Authors: Jenny Mounfield
The Ice-cream Man (5 page)
Rick’s eyes bulged. ‘Friggin’ freak!’ The van accelerated past.
Marty spun around. ‘Did you see his face?’
‘Yeah. Fat guy. Got one of them goatee beards.’
‘Know who he is?’ Rick shook his head.
The van picked up speed and rounded the next corner.
‘I’ll teach him to give me the friggin’ finger.’ Rick took off after the van.
Marty spun his wheels. ‘Leave it, Rick. What can you do, eh?’
Rick stopped at the corner and punched the air.
‘Geez, that guy really gets under my skin. Know what I mean?’
Marty nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Reckon Aaron will want to see us after yesterday?’ Marty said as they crossed the road. There was no sign of the van, but its chimes were still audible.
‘Why not? Isn’t our fault the guy’s mental.’
‘Yeah, but if I hadn’t slam-jumped him –’
‘Well he shouldn’t’ve ignored me! Everyone ignores me and I’m friggin’ sick of it.’ A red stain flowed up Rick’s neck, setting his cheeks on fire. He picked up his pace, arms swinging.
For a second it seemed like Rick might throw a punch at him. Rick had a bug up his butt about something, and it sure wasn’t just the ice-cream man.
‘You want to tell me what your problem is?’ Marty said.
Rick forced air out between his teeth. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘“It’s nothing” with you, usually means it’s something.’ Marty grinned.
‘Geez, shut up, will ya.’
Kathy’s Korner Store wasn’t on a corner, but roughly halfway along Fifth Avenue. It was one of those old-fashioned buildings made from fibro sheeting with stairs running up one side to the residence above. An unknown, but obviously colourblind renovator had attempted to fix up the place by painting it banana yellow with hot-pink trim and bright green sign-writing.
The condemned Starlight Theatre stood across the road, surrounded by temporary wire fencing. Marty looked at the boarded-up building and remembered the night his parents had come to see him in the Christmas play when he’d been nine. Marty had played one of the Wise Men and it had taken over a week to convince his teacher that he could manage to walk on stage without his walker. More than anything he’d wanted to look like all the other kids, not like some cripple. And he did, too, at least up until he’d fallen over another Wise Man’s crook and been pitched into the audience.
Rick nudged Marty. ‘Whatta ya staring at that dump for? C’mon.’ He strode towards the shop door.
Aaron was serving a woman with a whingeing baby slung over her arm. He looked up in obvious surprise as Marty and Rick pushed their way through the plastic streamers hanging in the doorway.
‘I could really go a double chocolate malted milkshake with extra everything right about now,’ Rick boomed. He swaggered over to one of the plastic table settings positioned near the drinks fridge, pulled out a chair and flopped into it. ‘Whatta ya say, Aaron?’
Aaron handed the woman her change and a plastic bag containing a tin of baby formula. The woman put the baby, who was now screaming its head off, into a stroller and hooked the bag over the handle.
‘I said, I could really go a –’
‘Cut it out,’ Marty hissed, punching Rick on the arm.
Aaron watched the woman wrestle the stroller out the door and glanced towards the back of the shop. ‘Yeah, all right, but I can only give you the one
– unless you’re going to pay. And please keep your voice down.’
Rick leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, and grinned. ‘Don’t know about Marty, but
I’m flat broke.’
‘One will be fine, mate. Don’t want you getting into trouble,’ Marty said, giving Rick a hard look.
Aaron sighed and picked up two stainless steel cups. ‘No, it’s okay; I’ll give you one each. Mum won’t know.’
Marty grinned at Aaron. ‘How’s stuff going with your step-brother?’
‘Great, so long as I stay out of his way.’ Aaron’s eyes flicked towards the ceiling. ‘He’s on the net chatting to one of his mates. Should be there for hours.’
Aaron finished making the milkshakes and carried them to the table. ‘I’ve been thinking, you know, about yesterday,’ he said, licking his lips several times.
‘Look, it’s okay. I got a bit freaked out myself,’ Marty said. He picked up his milkshake and gulped it down until a cold spike hit him between the eyes.
‘Argh, brain-freeze.’
Aaron licked his lips again and glanced towards the street. ‘You know, I even had nightmares about that stupid van, dreamed it was following me everywhere.’
Rick laughed and slapped the table. ‘Sounds like you’ve been watching too many of them cheesy horror flicks, mate.’
Aaron straightened up and tightened his jaw. ‘I’m telling you there was something seriously not normal about it.’ He turned and went back to the counter.
