Riddle Gully Runaway (3 page)

Shorn Connery looked at them from rolled-back eyes and quickened his pace. He wasn't keen on ravens, Pollo knew. They liked to line their nests with his wool, freshly plucked. And he'd seen them pecking the eyes from his fallen comrades on Aunty Giulia and Uncle Pete's farm. That can't have helped. She hoped the birds wouldn't make him skittish here.

Pollo found the registration table and signed up. Behind her, she heard the crisp voice of the high school principal, Ms Piggott, the chief judge and referee. She was wearing a wide straw hat resplendent with silk daisies and was bending down to a boy of about seven whose eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I'm sorry, Rooster, but I can't let you enter. Your carp may well have been alive when you painted it to look like a shark, but it's not anymore. It's in the rules. All contestants must be alive.
Look at your fish, lad. It's floating on the surface.'

‘But that's how he swims, Miss! He always does that!'

At that moment, Rooster's father strode across. He dropped to one knee and spoke to his son, then looked up to Principal Piggott apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, Principal, the wife and I didn't know about all this,' he said, and led the sniffling boy away.

Owners and pets were called to the parade ring. Rooster's late scratching left twenty-one contestants — nine dogs, three chooks, five cats, two pigs, a pony and Shorn Connery. Half the dogs wore wigs with holes cut out for their ears and all three chooks were trying to shake off bonnets. She began to get excited. Even with Mayor Bullock on the judging panel she was in with a chance — and the mayor was wearing his Chutney Division First Prize rosette, so he might be in a good mood. Tommy Mobsby's pig — done up to resemble the Prime Minister — looked like her stiffest competition. But Tommy had helped her clean up Shorn Connery earlier in the marshalling yard, so it was okay if he won.

Pollo spotted her dad alongside Sherri and Will right behind the line of orange bunting, big grins on their faces. She gave them a wave. Seeing Will made her
think of Benson Bragg. She couldn't wait to show Will the photo she'd just snapped of Benson behind the tents.

Principal Piggott took her seat on the judges' platform next to Mr Wise who ran the stock-feed store and Mayor Bullock. The crowd quietened. Deafening marching music suddenly blasted from a speaker and, as owners tried to calm their pets, the volume was hastily lowered. Eventually, Pollo's friend Draino brought her pony under control and the parade began.

The contestants shuffled around the ring to the crackling military music, past the judges, keeping plenty of distance between one another. Beside Pollo, Shorn Connery in his dinner jacket moved with a suaveness that would have made James Bond proud, only stopping to sniff the air when they passed Will, Sherri and Joe di Nozi. When everyone had completed a lap of the ring, the music, mid-crescendo, stopped.

The audience milled as the judges conferred over their clipboards. One or two red-cheeked supporters called out suggestions and their friends laughed cheerily. Draino's pony lifted its tail from under its dragon costume and delivered a load of manure onto the parade ground, drawing hearty applause. Eventually, Principal Piggott stepped up to the microphone.

‘A big thank you to all the contestants here today for a marvellous parade — and by contestants, I'm not referring to the human variety!' She waited till a few people chuckled politely. ‘The judges have finally managed to reach a decision. Without further ado, I call Mayor Bullock to the podium to present the awards.'

Mayor Bullock levered himself from his chair and swaggered to the podium where three boxes of varying heights were positioned. He ran his gold-ringed fingers over the junction at which his youthfully lush, flaxen toupée met his scalp, checking the wig was sitting straight — a habit he'd not been able to shake. An elderly volunteer with a large metal tray bearing three medals — in bronze, silver and gold — came to stand solemnly beside him.

Principal Piggott cleared her throat. ‘In third place, we have Raine Dodd with her pony, Prancer, who is looking splendid today as a medieval dragon.' The crowd clapped heartily as Draino led Prancer to the podium, where Mayor Bullock, his winner's rosette blooming from his lapel, placed the bronze medal over her head and shook her hand.

Pollo bent down and whispered in Shorn Connery's ear. ‘One more to go then it's us, old buddy!'

