I mean - is, he's building defences alright. Good ones, too."

"Yeah. And . . . what about the Thing? Things?"

One of his own shrugs came back at him. "Touch and go, mate. Few distractions in the neighbourhood just now, I gather, and they're definitely not helping. But he's made a start. Telling you about the boy was a start. And the bomb. That's taken some wind out of it. Impossible to say how much is left."

Nev' used his own unexploded arms to hug himself.

"It was a bad thing to do."

"Yes it was. You know when you said a Thing might've gotten inside him? You were right! But it didn't happen in your Under, mate. It happened the day your dad looked at that boy and didn' see him. Saw nothing but a walking weapon - a tool to hurt an enemy. That was the day a big part of him got lost. What's been going on every day since is him wondering if it's lost forever. Fearing that it's lost forever."

"But if he knows where it got lost, why can't he just . . . ?"

He was about to say "go there again" before the ridiculousness of the thought struck him. 'There' was in a war where somebody else's son was being killed.

"Right," said Major Pastor Paul Ragged Man. "You see the problem.""Maybe he'll let me be killed too then. To help fight his enemy!"

"No Neville. That's the one thing I can guarantee he won't let happen. Nothing else is off limits though! Nothing at all. Getting Ava back'd be a help."

"Because she's a Terrier-of-Death?"

"Nope. Just the opposite. Because she's a full-on carer. No judgements. No doubts. No grudges. No Things in her Under. You know where she is?"

Neville looked through the palms toward the Duchy. He could see the flag flying there and, below it, the dark mass of the Folly.

"Maybe."

"Oh," said Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann, following his glance. "Here's hoping she'll make it on her own then. Life unravels as it sees fit, ye know. To some extent. That's the rule. One o' the rules, at least."

"You're not going to help, are you?"

"Can't be counted on, Nev'. People this side always seem to expect it but, you know, I never seem to get much satisfaction out've it. Turns into a permanent job for one thing. Folks need to grow up. Take it on themselves. Properly. Responsibly. No, these days I like to fancy meself as a spectator at the parade. Not the crutch hobblin' along at the head of it. But I do find it interestin', nonetheless."

"Are you going to talk to Mum before you go?"

"Oh yeah o' course! Hey, do us a favour wouldja, and tell her I'll be along shortly? I was kinda counting on getting a lift back in the Lightning Bug but . . . now she's gone, I gotta look further afield, eh? And I do smell me another little ship somewhere nearby which I just gotta check out. Be back in a tick most prob'ly."

And he strolled off, uninvited, onto Rahimi Island. Neville, left alone, wandered on, completing a circuit of the boundary, thinking of Ava. How long had it been? Why hadn't she escaped? Chewed her way out of wherever she was being held? Even if she was a full-on carer as well as a Terrier-of-Death, she should've chewed her way out and come home. The fact that she hadn't did not bode well. Not the least bit well.

### Evening

The sun set. One by one, the lights in the houses went out. Some people went to their beds to sleep and others to pretend to sleep. Neville's mum was one of the sleepers, having seen her husband wolf down his drug-laced meal but having failed entirely to see him returning the favour, lacing her food, as she had his, with ground-up sleeping tablets.

Shoomba neither slept nor pretended. He stepped out into the night, clad in his make-shift armour and carrying a fortifying litre of rum in his camel pack. He went first to the back fence where he blinked his torch into the dark yard of the Duchy. No answering blink came so he waited. He waited ten minutes, had three long pulls at his rum and blinked again. Still no answer. He waited fifteen more minutes, blinking every three to five, sipping steadily and marvelling at both the quickness of the cold front that had moved in and the slowness of the Duke who had failed to come out. Until finally the little man was there.

"What do you want, Dennis? What're you looking for?"

"Uh, there you are! Just lettin' you know, mate. I'm on the job. You still keepin' an eye on them 'Ghani's? You know? Like always?"

"Are you drunk?"

"What? Me? No, mate! Little somethink to keep the cold out is all. You keepin' watch or not?"

"Not. I've got insurance policies in place." He gestured broadly, taking in the house, the yard and the dark mass of the Folly. "Now go away! And keep your infernal light out've my yard!"

He turned and disappeared into the shadows. Shoomba briefly considered hopping the fence and going after him, to re-explain the increasingly tenuous state of neighbourhood peace. Only the thought of the traps deterred him, he having forgotten, if he'd ever truly realised, that the rumours of their existence were mostly his own invention.

So he backtracked, a lone and heroic vigilante, slipping silently through the paperbark fringe into Home Country where, the very image of stealth, he skirted the garage, slid beneath the darkly fragrant Poinciana and crawled on hands and knees past the banana palms, avoiding (the rum in his system assured him) any chance of being spotted should potential assassins (like the cunning bomb specialist for instance, or the evilly provenanced Riff Rahimi) by chance be lurking there. And, by the mere vagaries of fortune, passing a hair's breadth clear of hidden trip wires left by the Quiet Man.

At Hughesy's Corner, next to the incinerator slot, he rose up slowly, warily, and peered into Cookie Camp, half expecting to find an armed and dangerous religious zealot looking back at him. Thankfully, there was none. He blinked his light once, just to let the good folks know it was him, got no reply and sank back to the ground, amongst the damp rotting leaves, to rest against the fence. There was a faint smell of gasoline, he thought, but a long draught of liquid warmth erased it from the air. He put away the torch, the use of which would be risky the closer he got to his target and pulled out his night vision goggles. Only forty dollars on Gumtree! Man'd be a fool not to've snapped 'em up. And then he crawled on, reaching at last the relatively familiar safety of the philodendron.

His plan was to remain here for a while, with a clear view of Tina's bedroom window, to watch; just to see, as a caring neighbour should, that she was safe from her unstable soldier-husband. Also, of course, there was the matter of that same soldier's vigorous works through the day. If, as seemed likely, he was preparing for an attack on or from the back neighbours (because with his background of seeing 'Ghani's at their neighbour's throats in their own country, who could blame him for expecting it here?) then Shoomba would be tucked safely away, to witness and document the carnage.

If all remained disappointingly quiet, he would at least take the opportunity to turn his goggle-enhanced vision to the space under Tina's house and also into her garage, just to see if anything lethal - anything dynamite-ish, for instance - had been stockpiled. And at the lowest end of the interest-scale, there was the chance that those kids - Neville and the witch - might turn up on another filching expedition. (Thinking of which, he made a mental note to re-demand the return of his iron cyclone bolt!)

If they dared to come out, he chuckled to himself, he'd see them ten minutes before their feet hit the ground. And he'd rip a fart up them so fast they'd think the world was ending. Yes indeedy. With the help of good grog and a mind like a steel pot, he was ready. Ready for anything.

Anything, that is, except what he found waiting for him under the enormous leaves of the philodendron. There, he bumped his knuckles on an unremembered brick and dropped his hand onto a cloth that slid over a crinkle of paper. What's this, he wondered. He blinked his goggle-enhanced eyes at the offending materials. Blinked away the weird green haze. Then he put the goggles up and reached for his penlight for a proper look.

The first thing he recognised was his own red bandana, which he'd thought must be lost under his house. And under the bandana, which was under the brick, he saw the large scrawl of letters on a note. They read, " _You have armed an explosive device. Do not move._ "

* * *

From the back steps of the house in Shoomba Territory, Terrible Bill the tom had watched his food-bringer creep away into the night. It meant nothing to him. He yawned and stretched, sat, lifted a back leg and licked his testicles. The air of the cold front swirled around the dampened organs in a way that made him feel just a little frisky. He looked to the sky where his great eyes showed him the shadows of bats, both large and small. They reminded him of birds whose twitterings he'd occasionally had the pleasure of putting an end to. In the trees over there; that's where they liked to roost. He remembered, with a shiver of pleasure, their startled squawks when they woke and found him perched beside them, teeth aflame. He started down the stairs.

* * *

From the windows of their darkened kitchen, Mister and Missus Hughes had watched as the majority of houselights in the neighbourhood went out. A strangely early night all 'round, they'd agreed. And then they made tea and sat in the gloom to drink it, talking quietly of the tests and trials the Lord was wont to provide. After a while they peeped, via torchlight, in at Cookie and Robert. Cookie and Robert were two of the pretenders, trembling wakefully under their blankets. Cookie was clutching the bag with the gun and the medal, straining his ears to hear above Robert's exaggerated snoring. Though, with Robert's sinuses, who could really tell?

Mister and Missus thought they could, and believing both their boys to be in dreamland, they went into the yard to casually, as though it were broad light of day rather than deepy dark of night, make their way down to the vine-laden fence that separated their home from Boogerville.

* * *

In the Boogerville yard, Beau the Bum sat in Hayley's Ute, savouring both the dark and the newly crisped air. It was the kind of cold that caused the flowering trees to set their blossoms and the Flying Foxes, as though in anticipation, were having a time in the bottlebrush trees.

There was no need for Beau to be waiting there but he planned, nonetheless, to hold out to midnight. Sometime before then, Cookie had said, he'd sneak out and toss the Afghanistan medal over the fence. The pistol . . . he didn't know about the pistol. He thought maybe it was lost. Beau knew he was lying. No one in their right mind would lose a pistol.

Beau had assured himself that the lobbing of that package was all he was waiting for. But in truth, something else was bothering him. The Less and Afsoon believed that their mutt, Ava, had been dog-napped by the Duke of Daisley, and Beau, in his simple, un-muddled way, had no reason to question their conviction. She was there alright! Locked up. Probably starved. Maybe flogged, mutilated and treated otherwise horribly.

Hayley, for all her rat cunning and despite locking herself into the bus for the whole of the afternoon, had been unable to come up with a plan for the mutt's release. In the end, as dark was settling, she'd gone for a walk around the block - to 'scope things out', she'd said. And she hadn't returned; which obviously meant no plan. Beau's wish was that an idea - any sort of idea - would pop into **his** head so that, for once, he could know the great joy of beating his sister to the punch!

He put the barrel of the pellet rifle out the window of the Ute and aimed it, first into the bottlebrush and then, in a high arc, toward the Duke's place.

"Doosh! Doosh! Doosh!" he whispered, imagining the shots flying straight and true. "Give us the hound, Duke. Or kiss your weener goodbye."

And he chuckled at the image he'd created. And he thought of the fences between him and that wrinkled little target of a weener. And most particularly, he thought of the Folly.

* * *

In the kitchen of Home Country, by the glow of dim nightlight, Nevilles the More and Less sipped warm Milo in silence. At a point, the More's head began a barely perceptible nod which gradually increased until his whole upper body was rocking back and forth. Eventually the Less reached out a hand. He felt the muscles of his father's arm tense, but the rocking stopped.

"Is mum okay?" he asked.

"Yes, yes. Just worn out. An early night. Do her good. We're a handful for her, you and me." He tried a small laugh which didn't work out well at all. "Well, me at any rate. I'm a handful." He reached out to ruffle the Less's hair, something he'd not done in living memory. "Not you, mate. You're fine. You're doing great. Just me. I'm the handful."

"Why are the lights out? Do you think something's going to happen tonight? Something bad?"

"Oh . . . I dunno. Maybe. Or not. I can't . . . ! I'm just . . . ! It's hard to get your head around things sometimes, isn't it? Could use a good sleep myself I guess. Maybe that's all it is. If I could sleep without . . . without seeing . . . !"

Without seeing the exploding boy, Neville thought. But he wouldn't say it.

The tiny glow from the nightlight flickered and the Nevilles turned their heads. A moth fluttered jauntily around it, settled and, an instant later, was crushed in the jaws of a gecko.

"Don't be frightened, Nev'." The More's voice trembled and cracked and the Less's jaw dropped because, until that moment, he didn't think he had been.

"Nothing to worry about really. I'm home now and I . . . I can look after us! It's just, they're very sly, you know? Very sneaky. Very clever."

Neville had hoped that the Quiet Man's return to speech would mean his mind had escaped from the jungle. But as Ragged Man had predicted, more talk had only resulted in more things that no one wanted to hear.

"Because how can they not come for me?" he was saying, drawling, woozily. "Or for you? Or your mother! It's what I'd do! What anyone'd do! I just wish they'd get it done, you know? Because until they do - until I can deal with them - it's going to very hard for us to . . . feel safe!"

"Is that why we need the bombs?" asked the Less. "To help us deal with them?"

They both glanced at the cut-down cardboard carton which sat on the counter by the door, laden with things wrapped in foil, drink cans sprouting fuses and plastic bottles with mysterious liquids and suspended packages. The More smiled in a grisly sort of fashion.

"They're not really bombs, mate. They're . . . smoke and noise is all. Just tricks. But them out there, they don't know that, see? It's their ignorance we're counting on. What we know and they don't. That's what'll get them in the end. Understand?"

"Will we always need them then?"

"It depends, Nev'. Depends on how long 'always' turns out to be."

The sound of a gentle cough came to them; Mum murmuring in her sleep.

"I'm sorry I took your medal," the Less said. "I'm getting it back for you. It got lost a little bit, but I'm getting it back."

The More nodded.

"Mate, if you get it back, and you want it, you keep it, okay?" And after a minute he added, "What we really need back is Ava. She'd guard us well, eh? Got any idea where she could be?"

* * *

Terrible Bill stepped into the Home Country driveway. He'd spent some luxurious moments raking at the soft flesh of the paperbarks. But they weren't the trees he was dreaming of. Those trees were on the other side of the house. The hard-barked, many-branched bottlebrush. He could hear the Flying Foxes there. He'd never taken on a Flying Fox before. They were always awake and screechingly active. In the past, invariably, either he or the Fox had backed down. Maybe tonight would be different.

