Belly Flop Read online

  Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. He was a frozen chicken thawer, sugar mill rolling stock unhooker, fashion industry trainee, student, department store Santa, TV producer, newspaper columnist and freelance screenwriter. Then in 1985 he wrote a novel for young people. Now he’s one of Australia’s favourite children’s authors.

  Other Books by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Watts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Bumface

  Gift of the Gab

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Toad Rage

  Deadly (with Paul Jennings)

  Adults Only

  Toad Heaven

  Boy Overboard

  Teacher’s Pet

  Toad Away

  Girl Underground

  Worm Story

  Once

  Aristotle’s Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Give Peas a Chance

  Then

  Toad Surprise

  Grace

  First published 1996 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This edition first published 2001 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2001 (twice), 2002,2003,2009,2010

  Copyright © Creative Input Pty Ltd 1996

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Gleitzman, Morris, 1953-

  Belly flop.

  ISBN 978 0 330 36257 3

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Maryborough

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2001 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Belly Flop

  Morris Gleitzman

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74262-016-9

  EPUB format:978-1-74262-017-6

  Online format: 978-1-74262-019-0

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  Contents

  Cover

  About Morris Gleitzman

  Also by Morris Gleitzman

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  For Mary-Anne

  G’day Doug.

  It’s me, Mitch Webber.

  Sorry to interrupt out of the blue like this, but I’m desperate.

  Troy and Brent Malley are after me.

  They’re the toughest kids in town and I’ve never seen them so ropeable.

  It’s really Dad they’re angry with, but they’ve decided to take it out on me.

  If they catch me I’ll be history.

  They’ve got tractor starter handles.

  Oh no, I’m getting a cramp in the leg from running.

  Doug, I know it’s been a long time, but you’re the only angel I know.

  Help.

  My leg cramp’s getting worse, Doug.

  I can’t run much further.

  Sorry to pester you, but the Malleys are getting closer.

  I know angels have got busy schedules.

  I know you’re probably in the middle of a dangerous flight or a complicated rescue or morning tea.

  I know it must be a real pain having someone chucking their thoughts at you like this without an appointment.

  Specially if you’ve just settled back on a cloud, taken the weight off your wings and slipped your boots off.

  But it’s really urgent, Doug, honest.

  My lungs are nearly cactus.

  The Malleys are so near I can hear the snot rattling in Brent’s nose.

  I need you.

  Jeez, that was close.

  When I slipped in that horse poo outside the newsagents, I thought I was Malley meat for sure.

  Sometimes it’s not so bad having small muscles.

  If I had big ones like the Malleys, I’d never have been able to squeeze through that hole in the fence.

  Troy and Brent are back there now, yelling.

  They’re arguing about whether to rip a bigger hole in the fence with their hands or climb over.

  Once they decide, I’m dingo bait.

  I need a hiding place, Doug.

  That’s the problem with living in a town with only seven shops, one pub, one bank, one service station and no thick forests.

  There aren’t many good places to hide.

  The safe in the bank’d be good, but it’s Sunday.

  Even if it wasn’t, Mum and Dad work there and I wouldn’t want to aggravate Dad’s stress rash.

  It’ll have to be the Memorial Park.

  Hope my legs can make it.

  This town’s so remote, even if the Malleys only manage to inflict surface injuries I’ll probably still cark it before the air ambulance arrives.

  Now I’m up a tree and I can catch my breath, a thought’s just hit me.

  You probably don’t even remember who I am, Doug.

  You angels probably look after so many kids the details get fuzzy.

  It’s Mitch spelt M-I-T-C-H, Webber spelt W-E-B-B-E-R.

  I’m the one who got my head stuck in the bars of that cattle truck.

  At the Gas ‘N’ Gobble when I was little.

  When I asked you for help you made the driver drop his Paddlepop outside the Men’s so when he ben
t down to pick it up he saw my legs dangling under the truck and didn’t jump into the cab and roar off and drag me halfway across Australia.

  I think I was wearing a blue T-shirt.

  It probably had burn marks on it from when I did that magic trick with the oven lighter and the fluff from under Gran’s bed. The one where I asked you to put me out and you made Gavin Sims chuck his milkshake over me.

