The Slightly Skewed Life of Toby Chrysler Read online

  And were they still in the cellar?

  It didn’t matter. If Ginger was hurt he had to go down and find out. His hand groped out and found the banister. Slowly, despite his fear, Milo descended the staircase, wincing each time it creaked. He reached the bottom and paused to let his eyes adjust.

  Ginger was curled up on her sleeping bag. She was lying very still, one arm flung out at an awkward angle.

  He resisted the urge to scream out her name, but only just. ‘Ginger!’ he whispered.

  Moaning to himself, Milo scuttled across to her side and reached out to shake her. He expected her to wake up and grumpily demand to know if he had the insulin, or if he had messed up, but she didn’t. She didn’t move. He shook her again. This time he noticed her skin was cold.

  ‘Stop playing around,’ he said. ‘It’s not funny. Ginger?’

  He reached out tentatively, then rolled her over. She was stiff. He counted all the facts: cold, stiff and not breathing.

  Ginger was dead.

  Milo began to hyperventilate. Where was his asthma pump? Oh no, it was upstairs. He tried to think, to push away the attack, to calm himself, but it was almost impossible. How could this have happened? What would people think?

  Why had she gone and died on him?

  He felt angry with her, then something occurred to him. Insulin! Ginger’s words cannoned around inside his head. ‘There are three vials. I’ll die if I don’t have them’.

  Milo patted his pockets. What had he done with the insulin? He bolted up the stairs and ran to his bedroom where he had hidden his clothes. Fumbling, he found the three vials.

  Maybe if he injected some insulin into Ginger she’d start breathing again.

  The phone rang but he ignored it. Mum would have to wait.

  He ran back to the cellar and tumbled down the stairs, nearly breaking his neck. Finding the syringes in Ginger’s toiletry bag Milo stared at the vials of insulin. He had seen plenty of episodes of ER and knew he had to stick a needle into one of the vials and suck out the contents. Then he had to give the needle a flick for some reason. But even if that worked, where exactly did you pump in the insulin? Would anywhere do? He’d had a jab in the bottom once. Maybe that’s where it went.

  It was now or never. Plucking the plastic cap off the vial he pushed the needle through the rubber stopper and withdrew the plunger. The yellow liquid pumped into the plastic syringe. There were no instructions on how much to use so Milo filled the syringe. Too little and it wasn’t going to help – too much and . . . what?

  Steeling himself, Milo plunged the needle into Ginger’s bum.

  ‘Arrrrgh! What do you think you’re doing?!’

  Milo sprang back, cracking his head against a low beam.

  Ginger sat up and rubbed her bum. ‘Jesus, Toby. That hurt. Of all the stupid –’ ‘WHY DIDN’T YOU ANSWER ME?’ he screamed at her.

  He staggered to and fro, bewildered and angry. His scalp was bleeding.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, I was just fooling around, seeing what you’d do if you thought I was dead. I didn’t expect you’d go and jab me with a needle. That really hurt.’

  ‘Good! So does my head,’ Milo said.

  ‘Well for future reference, the insulin goes here,’ she said, clutching a small fold of tummy flesh. ‘But stay clear of the belly button.’ Her eyes widened as she looked at the syringe. ‘Just how much insulin did you put in this?’

  ‘About this much,’ Milo said, holding his thumb and forefinger eight centimetres apart.

  Ginger began shaking. ‘I knew it,’ she moaned. ‘You’ve overdosed me.’

  Milo almost swooned. ‘How was I supposed to know how much to give you? There weren’t any instructions!’

  ‘Should’ve been half that amount,’ Ginger slurred as she jerkily collapsed on to the sleeping bag.

  Milo’s heart thudded. ‘What can I do? I’ll phone the ambulance!’

  ‘Too late,’ Ginger mumbled. She curled up into a ball as a spasm wracked her body.

  Milo was halfway up the stairs before Ginger began laughing. ‘You’re so funny, Toby!’

  Milo leaned against the railing and took three deep breaths. He wanted to kill her himself. No more false alarms then. He quietly descended the stairs as Ginger rocked with mirth.

  ‘There’s blood all over your kitchen floor,’ he said grumpily, dropping onto the sleeping bag beside her. He felt wrung out.