He stopped and lay down in the driveway. Something was odd. Something smelled funny.

* * *

Around the block, Hayley had been sitting for some time at the edge of the semi-derelict golf course. The stars had inched upwards. Behind her, curlews raced down the fairways, wailing like lost children. And before her, across the road, stood the smug fortress which housed the Duke and Duchess of Daisley.

The blinds on the windows were drawn, as always, allowing only the faintest outlines of light to escape. The fence across the front, though not as formidable as the Folly, was still six feet high, made of closely spaced pine palings and bore a sign that promised: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PRESECUTED. (By Order of LOAD). The fence, she knew, was like that all the way around except on the Rahimi side. There the palings were no longer pine and the spaces no longer existed. There the Folly rose; lapped iron-bark, grey and solid; impenetrable as a basalt cliff. If the Less's mutt was in there, Hayley surmised, nothing short of a bomb would shake it loose.

She turned her attention to the front of the Rahimi house and wondered at the paranoia of the Duke and Duchess. The Rahimi house had no fence at all across the front; only two generous stands of Golden Cane palms straddling a footpath that looked moderately welcoming. And there was a driveway that led to a carport on the building's northern side. Hayley knew that by walking up that driveway, she could find herself, unannounced and uninvited, in Riff's and Raff's backyard - or even in the open space underneath the house. It was as though, despite all the horror that'd happened to them in their lives and despite the Folly's despicable message, they were determined to show that their ability to trust, at least, had not been murdered.

It was not the first time Hayley had been along this street. Not by a long shot. And maybe it was something to do with the frantic cries of the curlews back there in the dark, sounding so bereft. But this evening, looking at the contrast between these two houses, she quite suddenly found herself feeling very, very . . . ordinary. And disappointed.

She rose to go home. Around the block was not far but with the neighbourhood seeming quiet and deserted, she decided on the shortcut through Rahimi's yard. Up the driveway she went, her thoughts drifting back to the Ava issue; until suddenly the low hum of voices pulled her up. There in the gloom, Raff and 'Soon sat, nestled in chairs next to the shallow pond, while two men finished rolling the little two metre replica ship back onto its keel and into the water. Bobbing peacefully at the pond's centre, three white ducks softly quacked their supervisory interest.

Hayley made to retreat, but Raff had already spotted her.

"Who is there?" she demanded, rising to see and, "A neighbour! Come! Come!"

Greetings ensued and the guest was introduced: "From the Immigration Department, Hayley! So helpful, this Australian government, yes? He has helped us mend the boat. Come. We have tea." Only 'Soon seemed ruffled, whispering mysteriously to Hayley, "He is not from the government. He is in disguise. Do not go near."

'Soon's fantasies, thought Hayley. The kid's in a sad way. She nodded her mock gratitude and accepted tea. And so they were five, talking into the night.

### The Launching of Bill

There were things on this walk that were out of place - things that Terrible Bill had not seen before. One was the skein of wires stretched between the acrid-smelling black boxes. He studied it from a distance, then arched his neck until his nose almost grazed the wire. Nothing. Nothing was there. Nothing to be frightened of. He snorted derisively, turned sideways and lifted his leg. Marking things as one's own is always somewhere between being this simple and being very, very difficult.

The arc of current from the batteries crackled up the stream of water, zapped through Bill's organs, ignited the ends of every hair on his body, from twitching nose to tip of tail and flipped him in a high and mighty circle. It also drew a brief, terrifying jungle scream from his throat; a scream that ended as his once nimble body returned to earth, flat on its back. Bill's great eyes blinked a question at the stars and the shadows that lurked amongst them. Then they were still.

Shoomba, already frozen with apprehension above an unquantifiable improvised explosive, saw the flash and heard the scream. He recognised the voice as that of Terrible Bill and he recognised the message it contained: Death was afoot in the neighbourhood. If he'd begun to entertain any thought that the trap he'd stumbled into was possibly a bluff, that flash and that scream told him otherwise; told him for certain that Neville the More had become the cunning, merciless and lethal local equivalent of the Mongolovian Wolf Hunter. And also that, no matter what else happened, he mustn't move.

Neville the Less, at the Home Country kitchen table, also heard the scream though he failed to recognise its source. He'd been watching as the Quiet Man's head fall lower and lower in response to the sleeping pills Mum had ground into his portion of potato. By the time the scream came and Neville said, "What was that?" the Quiet Man's head had drooped all the way onto his folded arms. It was only when the question got a snore for an answer that Neville realised two things. Firstly, he was on his own for whatever was to come. And secondly, something was loose in Home Country. A 'Thing', perhaps, or a pirate - creeping through the yard toward Rahimi Island and Afsoon - caught in one of the Quiet Man's traps. So Shoomba's prediction, that he must become the man of the house, had come true. Neville the Less took the box of home-made bombs and the magic cyclone bolt out onto the veranda and, very very quietly, he began piling up the chairs as a barricade.

* * *

On Rahimi Island, Riff, Raff, Afsoon, Hayley and Immigration Representative Major Pastor Paul Ragged Mann all also heard the distinct crack of freed electricity and the pained final objection of Terrible Bill. So too did Latifeh the goat, the two brown pigs and the ten chickens, all of which had been dozing in the yard. So too did the three white ducks on the pond. All the animals and Riff and Raff and 'Soon and Hayley started up immediately.

"Afsoon, go in the house!" Riff whispered urgently. "Hayley! Please, you will go in also. Until we know what is this sound."

His intensity at that moment brooked no argument and the girls both went, leaving him and Parisa and the visitor to round up and calm the animals. Before long, all were safely in the animal house - all but one duck which had fled to the middle of the pond and could not be coaxed ashore.

As they worked, a vagrant current in the cold front had brought them the rank smell of Terrible Bill's burnt hair. It was a smell Riff and Parisa knew \- the same - a little different but the same - from a burning church, full of screaming people. The same rank, acrid smell.

"Go see," the visitor finally said and, indicating the fugitive duck. "I'll fetch her in. I'll pop out in the boat and get her."

Nodding distractedly, Riff picked up the pitchfork, took Parisa's hand and, like the two deeply wounded people they were, they moved fearfully into the banana palm forest.

* * *

In Cookie Camp, Mister and Missus Hughes had just emerged from their back door when the light and sound erupted from their neighbour's yard. What was that? Don't know! Alarming? I'd say so!

Without a word of discussion, the plan to surreptitiously search amongst the  
Boogerville choko vines for further concealed weaponry was abandoned, saving them the embarrassment of being pinned in the high beams of Hayley's Ute by Beau the Bum. The plan was replaced by a need - a need to intervene in whatever further atrocity was apparently developing in Home Country.

"I have to go over, Dorothy! Don't I?"

"Oh, that poor boy! Yes! Yes! You must go!"

"Not to confront. Just to . . . !"

"No! No! Not to confront!"

"Christian forbearance, that's all. Remind them!"

"And ask for the boy! For Neville! To keep him with us! Just overnight! Just until . . . !"

"Until they're sorted. That's all. They'll understand."

"They'll appreciate. Go! Go!"

"They could be armed!"

"Oh! Should we fetch . . . ?"

"Um. No. Bare handed must be best. Cap in hand. Velvet glove. Don't you think?"

"Ooohhh! Don't let him see you then. Until you know!"

Mister climbed over the stockade, landing in and quickly stepping out of the damp leaves in the incinerator slot, while Missus stood tiptoe on the boys' climbing step, to watch. If either noticed the faint odour of petrol, neither thought to mention it.

* * *

From Boogerville, Beau the Bum couldn't see the flash that signalled Bill's end, but he did vaguely hear the scream as he reclined in Hayley's Ute, waiting for the Helping Out medal to come floating back into his yard. He didn't know what made the sound - a fruit bat, maybe. But he knew that death and that sound went hand in hand.

"Cool!" he whispered. "How'd they do that?"

* * *

In the Duchy, the Duke was chewing over Dennis Shoomba's foolish impulse to patrol the neighbourhood after dark. To what end? Couldn't the man see that the enemy was already at home amongst them? Invited in with open arms? That the task now was so incredibly much beyond the peeping over of fences?

The Duke had given, it seemed to him, an eon of thought to this problem. How to combat the insidious cancer of foreign ways. Strange clothing, unwholesome foods; noisy public chanting of we-must-dominate prayers. Why so few others saw it was a mystery too far. One could only guess that the lesson for the invader was, keep your subversion public and open; do it with an innocent look and one of those gleaming, unknowable smiles; and you'll probably put it over them!

But not over the Duke! Oh no! He knew for certain that all those simpering proponents of tolerance, all those rice-eating surrender-monkeys, all those do-gooder 'Christian forbearance' bobble-heads, would one day wake up and find their Australian Dream gone and vanished. He knew that the only answer lay in each one of them learning to see themselves as the last barnacle on the beach - sharp, strong and above all, unyielding.

Subversion? Oh yes! He knew all about that. He'd listened to the radio, watched the television programs and read the writing on the wall. And he'd learned that the fences weren't there simply to mark off the yards as Shoomba so naively thought; they were there to mark off a way of life!

So far, it must be said, the Duke had been pleased with his efforts, and pleased that the Duchess had also been pleased. The sign out front made no bones about their commitment: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PRESECUTED (By Order of LOAD). LOAD, not enough people knew, was the 'League of Australian Defenders', the founding members of which were the Duke and Duchess themselves and the anti-symbol for which was the League of Nations which had become the United Nations which was, as any fool could see, a crock!

As part of their defensive regime, the Duke and Duchess did a daily tour of their grounds; not in a tiresome fanatical way (leave the fanaticism to the foreigners!) - just in a casually disciplined, look, tap and nudge kind of a way. Integrity was all they were after. So that, when the riff-raff next door indulged their occasional urge to pound on the barricade, the Duke and Duchess could take that as a part of a beneficial lesson that they were gifting to those on the other side; the lesson being, you can knock, but you can't come in.

Things don't always go entirely to plan, of course. On recent occasions, animals had taken to digging under less imposing parts of the fence, chasing who knew what! The dog belonging to the returned soldier next to Shoomba had recently done exactly that, in the process getting caught up and wounded rather badly amongst the sharpened stakes put there precisely to keep such creatures out. Animals, of course, can't be expected to have the natural respect for boundaries or deterrents that people should have and the Duke, being a compassionate man, had taken this one to the vet who'd stitched and bandaged it and kept it mildly sedated for a couple of days to give the wound a chance to start healing.

The Duke hadn't bothered telling the owners, thinking a little worry might be good stimulus for their consciences. The dog, however, was back with him now, still somewhat drowsy, but ready to be returned on the morrow \- with a suggestion that perhaps the soldier would like to secure his own fences to a more suitable standard. Not in an uppity way, of course. Helpful. Polite. Soldiers fighting over there, after all, were de facto and by default, honorary members of LOAD.

Three further defensive measures had been taken by the Duke, the most ingenious (to his mind) being the installation of a loudspeaker system. He was waiting with bated breath for the day the prayer chants began next door as he was sure they would inevitably do. At the crack of some quiet Sunday morning. He'd seen it on television. Aiieeeeoooo! Raba-raba-raba! Whatever it was they said. On that day, he'd be flipping the switch and rattling their tonsils with an educative dose of the rawest Australian chant he knew!

The second defensive measure was a lighting system that would, at need, light up every yard in the neighbourhood. And the last, of course, was a flagpole from which he flew the flag high and proud, every day of the year. Just the one - not the Abo' one - the other one.

At the moment that Terrible Bill was launched on his final flight, the Duke and Duchess were side by side scrubbing their teeth in their upper floor bathroom. The blind was drawn but the window was open just a crack, for the fresh night air; and the sound, having, like so many other things, no respect for boundaries or deterrents, came threading its way in.

The Duke smiled a frothy uncertain smile at the Duchess and closed the window.

"Animals," he said, looking down at the box in which the drugged and bandaged Terrier-of-Death lay sleeping. "Let's go to bed."

They did, but moments later, troubled by thoughts of Shoomba creeping about in the darkness, the Duke got up and re-opened the window; opened it wide.

Subtly and secretively, the air of the cold front slithered in and tickled the Terrier-of-Death into wakefulness.

Where am I? she thought. She heard the low rumble of a voice - voices.

"What do you think it was?" said one and, "Nothing," said the other. "Nothing to worry about."

And something riding on that cool air - some faint whiff of burnt hair - made Ava think of Terrible Bill. Nothing? she thought. I don't sink so.

### Wheels in Motion

The yards, then, were crowded with invisible presences, some living, one dead; some roaming free, one trapped and immobilised beneath a weaponised philodendron. Among those roaming free were Hayley and Afsoon. Neither had recognised the dying voice of Terrible Bill but both knew that something unpleasant had occurred, and that it had occurred in the yard of Neville the Less. Both had entered the Rahimi house from the rear and exited from the front without so much as slowing down.

"Where're **you** going?" Hayley demanded when she realised 'Soon was behind her on the stairs.

"To Neville," 'Soon declared. "Something has happened! Something has started!"

"But your dad! Riff! He told you to go in!"

"Yes. I went in. I was in. It's okay."

"But what if it's like . . . you know . . . I don' know . . . dangerous or something?"

"All the more reason!"

