or a long time Lockie felt like a fire-gutted warehouse – everything inside him seemed scorched. Weeks went by, months, and he hardly knew himself. The Sarge and Mrs Leonard gave him hugs and didn’t say anything stupid and he nearly died from gratitude. His marks went up and down at school and even the weather was patchy. There was a hint of summer in the air when he felt himself coming good, one night late last term. Until then Lockie had thought that nothing good could ever happen in this world. But things changed. That night in bed, Phillip was talking, and for once Lockie found himself listening.
‘This doctor says no more dumb diets, no more banana juice, no alarm blanket, nothing. He says we shouldn’t even bother to talk about it, like it’s not even important enough to talk about, can you believe that?’
‘So what’s he do for you. What’s Mum and Dad payin’ him for?’
Phillip paused for a moment, as if he couldn’t actually believe that his brother was listening. ‘We got this chart, see, one for the week. Seven empty squares on it. I ride down every afternoon after school on me own and draw a picture.’
‘Oh, that sounds useful.’
‘Hey don’t rubbish what you don’t know.’
‘Orright, keep yer hair on. I just can’t see how drawin’ pictures will help.’
‘If I don’t piddle, I draw a sun. If I do piddle, I draw a cloud with rain coming out. Get it?’
‘No.’
‘Lockie! The other doctors always talk about it. Talk, talk, talk! It makes it bigger, the problem gets bigger and I worry more. This does it, that does it — it makes me frightened and I wet more and more. This way it doesn’t matter. He says we pretend it’s not even a problem. It’s just the weather, rain or shine. Just a picture.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I pray, still.’
‘Did the quack recommend that?’
‘He says why not. It’s good as any think he’s got.’
Lockie laughed. ‘Sounds fair enough. Least he’s honest. Sure he’s a doctor?’
‘Lockie.’
‘How many suns this week, by the way?’
Phillip paused. ‘Two.’
‘How many days gone?’
‘Three.’
‘What are you aiming at?’
Philip took a deep breath. ‘Seven. Seven right in a row. I like the sun, that’s all.’
‘Good luck, mate,’ Lockie said, feeling hopeful all of a sudden.
‘I don’t need luck.’
•
It was a Tuesday afternoon in the last week of school when Lockie burst back into his own skin at last. Lockie Leonard rode out into the cold, grey wind with his little brother, ducking and weaving along the footpaths downtown towards the surgery. The two hills above Angelus were all shrouded in cloud and a terrible pong was coming off the harbour – like five million pairs of unwashed undies. Lockie’s old crate with its buckled wheel lurched along behind Phillip’s muddy BMX. They dodged cranky pedestrians all the way down the main street, past the hoons at the post office and the town hall, past kids from their own schools who hardly had time to see them whip by, past the cop shop and past the skate rink where Vicki Streeton and a couple of ripple-soled dudes stood rolling fags.
Lockie shouted: ‘Look out. Medical emergency, bogs away!’
‘Hey it’s the Human Torpedo,’ said Vicki with just the hint of a smile coming to her awesome lips as he ripped past.
Lockie grinned but didn’t call back. He just watched Phillip’s knobby back wheel and kept with him as they hit the corner at the harbour and leaned out, fearless as fruitcakes. They came skidding broadside to a stop and went through the surgery door like a pair of terrorists. The receptionist shrieked as Phillip leapt the counter with a yellow crayon in his hand.
‘There’s no drugs kept here!’ she whimpered.
Lockie got the giggles. People reading New Idea and Better Homes and Gardens in the waiting room looked at him like he was mental. The doctor came out and Phillip started on the chart pinned to the wall behind the desk.
‘What’s up?’ said the quack.
‘The sun, I think,’ said Lockie.
Phillip was drawing a sun that spilled over onto other charts, drug lists, posters, onto the wall itself like an explosion, growing, growing until he suddenly got tired and dropped the crayon.
He jumped the counter again. ‘Let’s blow this joint, Lock.’
‘I’d say it’s well and truly blown,’ said the quack looking around at all the alarmed sickies.
They went back to their bikes, sweating and breathless and cacking themselves laughing.
‘What do you reckon, Lock?’
‘Well, Phillip, I’d say life has its mysteries.’
‘Let’s lose some rubber.’
They took off, hanging wheelies all the way down the street, through the pong of the harbour, the main street, the coming rain, the whole day.
Lockie’s survived his first year of high school, settling into a new town and his first mad love affair – it’s all behind him; he made it!
But the world of weirdness hasn’t finished with him yet. His little brother’s hormones have kicked in, his baby sister refuses to walk or talk – but eats anything in sight – his Dad arrests a sheep and his Mum seems to have checked out of the here and now.
As Lockie’s world turns upside down, he learns that life is never as simple as it seems and along the way finds out a lot more about himself than he ever realised was there.
Nothing’s easy for Lockie Leonard. Dumped by his girlfriend, he’s back to being the loneliest kid in town and life looks bleak. That is until he meets Egg – who might be the weirdest human being he’s ever met.
On top of all that, Lockie decides to save the planet; at least the bit of it he lives on. Then he falls in love again, which would be OK except she’s younger and surfs better. Can a thirteen-year-old surfrat have a headbanger for a best mate? Will he save the town from vile pollution? Will his love outlast the school term?
Another gnarly situation for Lockie Leonard, Scumbuster!
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First published by McPhee Gribble 1990
First published by Penguin Books Australia, 1993
This edition published 2003
Copyright © Tim Winton 1990
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ISBN 978-1-74348-120-2
Lines from ‘Love Is The Seventh Wave’ by Sting used by kind permission of Warner Chappell Music
Publication of this title was assisted by the Australia Council, the Federal Government’s arts funding and advisory body.
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Tim Winton, Human Torpedo
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