Glaring at Rick, Marty said, ‘Aaron’s right. Besides, I had a few weird dreams myself.’
Before Rick could say anything, the air was split by a jingling blast of ‘Pop! Goes the Weasel’.
Marty’s heart slammed into his ribs. He swivelled his chair towards the shop’s plate glass window.
The ice-cream van cruised by. Marty spun all the way around and headed for the doorway. As he shot onto the footpath and skidded to a stop, he saw the ice-cream man turn his head and look right at him. Rick was right, the man did have a beard – and he was grinning.
‘Stop following us, you whacked up turd-slinger!’ Marty yelled. He looked around, his fingers itching for something to throw at the retreating van, but apart from a couple of empty drink cans and a chip packet lying on the path, there was nothing.
‘Hey, take it easy, kid.’
Marty’s head snapped around. A bald man with more wrinkles than an elephant’s backside was standing behind him, swaying back and forth like a sapling in a high wind. Aaron and Rick were framed behind him in the doorway.
‘The mongrel did that deliberately, didn’t turn the music on till he was right out the front,’ Marty said to them.
‘This here a mate of yours, Aaron?’ The old man’s eyes examined Marty like he was brain damaged.
‘Yeah. That’s Marty and this here’s Rick.’
‘So what’s going on? Your mate upset he didn’t get an ice-cream?’ He chuckled. His sharp, black eyes didn’t leave Marty for an instant.
‘It’s nothing. Come inside and finish your milkshake, Marty.’ Aaron ducked back through the plastic streamers.
The old man followed them inside and after examining Marty one last time, made his way through to the stairs at the back of the shop.
‘Your grandfather?’ Marty said.
‘Nah, that’s Bernie, my step-father’s old man. He’s up from Newcastle for a holiday. Goes home next week, thank God,’ Aaron added under his breath. He watched the old man until he’d gone from view.
‘You really think the ice-cream man knew we were here? I mean, how?’
Marty wiped a clammy hand over his face. ‘Geez, I totally lost it, didn’t I? Must be the heat or something. I bet Bernie thinks I’m a real nut-job.’
‘Doesn’t matter what he thinks. And it’s not the heat, it’s him, the ice-cream man,’ Aaron said seriously. ‘And did you see those flames on the side of the van? Is that weird, or what?’
‘Yeah, it’s real whacked,’ Rick said. ‘We saw him near the servo. The freak must’ve followed us.’ He upended his milkshake cup, slurping the last dregs, then wiped an arm across his foam-coated mouth.
‘But why would he do that?’ Aaron asked.
‘’Cause he’s a freak, that’s why,’ Rick replied.
‘And because we pranked him,’ Marty added. Aaron nodded. ‘So, what do you think we should
do now?’
Marty finished his milkshake. This whole ice- cream man thing was getting ridiculous. ‘We ignore him, that’s what. He’ll soon get sick of playing games and go pick on someone else.’
‘I say if he wants to play, then we play,’ Rick said.
‘Why should we just ignore the guy like a bunch of girls? He’s gonna think he’s won.’
‘We could go to the police,’ Aaron said.
‘And tell them what?’ Marty looked from Aaron to Rick. ‘I know how you feel, mate. I would’ve given anything for a brick a few minutes ago, but it’s his game, so we don’t play because that’s just what he wants.’
Rick slumped in his chair, arms folded.
Another blast of ‘Pop! Goes the Weasel’ rent the air. The boys looked towards the front of the shop. The ice-cream man drew level, pulling to a stop on the other side of the road.
‘So we ignore him?’ Aaron said, his voice rising to a squeak.
Rick’s mouth twisted. He started to get to his feet, but Marty clamped a hand on his arm and forced him to sit. ‘We can do that,
can’t we
, Rick?’
Rick grunted and eased back into his seat.
Marty ran a finger through the condensation on his milkshake cup and tried to shut out the music.
He could see the van sitting by the side of the road out of the corner of his eye. What was the psycho playing at? Ignoring him was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? ‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘Dad’s getting me a phone.’
‘Uh huh,’ Rick said, rocking back and forth on his chair. Although his eyes appeared to be downcast, Marty knew he was watching the street.
‘Yep, my mother thinks I’m too helpless to be allowed out by myself, so the old man’s buying me a phone.’ Marty chewed his lip. ‘Hey, Aaron, who’ve you got for maths? Not No-balls Baldwin?’
Aaron’s head jerked up. ‘Huh? Ah, no, Mrs Jackman.’ He plucked a paper napkin from the holder and began tearing it into strips.