"God! Your ol' man''ll have a conniption when he finds you gone!"

"His conniption fills the house every day," 'Soon snorted as she shouldered by. "To find room for mine, I must go outside. Are you coming? We can run through Cookie Camp!"

"No no, wait!"

Because an intuition had begun to form in Hayley's mind and she needed a moment of stillness to let it take its proper form. The intuition was that, whatever that cry was, it might also represent an opportunity; an opportunity to sweep away any number of neighbourhood conniptions, once and for all. An opportunity to let these kids get back to being kids and, if there was any luck at all, encourage the adults to get back, as far as was possible, to behaving like adults. It might just be the opportunity she'd come looking for earlier in the evening; a way to learn whether Ava, the missing mutt, was really incarcerated behind the Duchy's formidable walls.

"No. Look, you go ahead if you have to," she said. "But be careful, eh? I'm just gonna . . . look into something else for a minute."

* * *

By this time Shoomba, having been crouched for half an hour over the hidden trap and having witnessed (from afar) the electrical immolation of Bill, had all but given up hope of getting home with both his legs still attached; or maybe getting home at all! He'd searched his memory for solutions and found nothing but a cloudy memory of Leg-hole Louie, who'd lost, in a most unusual way, an entire leg to a mine in Vietnam.

'Heard the click of that monster the minute I stepped on 'er,' he used to tell the kids. 'Armin' itself, see? But before I knew what was happening, that leg pulled itself straight up through me bum-hole and into me body - foot and all. Biggest bloody flash an' bang known to man come along straight away but . . . there was already nothin' there to blow up! Self-protective reflex, the doc's called it. Greatest case of same ever seen! Trouble is, the technique for coaxing a leg back out again ent ever got learned! Still gotta visit a bum-hole specialist once a month to get me toenails clipped!'

Despite the grimness of that outcome (which was actually, of course, in a sense, a failure to achieve an outcome) Shoomba wished himself in possession of reflexes as powerful as those of Leg-hole Louie. Unhappily though, since both his feet remained firmly attached to the ground, it was apparently not to be the case. So he was without any idea how to save himself.

Fortunately he was not without ideas on how to comfort himself. The rummy fortification in his camel pack, for example, was sufficient to help him stave off panic. And plots for revenge were pleasant. He had, in fact, moved on quite quickly to a grudging admiration of the cunning of that mad veteran of Afghanistan, who'd clearly suckered them all with his fake catatonia, obviously plotting all the while to pick them off, one by one. Which meant that, even if by some miracle Shoomba did manage to escape this trap, another, perhaps even worse one, would be waiting. He'd be like a frog in a field full of mouse traps, hopping from one disaster to another! No, the best way to screw up the madman's plan was to stay put and turn his own schemer's brain to imagining ways he might've, on a better day, reversed their positions!

Oh yes! Given another chance his precautions would be wa-ay more thorough. He would, for example, check the charge on the mobile phone **before** putting it in his survival pack. Yes, and next time, no more Mister Nice-Guy, showing up out of concern for everyone else's well-being. Next time it would be game on! If only the Fates allowed him **this** time to escape being blown up in a shower of vegetable roots!

It was about there that his thoughts were interrupted by a grunt and a soft thud somewhere out there in the darkness. Was this it? Was the assassin coming for him? He slipped his night goggles back on and gawped to left and right. And what he saw . . . made his heart soar. Because here came precisely the miracle he'd been praying for! A confederate in arms! Dropping over the fence like a Ninja of the Lord! The faithful Hughesy! So relieved was Shoomba that it took all his reserves of restraint to stop himself either whooping for joy or, alternatively, keeling over with gratitude.

Instead, he wet his lips and let out a long, low hiss. "Psssssst!"

Hughesy froze. He stretched his neck to study the darkness. He looked back at the fence-top bubble of his wife's head, which shook in the negative.

"Psssssst!" Shoomba repeated. "Over here, mate! Philod'ron!" And very gingerly, he shook one of the towel-sized leaves.

"Dennis?"

"Yeah! Look! I traw donna bomb!"

"What? You're doing what?"

"Ssshhh! Traw donna bomb! Watch yer step!"

"Are you drunk?"

"Bin here hours, mate! Where ye bin?"

"You've been here hours? What, since before dark?"

"He's killed Bill, Hughesy! Electo-fried him! Out to get the rest of us now! Ye gotta turn off the juice, mate! Or I'm next!"

"Turn off the juice? What . . . ?"

"Ssssshhhh! Voice down! C'mere! Come closer!"

And so, with his own already generous measure of stealth strengthened even further, Hughesy joined Shoomba under the massive leaves and, in the flicker of Shoomba's torch, saw the brick and the sign: _You have armed an explosive device. Do not move._

"He done in his missus too!" Shoomba whimpered, suddenly and clearly remembering facts that had never existed. "Poison! I seen it! Maybe the boy too! An' he's rigged the whole place to blow, to cover it up!" A whole new and utterly exceptional vision was assembling itself in his mind, even as he spoke. "'S all electrical, mate! Gotta be! Lit poor ol' Bill up like a flare! Ye gotta get me outta here, Hughesy! Throw the main switch. Turn off the power!"

"God in Heaven!" croaked Hughesy and, believing that Heaven was where he'd shortly be - in innumerable pieces - if he lingered long near the clearly inebriated and equally clearly trapped Shoomba, he whispered, "Wait here!" And he scuttled off, low, fast and quiet as a bandicoot, back to Missus Hughes.

"Right. Right." moaned Shoomba, his voice barely audible even to himself. "Okay then. That's a plan."

* * *

In Cookie Camp, Cookie and Robert, tucked up in their beds, had heard nothing of the end of Bill. But they did have God-sent missions of their own to draw them out into the chill of the night. First was to start the Afghanistan Helping Out medal on its way back to its owner. Their father had not stolen it, they'd assured one another; only picked it up for safe keeping and then inadvertently forgotten to return it. How could they be wrong for helping to return a Helping Out medal?

The second mission was to get rid of the gun. Father would certainly have no intention of returning that! But taking something bad, to get it put away where it couldn't be used - must surely equate to doing something good!

"Steali'g for the Lord," Robert had argued, "could dever be a bad thi'g." And taking that logic to its limit, they decided that if they put the gun even further away, where no one, not even Dad, would ever find it, that would probably make the Lord a pretty happy guy!

They stepped through the open door into the back yard. A kind of whispery murmur reached them from somewhere over toward Home Country as did an ever-so-quick flash of light. When their eyes finished adjusting, they thought they could see a mum-ish shadow, standing on the Over-step at the fence corner. Cookie's nerve immediately failed him and he did his best to pull Robert back into the house. Robert was having none of it. He'd read about missionaries being boiled up for dinner by Indians and, instead of asking to be let go, they'd asked for more vegetables to be put in with them, so they'd at least part of a really good quality stew. They'd known, and Robert knew too, that the Lord was not fussed on 'fraidy cats and he'd long ago determined never to be one.

He took three tiptoe steps and, with all his little strength, launched the medal high over the fence into Boogerville. There was no doubt that Beau the Bum would find it. Nothing touched the ground anywhere in Boogerville without Beau noticing and investigating.

So that was mission one completed. Mission two would be much, much harder, especially considering that Cookie was back in bed practically before that medal touched the ground. Cookie had also read about missionaries being boiled up for dinner and the lesson he'd taken was that the Lord did not seem to be the one in the pot. And his determination was to be more like the Lord and less like the missionaries.

"I'b goi'g!" Robert said to him through the blanket. "Whether you cub or dot!"

"You can't, stupid. They're up. What if they check on us? I'm not lying for you!"

Robert snatched back the blanket and grabbed the gun by its stubby little barrel.

"So do't lie thed! A'd do't cub!" And at the door he turned back for a last parting blast. "I thought you said you were a kite before. But I thi'g you bust've be't a chicked!"

So they were two at the front gate when Afsoon came creeping, heart aflutter, into their realm.

"What're you doing?" she demanded. "Are you running away?"

And they told her. The gun was going out across the old golf course and down into the trees, to Pig Creek. To a deep, deep hole where no one would ever find it. It was the only way. Trouble was . . . the darkness. And the curlews were out there, crying their mournful, "Nooooo! Nooooo! Noooo!" And there could be snakes. And they'd be alright going, because they had the gun. But what about coming back? What then? Even Robert was having last minute wobblies about that prospect.

"Give it to me," 'Soon said. "Then it'll be gone and you won't have to worry."

"What'll you do with it?" Robert asked, wishing it could be so simple. "It has to be go'd forever, you doe! So doe-one cad ever fi'd it!"

"I'll sink it in the mud at the bottom of our pond. No one will ever think to look there."

Which made perfect sense to everyone! And so the gun changed hands again, leaving both boys feeling that, at the very least, the cannibal's pot had been removed from their immediate futures.

"Okay good then," Cookie finished. "Now we can go back to bed. C'mon Robert - before we get caught."

But Robert still had his walking-across-the-golf-course energy left to burn.

"Where're you goi'g, 'Sood?" he asked. "Should't you be id bed too?"

They had to follow her to hear as she pushed on around the side of the house, back toward their back yard. They sneaked and huddled near the wall as she whispered the story of the cry in Neville the Less's Home Country and the frightened gathering-up-the-animals response from Riff and Raff. No such dilly-dallying for her, she said. She was going to see what help was needed, she said.

"He bight be hurti'g theb!" Robert hissed at her. "Their dad! Our bub says Deville's dot safe over there! It bight dot be safe for you either, 'Sood!"

"I don't care. I promised I wouldn't leave him on his own and I'm not!"

Long story short, they stopped at the back corner of the house where they all peeped around into the yard. They couldn't actually see Mister and Missus but not even the hiss of an urgent, whispered conversation was about to stop 'Soon. With barely a pause, she crept away to the north fence, as far from the adults as was possible, and felt her way along it to the Boogerville boundary. When she finally did stop and turn, Robert was there, making a cup of his hands to help her over, just as Neville the Less had done to lift her into the Lightning Bug. Without a word she stepped up, dropped the gun over into the darkness and tumbled after it. By the time she'd found it again, a keen Robert and a terrified Cookie were both rising to their feet beside her.

* * *

In the Boogerville yard, Beau had heard the soft thump of the medal and quickly nosed it out. He was disappointed the gun wasn't with it, but not really surprised. Probably, he reasoned, neither chicken-poop Cookie nor mouth-breathing Robert had the nerve to touch it. Back behind the bus he huffed a happy breath onto the disk, shined it against his stomach and pinned it on his shirt. A Helping Out medal! All for him! At least it would be, once he put the finishing touches to the plan which had begun taking a vague, not readily explainable, not really clear enough to be shared shape in his head.

Something to do with the Duchy and the Less's mongrel and Hayley being out walking somewhere and the parents still being away and, above all . . . the cover of darkness. Yes. There was certainly something there. But what? What exactly was it?

His mind was bouncing like a may-fly over a ball of mud when suddenly . . . another sound! It should've been a sound that no one in the world could recognise, but Beau the Bum, having spent so many hours imagining it, knew it immediately. It was the thump of a classic Beretta Model 1934 semi-automatic pistol striking the ground! He was on his feet and moving before the grass beneath the pistol had fully yielded to its weight. Imagine then his stunned confusion when he got to it and found it already back in the unyielding hands of Afsoon Rahimi.

* * *

On the back veranda of Home Country, Neville had managed, with barely a sound, to make his barricade of chairs. He'd left almost the whole of the house in darkness - only the night light in the hall and the other in the kitchen where the Quiet Man sat, now soundly asleep with his head on his arms. Neville knew from experience how impenetrably dark the veranda was on a moonless night; meaning that no one - no passing Things, no sneaking pirates would see him. And he had the box of flash-bangers. And the magic cyclone bolt. And before long, most importantly, he had knowledge - of where the enemy was.

He'd spotted it in flickering glimpses down in the big philodendron, its three red eyes, the third one seemingly in its forehead, appearing, turning away and appearing again. Once he focussed on it, he began to think he could also hear it; a whimpering, muttering sound. As though it was caught. In one of the Quiet Man's traps. The flash and the scream and the smell of burnt hair had told him that they were vulnerable. And now this one was trapped.

Unless of course . . . ! Unless this one was merely a watcher! A guard. Belonging perhaps to the pirates who'd come at last for 'Soon; this one, left as a watcher to make sure there was no interference from Home Country. Which meant . . . ! What should he do? What could he do?

Tiptoeing as lightly as a night time spider, he crept back into the kitchen to try again to wake the Quiet Man.

* * *

He had her by the arm and was pinching hard, just like Hayley liked to do to him.

"Gimme it, 'Soon! I'm warning you!"

Generally it worked for Hayley, but 'Soon was not giving in; and that was even before little Robert pushed his insignificant self between them.

"Leave her alo'd, Beau!" He was like a plugged up squeaky toy on steroids. "She's dot givi'g it to you!"

"Push off, Rupert. Or I'll toss you over the fence like a cricket ball!"

And then, inexplicably, there was Cookie - still snivelling, but nonetheless daring to have a say.

"He's not Rupert! He's Robert! And if you toss him, you gotta toss all of us!"

"No problem, Biscuit! Maybe I'll start with you!"

The major problem with such threats, of course, is that backing down from them is the only real alternative to following through. And following through isn't always practical.

"Shoot hib 'Sood!" Robert suddenly demanded. "Shoot a big hole id his stupid head! See how he likes that!"