  ‘I know,’ Ginger gurgled.

  Milo looked up. ‘You know?’

  ‘I put it there. I told you I’d made quite sure they’d know something bad had happened to me.’ Ginger held up a syringe and pointed it at her arm. ‘These are quite handy if you want to spill some blood about the place.’ She swayed a little. ‘Maybe I overdid it a little . . .’

  The very thought of draining blood from his body made Milo feel ill. ‘The police will think I had something to do with it,’ he said. ‘They’ll find my – my footprints.’

  ‘Shoe prints, Toby. And that was part of the plan. I mean, we need them to move fast on this, right?’

  Milo looked at her dully. ‘Right.’

  ‘Anyway, you must have walked through my shoe-washing device.’

  He just stared. She was starting to not make sense any more.

  ‘I nicked the big flat trap from the chook pen and put disinfectant in it,’ said Ginger. ‘That way the blood would be washed off your shoes – otherwise they might find it in the house.’

  ‘What if they find my fingerprints?’ Milo said.

  Ginger’s mouth dropped. ‘Don’t tell me you were stupid enough to go there without gloves on?’

  ‘Nah, just tricking,’ Milo said.

  Ginger slumped a little. ‘Touché. I think.’

  ‘And your dog nearly killed me.’

  ‘Mopsy? Why, he’s the biggest wuss on the planet!’

  Mopsy. Milo tried to picture that name somehow going with the slathering beast that had tried to rip his throat out. He couldn’t.

  Ginger stood up and replaced the bulb in its socket. Light flooded the cellar. ‘And listen, thanks for going, okay? I mean, plan or no plan I still needed the insulin.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Milo, a little grumpily. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I’m bored out of my brain down here,’ Ginger said. ‘I’d rather weed the garden than sit here twiddling my thumbs.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Milo said.

  All his chickens come home to roast

  Ten minutes later Ginger was dressed in Milo’s old ripped jeans, faded Junk Metal T-shirt and battered Nikes. ‘How do I look?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re a little on the smelly side.’

  Milo squinted in thought. ‘Fluke says beggars can’t be losers.’

  ‘Choosers,’ Ginger said distractedly. ‘Anyway, let me get out there in the sun.’ She looked at her watch. ‘What time will your father be home?’

  ‘Sixish,’ Milo said.

  Ginger made a face. ‘That leaves us an hour. I know just the spot in the garden where we can do some real damage.’

  Alarmed, Milo shot her a look. He couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not, but decided – grudgingly – to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, he didn’t want his mum coming home to a wasteland.

  The backyard was surrounded by trees on two sides and a high fence on the other. Nobody could see in, not unless they were peering through one of the cracks in the fence. Milo wondered if he should block them up.

  Ginger went to work immediately. ‘They’re all weeds,’ she declared imperiously, pointing to a clump of yarrow and knapweed.

  ‘You sure?’ Milo asked.

  ‘Trust me,’ Ginger said dryly. ‘They’re weeds.’

  The phone rang. Milo rushed inside to answer it.

  The moment Milo heard the background noise he knew it was his mother. ‘Mum, a lot of things have happened since we last talked. Well, since I talked and you listened . . .’

  The usual silence greeted Milo’s breathless recount of se
lected incidents that had happened recently. He thought he heard a slight chuckle – but could have been mistaken – when he quoted Fluke’s statement that ‘all his chickens would come home to roast’ if he gave up hope. He didn’t mention anything about the plan involving Ginger, since that would have ruined the whole thing.

  ‘Well, Mum, I really must dash. The gardener is here and I’m not sure she knows what she’s doing.’ Milo paused, waiting for the background static to die down – it sounded like an F11 had just landed beside his mum’s phone. ‘Okay. Bye bye. I love you.’

  Milo hung up.

  Ginger already had several piles of weeds scattered across the lawn. They looked like miniature haystacks. She stood up and dusted her hands against her trousers. ‘Leave the weeds like that and your father will think someone’s done a good two hours’ work. There sure is some work to be done, though.’

  Milo frowned. It sounded as though Ginger planned on sticking around for awhile.