The chimes blared. Rick rocked faster.
‘Oh right, had her last year.’ Marty dragged his wet finger across the tabletop.
‘Don’t know why the freak’s doing this. Way I see it we’re even,’ Rick said through clenched teeth.
‘How about English? Who’ve you got for English, Aaron?’
Lickety-lick
. ‘Same as Rick. But Goth Woman’s
away for the rest of the year, so now we’ve got that relief teacher, Mr Gunner.’
‘He shouldn’t’ve ignored me, but he did, so we paid him back. That makes us even.’
Marty glanced at Rick. He looked as though he would explode any second. ‘You got a PlayStation or something, Aaron? Maybe we can go upstairs and –’
Rick shot to his feet, knocking the chair into the drinks fridge. ‘That’s it!’ He charged towards the doorway then stopped and snatched up a carton of eggs from a wire rack near the counter.
‘No, Rick!’ Marty yelled. He took off after him with Aaron close behind.
Rick ran onto the footpath and started pegging eggs at the ice-cream van. Two primary school girls who had been walking towards the van took one look at him and bolted in the opposite direction.
‘Wanna mess with me, freak?’ Rick roared. ‘Well go right ahead!’ He moved onto the road and continued to pelt the van with eggs until they were all gone. Then he flung the carton away and stood there, chest heaving.
‘Go get him, Aaron,’ Marty said.
Before Aaron could move, Rick marched towards the shop, probably planning on getting more eggs. Behind him, the ice-cream van drove away.
‘What on earth are you boys up to?’ Bernie thundered down the aisle from the back of the shop.
‘Aaron, is everything all right?’ asked the woman behind him.
‘Yeah, Mum. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I think we’d better go.’ Marty rolled onto the footpath. Bernie looked as though he was about to tear strips off someone, and he didn’t want it to be him.
‘Yeah, be seein’ ya,’ Rick called. ‘And don’t worry about them eggs. I’ll give you the money tomorrow.’
5
The last thing Rick wanted to deal with after the day he’d had was his mother. He stood at the front gate and looked up at his house, certain he’d seen his mother’s bedroom curtain twitch. It must be nearly six o’clock; she should have been out cold hours ago. By the time he had gone to meet Marty at the servo that morning she’d already started her first bottle of wine.
Rick walked the weedy path and took the stairs two at a time. He ran a hand along the rail, paint flaking beneath his fingers. It had been only nine months, three weeks and two days since his dad had died and already the place had turned from the best kept house in the street to a dump.
He reached the top of the stairs and kicked one of the dead pot plants at the veranda’s edge into the overgrown garden below. Nine months, three weeks and two lousy days since his world had turned upside down. Rick bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to stifle the scream building in his chest. He tasted blood, hot and coppery.
Shoving open the front door he called: ‘Mum, you there?’
What a stupid question. Where else would she be? She never left the house these days unless she had to. Even her precious wine got delivered. He wondered what his father would say if he knew how she was spending his insurance money. He probably wouldn’t believe it. Rick barely believed it. Before his dad died, his mother was the most together person he knew – one who only drank on special occasions. Death, it seemed, was the most special occasion of them all.
Rick eased the door closed, waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark hallway and then walked into the lounge room. He opened the curtains and was about to open the blinds when his mother spoke.
‘Where you been all day?’
‘Geez, don’t do that, Mum. You scared the crud outta me.’ Rick let go of the blind and turned towards his mother’s voice. No wonder he hadn’t seen her. She was slouched in an armchair in the corner, nursing a wine glass as though it were a newborn baby.
Leaning forward, she screwed up her eyes against the light. ‘That’s no way to talk to your mother. Now, where you been?’
‘Hangin’ out with friends. Went swimming and stuff.’
Rick’s mother raised the glass, clinking it against her teeth, and drank deeply. A good portion dribbled down the front of her dress. She wiped her chin as though swatting a fly. ‘You don’t care about me, do you, Ricky?’
‘Please, Mum, don’t start.’
‘I bet you wish I was dead too, don’t you? That’d make your life easier, wouldn’t it? And there you are out all day having a good time while your father lies rotting in his grave.’ She slumped back into the shadows, pressing the empty glass to her breast.
Rick clenched his fists. He shouldn’t listen when she was like this. She didn’t mean what she said
– wouldn’t even remember tomorrow. ‘Please, Mum, you shouldn’t talk about him like that.’