It set Beau back on his heels to hear his own threats coming back at him, especially from so incredible a source. "Shut up, Robot! Nobody's getting shot. 'Specially not me. 'Specially not by her. She hasn't got the guts, anymore'n you have!" He said it, but then he remembered, when he'd offered the four of them a shot from his pellet rifle, only in her eyes was there an eager willingness.

"For sub'wud as bead as you," said Robert softly, "I got the guts! Give be the gud, 'Sood, a'd I'll shoot hib!"

Most of the exchange passed at a very low, very fast level of hissing intensity, but something in Robert's last declaration, something in its dry slow head-up certainty, made Beau the Bum's bum clench with astonishment. It was a bum that seldom clenched for any reason; but something, it told his head, had changed. Some level of care was in order. He let go of Afsoon and began, as bullies are wont to do when unexpectedly challenged, to mollify.

"Don't get your panties in a knot, Ribbit. I only wanted it for back-up anyways. Case I need it when I go get Less's mutt back from the Duke! Hey! Why don't youse come with me? You can hang onto the gun then an' maybe get a chance to shoot **him**! I'm the boss, though. Youse have to do what I say or it won't work! Come on, we'll jig around in Hayl's Ute! Whaddya reckon?"

"You can't drive!" said Cookie. "You're too young! You haven't got a licence!"

"Mate, I drove around this neighbourhood about a hundred times before - maybe a thousand times! I'll keep her slow for yez. First gear. We c'n all crowd in. C'mon. We'll jus' go have a look. What're yez, chicken?"

The silence was like another presence, fidgeting amongst them. "Pah -thetic!" Beau sneered. "It's two minutes! Ye wouldn't do that to help a mate get his dog back?"

The silence fidgeted on.

"Right!" he finally declared. "I'll do it on me own then. All I can say is, I hope he knows whatta buncha useless squirrels his mates are. Wouldn' have yez for mine if ye paid me!"

"We'll cub." It was Robert, taking it on himself to decide for all. "But dot with the gud. You have to leave the gud behide."

It was never a choice Cookie would have made but, despite his whimpering fear of what the parents would say, he couldn't let Robert go alone. 'Soon, on the other hand, though she desperately wanted to be part of Ava's rescue squad, could not be deterred from going to Neville. And so, while the Ute edged into the street with a low rumble, no headlights and three sets of eyes staring over the high dashboard, 'Soon edged hesitantly into the bottlebrush.

Only a few steps and then she stopped. Very nearly, for good. It was the memory of that eerie cry and flash. She'd walked the neighbourhood often before in the darkness but never had she heard such a piteous sound. Ancient tales of her culture told of the Al - the demon with long nails and teeth and feet turned backwards; the one who haunted the nights and fed on the dead. Perhaps it too had been on the boat! It was a long while - a painfully long while, before she stepped fully into Home Country, driving herself on with the thought she'd once used to drive Neville: the only way it will be like you lived is if you do desperate things. And anyway, in her hands she had a pistol. One hand on the barrel, the other on the grip.

* * *

On the Home Country side of the banana palm forest, Riff and Raff waited quietly in the shadows, unwilling to encroach on the silence that had settled over their neighbour's yard. Five minutes. There'd been no repetition of the terrible cry - no outbreaks of dismay from the house. Perhaps it had been nothing. They could not bring themselves to abandon their watch just yet, but it was becoming harder to justify.

And then . . . Mister Hughes came, dropping silently over the fence. Like he'd done last night when he stepped out, just for one frightening moment, with a gun. This time, he didn't see them. But he did see something else - something farther along, in the garden. And then, crouching low to the ground, Riff saw it too; the three little tell-tale red lights of night vision goggles.

He pointed them out to Parisa who, after a moment's thought, whispered in his ear: "Shoomba. I bet you."

They didn't know why, couldn't think why. But was it him then that caused that frightful scream? What had he killed in his neighbour's yard?

They watched as Hughesy approached the red lights, halted, then scuttled back to the corner. Whispers. Missus Hughes must be there. And then, after a bit, Mister returned to the three red eyes of the night goggles. So, Riff and Parisa thought: Shoomba and Mister Hughes are together? To do what?

The low rumble of Hayley's Ute interrupted their thought. It was leaving Boogerville, slowly, without lights. And the night was so strange. Riff took Parisa's hand and retreated onto Rahimi Island. He definitely was not finished watching and guarding. But he had a feeling. A fear. An apprehension. About Afsoon, his only remaining child. He needed to see her; to know she was safe in their home.

* * *

From ecstasy to agony in five hundred metres; Beau the Bum was as close to tears as he'd been in many months. Not from pain. From humiliation. The humiliation of having Cookie and Robert see him being half dragged from the Ute and slapped about the head by his harridan of a sister. He hated them for seeing it, he hated her for doing it and he hated himself for allowing it. All things that he was powerless to stop. After he'd been so careful too; avoiding almost all the curbs all the way around the block! Next time, he'd take out a fence or two and leave some streaks of rubber! See how her precious majesty liked that!

Cookie had seen her first, surging out of the golf course darkness as they pulled up across the road from the Duchy. He'd tried a warning but the hiccups had got him and Beau had assumed it was just another phase of his snivelling. And then she was there, ripping open the door. Beau, in his sudden panic, had popped the clutch and stalled the engine.

"You little cretin!" she was howling as she yanked his hair. "What're you doing? If there's a mark anywhere on this Ute, I'm gonna make rags outta every one o' you, so help me! Get out of it! Now! All of you! Out! Pack of little pig-faces!"

With his scalp in danger of detaching, he had no choice but to obey and then to do what he always did, which was roll into a ball, limit her access to his head and testicles, and wait it out. Humiliatingly, it was Robert again - Robert of the newfound authority - who pulled her up, clamping himself to her arm and dragging her to a stop.

"Quit it, Hayley! He's tryi'g to help! Stop hitti'g hib!"

That Beau would try to help someone was not a thing Hayley would ever believe. But then, she also wouldn't have believed these two little religio' pebble-brains would be sneaking out at night in his villainous company; let alone standing up for him. Standing up for him against her!

"Help? Help who? To do what?"

That part, of course, was easy - free Neville the Less's mutt.

"Come on then, weasel! What's your plan? How ye gonna do that?"

And that part was difficult. Non-existent, actually. It was 'Soon's fault, mind you. If she'd just handed over the pistol he'd've had a ready-made, unstoppable plan, no doubt about it! As it was, he had to suffer not only the humiliation of not knowing, but also the horror of having Robert answer for him: "We have to doe if the Duke's got Ava, that's all!"

"Yeah - duh! How you gonna find out, is the question! And if you find out, what're you pipsqueaks gonna do about it?"

Which of course was almost exactly the question she'd been struggling with herself.

"I do't doe. Ask I guess. A'd the'd ask for her back!"

"Ask? Oh! Excellent! Super! Why didn't I think of that? Is it maybe because it occurred to me that **if** he had her and if he **wanted** to give her back, he would've already done it? Eh? Bozo-boys! So what else've ye got, geniuses?"

And that's when Beau's plan finally clicked into focus.

"We're gonna pull down the Folly!" he sniffled.

And on the instant, he knew they would. And he knew that Hayley knew they would. He could see it in her stunned silence.

"Like I was tryin' to tell you if you weren't so busy slapping me! We tie onto it with the Ute. And when the geezer comes out, we bail him up for the mutt!"

* * *

Under the philodendron, Hughesy had borrowed Shoomba's night vision goggles and was examining the ground around the brick. He'd come back resignedly, reconciled to the fact that it was his Christian duty to try to save even this despicable and snivellingly inebriated man. Or at least to offer him the comfort of company before he died which, considering the quivering of Shoomba's plump legs, was only a matter of time.

"Oh Jesus, Mary and Porpoise!" Shoomba was sobbing. "I never done nothin' to deserve this, Hughesy!"

"I know, mate. I know. Look. All I can think is . . . I'm going to go up to the house. I'm going to ask him to come disarm this. It's all I can think of."

"Oh, Christ in a pickle jar! D'ye think he will? Maybe he'll jus' set it off an' kill us both for bein' here!"

"Why would he Dennis? I mean . . . he's one of us! Why would he?"

"I dunno! I dunno! Ahhh, Hughesy, for God's sake, I don' wanna die like this! Awright, awright! Listen! If I confess, I'm right, right? For Upstairs? Me last willin' testa-mutt? Jesus God, lemme swear to ye! I never seen very much Hughesy! Honest! Once or twice maybe! You know . . . takin' her brassi-air off is all. I'm sorry! I never meant to look! You tell God that, Hughesy, okay? He'll listen to you, mate. Tell him . . . tell him I was sleep-walkin' an' I . . . I wouldna . . . I never meant no harm. It's hormones! What's a man to do? Whose fault I got all these hormones?"

Hughesy, both saddened and disgusted, nodded, raised his head. The green glow of the night vision goggles illuminated only a ten, maybe fifteen metre circumference, but entering that circumference from the direction of the bottlebrush trees was a figure. A small figure. He put a warning hand on Shoomba's arm and a tiny, barely audible message in Shoomba's ear.

"Someone's coming!"

That someone, it quickly became apparent, was Afsoon Rahimi. And Hughesy's mood, having already moved in fairly short order through astonishment and disgust, settled into its gloomiest state yet - one verging on despair.

For starters, what in the name of all that was holy was a child doing, wandering alone in this chaos of darkness (both literal and metaphorical)? Was no one else in the neighbourhood capable of a skerrick of responsibility? A child of that age? In a yard booby-trapped by a madman? Where demented, self-appointed vigilantes secreted themselves amongst the palms? What possible chance could a child have of emerging unscathed from such . . . ? And abruptly, his mood leapt out of disgusted despair and dove straight into a cold, deep pool of outrage. The child was armed! With a pistol!

So incensed did he immediately become that the basic constructs of language - verbs, nouns, prepositions, gerunds and all manner of other grammatical essentials - fled from his mind, leaving only a scattering of angry adjectives: ignorant, irresponsible, negligent, selfish, atheistical . . . communistical! The few startled nouns that dared creep back did little to appease him: weapons, outside, children, maniacs! Nor did the phrases: explosives in the gardens, traps around the houses, flying in the face. God help us all, was the first complete thought, followed by ones as complex as: How many peepers, liars, flaunters and sinners can one neighbourhood generate? How much madness? By God, I will not tolerate it! They were the closest thing to clear thoughts he would have for a very long time.

Afsoon was only three metres from the philodendron - nearly past when the guttural roar burst out of him and he surged up, smashing aside the great leaves. His fury, of course, wasn't actually directed against her or even, really, against the loony disintegration of his neighbourhood. It was fury with the never-coming-ness of the intervention that he and Missus Hughes so avidly and consistently prayed for. It was with the having-to-do-it-himself-ness. The why-is-it-so-difficult-ness!

For Afsoon, on the other hand, all her years of suppressed fear and anxiety came into focus when those leaves slammed upwards and the roar washed over her. All the superstitions, all the vague, intermingled half true, half concocted, half overheard memories of piracy, homelessness, disparagement, hate and uncertainty - they coalesced right there, in the triple red eyes of the Thing that had, at long last, revealed itself in the Home Country of Neville the Less. She cried out, a short, desperate, heart-rending refusal. Hands up, to shield herself. She barely heard let alone felt the explosion from the pistol.

In the enormous flash of light that followed hard on though, she glimpsed the pair of grotesque, man-like creatures, spinning away from her in a shower of dark, ragged shapes. And then she ran like she'd never run before.

* * *

Far more urgently than had the cry of Terrible Bill, the sounds of that shot and the small secondary explosion that followed, reverberated through the neighbourhood. On Rahimi Island, Riff and Raff were in the house, calling, rushing with increasing urgency from room to room, checking under beds and in closets. On their way back from the banana palm forest, they'd passed their visitor, the kind man from the immigration service, who inexplicably was still paddling patiently about the shallow pond in their newly patched replica boat; still attempting to capture the last white duck. It was a very quick, very elusive duck, refusing his every attempt to coax her near.

Nonetheless, "Not to worry!" he'd called cheerily as they passed. "You carry on! She'll be okay with me." And they'd gone in, thinking, what amazingly persistent people this government of Australia employs!

Then, inside, Afsoon was not there. Hayley was not there. But there was, suddenly, the sound of an argument in the street. And as they both paused to think about that . . . the sound of the shot. Definitely a shot. Glued onto the front of a small explosion, so the sounds were almost one. From where, they couldn't tell but Mohammed and Parisa Rahimi knew both those sounds; knew them well. They weren't sounds a person could un-remember.

They ran first to the front window. The Ute belonging to Hayley was there. Moments ago, from the banana palms, they'd heard it start up around at Bogarts! But now it was here! And so too was Hayley! Out there with other children instead of inside with Afsoon! So surely, hopefully, we're begging you, one in that group . . . one of those looking to the sky above this house . . .must be Afsoon! And that's where they ran next! Into the street. And they didn't question the need because, for so long now, running had been the great theme of their lives.

"She went off into their yard!" said Hayley, pointing at Cookie and Robert."She went into his yard!" said Cookie, pointing at Beau the Bum.

"She went to the Less's!" said Beau.

"She's got the gud," said Robert, pointing vaguely to the sky.

* * *

In the Duchy, the Duke and the Duchess already knew all they needed to know. There'd been animal screams. Arguments and the revving of motors on the normally quiet street in front of their house. A possibly intoxicated Shoomba was provocatively patrolling the neighbourhood. And now what? A gunshot? An explosion?