‘In second place,' beamed Principal Piggott, ‘as James Bond 007, it's the most debonair sheep in the district, Shorn Connery and his owner Apollonia di Nozi!' Pollo's heart sank for an instant, but then she heard Will's
whoop-whoop!
and saw all the smiling faces and couldn't help feeling proud. She led Shorn Connery to the podium and, holding onto his lead, stepped onto the second-highest box, leaving Shorn Connery at ground level in front of her. Mayor Bullock shook her hand — not smiling nearly as broadly as he had for Draino — and Pollo waved her silver medal to the cheers of the onlookers.

A hush fell over the audience, broken only by a raven's
arp-arp-aaah
. ‘And in first place —' Principal Piggott paused for dramatic effect, ‘— a contestant I'm sure everyone agrees looks distinctly like our Prime Minister, we have Hamlet the pig and his owner Thomas Mobsby!' A worthy winner, thought Pollo, clapping enthusiastically along with the happy mob. Tommy climbed onto the highest box and shook hands with Pollo and Draino, a huge grin crinkling his face.

Mayor Bullock lifted Tommy's gold medal from the tray with his ring-bedecked fingers and held it up to the audience, waving it like a magician about to perform a
trick. The medal dangled and flashed in the afternoon sun. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, came a
whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
and a whir of black feathers. A raven swooped down at Mayor Bullock's hands, its leathery clawed feet extended. The assistant holding the tray yelped and dropped it with a clang onto Mayor Bullock's foot. Prancer whinnied and jolted, pulling Draino off her box. Shorn Connery, his eyes rolled back, and Hamlet, looking gleeful, belted in opposite directions, either side of Mayor Bullock. They wheeled around him, their leads trailing. The raven — which Pollo now saw was the one from earlier with a wayward feather — hopped about on the ground between them, trying to snatch the dropped shiny medal. Mayor Bullock windmilled his arms at the horde of beasts. The raven flapped its way to Shorn Connery's rump — where his dinner jacket didn't reach — and took a quick pluck of wool.

Shorn Connery shot across the parade ground and through the rope barrier, dragging it and its little orange flags with him. The raven flurried upward, alighting on Mayor Bullock's head, where it crouched, its neck stretched for balance, its talons hooked into the plush carpet of hair beneath. Mayor Bullock stumbled backwards — onto Hamlet who was still sprinting laps
around the podium. The pig sent up an ear-splitting squeal. With two beats of its wings, the raven flew off, glided a short way and landed on the fence-post near its mate — the tuft of Shorn Connery's wool in its beak and something floppy dangling from its claws.

Mayor Bullock regained his balance and tapped the microphone. ‘Order! Order!' he barked.

People turned to look at him. Gradually the hubbub petered away. Silence. A camera clicked — Pollo's. People began covering their mouths, their eyes bright above their hands. More cameras clicked and whirred. More people began to chuckle.

The mayor plucked a starched handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his face. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Slowly his eyeballs rolled up toward his forehead where a breeze was drifting coolly. His eyes widened as his fingers crept to his hairline. He explored his scalp gingerly with his fingertips. Then he began flat-handedly slapping his dome in the search for something lush, soft and shiny — his precious toupée.

Laughter erupted from the mob. The mayor strode to where Principal Piggott stood watching, her hanky over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. He snatched the daisy-covered hat from her head, plonked it on his
own and dashed as fast as a stout fellow can to the dark privacy of his big black car. He revved the engine, did a three-point turn and
vroomed
away, bumping across the field, sending up sprays of dirt.

Arp-arp-aaah!
The ravens flapped their glossy black wings and disappeared too, heading for the forest.

Will and Pollo leaned back against the tombstone in the Riddle Gully cemetery, Pollo flipping through her notes from their day at the fair. Beneath them lay the bones of Elspeth Mary Turner, ‘Beloved wife of Henry Thompson Turner', who'd come into the world in 1812 and departed it in 1899. It was their favourite grave. They figured it must contain someone who'd had a happy outlook on life if she'd lasted eighty-seven years back in those days; plus, the lupins nearby were extra lush. Relieved of his dinner suit, Shorn Connery tore at a patch of the purple weeds a little way off.