His mother lurched forward again, almost falling out of the chair. ‘Well it’s true. He’s nothing but food for the worms and you’re walking round happy as Larry. Is that fair? Is it?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Rick staggered back, turned and ran from the room. He shouldn’t have come home; should have stayed at the billabong where it was quiet and safe; should have gone so deep into the bush no one would ever find him.
He went into the kitchen. He had to eat something. The milkshake was the closest thing he’d had to food all day. Rick crossed to the pantry and looked inside: a tin of baked beans and a half-empty box of cereal stared back at him. He grabbed the beans and searched the freezer for bread.
Once his stomach was full and the rage had drained away, Rick took a bowl half-filled with beans into the lounge room. ‘Here, Mum, you’ve gotta eat,’
he said, sliding the bowl across the coffee table.
She waved it away and reached for the wine bottle.
‘I’m sorry, Ricky. I didn’t mean what I said. I just miss him so much, you know?’ She slopped wine into her glass and then fixed Rick with watery eyes. She raised the glass to her mouth. Tears glistened in the hollows of her cheeks.
‘We’ve gotta get some food, Mum. There’s nothing left.’
‘There’s money in my purse. You can pick up something tomorrow.’ Her head wobbled and then dropped to her chest.
Rick’s mother began to snore. The wine glass slipped from her limp fingers and fell to the floor.
The nightmare was the worst he’d had in months. It began the way they all did, with his father climbing behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser. He’d only had the four-wheel drive a month, said it was his reward for suffering twenty years working for the trucking company. With dream eyes, Rick watched his mother run over to the driver’s side window, exactly as she’d done that day.
‘Can’t you wait till tomorrow, Jack? You’ve just got home and you haven’t slept in three days.’ Rick’s father simply laughed and reversed down the drive and onto the road. Rick watched his mother march into the house, watched the arc of water spraying from the Hendersons’ sprinkler across the road catch the light and send a rainbow over the grass; watched his father drive out of his life forever.
Rick’s dream self was pulled through the air and into the back seat of his father’s car. The Land Cruiser sped through town, so fast the houses and streets were a blur. Then they were rocketing along Riverbend Road.
No, no, no!
Rick’s mind screamed. He tried to reach over the seat and touch his father’s shoulder, tried to tell him to slow down, but his father drove on, oblivious. Rick couldn’t tear his gaze away from the windscreen, it was glued to the road ahead, to the place just over the next rise where Rick knew his father would career off the bitumen and plough into the trees. He would be forced to watch his father’s final minutes played out and there was not a thing he could do about it.
And then he heard it, that vile, chiming music that had no place here:
Half a pound of tuppenny rice; half a pound of treacle; that’s the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel
. He saw the flash of glass and pink paint on the rise – smack bang in the middle of the road
– and his heart almost stopped.
‘Dad, turn around!’ he screamed, though not a word left his dream mouth. ‘He’s gonna get us! He’s gonna get us!’
But the ice-cream van kept coming. It bore down on them, eating up the centre line. Eating up the world.
Rick sat up in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat. He shook his head, but couldn’t seem to shake that devil’s music from his ears:
Half a pound of tuppenny rice; half a pound of treacle; that’s the way the money goes; Pop! goes the weasel
. It took a drawn-out moment before he realised the sound wasn’t in his head. It was real. And it was coming from outside his house!
He stumbled from the bed, tangling a foot in the sheet and almost knocking himself out against the doorframe. The clock on his desk read 2.20 am. What was the ice-cream man doing out in the middle of the night? This couldn’t be right. He must still be dreaming.
Rick glanced into his mother’s room as he passed. Despite the state he’d last seen her in she’d managed to find her bed. He stumbled on in the dark to the front of the house where the music was loudest.
With a tug Rick raised the lounge room blind, and then pressing his face to the cool glass, peered out at the moonlit street. The ice-cream van was there all right, parked about a metre from his front fence.
Something cold and reptilian uncoiled in Rick’s gut. The freak had found out where he lived and was delivering a very personal message:
You can’t beat me
!
Rick backed into the shadows. What if the ice- cream man had left the van and was breaking into his house right this minute? All around him the shadows took on menacing man-shapes. Should he search the house or go outside? The nightmare was screwing up his thoughts. The guy was crazy, but he didn’t have any reason to hurt Rick – did he? Damn the freak for doing this to him!
He had to search the house. His eyes scoured the room for a weapon and spotted a gleam of moonlight reflecting off his mother’s wine bottle. A trickle of wine ran down his arm as he held the bottle aloft, brandishing it like a club.