"Should we call the police?" the Duchess asked nervously from her assigned listening post at the high bathroom window.

"No! No way!"

A thousand times no! Otherwise, how justify the myriad times he'd actually and virtually marched them through their roles, in preparation for just this night? And why begin now to doubt his long held and fervent belief that the police were merely front line lackeys for the international cartels that were trading his country into oblivion?

"We stick to the drill, Enid! We hold our nerve! We are a bastion of the League of Australian Defenders and we are by God ready for anything!"

Call the police? Hah! Might as well pull down the flag and roll up the constitution!

He was speaking to her from his seat at the computer where he'd just posted the final emergency statement for his monthly 'LOCK and LOAD' blog. (The blog title had been the Duchess's contribution: a tidier, more subtle title-cum-mission statement than which, he could not have devised himself.)

There were only thirteen actual known 'LOCK and LOAD' subscribers - but it pleased the Duke to believe there were hundreds or more likely thousands of others who remained incognito, united only by their ineluctable desire to follow in his patriotically zealous footsteps. A hidden army, ready at a moment's notice to raise the barricades against the tidal wave of foreign interlopers. He'd never actually met a single one of his followers of course, they being presumably and quite rightly scattered far and wide across the nation. But that wasn't important. What was important was that they were his soldiers and it was his bounden duty to ensure that each of them - every single one of those anonymous vigilantes - had all the pre-warning he could provide.

"ATTACK IMMINENT!" his emergency statement read. "DEFENSIVE STRATEGIES ENGAGED. GOOD LUCK TO ALL. GOD BLESS AUSTRALIA."

With a great sense of historical moment, he pressed the 'Send' button, knowing that the ether itself must be aghast at the message it carried. And secretly, of course, delighting in the fact that the wait was over. D-night had come at last, as he always knew it would! All the scoffers and smart-arse liberal doormats - they'd be smiling out the other side of their faces come tomorrow!

Sending out the Alert Blog was the first item on the lowest response level of the LOAD Procedural Schedule. Second was the ticking off of the app's that had turned his computer desk into Command Central. This one to ensure that all the locks on all the doors and windows were engaged; this one to remotely control the storm blinds outside the windows on both the lower and upper floors; that one to remotely adjust the strategically placed cameras that covered every angle of approach to the house and yard. This button here to throw power to globes that would light up the neighbourhood like a planetary beacon. And that little Beauty - the only one that's never been properly tested - to activate a loud-speaker that, God willing, might just jolt the fillings out of every tooth this side of the Holy Ghost!

Item three was to engage. He clapped his hands, cracked his knuckles and spun once on his chair.

"Ready?"

"Yes dear."

"Kettle on?"

"Coffee's made. Just by your . . . ."

"A-hah! Perfect timing! Have a look at this!"

On the monitor, in high definition colour (as much as could be drawn out of the darkness) one of the cameras had captured the little crowd that'd gathered in front of his house. The Duke knew them all: those out-of-control Bogart kids, the odd little Hughes boys. And there, racing inevitably into the picture, the refo's - the riff raff - the Mohammedan Rahimi's. Showing at last the true depth of their cunning depravity! The recruiting and mind-washing of innocent Aussie kids!

He zoomed in on them, just by chance centring on the littlest member of the assembly at the moment he was raising his arm to point. The little face filled the screen and mouthed a short sentence.

"What?" croaked the Duke. "What's this kid saying?"

He stabbed at re-play buttons until, as the Duchess peered over his shoulder, they were able to slow and accentuate Robert's lips.

"It looks like," the Duchess said, " 'She's got the gun!' Oh my God! It **was** a gunshot then! Who? Who's got the gun? And who are they shooting at?"

"Steady on, love." The Duke was not one to go off half-cocked. The kid was pointing, he'd noticed, not at their house but, somewhere off at the sky over Rahimis! Like they weren't even thinking about the Duchy! "It looks like . . . I think they might be turning on each other!"

And a self-congratulatory buzz zipped through his arteries, because that very possibility had been the subject of one of his recent blogs.

'People from these foreign countries have no in-built, innate, genetically verifiable understanding of, let alone respect for each other, let alone for authority', he had boldly written. 'Lawlessness, even within their own ranks, is their creed and comfort. And it's no coincidence that Anarchist is only three short letters away from being Antichrist!'

Not that he had any particular religious affiliations himself. But, still, the line had a stirring ring about it.

On the active screen, the Rahimis were racing back into their yard, disappearing behind the Folly while the Bogart boy had begun pawing ropes from behind the Ute's seat. No, whatever it was they were up to definitely didn't seem to involve the Duchy. Which was good because letting them reduce their own numbers would simply make the clean-up that much easier. But it was also bad because a man doesn't study and teach and build and prepare only to be finally left out of the equation.

He hooked a finger under the toggle for the loudspeaker and drew a deep cleansing breath. This was going to be good.

* * *

Throughout this, Ava, with all of her doggy strength, had been struggling to keep her head above the seductive waves of sedation. She had bobbed to the surface when the cool night air came through the open window, bringing with it the smell of Burnt Bill. A niggling sense of wrongness had almost held her there - not quite, but almost - until an abrupt booming sound, a little like the dreaded thunder, had bounced her thirty centimetres into the air and landed her on trembling legs.

So intent had she become in that moment on finding enough focus to share between that rip-snorter of a noise and the jittery unease in her legs that her actual whereabouts had escaped her attention. No repetition of the sound? Give in to the demand of the legs then. Perhaps a little more sleep. But what's this? A burning sensation in that flank? A line of tight, stinging veterinarian's stitches? Just a nibble, then; and a lick. It was that taste of her own blood and the slightly delicious pain behind it that finally helped her clear her mind.

Wait on! Why've I even got these stitches? Where am I? Where's Neville? And what's this stale, closed-in, medicinal smell about?

It was the same smell, or elements of the same smell, as one that'd dropped over her when she'd . . . oh yes! Been startled in the garden! A hidden stake. Bolted into it, she had. Startled by something. Not quite certain how to free herself. Then a stern voice, a heavy cloth and darkness.

And now there's the sound of that same voice. Same one as the one behind the hands that'd rolled her up. Not a bad person. Got me off that stake at least. But still, where's . . . ?

* * *

A secret weapon, of course, can't remain secret if you publically test it. Which was why the loudspeaker's true capacity was such a surprise. For starters the Duke would've known better than to have the volume turned up to the max', and they'd all have been spared that initial brain punching PUNGGGGGSCREEEEOOOOEWWW!

The Duke dove on it as quickly as he could, of course, spinning the volume dial back at least far enough to smother the howl. And he could've made even a better adjustment if circumstances had permitted! Could'ave reduced that appalling, bowel-wrenching bass hum, for example, before it set his and the Duchess's and the entire building's skeletons to a quease-inducing vibration. But circumstances did not permit. Because of Ava.

At the very first blood-curdling consonant of the PUNG, she'd bounced for a second time - half way to the ceiling this time. On the way up, the contents of her bladder had come spraying out as that organ began clearing the decks for battle. On the way down, the entire cacophony of vicious 'I've-got-enormous-teeth' barks that the drugs had dammed up in her, had also came flooding forth.

She hit the ground (or rather the carpet) with no immediate destination in mind, but with her legs in mid-gallop and her Terrier-of-Death cool completely shattered. She did her first circuit of the room in dog-Olympic time, leaving a trail of spattered blood from her newly re-opened wound and filling the air full to overflowing with her frenzied terrified howls. The Duchess flattened herself against the nearest wall, emitting her own version of terrified howls while the Duke, roaring, "Holy dyin' Nellie!" found himself, despite his previously dicky knees, in a wobbly crouch atop the bed.

Ava paid them no heed. Even if there'd been something in the present situation (which there wasn't) that made her want to stop, she couldn't and she'd done five more laps before the Duke managed to peel the doona off the bed. A doona which, despite the Duchess's shrieked objection, ("Nooo! The blood! The blood!") he flung out, parachute-like, to drop down on top of his panicked prisoner.

"AR-AR-AR-AR-AR!" railed Ava, as the gag of the heavy thing enfolded her. And the Duke pounced.

It took all his strength to contain her, to wrap up her gnashing, clawing, desperate fury. But he managed, edging open the bedroom door, flinging beast and wrapping together into the hall and slamming the door behind him. For long moments then he stood, panting like a buffalo, his forehead and arms pressed to the oaken wood. The Duchess, her face pale and bloodless, peeled herself slowly from the wall, listening sadly to the ruckus beyond the door - her precious doona meeting a terrible and savage end

"Bloody hell!" the Duke puffed.

"Ohhh," the Duchess whimpered and, "Nearly killed us!" he agreed.

Already short of breath then, he dragged himself back to the desk and collapsed into his commander's chair, alternately running shaking fingers through the thin web of his hair and patting reassurance into his racing heart. Around him, the tactical centre was in chaos. Coffee was spilled, the procedural schedule was scattered on the floor and the video monitors were scrambled. The last was a worry. Not so much if it was something he'd done himself in the heat of battle. But if it was some tricky signal-disrupting technology nefariously initiated by the invaders? He would have to deal with them harshly; as he had with the K-9 infiltrator (which had obviously freed itself from his doona-trap; the ripping sounds having been replaced by those of a small hard body, hurling itself against the door).

How it had come so rapidly to this, the Duke couldn't begin to say. He'd planned so long and so carefully! And yet, within minutes a ravening enemy had revealed itself within, the enemy outside had become invisible and the last intel' received (the face of the Hughes child) remained, spookily frozen on the screen, staring skyward. Mouthing that very unambiguous message: 'She's got the gun!'

We'll have to up the emergency response level, he told himself and, in a trembling voice, cut with a curious mixture of attempted reassurance and barely restrained panic but loud enough for the Duchess to hear him over the hum of the loudspeaker and the thump of the animal body against their bedroom door, he stuttered out, "Code Wolf!" And then, with an even greater pretence of confidence, "Best get the gun out, pet!"

Unaware that these words, like all the preceding and presently proceeding uproar, were being broadcast like an evening prayer in Istanbul, out over an aghast neighbourhood. And they could not be taken back.

* * *

Out in the yards, the initial sonic boom of the loudspeaker had knocked a dozen fruit bats off their perches, defoliated a variety of less hardy bushes and cleared the air entirely of insects. It'd slammed the nearest victims - Hayley, Cookie, Robert and Beau - back against the Ute and hammered their ear drums with all the force of a spray gun against wet bread. Their spines had been scrunched, their bones had been rattled and their heads had been left clamped between rigid hands. Cookie, indeed, had crumbled to his knees, utterly convinced that the throat of God was being cleared just above the rooftops.

But all that had followed the boom - the enormous awakening of Ava; the blood, the blood; nearly killed me; code wolf; get the gun out - it'd turned them all, in totally united and renewed fervour, toward the Duchy.

* * *

Further afield in the neighbourhood:

\- The Quiet Man and Mum, both of whom had barely stirred at the sound of the gunshot outside their walls, were both roused by the loudspeaker's soundwave. She blinked bleary eyes from the depths of her pillow. He, in a daze of disorientation, raised his head off his arms. She, unable to fight off the fog of drugs and dreams, sank back. He, unable to ignore the threat of blood and guns, struggled to his feet.

\- Mrs Hughes, delving under the remnants of the philodendron, scrabbling to make sense of the damage done to her husband and the strangely buttressed and metal-clad Dennis Shoomba, was thrown hard on top of them by the sound wave. Her cries and her weight brought new moans of dismay from beneath her. All she could think was, guns? Even more guns? She settled herself atop the two men as best she could, to shield them, and wondered if there could possibly be a newer and fresher Hell than this.

\- Mohammed and Parisa Rahimi, on their panic-stricken way back to Home Country in search of their daughter and the source of the gunshot, were thrown by the wave against the wall of the animal shed. They shielded their ears but the initial blast, followed by the amplified baying of Ava had once again set off Latifeh and the brown pigs and the chooks and ducks, so that it seemed to them they'd suddenly been caught up in an Ark of horror. What should they do? Should they pause again and try to re-calm the animals? Or, with the threat of guns in the air, retreat to the relative safety of the house? Or should they race on, in search of their wayward daughter? The amplified shout that resolved the issue for them was, 'The blood! The blood!' A cry they'd heard so often, so terrifyingly often, before.

\- Afsoon, cast up now with Neville the Less on the veranda of Home Country, behind his barricade of chairs, had been driven half to her knees by the sonic wave. She'd dropped the classic Beretta Model 1934 semi-automatic pistol, choosing instead to clutch at the thin arms of Neville the Less, to bury her head against him. The barricade had rattled unhappily in the initial tsunami of sound. Then the barking had begun.

"Ava!" they both cried.

The Terrier-of-Death was still alive! And she was, at last, fighting back! And despite the death of Things in the yard, or perhaps because of it, a type of joy erupted in them and they stood to look beyond the barricade. Only to be met by the Duchess's wail: "The blood! The blood!" And the Duke's voice, shaky but determined, calling for the wolf and the gun. Immediately, as one, without a word being spoken between them, they came to the same conclusion: Ava had embarked on the final battle. She needed them. Behind the barricade was not where they needed to be.

\- In Shoomba Territory, Missus Shoomba was already half-way down the steps when the soundwave hit. And as the cries of the Duke and Duchess and the barking of Ava swept meaninglessly over her, she sent her own little cry out for her lost husband. "Dennis? Dennis, where are you? What's going on?"