  ‘I’d better have a shower and get back to the cellar,’ Ginger said. She admired her handiwork. ‘If your father likes what I’ve done, he might actually pay us. It’s worth at least twenty bucks.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Oh, and did I mention that gardening makes you really hungry?’

  While Ginger had a shower Milo made two ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches. Having a cellar guest was a bit more involved than he’d imagined.

  Ginger came into the kitchen drying her hair with a towel. She saw the sandwiches. ‘Ah, bargain-basement dinner.’

  ‘I can toast them,’ Milo said, wilting ever so slightly.

  Ginger prodded the bread. ‘Good idea. I’ll take dinner in my room.’ With that she lifted the trapdoor and disappeared into the cellar.

  After her toasted sandwiches, Ginger said, ‘Don’t forget to watch the six o’clock news. They’ll probably show shots of me when I won the under-thirteens swimming carnival. That’s one of my mum’s favourite pictures. I hope she doesn’t let the media have the one when I came second in the track and field. I look ghastly.’

  ‘I will,’ Milo promised.

  ‘You don’t have any fizzy drinks, do you?’

  Milo checked. ‘No, all gone.’

  ‘God, I’d really love a Coke . . .’

  Milo sighed. ‘Fine. Wait here.’

  He put on his backpack and raced down to the local shopping mall, darting into a deli that had a drinks cabinet at the back. As he came out he felt his heart start to thump. In the middle of the mall was a coffee kiosk and sitting area. A dozen women, part of some tour group, were sitting there drinking coffee, but one woman sat off on her own. She looked just like Milo’s mum, except she had long blonde hair instead of black and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

  Milo stared at her. It had never occurred to him that his mother might be in disguise, might in fact be keeping an eye on him, like with the phone calls.

  He went up to the lady and stared at her closely.

  The woman looked up and smiled at him. Her smile was very similar to Mrs Chrysler’s.

  ‘Can I help you, sweetie?’

  Milo frowned. He wasn’t really good with faces. If someone on the TV went off camera and came back wearing a hat or a new hairdo he often had to ask if that was the same person who had just left.

  ‘Are you my mother?’

  The woman’s smile widened uncertainly.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Have you lost your mother?’ The woman pulled her sunglasses further down her nose and peered above their rims.

  Milo nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’ She fiddled around in her bag and pulled out a mobile phone. ‘I could call the police for you, though.’

  Milo squinted as though having spotted something important. ‘There she goes! Sorry!’ He sprinted all the way home.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Ginger demanded when he lurched into the kitchen, panting.

  When Milo told Ginger about the woman offering to phone the police, she just stood there and stared at him.

  Milo was about to say ‘What?’ when Mr Chrysler called out from the front hall. ‘Hey, Tobes – I’m home!’

  Milo gestured Ginger down the cellar stairs, closed the trapdoor as quietly as he could – it still managed to thud shut because he let go of it too soon – and flipped the carpet over it.

  Mr Chrysler walked into the kitchen wrinkling his nose. ‘Smells like toasted sandwiches.’ He held up a shopping bag. ‘But look what I have! T-bone steak. Special treat.’

  ‘Great,’ Milo said. ‘Oh, is it time for the news yet?’

  Mr Chrysler followed Milo into the lounge room. ‘Since when have you been interested in the news?’

  Milo shrugged. ‘Something we have to do for school.’

  Mr Chrysler nodded and went back in the kitchen to prepare dinner.

  Milo divided his attention between the TV and his dad, who seemed distracted, probably about the impending court case. He himself had had little time to think about it.

  Then his attention was caught by a breaking news item, barely two minutes before the news was due to end. The presenter said a Melbourne girl had gone missing under suspicious circumstances and that the police were treating it as a kidnapping, or worse.

  Milo felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  The presenter went on to announce where the alleged crime had taken place, the school the girl had attended, and various theories the police had, not least of which was that the girl had just run away. The fact that she was diabetic and that her insulin had also disappeared raised, in the authorities’ eyes, more questions than it answered.

  Then came the pictures. A shockingly distraught Mrs Petersham appeared on the pavement in front of her house, holding up a picture of Ginger (it was the ghastly one). She made a heartfelt plea for the return of her daughter.

