Sheep on the Fourth Floor Page 7

  Duggie lifted his head and looked at the bike, then glanced at Kurt and frowned slightly.

  ‘Whose is it?’ Duggie asked with mild interest.

  ‘Mine,’ said Kurt.

  ‘That’s a really nice bike,’ said Max, who had stepped over to gaze at it. He whistled and stroked his chin. ‘Looks custom-made too. How’d you afford this on ten bucks pocket money? Did you cadge it from your parents for another A-plus report?’

  Kurt shook his head.

  Duggie wiped his hands on his dungarees and joined them. ‘Man, that’s a wicked bike!’ he said. He grabbed it by the handle bars and seat and lifted it off the ground. ‘It doesn’t weigh anything; you could just about fly on it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Seriously, though, who would lend you such a pricey piece of equipment?’

  ‘I told you, it’s mine!’ said Kurt.

  Duggie looked confused. ‘But where did you get it?’

  ‘I nicked it,’ Kurt told him.

  ‘You what?’ Duggie shook his head as though his ears were malfunctioning. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I nicked it,’ Kurt repeated. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Duggie. ‘Just now, from down the road.’

  Max laughed out loud. ‘Ha ha, yeah right, nerd-boy. Good one.’ He punched Kurt on the upper arm.

  ‘It’s true,’ Kurt insisted.

  Max’s laughter dried up and he turned to exchange stares with Duggie.

  ‘But…but…’ Duggie was having trouble collecting his thoughts. ‘But why?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Because it’s a cool bike,’ said Kurt, lifting his chin. ‘And because…I’m not a nerd.’

  Duggie stared at Kurt with an incredulous frown. For a moment he struggled to speak.

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ Duggie bellowed. His eyes flashed with fury. ‘What a stupid thing to do. What were you thinking? Are you insane? What will Mum say?’ He paced up and down the garage in a rage. ‘You are in so much trouble.’

  Kurt’s heart sank. This was not the reaction of quiet respect he had been expecting.

  Where was the ‘Nice one, dude’ or the ‘Gutsy stuff, Kurt’? Where was the funny little knuckle-punch thing again?

  ‘Gonna have to get rid of it, man,’ said Max, gravely shaking his head.

  Duggie suddenly stopped his pacing and advanced on Kurt. He poked him in the chest with his finger. ‘Don’t you realize you could ruin your whole life with one criminal conviction? You’ve got to take it back. Right now! If you hurry, it might not have been missed yet. Go on, you stupid bloody kid—go! And for God’s sake, don’t let Mum see.’

  Duggie seemed so infuriated, and Kurt was suddenly so confused that he grabbed the bike and fled the garage in a panic.

  Kurt trudged solemnly back down the hill with the bike. On the way up the hill, he had felt a slight sense of exhilaration, imagining Duggie’s reaction to the bike. He had been sure Duggie would be impressed. He’d imagined Duggie would let him hang around in the garage, tinkering with the car, or go biking with him; just two brothers together in the hills. He would never be called ‘geek’ or ‘Brains’ or ‘nerd-boy’ again. Instead, here he was sneaking wretchedly back down towards the shopping centre with the bike which he suddenly hated. He prayed nobody would stop him before he could ditch it back outside the bookshop from where he’d taken it. Maybe, like Duggie had said, the owner hadn’t even noticed it was missing yet.

  Kurt slunk past the supermarket.

  ‘Nice bike, Kurt,’ said a voice behind him.

  Kurt turned slowly, and then his heart felt like it had stopped. He recognized the man as the father of Lloyd Porter, a boy in his class. Lloyd’s father was a policeman. He was staring at Kurt with a strange almost-smile on his face.

  ‘Er…thanks, Mr Porter,’ Kurt mumbled. He tried to keep walking but Constable Porter was suddenly in front of him. Kurt looked desperately towards the bookshop, only five shops further down the street. So close and yet so far.

  ‘Where are you going with it?’ Constable Porter inquired casually. ‘Bit of a ride around town? Heading out to the BMX track? Off to visit some friends?’

  ‘Er…nowhere in particular,’ said Kurt in an unsteady voice. He looked at his shoes. ‘I’m just hanging out.’