She smelled Burnt Bill and saw, in the dim orange of her stair light, Neville the Less and Afsoon Rahimi racing across the deep grass to the back fence of the Duchy. Neville was carrying what looked to be an iron bar. She called to them but got no answer.

\- In the little boat on the pond on Rahimi Island, the Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann saw the last little duck turn finally toward him.

"That's the way, sweetheart," he murmured. "Good girl. It'll soon be over."

In the bow of the boat a pair of black scorpions angled glances at one another and back at the man. They hissed and clacked softly to one another, as though a tiny familiar joke had been told.

### 12. Where it Ends

In the command centre, the Duke was regaining control. The loud-speaker, at least, was off. And the antique shotgun that his father had bought years ago for snakes and never used, leaned, loaded, against the wall. (Strictly speaking it, like the classic Beretta Model 1934 automatic pistol, should have been surrendered in the government's Great Gun Buy-back of '96. But the Duke's 'Lock and Load' blog had always insisted that, the massacres at Strathfield and Port Arthur notwithstanding, any government that tried to disarm its citizens deserved to be shot.

"Without guns," he'd ranted, "we're just oats for the Asians! Chaff in their wind! Next thing we know they'll be selling our farms to the Jap's!")

* * *

"Thank God that awful dog has quieted," the Duchess was saying. "I dread to think what it's done to my lovely doona! Or what it's doing in the rest of the house!"

"Sloppy work," the Duke grumbled in reply. "Letting it wake up like that! Take it out of the vet's fee, we will; see if we don't! See anything?"

The Duchess was aloft on a stool, squinting through the tiny bathroom window. The video surveillance network was no longer frozen but until he could get more than the grainy, impossible to decipher image it was delivering, she was his eyes on the neighbourhood.

"Not really. Too dark out there. Too much light in here."

And at that moment, as though the observation were a command, the pool of spilled coffee funnelled over the edge of the desk, ran down the computer's power cable, filled the multi-adaptor and fiz-zapped the Duchy's power supply, leaving them in sudden blackness, with an invisible column of stinking smoke wisping up the wall.

"Ah yes," sighed the Duchess. "That's better."

The dumbfounded Duke begged to demur.

"Blasted bloody nitfits!" he swore, pounding the air above the desk and kicking blindly at the cables. "Bloomin' damn cock-up Made-in-China rubbish!"

He'd devoted years of loving attention to this system, knowing all along it was the enemy's technology; never thinking they'd be cunning enough to design strategic failure into it. Just when the video set-up was coming good! Just when the backyard camera had begun to show movement! Someone? Something? The glimpse had been too quick to tell.

Still, if a man wasn't up to dealing with the odd snafu, then he wasn't up to much at all! "Look to the back, Enid!" he ordered as he fumbled for and found his special 'Made in Japan' head lamp. He couldn't remember if the ruined Procedure Schedule contained an alert code higher than Wolf but if it did, he'd be declaring it now.

"What's there? What can you see?"

"Um! Oh that's awkward. Let me . . . get my head . . . ! Oh I can't see much at all! My eyes are still adjusting I think!"

"Okay, okay! That's alright! Just keep watching the back. If anything moves, you shout, okay? I'm going to . . .!" Going to what? Get the power back, of course! "I have to get to the circuit board, Enid! Throw some switches. At the back door! That dog . . . I don' know where it is now, so I'm gonna take the gun. But I'll close the door behind, okay? You'll be okay?"

"Yes yes. Should you switch off the appliances before you turn the power back on, dear? I think you should."

"No, no time for that! Remember, sing out if you see anything, Enid! Okay? Loud and clear! Anything at all!"

He might, in the event, have saved his breath. Because in the process of putting on his helmet lamp, instructing the Duchess and reaching for his ancient 'Made in India' four-ten shotgun, he accidentally and very nearly lethally misjudged its location, nudging the cocked and loaded weapon into free fall.

### Before the Shot

The sound of Ava's barking was still being amplified when Neville and 'Soon dropped into the Duchy's backyard. But in a strangely diminished way which had become fragmented by intermittent thuds and crashes. They'd heard the Duke call for the wolf and, in their private imaginings, each felt certain that the Terrier-of-Death's greatest test might well be at hand. In each also, though - as resolutely in one as in the other - a determination was growing that this battle would not be one of tooth and fang alone.

How and where to begin were the only questions, answers to which were not provided by the dim lights that glowed from heavily curtained upper storey windows. There wasn't even enough light to illuminate the perilous path that lay between them and the building. Even so, 'Soon's instinct was to run straight ahead; Neville's was to exercise caution.

"If we go too fast," he warned, "we might step in a trap! We can't help if we're stuck in a trap!"

He'd never, from his mango tree perch, seen evidence of the Mongolovian wolf-hunter's handiwork though he'd carefully studied the spaces between the spike-edged giant bromeliads, the needle sharp robelinas and the saw-toothed wild sisal that dotted the yard. And there was the wolf to think of too! Which, if it wasn't actually fighting for its life with Ava (as seemed probable from the amplified confusion of barks, yelps and thuds) quite probably had been released into the yard.

Stepping protectively to the fore, Neville challenged the darkness with the magic cyclone bolt and peered, wide-eyed, into its depths. It was at that point that, with a hugely audible click, Ava's voice and all sounds of the chaos within the Duchy were cut off.

"What happened?" 'Soon whispered.

"I don't know! Maybe . . . maybe something broke!"

They waited. Very shortly and ominously the dim upper story lights also blinked out.

"Uh oh!" whispered Neville.

In the new silence, smaller sounds, scratchings and snufflings in the undergrowth, began to surround them. Edging closer. Neville crouched lower, pushed the bar out farther. Maybe toads. Maybe lizards or bandicoots.

"Maybe the demon Al!" 'Soon whispered, pressing up close to Neville.

"Or the wolf!" he whispered back.

She took, for comfort, a fistful of his shirt and, one behind the other, both trembling behind the outstretched magic iron bar, they waited. Until the explosion from the shotgun made a fist of their fear and punched them back against the fence.

* * *

In the Home Country house, the Quiet Man had fought his way to a foggy state of alertness. He knew where he was. He was home in Australia. He'd been here for weeks. What he didn't know was how or why, through all that time, and still tonight, the reality of the place had seemed so tenuous - one layer of a double exposure - one gentle, familiar scene intermingled with a ghastly, violent, so much more futile one. Ghost images, ghost terrain, ghost people. All around him. How was he to know which parts were real? Which parts could be trusted and which not? Peace, if it came at all, came in such small doses.

Each time he woke, he consciously tried to fill his head with the elements of Home Country, ticking them off one by one. Wife. Son. Dog. House. Security. Silence. This time though, for some inexplicable reason, the air was filled with a chaos of amplified dog noise. While he'd slept, the place had become like a head - like his own head, with a monstrous rabid animal living inside. He couldn't think. Couldn't fathom it. Couldn't revive any recollection at all of how it felt to be safe or confident or right or true.

Heart racing, he used the torch and made his way through the camp's perimeter - the failing security of the house. In the bedroom, Tina, asleep. Yes. That at least was right. A touchstone. He remembered the how of that, if not entirely the why. And Neville! Where was Neville? He wasn't with his mum. Was he in his own room? The living room? The bathroom? On the deck?

The unceasing din of yammering dog and howling humans filled him with foreboding but he forced himself to move, soon enough breaking into an unsteady run, seeking with his torch. Until finally, on the veranda, he found a single mystifying clue - a classic Beretta Model 1934 semi-automatic pistol. He raised it to his nose, drawing in the acrid, strangely comforting odour of cordite. Recently fired? At which exact moment, the clamour of noise was pinched off and a blossoming silence washed over him.

Ahhh! Better. But . . . what now? A weapon in his hand. The enemy momentarily in abeyance. Exercise your discipline, Lieutenant! Breathe. Observe. Be steady. Defend at all costs. Prepare for deadly force.

And faintly, there was still that quieter voice: No! No! This is home, not the other place! Find your markers!

But the markers were changing. The lights over there, where Ralph Daisley's house should be - a moment ago they were on, now they're out. That's one less reference point. One outlier that's been overrun.

He flicked off the torch and blinked. Willing his pupils to open wider, holding the gun close to his face again, again inhaling the smell of gunpowder. He could be anywhere now. Anywhere in any world. Or perhaps the worlds had merged. Perhaps the ghosts had come across, looking for him - looking for his family. Looking for his boy. Why would they do that? Because of the other boy, of course. The exploded boy. This one for that one. That's how the worlds collide.

"Neville?"

He spoke it softly into the darkness and got no answer.

Nothing but a mewling sound, somewhere out there, somewhere not too far. Trying to lure him out into the open. That's how they work. And then his eyes, just at the corners, thought they detected a movement. And still, rising from his nostrils into his brain, the smell of gunpowder.

"Nev'? Is that you, mate?" Again, oh so softly. And almost to himself, "Please be you."

Still no answer. Just the muttering, mewling.

"Can't be Nev'," he said to himself. "Nev' would answer. He's a good boy. He'd answer. If he could. If he could."

Then, the sound of the shotgun.

* * *

Under the shattered philodendron, Missus Hughes had been doing her best to keep the wounded still and quiet. As near as she'd been able to tell, the combination of night vision goggles and a flash of light from the hidden explosive device had left her husband (hopefully temporarily) blinded. Shoomba on the other hand, whatever actual wounds he may have sustained beneath his grotesque armour, seemed to be leaking rum from every pore and showed every sign of being almost totally anaesthetised.

At a point, she'd seen the flash of the Quiet Man's torch. It had gone out but instinct told her he was still there. Watching. Must wait, she'd wisely thought. Best to be sure the madness has passed. If he's done this, after all, then what more might he do? Then, ricocheting ominously through the neighbourhood, came the boom of the shotgun.

* * *

On Rahimi Island, Mohammed and Parisa – Riff and Raff – had jogged twice past the pond on which the Ragged Major Pastor Immigration Mann floated in their little boat, gathering in the last white duck.

"Leave it!" Riff had demanded, but, "No no!" the helpful man had smiled with eerie calm, as though gunfire and explosions and ear piercing amplified sounds were the stuff of his every day. "It's the least I can do."

Neither Riff nor Raff had the focus to deal with his peculiar insistence. Hard enough to deal with the welter of sensory confusion coming from beyond the Folly; or the fact that their daughter had defied them again and gone wandering in the darkened yards; or the facts that other children believed she, unbelievably, had a gun and that a gun had indeed been fired somewhere nearby.

When the loudspeaker was suddenly cut, they couldn't help but pause and look above the Folly's blank facade, wondering at each new development in their

mad neighbour's mania. And then the Duke's lights went out and Riff took his wife's arm and pulled her toward the banana palm border. The Duke's game, whatever it was, could wait. For now, for them, Afsoon was all. She must be safe. Please God, she must be safe.

Then, echoing wildly amongst the buildings, the shotgun blast.

* * *

In the back street, one person wouldn't hear the blast at all and that person was Cookie Hughes, who'd made what would prove to be the single fully successful run of the night, back to his bed where he cowered beneath the sheet. He'd been with the others when the single shot from the classic Beretta Model 1934 automatic pistol rang out. He'd seen, over the rooftops, the flash of light from the Quiet Man's flash-banger and he'd heard Beau's triumphant cheer. And he'd taken to his heels.

The fact that none of the others had tried to stop him, he took as a sign of their approval. Not that he needed anyone's approval. Nor did Beau the Bum who, on hearing the second shot, redoubled his efforts with the ropes and thought thoughts very similar to those of Riff and the Quiet Man and the Duke - to stop him now, they'd have to kill him!

### After the Shot

In the bedroom of the Duchy, the Duchess blinked with surprise. She was flat on her back on the floor. Something - (that noise! What on earth had it been?) \- had knocked her heels over head off her stool!

"Ralph?" she said tentatively and heard not a thing - not even her own voice.

"Ralph?"

All her ears brought her was the enormous, continuing reverberation of the explosion. Her eyes, however, discovered a pool of light moving across the ceiling. And beneath it, rising from a position level with her own, the brilliant halogen arc of her husband's head lamp - presumably still attached to her husband's head. She looked back to the ceiling and followed the pool as it crept to the architrave, slipped down onto the wall and finally settled on a grapefruit-sized hole that had appeared in the bedroom wall.

"Oh!" she thought. "Well that's going to be a nuisance!"

A moment later, she herself became the centrepiece of the pool of light. Not an entirely unpleasant experience. She tugged feebly at the hem of her nightie and smiled.

"Holy White Man, Enid!" the Duke was hollering over her. She couldn't hear a word of it, nor could she see the contortions of his face behind the flare of light. "You cocked it! I didn' tell you to cock it!"

She added a nod to the smile, assuming it would mollify any concerns he might have and, "Yes yes," she whispered. "I'm fine. Just resting for a moment. You carry on, dear." And she reached up to pat the light.

Truth to tell, she was a little grateful when he left the room, left her in peace. A fine man, but a little intense by times. What she liked to think of as 'a handful'. She folded her hands on her breast and closed her eyes.

Happily, she couldn't hear the barrage of dog noise that the detonation had re-ignited somewhere in the house. Less happily she, like the Duke, failed to remember that the ancient shotgun's second chamber was also loaded. And that the hammer she'd so diligently cocked still hovered menacingly over the remaining shell.

