FRIDAY, 11.40 A.M.
It was History after recess. Jazz was in the History class, as well as Mike, and Loser and Jordie and Budgie, even though Budgie hated history. There hadn’t been any other subject he could take that fitted into his timetable.
That was the trouble with a small school, Mike supposed, as they filed in. You only got a few choices of subjects, not even a language, not that he wanted to learn a language. What was the point? And if there was a choice between History and Food Tech, yuk, well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.
He glanced round to see if Loser had come in. But there was no sign of him.
Jazz leant over the aisle towards him. ‘Where do you think he’s got to?’ she whispered.
Mike shook his head. ‘He was heading this way. I suppose he’s marched off again.’
‘What did he mean by …’ began Jazz, then stopped when Mr Simpson stared at them pointedly.
Mr Simpson was really into history. He was even doing some kind of postgraduate degree on it, and had written about Aboriginal trading links in the Elbow Creek area before white settlement. Mr Simpson wasn’t a bad teacher, thought Mike. He supposed even boring stuff was sort of interesting when the person who was teaching you was actually interested too.
Suddenly the door opened. Loser stood there, blinking behind his glasses, as though he’d forgotten how to come inside.
Mr Simpson glanced at his watch. ‘You’re ten minutes late,’ he said, and paused.
He’s waiting for Loser to apologise, thought Mike. That’s what’s supposed to happen. The teacher says, ‘You’re late’, and the kid says, ‘Sorry, sir, I was down at the oval and didn’t hear the bell’, or something like that, and then the teacher says, ‘Well, don’t let it happen again’, and the kid sits down. But it’s not going to happen like that. Loser doesn’t know how to get it right.
Loser looked up at Mr Simpson, then he looked at the class. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.
‘Well, come on in, boy!’ said Mr Simpson. ‘Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?’
Loser took a step forward and then another one. ‘You shouldn’t speak to me like that, Mr Simpson,’ he said flatly. He blinked, as though trying to remember something, then added, ‘My dad says that you should make people show you respect. He says if they don’t you should make them. Make them,’ he repeated. His voice was firmer now.
‘Lance,’ said Mr Simpson uncertainly. ‘Are you feeling …?’
‘You’re not going to apologise either?’
‘Apologise!’ Mr Simpson seemed to realise something was wrong. ‘Lance, why don’t you just sit down and we’ll discuss this later …’
‘No one’s going to apologise, are they?’ Loser’s voice had a hint of desperation now. ‘So I’ve got to make them. That’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked no one in particular. ‘You’ve got to make people respect you!’
He reached into his pocket.
‘Lance …’ began Mr Simpson again.
Loser held up the test tube. It looked just the same as it had earlier, thought Mike, the dark brown powder, sealed against the air.
‘Do you know what will happen if I break this glass?’ asked Loser.
‘No,’ said Mr Simpson bewildered. ‘Lance, why don’t you …?’
‘You’re all going to die,’ said Loser with the same blank expression. As if he was trying to recite a movie script or something, thought Mike, but didn’t quite know how.
‘That’s what’s going to happen,’ continued Loser. ‘Everyone in this room is going to die, and then it’s going to spread right through the town and everywhere. That’s what happens when you let a virus out,’ he added, his voice almost like a little kid’s telling a fairy story. ‘The virus spreads and spreads and you can’t stop it. There’re lots of viruses in here.’ He held the test tube higher.
Mr Simpson moved towards him and stretched out his hand. ‘Lance, I think you’d better give that to me …’
Lance moved. One step across the room, his arm raised, then PING, the test tube shattered against the table.
The room was still. Loser gazed at their faces. ‘Now you’ll see,’ he whispered. Then he was gone.
The room was silent. Someone giggled at the back. Caitlin, thought Mike. She was the sort who’d giggle at a time like this.
Mr Simpson looked at the mess of glass and brown powder on the floor and table. ‘Can anyone tell me what that was all about?’ he asked plaintively.
No one spoke. Mike swallowed. ‘Loser … I mean Lance … said he got that stuff out at the old Tenterfield property. He said they’re doing experiments out there and he got a test tube of this stuff.’
‘Viruses?’ asked Mr Simpson disbelievingly.
‘Well, that’s what he told Budgie and Jordie. But he told me when we were walking to school that it was a test tube of explosives, except you needed white powder to detonate it.’
Mr Simpson’s lips twitched. ‘Explosives? Biological warfare?’ He bent down and rubbed a little of the powder between his fingers. It left a reddish stain, like dried blood.
‘I think I know what this is,’ said Mr Simpson. ‘It’s ochre. You can buy it at the hardware store. You add it to concrete when you’re mixing it, to change the colour.’
‘Loser … I mean Lance’s dad’s been doing some handyman stuff out at Tenterfield. At least, that’s what Lance said.’
‘Which is where I suppose he got this from,’ said Mr Simpson, ‘even if it’s not an agent of biological warfare.’
He grinned. ‘I think we can assume it’s safe to get back to the history of the gold rushes. Someone … Caitlin … could you run and get a dustpan and brush from the tuck shop? Thank you. Right, where were we?’