  And Milo found himself crying. He wasn’t quite sure if it was for the poor kidnapped girl, or for Mrs Petersham, who detested him.

  Milo switched off the TV, wiped his eyes, and wandered into the kitchen.

  Mr Chrysler glanced up. ‘Something wrong, Tobes?’

  Milo didn’t see any point denying it. ‘A girl from school’s gone missing. Her mother was crying.’

  ‘Anyone you know?’

  ‘Not really. She’s a year older.’

  ‘God, I hope they find her,’ Mr Chrysler said, with feeling. ‘Sick people out there! I know what I’d like to do to them.’ He brought the meat cleaver down with a frightening ka-thunk. Milo flinched, going pale.

  ‘Maybe I should call the school. Offer to help look for her? Her folks must be at their wits’ end.’

  ‘Nah,’ Milo said quickly. ‘Kids at school reckon she’s run away before. It’s just a matter of time before they find her.’

  Mr Chrysler sighed heavily. ‘I hope so, Tobes. I really do.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Milo, doubtfully.

  He headed for the door but was barely halfway when he stopped. His dad was staring at the carpet over the cellar door.

  ‘What’s up, Dad?’ Milo asked.

  ‘I’m wondering if I have any wine down there,’ Mr Chrysler said. He knelt and lifted the edge of the carpet.

  Milo fought back a panic attack. ‘It’s all gone,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Remember-you-and-Mum-finished-it- all-off-ages-ago!’

  Mr Chrysler gave Milo an odd look. ‘Maybe I forgot a bottle.’ He reached for the trapdoor handle.

  Milo’s heart gave a jolt. He frantically tried to think of something, anything. That’s when sirens suddenly exploded into the street outside. Milo froze as red and blue flashing light flooded in through the side window of the kitchen. Milo didn’t need to stick his head out to know that several police cars, flashers going, had just screeched to a stop outside their house.

  Looking on the bright side, Milo’s father had completely forgotten about the cellar. There was a sound of splintering wood – the front gate, Milo figured. Then what sounded like a herd of angry elephants charging
up the drive towards the front door. Milo felt the blood drain out of his body.

  Mr Chrysler also went pale. ‘My God, Milo, what have you done?’

  ‘OPEN UP IN THERE! POLICE!’

  Mr Chrysler hurried through to the front hall, Milo trailing behind in a kind of trance. His dad opened the door. One cop nearly fell in.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded the cop, but he spotted Milo immediately. He pushed past Mr Chrysler and seized Milo roughly by the shoulder.

  ‘Now hang on a moment –’ Mr Chrysler started.

  ‘We’ll need you and the boy to accompany us to the station. We suspect he has information as to the whereabouts of Ginger Petersham.’

  Mr Chrysler’s face went through several expressions, the main one being sheer horror. He spluttered and gasped and finally said, ‘Tobes?’

  It turned out that not leaving fingerprints had been a clever idea. Unfortunately, Milo had been seen – and identified – by neighbours as he ran from the crime scene, ‘looking in a right panic’ as one resident put it (the police seemed to have a whole bunch of pictures of him, which was curious). Worse, his bloody shoe prints matched those still clearly visible outside the window of the late Mrs Appleby.

  So much for ditching the evidence.

  Between worrying about Ginger and ‘helping the police with their inquiries’ (which involved several bouts of unpleasant questioning) Milo spent a sleepless night. At one point a well-dressed man in a suit was ushered into the cell opposite. He asked Milo what he was in for.

  ‘Murder,’ said Milo. ‘Double homicide, actually.’

  The man laughed, then saw that Milo was serious.

  ‘You’re just a kid. What happened?’

  Milo told him everything. The man seemed particularly interested in Milo’s ability to count things just by looking at them, even more than all the grisly deaths and psychic detection.

  When Milo had come to a stop, the man pulled a business card out of his pocket and flipped it through the air into Milo’s cell. Milo picked it up.

  It said: Michael Morano. Importer/Exporter. We Move Anything. This was followed by an address and a phone number.

  ‘You ever want a job, Milo, just come see me, okay? Me and my – associates – could use somebody like you in the family business!’