  Do angels have secretaries? If you do, perhaps you could ask yours to jog your memory.

  I’ve thought of trying to get in touch with you heaps of times lately, Doug, but each time I stopped myself on account of me probably being too old now and you probably being up to your neck in angel work.

  I’m not stopping myself now, but, because I’m desperate.

  You can probably tell that by how hard I’m thinking these thoughts.

  And how hard I’m hoping you’re receiving them, wherever you are.

  Things are pretty crook here, Doug, and I can’t manage on my own any more.

  I need your help.

  I understand if you can’t fit me in immediately because you’re busy rescuing a little kid from an iceberg or making a crocodile spit out a toddler.

  But I’m hoping you’re not, Doug.

  Because Troy and Brent Malley are over there by the war memorial.

  And they’ve spotted me.

  I suppose a tree wasn’t such a great hiding place when there are only three in the whole park.

  I’m jumping.

  I’m rolling in the dust.

  I’m running.

  Doug, protect me like you used to, please.

  I thought I was a goner then.

  If I’d taken another half a second getting across the main street that road train would have flattened me.

  I’m not sure what’d be worse, being pounded by Troy and Brent Malley or being flattened by a ninety-tonne road train.

  I was glad it came along, but.

  The Malleys had to wait for it to pass, which gave me time to duck in here.

  The dunnies at the Gas ‘N’ Gobble.

  It’s OK, Doug, it’s not as obvious a hiding place as it sounds.

  I’m a boy and I’m in the Ladies.

  If anyone comes in I’ll tell them I’m looking for the cigarette lighter Gran lost a couple of months ago.

  Hang about, Doug.

  Of course.

  If you don’t remember me, you must remember Gran.

  She was the one who told me about you, when I was little.

  She’s tall and sort of wrinkled and she’s got a bad . . .

  Oh no.

  The Malleys are next door in the Men’s.

  They’ve heard me panting for breath.

  Here we go again.

  I’ve never been that good at athletics, but I reckon if sprinting through a service station and jumping over petrol pump hoses was a school event, I’d be in with a chance.

  Specially if I had very angry twins chasing me.

  I thought Mr Kee the manager was gunna grab me, but he just stood there with his mouth open.

  He didn’t even say anything when Troy ran into a car door and dented it.

  Or when Brent tripped over the air hose and landed in someone’s shopping.

  For a sec, when I glanced back, I thought that was you making all that happen, Doug.

  Then I remembered what Gran used to tell me about you.

  ‘He’s not like one of those posh guardian angels in the Bible,’ she used to say. ‘Doug’s invisible, he doesn’t do violence and he’s very busy, so if you need him you’ve got to ask.’

  I’m asking now, Doug.

  The Malleys are getting close again.

  I can hear them yelling round the corner.

  I’ve just ducked down the side of Conkey’s Store, but I doubt if that’ll throw them for long.

  You’re probably wondering, Doug, why I’m not asking anyone around here for help.

  Why I’m not running into houses and yelling ‘neighbourhood watch’ or something.

  Things have changed since I last gave you a hoi, Doug.

  Everyone in town hates me now.

  They hate Dad and Mum and Gran too.

  I’ll explain why when I’ve finished climbing up into Mr Conkey’s old storage shed.

  Sorry that took a while, Doug.

  It’s really hard climbing wood when it’s rotting.

  I’m hoping die Malleys won’t think of looking all the way up here in the rafters.

  With a bit of luck.

  Or rather with a bit of help from you, Doug.

  Luck’s something we haven’t had much of around here lately.

  Remember how last time you were round this way it hadn’t rained for nearly four years? Well, we haven’t had a sprinkle for eight years now, except for a few drops last January which everyone reckoned was from a leaky dunny on a Qantas jet.

  It’s a really crook drought, everyone says so.

  Sheena Bullock’s dog can unscrew aftershave bottles with its teeth, that’s how crook a drought it is.

  Everyone’s suffering, but Dad’s copping it the worst.