‘You'll have fun with your column in this week's
Coast
,' said Will.

Pollo's eyes lit up. ‘Best embarrassing photo of Mayor Bullock ever!' she said. ‘I have my faithful assistant
Shorn Connery to thank once again!' She dug out her camera and showed Will the photo she'd taken of the raven and the mayor in a flurry of feathers and fake hair.

Will pointed to the forest across the meadow from the cemetery. ‘I'd say that toupée's lining a nest somewhere in there by now,' he laughed.

‘And look what else I've got,' said Pollo. ‘I didn't have a chance to show you earlier. I took it on my way to the Pet Parade.' She scrolled back to the photograph of Benson on his hands and knees peering beneath the back wall of the white elephant stall. ‘You can tell it's Benson Bragg,' she said, ‘Who else around here dresses like that?'

‘And likes hip-hop music,' added Will, taking the camera and zooming in. ‘See this logo on the sleeve? It's the one I was telling you about. Twisted Lips. It's on the front of his T-shirt too. I was face-to-face with it when he pulled me out of the rollercoaster car.' He studied the photo. ‘What d'you think he was up to?'

‘I have a theory,' said Pollo, lowering her voice, though they were always alone in the cemetery. ‘All the stall-owners kept their valuables at the back of their tents, away from everyone passing by out the front. All Benson had to do was poke his head under the back
wall, grab what he wanted and be on his way. He was probably crawling along looking for an opportunity when Shorn Connery and I sprang him.'

‘He might have found one,' said Will.

‘What do you mean?'

‘An opportunity,' said Will. ‘HB said Mr Crisp who ran the garden stall was missing a wad of money.'

‘That's it then! It must have been Benson Bragg.'

‘To be fair, it's happened before. His wife's paranoid and hides things without telling him. Three years ago, according to HB, the money turned up in the bottom of a plant pot, and last year they found it months later in a coffee thermos — a bit mouldy but okay. Still … It could be …'

‘Even Mrs Crisp couldn't be that silly a third time, surely!' said Pollo.

‘You wouldn't think so,' said Will.

Baa-aa-aah!
Shorn Connery had stopped chewing and was looking towards the forest.

‘What's he spotted?' said Will. ‘Bats? It's about time they came out of their winter hideaways.' Squinting, he scanned the gloomy twilight sky.

‘I can't see any,' said Pollo. ‘Can you?' Pollo peered in the direction suggested by Shorn Connery's snout.

Suddenly, against the backdrop of the forest, Pollo discerned a dark thin shape, like a tree-trunk — but one that could walk — moving toward them. She dug an elbow into Will's ribs and whispered. ‘Look! It's him — Benson Bragg! He's been hiding his stash in the forest!'

The youth was picking his way through the meadow toward the graveyard. As he walked, his neck jerked, chook-like, and with each step, his left foot gave a quick waggle before it planted on the ground.

They stared at him swinging his arms, bobbing his head, waggling his foot. Will leaned closer to Pollo. ‘Is he … dancing?'

‘I do believe he is,' said Pollo, ‘in his own special thief-like way.'

*

As Benson drew near, Will and Pollo could see that he barely had his eyes open — just enough to jig his way around the gravestones. And whatever song was playing through his earphones, he was half-singing, half-mouthing the words with passion like he was the band's front man himself.

Shorn Connery remained rooted to his spot among the long grass, a stalk of lupin dangling either side of his snout. Suddenly Benson, no more than three metres
in front of him, did a twirl on one sneaker. His hands flew over an invisible drum kit ending in a cymbal clash delivered through his front teeth.
Tss-tsssss!

Baa-aa-aah!

Benson leapt vertically and yanked out his earphones. Shorn Connery stared at him, unblinking. ‘What the …?' cried Benson. He spotted Will and Pollo sitting on Mrs Turner's tombstone. ‘You two! What are
you
doing here?'

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

‘Punks!' said Benson.

‘Unco!' said Pollo.

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

‘Doofus!' smirked Pollo.

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

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

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