  ‘Just hanging around with your new bike, are you?’ The constable sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘Kurt Osmond, I think you had better accompany me to the police station.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Despair, humiliation and horror seeped through Kurt’s veins as he followed Constable Porter into the police station. It was like living one of his worst nightmares. He felt on the verge of crying for the first time in years.

  A man with a huge black moustache looked up from his paperwork at the front desk. ‘Eric! It’s your day off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Urgent business,’ replied Constable Porter. He grabbed a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper which he handed over the front desk. ‘Could you call this cellphone and tell them not to wait for me? It seems I’m not going to make Lawson’s Track today.’

  Kurt sat in a shiny black chair opposite Constable Porter’s desk. Constable Porter sighed heavily, then slapped the desk twice with the flat of his hand.

  ‘Come on then, out with it!’ he barked. ‘Tell me why today, on my day off, I find myself back at work. I should be out there tearing up the mud on Lawson’s Track.’ He leaned forwards and glared at Kurt. ‘Tell me why you stole my bike!’

  ‘Your bike? That bike is yours?’ Kurt stared at the constable in dismay. ‘I…I didn’t know it was your bike.’ A new kind of anxiety joined the myriad others in Kurt’s throbbing head.

  ‘Yes, the bike is mine, and thanks to you, young man, I’m missing out on some keenly anticipated riding.’ He wiggled his fingers as though he was testing his bike’s brakes. ‘But the fact that it’s mine is irrelevant; the fact is that that bike doesn’t belong to Kurt Osmond.’ The constable narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m assuming it was you who took it from outside the bookshop this afternoon?’

  Constable Porter saw Kurt hesitate. ‘Before you answer, Kurt, let me explain that I’ve been in this job long enough to sense when someone is lying. This is going to be a lot easier on the both of us if you just tell the truth.’

  Kurt took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I took…stole that bike this afternoon,’ he mumbled, looking at the floor. He felt like being sick.

  ‘Thank you for being honest,’ said Constable Porter gruffly. He sighed again, and tapped at the desk with his fingers.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much that bike is worth, Kurt?’

  Kurt shrugged. Duggie and Max had raved about it. ‘About a thousand dollars?’ he guessed.

  ‘You can multiply that by five and you’d be closer to the mark,’ said the constable in a whisper. He looked slightly amused when Kurt drew in his breath sharply. ‘This is a step up from petty thieving, Kurt. Stealing property of this value makes this matter very serious.’ He scowled. ‘Very. Serious. Indeed.’

  Kurt leaned forwards and put his head in his hands. He had never felt so wretched in his life. He wished the chair he was sitting in would come alive and dissolve him away; skin, blood, bones and all, until there was nothing left for the constable to glare at.

  ‘So, Kurt Osmond…’ The constable sat back and swivelled gently from side to side in his office chair. ‘I suppose I should write up a formal police report. That’s what we do when we catch…thieves.’

  Kurt lifted his head suddenly and gazed at the constable. ‘But I’m not a thief!’ he spluttered. ‘I’m not a real thief.’ He shook his head emphatically, ‘I’m not!’

  Constable Porter’s jaw twitched. He didn’t say anything.

  Kurt knew he wasn’t making any sense. ‘I took your bike but…’ He wasn’t quite sure how to explain to the constable that stealing wasn’t his true nature, that there was actually a cunning plan behind his actions, flawed though it now appeared to be.

  Constable Porter cleared his throat. ‘Is my bike
the only thing you’ve ever stolen, Kurt? Remember, we’re being truthful here.’

  Kurt took a deep breath. The pressure within his chest had reached a critical point and he realized that if he didn’t let it all out now, he was going to suffer some kind of internal explosion. So, like a volcano erupting, he poured it all out to the attentive constable; his whole, brief thieving career. As he listed each item he’d stolen, it felt like he was actually physically passing it to the constable. The relief he felt was instant and enormous.

  Constable Porter was especially interested in the chocolate Kurt had stolen from the dairy.

  ‘Were you hungry?’ asked Constable Porter. He wasn’t aware that the Osmond family were needy, but it always paid to ask.