Trying to avoid as many creaky boards as possible, Rick crept into the hallway. A quick glance to his left reassured him the bathroom was empty. The worn shower curtain had been taken off its rings weeks ago and his mother hadn’t got around to buying a new one, so he had a clear view of the tub. Rick took another hesitant step forward. A thud sounded from the spare room. His head snapped around. The door was closed, as it had been since his father’s death. It was his father’s model room, filled with shelves and benches lined with model planes, many of which Rick had helped to build. Rick forced down the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to go in there. Any room but that one.
Another thud sounded, and the sound of something rolling across the wooden floor. Rick’s hand had grown so sweaty he was having a hard time keeping a grip on the bottle. He transferred it to the other hand and wiped his palm on his boxer shorts. He’d learnt enough at judo to defend himself, but his mind was a void; he couldn’t remember a single move. Rick pressed his ear to the model room door and jerked back as an image of the ice-cream man doing the same thing on the other side flashed into his mind. He couldn’t stand here forever. He had to go in.
With the bottle against his right shoulder, Rick grabbed the doorknob with his free hand and flung open the door. There was a flurry of movement to the right and without thinking, he threw the bottle. It crashed against the wall beside the window, showering the room with glass. Rick snapped on the light and saw the rear end of a tabby cat slip over the windowsill. Heart galloping, he pressed his back to the wall and forced air into his seizing lungs. He’d almost wet his pants over a frigging cat!
After closing the window, he turned off the light and backed out of the doorway on rubbery legs. He’d sweep up the broken bottle once he’d found out what the ice-cream man was doing. With a click as loud as a gunshot, he pulled the door closed.
The music stopped.
Rick’s heart, already beating faster than it had any right to, stuttered painfully. Now what? Check the rest of the house, or the van?
Someone turned that music off, Ricky boy
, said the calm voice of reason in the back of his mind. The ice-cream man couldn’t be in two places at once, not unless the guy had supernatural powers, and Rick definitely didn’t want to go there.
He clenched his fists, took a steadying breath –
what
he wouldn’t give for another wine bottle
– and headed back towards the lounge. When he finally got up the nerve to look out the window again, the ice-cream van had gone.
‘Mum?’
The room reeked of sour wine and cigarette smoke. Rick moved towards the bed and gently shook his mother by the shoulder. She looked dead and for an awful moment he felt certain she was. Then she snorted and rolled over.
‘Mum, I’m taking money for food, okay?’ Nothing.
‘I’ll stop at the shops this arvo, after school.’ Rick considered giving her another shake and decided against it.
Stifling a yawn, he hefted his backpack then left the house. He had a science lesson first up. There was no way he’d be able to stay awake through one of Mr Hutz’s lectures. Thanks to the ice-cream man, Rick had only had a few hours’ sleep.
He collected his bike from under the house and rode into the street, headed not towards school, but towards Fifth Avenue where he planned to pay Aaron for the eggs he’d thrown yesterday. Why had he done it? He had no idea. He’d never done anything like that before and even though the ice-cream man had been asking for it, Rick couldn’t help but feel uneasy about his loss of control.
Aaron was pedalling away from the shop when
Rick got there.
‘Hey, Aaron,’ Rick yelled, skidding to a stop. Aaron glanced over his shoulder then executed a
wobbly U-turn.
‘Here, mate.’ Rick dug into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar note. ‘This is for them eggs.’
Shaking his head Aaron refused to take it. ‘No, you keep it. I’ll cover the cost. I’m glad you threw them. I would’ve done it myself if I’d had the guts.’
Rick stared at the money in his hand, unsure what to do with it.
‘Woo-hoo, gay boy’s got a new boyfriend.’ Aaron’s step-brother, Steve, strode through the shop’s doorway like an action hero. He crossed the footpath, grinning.
Aaron groaned.
Steve pushed his leering face into Rick’s. ‘Ooh, and he’s pretty too, little bro.’
A red fog clouded Rick’s mind. ‘Get outta my face!’ He raised his hand and shoved Steve in the chest, sending him crashing into a post.
Steve’s zits flared like stop lights. ‘Well, well, we got a feisty one.’ He reached out to shove Rick back, but Rick nimbly sidestepped, letting his bike crash into the gutter. Steve, who no longer had anything to shove, lost his balance and fell on top of the bike.
Pocketing the money still in his hand, Rick took a defensive stance, the way his judo instructor had shown him.
‘He didn’t mean it, Steve. Leave him alone, okay?’ Aaron pleaded. He grabbed a handful of Rick’s shirt and tried to pull him out of his step-brother’s reach.