* * *

Outside, the closest to the Duke's castle were Neville the Less and Afsoon. Before the detonation, they were still marooned on the outer edge of his dangerous, unknown lands. The prowling, fidgeting garden sounds had come closer. But that explosion was no garden sound - no demon, no wolf. Neither child, in fact, was in any doubt as to what it actually was or where it had come from. Nor was either in any doubt what it might mean for their lost Ava, whose distant, diminished voice, briefly lost after the power cut, they could suddenly hear again.

Clearly the Duke had tried to murder her. But she was alive. Fighting on. Alone. 'Soon was first to abandon caution. She dropped Neville's hand, pushed aside the magic iron bar and began a blind run toward the Duke's castle. She didn't get far.

* * *

In the garden of Home Country the sound of the shotgun booming through the still night air, had jolted a squeal from Missus Hughes. And more importantly, startled Shoomba into a precarious level of wakefulness.

"Wha . . . ?" he hiccupped, lurching into a sitting position.

Through his mind raced a series of badly connected impressions: the smell of Burnt Bill; the sight through her window of a spent and exhausted Tina; the howling gibbery Allah - Allah chant of the Less from the darkness under the house; _You have armed an explosive device._ The 'Ghani witch with a gun. Flashes of light and sound and the earth erupting at his feet. And now the definite boom of a shotgun. You didn't have to be a philosopher to understand that whatever was stalking the neighbourhood was in no mood for games.

There was only one thing to do. He scrabbled to his feet, sweeping away the dirt and filth that encrusted him and the clutching appeal of Dorothy Hughes and, driven by rum-addled panic, he charged out across the yard, heading for home. Almost immediately his disintegrating armour tangled about his feet and brought him down, as luck would have it, dead centre amongst a series-wired trio of the Quiet Man's smoke bombs. They were little more than toys - tricks that children could make - but the resultant fizz and crackle, coupled with the columns of white smoke, brought Shoomba almost to the brink of religious conversion.

"Aaiiee!" he screamed and, rising to his knees, raising his arms to the black vault of sky: "Jesus Cripes o' mercy!"

Missus Hughes, seeing the wall of luminous smoke rise from the centre of the yard, and the beseeching shadow of Shoomba enraptured within, spread herself even thinner over her blind, prostrate, groaning husband.

* * *

The sound of the shotgun had brought Riff and Raff once again to a staggering stop. The echo was so confusing! It seemed to have come from the Duchy, yet that place was now in darkness! As well, this was no small gun! A large gun. Not one Afsoon could manage. Then two other sounds reached them - perhaps three. One was the crackle of burning, beneath columns of pale glowing smoke. Another was Shoomba's desperate screech of prayer. And the last, so faintly, barely there, was a cry from the throat of their daughter. All of which combined to transport them both back to Yakawlang, to the walled-in, wailing, burning women and children.

What they knew then was that their world had once again gone mad with violence. And that their one child, all of value that remained to them, was somewhere out there. As one, they howled out their own hopeless need and defiance and plunged desperately on, bounding out the other side of the banana palm forest.

"Afsoon! Afsoon!" Riff was screaming as he ran. "Haletan koob est? Haletan koob est?"

* * *

On the veranda of nightmare the Quiet Man crouched, cold sweat beading across his brow. He'd heard the gunshot and the cries of men and children, seen shadows racing, been gratified by the pop and smoke of his defences. And was no longer in Home Country. No longer the Quiet Man.

Hold! his ghosts whispered to him. Hold your position. Make them come to you.

He knew exactly what was happening. The darkness, the explosions, the smoke, the cries of wounded people - these were the true work and world of a soldier.

Hold! Hold! And . . . GO!

He stepped forward, raising the pistol and flicking on the torch. The first shot ignited the petrol-soaked rags in the incinerating pit. And in the light of the explosion, they were there, coming on, charging toward him, screaming out in too-quick Dari! He began firing.

* * *

Within moments of the shotgun blast, Hayley flicked on the Ute's headlights and stepped hard on the petrol. She was alone in the cabin, gritting her teeth, preparing for the jolt. Beau the Bum was behind, standing in the tray, watching with greedy eyes as the little play left in the ropes disappeared and the scree of tires on bitumen began to fill the night. Across the way on the road's shoulder where Hayley'd ordered him to stand, Robert folded his hands and murmured a little prayer:

"Take it away, Lord. We do't wa't it here."

And then, amidst a fanfare of smoke, shouts, screaming tires and distant gunfire, a section of the Folly, three metres by three metres of lapped Australian hardwood lifted away from its moorings and careened off, bumping and tumbling down the street.

### The Traps

The Duke, on his journey through the darkened house, had reached the brink of panic and toppled well and truly over. The Duchess was down, possibly with a broken neck or brain damage. The security system had failed, there was a potentially demented dog loose on the premises and persons of unknown intent were at the gates. So quickly had the situation deteriorated that, though he'd long ago denounced all those who ever sought comfort in 'the corrupt arms of government', today during his dash through the house he'd pounded out triple oh at least three times on his Made in Malaysia cordless telephone.

"Where are you? Where are you?" he'd screamed into its impenetrable silence. "Emergency! Mayday! Man down! Where are you for God's sake?"

Along the hallway, down the stairs and into the kitchen, half remembering but refusing to accept that a cordless phone without power is merely a dead weight of plastic.

He'd come almost to the exit without encountering Ava but her barking had made it clear that the back door, through which he must go to reach the circuit board, was where she waited. To his credit, he didn't falter. The Duchess needed him, he needed to get the power restored and woe betide any one or thing that dared stand in his way.

And so it was that when Ava did finally appear in the light of his headlamp, bleeding messily from the torn stitches on her shoulder, snarling and snapping like a vampiric hound, all he was able to understand was that the door, beyond which salvation lay, was within his reach. It could not be denied him. Had it been otherwise, had he been able to compose himself even a little, he might well have used the shotgun's second shell to spread Ava across the room like a bag of dog-jelly. It didn't even occur to him. Instead, with never a pause, ridden hard by desperation, he bowled the cordless telephone at her and hurtled like a small wrinkled javelin, across the room in its wake.

The roar took Ava by surprise. But the phone, coming as it did from behind the Duke's blinding headlamp, seemed to materialise in the air in virtually the same instant that it smashed and ripped into her eye. Her snarls turned to yowls of astonished agony, she tumbled like a wounded Dervish and the Duke, already winded and short of balance, tripped across her, opening her wound even further and dumping himself headlong into his triple-bolted reinforced door. The impact staggered him, dazed and amazed him, left a galaxy of stars spinning before his eyes. Only by instinct and sheerest determination did he remain upright, fumbling at the deadlocks, twisting the bolts and staggering woozily out into the blessed cool of the yard./

It was the one real triumph he would have in that night of failed dreams and plans. By all that was right and fair, he should have been in his command chair, sedately controlling defences; and he might, in his imagination, yet get back there. Realistically though, his breathing was pained, his heart was beating like a jungle drum and his head . . . from the impact with the door . . . felt like a cracked egg. And there was blood. Lots of blood. And confusion. What had he just come through? What had he survived?

It wasn't that the circuit board was forgotten. Far from it. Only that the race he had just run seemed suddenly to catch up to him, like the wake of a stalled boat. He was surrounded! Behind was a twice-wounded, half-drugged, ungrateful, ravening mongrel dog, doubtless intent on ripping chunks from his inoffensive carcass. Ahead were unknown trespassers, half-glimpsed in the moment the camera array died. And who knew what sort of chunks **they** intended to rip out of him?

Despite the fact that he had fought his way out, the night seemed pitiless and defeat was clearly at hand. He imagined the poor, brain damaged Duchess suffering unspeakably foreign ravishments on the floor of the bedroom, while he . . . while he lay beaten and bloodied at the monstrously calloused feet of pagan devil-worshippers. The thought was dizzying. His head was ringing like a cathedral bell and blood was burning his eyes, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to weep! He wanted to fall to his knees and . . . !

But then the sounds, the enormous coming-apart sounds of the neighbourhood finally broke through to him. His immigrant neighbour's incomprehensible shouts; a bellow of anguish from a voice that could only be Shoomba's. The scream of tires and the grind of wood on bitumen. And strangely, all of that combined to give him hope. Listen, the chaos was saying to him. Listen! You're not on your own here! The neighbours have risen up! They've rallied! They've fought back! And they'll continue to! All they need is leadership! An uncompromising, unyielding example to follow!

It was then that he re-discovered the shotgun in his hand.

"Not," he half sobbed, "'til the fat lady has no more shells in her chamber! Not while the author of LOCK and LOAD has a single functioning digit to his name!"

Drawing a deep slow breath, his heart a hair trigger of expectation, he forced himself into a slow turn, scanning with his little headlamp each corner of the yard. All around him the shadows leapt crazily and it took every ounce of his focus just to turn, let alone to interpret what he was seeing.

In the near distance, the steady, careful measured boom of pistol fire.

* * *

It was Neville that tripped her. Not intentionally of course; not in the sense of thinking, I'm going to knock her down. It was a reflex action. Almost as though the magic cyclone bolt had electrified his arm, causing it to lunge after her, to give her ankle the lightest of taps. In fact if Neville had played any real, conscious part in it, he wasn't aware of it! Still, the action had brought Afsoon's brief run to an end in the worst of all possible places - face down in the centre of a thicket of giant saw-toothed bromeliads.

It was an old and tangled thicket, more like a small forest of fleshy, flat spikes each cruelly edged, top to bottom, with hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. Undisturbed, as they were before she fell in, the spikes stood almost to 'Soon's shoulders, and crowded together so thickly that not even the magic cyclone bolt could've found space between them. Many fearful and furtive things, small and slippery things, did live in there - too elusive to be caught by the slashing edges. For a soft-bodied little girl, however, falling amongst the giant brom's was like falling into ten dozen upright soft bladed saws.

She was in, far in, with blood puckering from a dozen cuts on her face and arms, even before she realised her run had ended. Her first sense was of plant life moving around her, crowding tighter and closer, a cold, blind, seeking thing. One of her fists had plunged into a slimy water-filled core and she felt the fibrous flesh sucking and slurping at her, taking the measure of her animal warmth. She tried to lift herself, achieving nothing but the slide of her fist, deeper down, down toward the dark rot below.

Her other hand was in no better straits, caught beneath her body, locked between her weight and the broken, bitter serrations of the spikes. When she tried to free it, her head dipped, falling nearer the stink of decay at the plant's centre and a blade made yet another small careful incision in her face. Around her, the spikes of neighbouring plants vibrated, seeming to sense the blood, to turn their sharp edges toward her.

She gave in to stillness then. Even while green frogs jumped onto her back and burrupped querulously from all sides; even while tiny lizards scrabbled up her arms and spiders the size of golf balls danced on her shoulders, tangling themselves in the dark web of her hair. Even with them, she dared not move because, with every twitch, every spasm, every breath and groan, the saws drew deeper into her flesh, like the nails of a many-armed demon determined to drain her body of its blood. Even she could smell it, feel it, edging out from her throat, her arms and her chest.

In the darkness, Neville was agog. In times past he'd been cut himself by brom's - little brom's in the Home Country gardens. Slashing filthy wounds that took an age to heal. To see the terrifying jungle of giant starlit fingers bending over 'Soon's still body, and to know it was a thing he'd caused brought a great wrenching sob into his throat.

"Oh no oh no oh no!" He touched her leg and her muscles tensed beneath his hand. But she didn't answer. "I'm sorry 'Soon! I . . . ! I didn't mean . . . !"

He heard her begin then, softly to cry and felt himself, pathetically, miserably, uselessly joining in; just softly. As though there was nothing else a person could do but blubber while flesh-hating plants absorbed their friend. As though tears were any kind of answer to the terrors of the jungle that surrounded him in his own neighbourhood. Then, somehow, the Ragged Man's voice was there again: "Ye know what that is, doncha? All that horribleness? That's fear! Not theirs! Never theirs! It's yours!"

I **am** afraid! I **am**! I just make everything worse! It isn't any use!

"Don't let it be hopeless, Nev'. Don't let that happen. There's a lot riding on you now."

What could he do? What could he do? He could run to Rahimi Island and fetch Riff! That's what he could do!

But if he did that, 'Soon'd be alone and trapped in the dark, in the Duchy! Maybe with a Mongolovian wolf or pirates or a Thing hoping to sniff her out!

So what else, then? What else?

He held up the magic cyclone bolt, felt it trembling in his hands. Even it was crying out for some action to take place. Anything but this Neville the Less stillness!

If only he was someone else, he wept! If he was Beau the Bum, he knew what he'd do - step out into the open with the bolt and shout for the wolf to come and get it! If he was even little Robert, he would run to the Duke's door and pound on it and demand help - despite it being the place where a shotgun had just been fired and where Ava was clearly imprisoned and where, if the wolf wasn't in the yard, it must surely be waiting. If he was the Quiet Man, Neville the More, he would . . . !

And that was when the petrol rags exploded in Home Country and the scream of Shoomba reached out for him and the smoke began to rise and Hayley's Ute with its big engine began to burn away its tires on the bitumen. And that was also when the Duke's back door slammed open and the new agony of Ava's blinded eye was howled into the night. And the brilliant white of the Duke's headlamp gave birth to a whole new universe of darting shadows; all emanating from that one central figure - the gnomish, frantically twisted, shotgun wielding form of the Duke himself.