  ‘Not really,’ Kurt admitted.

  ‘Well, what did you do with it then?’ asked Constable Porter.

  ‘I gave it to my older brother, Duggie,’ said Kurt.

  ‘You gave it to your brother,’ said the constable, nodding slowly. ‘So, did he eat it?’

  Kurt thought back to the morning in the garage. ‘No. It was his favourite—almond—but he didn’t eat it. His two friends did.’

  ‘Perhaps Duggie knew it was stolen?’

  Kurt sighed. ‘Yeah, I told him when I showed it to him.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Constable Porter. There was silence, except for the tap-tap-tap of Constable Porter’s fingers on the desk.

  ‘Why did you show Duggie the chocolate?’ he asked, eventually.

  Kurt thought for a moment before he replied. He felt silly, but he figured that surely his life had touched the bottom of the abyss and he couldn’t drop any further. He told the constable the truth. ‘I thought if I stole something, did something really tough and brave, Duggie might stop calling me names and treating me like I’m a turd. I thought he might show me some…respect.’

  Constable Porter raised his eyebrows. ‘Your brother calls you names?’

  ‘Nerd-boy, geek-boy, Brains, teacher’s pet…’ said Kurt, his face flushing.

  ‘Ah, brothers, eh?’ Constable Porter smiled tightly. ‘Duggie left school last year, didn’t he?’

  Kurt nodded. ‘He left when he was sixteen. He thought school was boring and stupid.’ He explained about Duggie loving cars and how he was starting his apprenticeship soon.

  The constable pointed at Kurt. ‘And didn’t I see you in the paper a while back, when you won that scholarship to Hillary College? Your parents must have been very proud of you.’

  Kurt’s stomach did a sudden lurch, thinking about how his mum and dad would react to the news that their youngest son was a convicted criminal.

  Constable Porter laced his hands together on his stomach and frowned. ‘So, what exactly were you going to do with my bike, Kurt? Surely you didn’t think you could ride it around the neighbourhood unnoticed? Were you planning to sell it? Perhaps there was someone else involved?’

  ‘I don’t really know what I was going to do with it,’ Kurt admitted with a tired shrug. ‘I hadn’t thought much further than just showing it to Duggie.’

  Constable Porter was silent for a while. ‘I don’t know about you, Kurt, but I’m gasping for a cup of tea. Can you wait a minute while I nip out and get us one?’

  He got up and walked towards the office door, then he turned back to Kurt. ‘You know, you should have a good long think about attempting to impress Duggie. From what you’ve said, he’s a chap who is clearly very jealous of his younger brother.’

  Kurt stared at the back of the door after the constable had left. Jealous? Constable Porter thought Duggie was jealous of him? Kurt’s face creased in bewilderment. Duggie, with his cool friends, his wicked car and all the freedom of a seventeen-year-old? Duggie, jealous of him? It didn’t make a lot of sense. But then again…

  Kurt thought back to the nights of bitter argument, when Duggie had told his parents he was leaving school. The lectures and tears; the yelling and the slamming of doors…

  ‘You can’t quit!’ their father ranted, waving his arms around in the air. ‘You need a good education to set yourself up for the world.’

  ‘I’m no good at school stuff!’ Duggie roared. ‘I hate it! You don’t even care about what I want.’

  ‘You just aren’t trying hard enough!’ their father yelled. He stepped towards Duggie and wagged his index finger. ‘You need to buckle down and study every night.’

  ‘It’s my life, I’ll do what I want,’ Duggie replied angrily.

  ‘You’re just too lazy, that’s what it is,’ their father retorted. ‘A bit of self-discipline is what you need.’

  And then their father happened to glance up at the bookshelf, at the tennis trophy and soccer cup and stack of excellence certificates carefully arranged in one corner. They all bore the same name: Kurt Osmond.

  ‘You could take lessons from your younger brother!’ their father barked.

  Duggie stared at him wordlessly, then he turned and stomped out of the house, slamming the door so hard it made the windows rattle.