  Remember how he used to be one of the most popular blokes in town, partly because of his sweet nature and partly because drought-struck farmers knew that if they came to see Dad he’d make sure the bank lent them some money to keep them going?

  Well now everyone hates him.

  Someone spat on him in the street yesterday. It was terrible. They’d been eating beetroot.

  I’ve tried to explain to people that Dad’s just doing his job.

  That it’s what a Bank Liaison Officer has to do, write reports on families who are going broke because the drought’s killed their sheep and dried up their paddocks.

  That’s it’s not his fault the bank gets twitchy when broke families can’t pay back the money they’ve borrowed.

  That it’s not his fault the bank takes their farms instead.

  I’ve told people a million times how much Dad hates writing those reports.

  How he wishes he could be a swimming pool attendant like Grandad used to be.

  How he’d give his right arm to . . .

  Hang on, what’s that noise?

  For a sec I thought it was the Malleys climbing up to get me.

  Relax, Doug, it was just the wooden beams expanding in the heat.

  I’m lying stretched out on a rafter now so even if Troy and Brent do come into the shed they definitely won’t be able to see me up here under the roof.

  Where was I?

  Oh, yes.

  I’m always reminding people that Dad’s the same kind bloke he was before the drought. Reminding them how he nursed the Bullocks’ dog back to health after we found it in our backyard with bubbles coming out of its mouth.

  But every time the bank chucks a family off their land, everyone blames Dad.

  I tell them he’s as upset about it as they are.

  He is, he’s got flaky skin on his upper thighs from the stress. (I don’t tell them that.)

  I tell them it’s the bank bosses in the city that chuck people off their land, not Dad.

  But they don’t listen.

  They just turn away and pretend I’m a bus stop.

  Which is pretty hurtful, cause our town hasn’t got any bus stops.

  People are starting to hate Mum too, and all she does is work in the bank and cash drought-relief cheques and make cups of tea for people who are depressed and upset at the state of their sheep.

  The bank offered to promote her to manager, but she said no cause she knew she’d cop it even worse.

  Even Gran gets picked on when she goes shopping.

  Well, she reckons she does.

  She reckons someone muttered to her in Conkey’s yesterday how they were going to slit her throat and reach in and pull her intestines out, but she was standing next to a noisy soft drink cabinet and her hearing’s not the best.

  Anyway, Gran’s pretty tough.

  It’s Dad I’m mo
st worried about, Doug.

  If kids chuck my bag on the roof I can climb up and get it, but Dad can’t if his clients do that to him. He’s too overweight to be a good climber, plus he’s meant to be resting his thighs.

  The other kids do chuck my bag around a fair bit.

  I reckon they hate me almost as much as their parents hate Dad.

  I’ve tried not to think about it too much.

  Until this arvo.

  I nipped down to Conkey’s for some corn chips.

  Troy and Brent Malley were waiting for me.

  When I saw the expressions on their faces and the tractor starter handles in their hands, I knew my worst nightmare had come true.

  If only Dad had warned me the bank was gunna chuck the Malleys off their land.

  I could have taken precautions.

  Like staying indoors.

  And I wouldn’t have had to disturb you, Doug.

  Sorry if I’m messing up your work schedule and causing you job-related stress, but I’m . . .

  Listen.

  It’s that noise again.

  That’s not beams expanding, that’s . . .

  Oh, no.

  Doug.

  The Malleys are up here.

  They must have climbed up the back of the shed.

  They’ve just stepped out from behind an old crate and they’re coming towards me along the rafter.

  Grinning.

  Their grins are even scarier than their scowls.

  Doug, help, I’m on a thin strip of wood miles from the ground being stalked by killer twins.

  There’s only one thing I can do.

  Jump onto the next rafter.

  Doug, if you’re there, could you give me a sign?

  So I know you’re looking after me and I won’t fall and get mashed.

  Just something small.

  A thumbs up made of dust floating in the air.

  A spider winking at me.

  Anything.

  Too late.

  The Malleys are lunging at me.

  I’m jumping.

  I’ve made it.

  I’m on the other rafter.

  No I’m not.

  The wood’s splintering.

  I’m falling.

  Doug . . .

  I’m not dead.

  I can move both my arms.