Neville's knees gave way and he dropped to the ground like a jellied cracker. "Please, please, please!" he whimpered, whether to himself or to 'Soon or to the panting, disoriented Duke of Daisley or even to the placid voice of the Ragged Man, even he could not have said. "Stop! Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

At first the Duke's light shifted wildly, right to left, left to right, twice, three times, without pausing; darting back and forth as the Duke staggered in circles, like a broken spindle, making small wounded sounds.

Then the pistol shots and, in the space of a quarter of a minute, the Duke's drunken lurching stilled. Neville peeped ahead and saw him wipe blood from his face. He saw rather than heard the man speak a reminder to himself before forcing the light into a measured, methodical, purposeful sweep of the yard. That's when Neville knew for sure that they would be found. And when they were . . . everything would end.

The last act that Neville would know on this fraught evening began to unfold. The Terrier-of-Death herself, alive but terribly damaged, limped into the circle of visibility. She carried one leg high against her chest and twisted her head at a pained angle, to see from her one whole eye. In Home Country, the shooting ended, the cries ended and the smoke drifted away. In the back street, motor sounds and the scree of wood and rubber on bitumen faded away into the distance. The night became, very quickly, almost clean again. Except for this one last act.

The circle of the Duke's light locked on Ava, seeming for a moment to be all that kept her upright. Something inaudible, some challenge was uttered by the Duke. Ava's lips parted, her teeth came into view and a snarl escaped her. And slowly, surely the Duke raised the shotgun.

A voice - the smallest of voices, came from the darkness.

"Do't hurt her, Bister Duke!"

The light jerked, the shotgun wavered, the cocked hammer fell and the pressure of that fall lifted Neville the Less to his feet. He began to run, the magic cyclone bolt raised high above his head. Without any invitation at all the madness of 'Thing' had entered him and something within had surely, finally broken. He aimed to kill. He closed in rapidly and swung to kill. The Duke's headlamp went out and, in the sudden darkness and silence he surely hoped he **had** killed.

### Tempering

He had fallen. Cracked his head again somehow. But it wasn't important. He remembered 'Soon, impaled on the giant brom's, Ava, crippled and torn; and Robert! The flame from the muzzle blast, reaching out. He opened his eyes.

"Ahaa!" said a too familiar voice. "Look who's with us again!"

A scrabbling of tiny feet through his hair, across his forehead. Something black, looking in at him. Then it ran off, clacking merrily.

He sat up. He was in a boat, at sea. The little mock-up refugee boat made by Riff. Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann worked languidly at the oars while the fugitive white duck sat comfortably on his lap. The duck quacked welcomingly and Neville couldn't think what to say in response.

"Well," continued the Ragged Man happily. "Your timing hasn't always been the greatest, mate, but it's spot on just now! We were only talking about how things went back there! Bit of the unexpected, we reckoned, which o' course is the only thing ye really **can** expect. 'Cause hey! It's never really a plan is it! We were trying to think of a name for it. 'War of the Folly' we thought - though that's a bit like saying the same thing twice, I guess. Anyhow, whadju think? Surprised? Pleased? Turned upside down and shaken?"

The sea stretched away on all sides. There looked to be a storm on the horizon, yet the oars dipped lazily - no place to be in any great hurry.

"Robert?" he said.

"Robert? Oh-ho yeah! Who-da guessed he'd cop that eh? Not me, I didn't, no way! All kinds of strange misperceptions in that little guy. Just shows to go you! Whadda ye reckon though, you think he'd be disappointed? In the way it finished up? Think he'd do it differently if he had a do-over? Not that it generally works that way o' course!"

"He was right, wasn't he? We should've just asked?"

"Mm. Maybe. He was just asking at the end though, wasn't he! An' ye saw how that went!"

"What about 'Soon?"

"Oh, sorry! You missed the whole ending didn'cha! Well, in a nutshell, she's prob'ly gonna be okay . . . eventually. Ava too. Riff and Raff - might well pull through, thanks to your ol' man. He's a heck of a shot, you know! Could easily've let that big ol' Thing have its way, but he fought a good fight there. Inside himself, I mean.

"Your ol' mate Shoomba . . . touch 'n' go there. A little more 'touched' than go, prob'ly, but maybe it was always thus. Missus Hughes - reckon she might never come out've her house again. Mister Hughes - might never **see** again - might never **want** to see again for that matter. Your dad - won't be getting his hero medal back, that's for sure; though there's those know he should. Your mum - let's just say she'll never doubt the invisible world again! Who's left? Oh, Beau the Bum and Hayley; and Cookie, of course - all blind lucky to've kept out of the line of fire. As it were. This time. Anyways, anyone else?"

"The Duke? Did I kill the Duke?"

"Kill him? No no no! He'll be picking bits of that headlamp out of his cranium 'til the cows come home and his crazy ideas are so scrambled they might **never** come home. But nope. Close, but no cigar. Did you want to kill him?"

Neville didn't really know if what he'd felt was equivalent to 'wanting' to kill someone. He remembered feeling that he must, should, ought to, was obliged to - kill the Duke. That somehow everything - all the terrible feeling would be solved if the Duke was gone. But really, all he'd wanted was for everyone to stop fighting and hurting.

"I don't know. I guess . . . there was 'Soon . . . and Ava . . . and Robert! And all the noise and the wolf! And I just thought . . . he seemed to be one making it most awful."

"Right. Right. I getcha. Wasn't him alone though, ye know. An' it wouldna helped if ye'd killed him. There's a bit o' the ol' Duke in just about everyone, I reckon. Nasty ol' 'Thing' waiting to get free. Which ninety-nine times out've a hundred doesn't achieve anything but the makin' of life more miserable for everyone. Hey but speaking of the wolf, you should see **her** now! Looks a regular pirate's dog - one-eyed, cheeky limp. Looks great!"

"Ava? You mean Ava?"

"Who else? Closest thing to a wolf in this entire country! She's cock o' the neighbourhood now! 'Specially with Terrible Bill gone!"

"Good. She'd like that. And 'Soon? She's really okay?"

"She will be, mate. She's workin' on some nifty new scars. Plus she's missin' a friend. But she'll heal. I guess if I had to put money on anyone makin' it through, I'd put it on her."

"Because she's a witch? And an Amazon?"

Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann waggled his eyebrows impressively. "On the outside, Nev'. In the same way that Ava's a Terrier-of-Death on the outside and a full-on carer on the inside. And Robert Hughes was a pray-er on the outside but a full-grown try-er on the inside. Outside's just a cloak, mate. Inside's where the Things live - an' not all Things're bad ye know! That girl's got a Thing for leadin' with her heart. I reckon her feet will learn to follow."

"Even if Riff and Raff have been . . . ?"

Neville found himself suddenly crying. Deeply sobbing, as though the pipeline to a well of grief had suddenly burst in his chest. All those people. Robert, who might've had a previous life as a jelly sandwich, but had believed that asking for the right thing should be enough; Riff, who'd fought and killed pirates and settled in a new country, believing that wanting to live in peace should be enough; the beautiful Parisa who'd also fought, even though her hands were like silk and her name meant 'like a fairy' - believing that loving her children should be enough; Missus Hughes, who'd been born again only to die again, despite believing that learning enough prayers to catch the ear of God should be enough. Maybe Shoomba too, for whom stories and secrets and desires beyond telling were never enough. Maybe even the Quiet Man, whose mind had gone off to live with a boy whose arms had been exploded away, because there was no way of explaining, let alone atoning.

"All them good intentions," Ragged Man murmured. "An' still it comes to this. Bafflin' innit?"

Neville put his head on his arms and let the tears fall into the bottom of the boat 'til it seemed they sloshed about his feet and would have to be bucketed out. Maybe that was what the sea was - just tears, bucketed out of a myriad of little boats full of crying people. He felt the scorpions scuttle across him and was faintly aware of their urgent hissing and of the Ragged Man's answer to them.

"I know. I know. We're getting there."

He raised his head. Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann was no longer rowing. The oars rested across his lap, the white duck had nestled into his arms and the scorpions were perched on his shoulders. All were watching Neville.

"Ye know," said the man, "there's not generally any do-overs. But that don't mean it's outta the question. Jus' takes a small group o' really good try-ers to keep it a worthwhile proposition."

"What d'yu mean?"

"Well," the man said, "I mean there's still a chance that someday someone's gonna figure out how make a better ending. An' I wanna find out, as bad as anyone does, what that ending is. Now you . . . you got a fine imagination, did you know that? An' a fine imagination's better than any three hundred and one ordinary fact-riddled brains working separately, I can promise you that!"

"Imagination?"

"Sure. Just for example, you could imagine a better ending than this, couldn't ye? Maybe even a way or two that ol' cart coulda been kept on the rails? Assuming that imagining such a thing is what you'd like to do, of course!"

Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann winked conspiratorially, the two scorpions clacked with hilarity and the duck blinked at him hopefully. Neville sniffled, feeling curiously provoked.

"I think something bad happened to me," he said. "To my head."

"Well the butt of that shotgun cracked you a good one - cracked your head-bone wide open in fact. Just about the same time the magic cyclone bolt was crunching through the Duke's headlamp. But that's not really the point here, is it?"

"It isn't?"

"No sir, it is not!"

"Am I dead too?" asked Neville the Less.

"Dead? What's that, bein' dead? When ye get right down to it, what's that? Anyone know for sure?"

"I never imagined it would be like this!"

"Well there you go, you see? Endless surprises. What I'm sayin' is, I reckon a whole world could be filled with what you never yet imagined. Fact is, I'm counting on it."

"So if I'm dead?"

"Dunno! I guess if you're dead, you got us! And all this!" He waved his hand at the vast expanse of water and sky.

"And if I'm not dead?"

"Then you're back there, Nev'." He pointed at the distant storm which flashed lightning. "With the whole caboodle; the 'known' an,' most of all, the 'unknown'. And all the ways it could be better. And. . . just sayin' . . . a whole heap o' ways it could be worse."

"So am I there or am I here?"

"Beats me," the man snorted. "Up to you I guess." The scorpions clacked and the duck quacked a little honk of so-it-is. "What do you think?"

Neville fell into a reverie. The duck went for a swim. Ragged Immigration Pastor Major Mann lay back and pulled his hat over his eyes while the scorpions busied themselves with a little clapping game that had them patting pincers, left to right, right to left.

Eventually Neville said, "Would it be the same? If I went back?"

"Would you like it to be the same?" the man asked, peeping from under his hat.

"No."

"Well, you'd have to find a way to make it different then, wouldn't you!"

"What if I couldn't?"

"What if you could?"

"I'm afraid."

"Big whoop! Everyone's afraid, Nev'. That's what this whole horrible insult has all been about. Fear is the one big bad 'Thing' that's scrabbling around in everyone's Under." He lifted the white duck out of the water and handed it to Neville, who took it into his lap. It settled, then quacked expectantly.

Neville thought for awhile longer, then said, "Okay."

* * *

"Nev', I know this is hard for you," Mum is saying. "But. . . ! But . . .!" And he knows she's about to give up on him; "There's just a Bigger Picture happening, Nev'. One that . . . it wouldn't be fair for you to have to think about."

"It's the war, isn't it!" he whispers and his mother, suddenly sobbing into her hands, flees from him, into the kitchen.

"It's definitely the war!" he says to the room, which is empty of anyone who can think what to say.

Later though, when they meet in the kitchen, he tries a different tack.

"What is a war, anyhow?"

"Oh Nev'! You don't have to worry about that. It couldn't happen here! But it's a thing that happens because people get so frightened and confused by one another - by things they don't understand about one another. And then they get mad because stuff just isn't how they think it should be and they decide to hit out. Because hitting out's easier than . . . easier than almost anything. Hitting and hitting and being more and more frightened. That's what war is."

"But why couldn't it happen here? Don't people get frightened and confused here?"

"Yes, of course they do. It's just that . . . we don't hit here."

"The Quiet Man does. He's a soldier."

"Yes. And you see where that's got him?" And suddenly she's angry, bending to him, clasping his shoulders roughly and staring into his eyes. "Promise me you'll never be a soldier!" she demands, shaking him hard. "Right now and for all time! Promise me that when you grow up, you'll never fight or hurt or kill or hate or . . . be the kind of person who . . . can't look for another way!"

There's no more. She pulls his face against her breasts, holding him tightly there where he most loves to be, even though the sweet baby powder scent of her always makes his head swim. Then she pushes him away and goes instead to the sink, to splash water on her face. Afterwards, as though she's forgotten him entirely, she falls into a reverie, gazing out across the neighbouring yards. Neville waits, wishing she'd come back to him and hold him again. She doesn't. But eventually she draws a deep breath and lets his name slip slowly, pleadingly out.

"Nevertheless."

# # #

Written in sadness for all those whose lives have been touched and damaged by war.

Jewish folklore suggests that the world's survival rests on the shoulders of 36 'righteous people'. So long as each generation produces no fewer than these 36 hidden saints (Lamed Vav Tzadikim, in Yiddish) the wrath of God will be withheld. They are consistently humble people who aren't aware of their own status or importance. I have pictured Neville as being one of these and his final choice as being proof thereof.

If you enjoyed any aspect of this free book, be it plotting, characters, themes or writing style, please consider returning to the Smashwords page and leaving a brief review. Just half a dozen words would be appreciated. Consider also other titles by this author, available at Smashwords: Sugar Town, Children of Clun and the short story collection, Connections. Watch also for the upcoming Dogger's Boy.