  Jealousy? Could that really be why Duggie was always so hard on him? Then something else occurred to Kurt: he recalled how upset Duggie had been when he’d heard Kurt had been stealing; how Duggie had angrily insisted he take the bike straight back to where it came from. ‘You could ruin your whole life with one criminal conviction,’ Duggie had said. Kurt began to wonder if Duggie also had some type of grudging concern for his brainy younger brother. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  Kurt felt much better after the cup of tea; calm but exhausted. A great pressure had been lifted from his shoulders, and he felt a sense of relief that his dishonesty was out in the open. Thankfully, the cup of tea seemed to have calmed Constable Porter down as well. He didn’t seem so mad that he’d missed his bike ride. In fact they chatted together quite openly, and Constable Porter admitted that he’d fought with his own brothers when he was growing up.

  The time came when they had to decide how Kurt was going to make amends for all the stealing he had done.

  ‘You should start by returning all the goods to their rightful owners,’ said Constable Porter. ‘Make sure you do it personally, admit you made a mistake, and issue a sincere apology.’

  Kurt agreed. Giving stuff back would be relatively easy compared with the task of telling his parents what he’d done.

  ‘Do it without an expectation of forgiveness,’ the constable warned him. ‘That might come at some time in the future when you have proved yourself trustworthy again.’

  Kurt nodded; what the constable said made sense.

  ‘Above all, you must realize that stealing is never an answer to anything,’ said Constable Porter. ‘It isn’t impressive or tough or brave to take advantage of other people.’ He looked solemnly at Kurt. ‘You’re a good boy, Kurt. A little mixed-up maybe, but good nonetheless.’ He tapped his finger against his empty teacup. ‘This incident has been regrettable, but I think you’re smart enough to learn from your mistakes. That’s the big thing here, learning.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, even I’ve learned something today—about leaving my expensive bike lying around unlocked.’

  Kurt felt his face redden.

  ‘Life is tough sometimes,’ said the constable, staring at some far-off point over Kurt’s shoulder. ‘It’s important for you to listen to yourself, and trust yourself to always do what is right.’

  Kurt nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You can tell if it’s the right thing or not, can’t you? You feel it here, in your heart.’ Constable Porter held his clenched fist up to the middle of his chest. ‘The right thing feels good; it feels true; it doesn’t leave a sick feeling in your stomach; it doesn’t keep you awake at three o’clock in the morning.’

  Kurt knew exactly what Constable Porter was talking about. He had had enough of sleepless nights and sick stomachs. He would be glad to see the end of it.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need to file a report just yet,’ said Constable Porter. ‘And you can rest assured that what was said within
this room will go no further.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘And there, er…will be no need for Mrs Porter to find out that I nearly lost my very expensive new bike, will there?’

  Constable Porter dismissed him, and Kurt stepped out into the cool sunshine of the afternoon. The nearer he got to his house, the fiercer his heart beat. He stopped at the corner and fished around at something rustling in his pocket. He pulled out a five-dollar note and laughed without humour. Forgetting the milk would be the last thing his mother would be worried about now.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘The stallion was called Barnard’s Star and he’s sixteen hands high. Sixteen hands is one point six metres, so he was this high.’ Joshua Hunter held his arm above his head and waggled it around. Vicki Gates, who had also visited Mitchell’s Horse Stud, stood over the computer keyboard, manipulating the photos of the trip through the video outlet. An image of a huge brown stallion flashed onto the screen in front of the class.

  Anna stared at the horse and bit her lip. At any other time she might have found horse breeding quite interesting, but for now she couldn’t concentrate because there were only two presentations to go before her own group’s report on the hospital laboratory. She straightened her cue cards on the desk in front of her and tried to pay attention.

  ‘The mare is called “Whippet”,’ said Ruby Ng, smoothly taking over from Joshua. ‘Mr Mitchell told us the names of all the parents and grandparents of both horses, but they don’t call them parents and grandparents, they call them sires or dams and grandsires or granddams. The grandsire of Barnard’s Star was a really fast racehorse. He got third in the Melbourne Cup one year.’ She glanced down at her cue card. ‘People bring their mares to Mitchell’s Horse Stud to mate with a stallion so that their foals might be good racehorses. They charge each customer about ten thousand dollars.’