Neville the Less

  * * *

  In Cookie Camp, Mister and Missus Hughes had just emerged from their back door when the light and sound erupted from their neighbour’s yard. What was that? Don’t know! Alarming? I’d say so!

  Without a word of discussion, the plan to surreptitiously search amongst the

  Boogerville choko vines for further concealed weaponry was abandoned, saving them the embarrassment of being pinned in the high beams of Hayley’s Ute by Beau the Bum. The plan was replaced by a need - a need to intervene in whatever further atrocity was apparently developing in Home Country.

  “I have to go over, Dorothy! Don’t I?”

  “Oh, that poor boy! Yes! Yes! You must go!”

  “Not to confront. Just to . . . !”

  “No! No! Not to confront!”

  “Christian forbearance, that’s all. Remind them!”

  “And ask for the boy! For Neville! To keep him with us! Just overnight! Just until . . . !”

  “Until they’re sorted. That’s all. They’ll understand.”

  “They’ll appreciate. Go! Go!”

  “They could be armed!”

  “Oh! Should we fetch . . . ?”

  “Um. No. Bare handed must be best. Cap in hand. Velvet glove. Don’t you think?”

  “Ooohhh! Don’t let him see you then. Until you know!”

  Mister climbed over the stockade, landing in and quickly stepping out of the damp leaves in the incinerator slot, while Missus stood tiptoe on the boys’ climbing step, to watch. If either noticed the faint odour of petrol, neither thought to mention it.

  * * *

  From Boogerville, Beau the Bum couldn’t see the flash that signalled Bill’s end, but he did vaguely hear the scream as he reclined in Hayley’s Ute, waiting for the Helping Out medal to come floating back into his yard. He didn’t know what made the sound - a fruit bat, maybe. But he knew that death and that sound went hand in hand.

  “Cool!” he whispered. “How’d they do that?”