the cop to punch. Good one. Anyway, Bull comes into my room and I go mental and throw stuff at him and tell him to rack off â only I donât say rack. But, you know, I really like it that he makes the effort. Thatâs why I thought Iâd come over and see you. Didnât want you to be angry all on your own.â He looks up at me. At last. âYouâre a weird chick, arenât you?â Thatâs what he says to me. âGood observation.â Thatâs what I answer. A glad, happy look breaks out on his face. I mean, really breaks out, as if itâs been held captive by the forces of doom and gloom and now itâs on his face and stretching out and smiling at me. âSo you drop books on people?â âYep.â âAnd thatâs a good thing?â âAw yeahh. Not real books because I would never damage a book. No way. What I do is â say Iâm you. Right?â âYouâre me.â âOkay. Iâm playing footy. Having a fine time. And then this gorilla headbutts me. I realise later it was an accident, but at the time Iâm not in a fit state to realise anything, because all I can think of is killing the fool. You with me so far?â âI might even be ahead of you.â âGood. Now hereâs where our approach differs. Instead of punching out like a maniac, as you did, I would have closed my eyes and used my imagination to build a plane.â He looks doubtful. Canât imagine why. âTrust me. This works. I do it all the time and I canât even use a screwdriver. I build the plane â it takes a second â jump in and take off. Then I swoop low over the head of my victim and wave at him from the cockpit. That alone feels amazing. He starts running and I can see the fear on his face, but thereâs nowhere to hide. Now here comes the really good part. I open the bomb doors. One thousand copies of War and Peace land on him â âFive hundred and sixty thousand words in each book. âHard back covers. âLarge print edition. âThe pen is mightier than the sword!â He mulls it over for a second, before telling me what he thinks. âYeah,â he says, nodding, âyou are full-on weird.â But he says it with a smile. It seems like a perfect time to leave â while Iâm winning. When I get back to Kayla sheâs full of questions for me. I give her answers trimmed to the bone. âJust thought Iâd make sure he was all right. âHe hardly said anything. âI said a lot of rubbish. âAnd no, I donât expect to ever see him again.â That night I type the dayâs adventures into my journal. For the first time I donât call him Big Foot. Heâs Davey.
On sunday they have an eight-dollar dinner special at the Royal. Kayla and I never miss it. I go for the shepherdâs pie with chips and she has the lasagna with chips. If you eat at the Royal, youâd better like chips. We find an empty table in a corner, but before long itâs noisy. Meat raffleâs on. Charlie Dent is in charge. Heâs quite a poet. Especially when he works with colours. âTwenty-nine blue â could that be you?â âThirty-three green â has anyone seen â thirty-three green?â And heâs known far and wide for this one: âFifty-six pink â rinky-dink-dink!â Itâs so bad itâs funny. But Kayla isnât laughing tonight. She isnât all that bothered about food either. Not long into the meal she abandons her knife and fork to graze on the chips, seeking out the slightly burnt crispy ones. But she soon tires of that. âCan we get outta here, Tiff?â Thatâs fine with me. We both know a quieter place. Itâs a fair trek but itâs on our way home and thereâs a short cut. In fifteen minutes weâre standing at the entrance to our own private hide-out: Gungee Creek