Beyond the Knock Knock Door Read Free Page B

among the black umbrellas. Men and women in suits shunted him out of the way as they fought for taxis or knocked on bus doors. Standing under a thin awning, he added another reason why he hated this city: it was easy for a kid to be forgotten.
    He moped in the streets a while longer. He didn’t feel like going home. He stared into the shop windows he passed: internet gamers blasted each other with little emotion; roast ducks hung by their long necks at a Chinese barbecue kitchen. His final stop was accidental. Following his feet, he passed a department store, only to be cornered by a spruiker dressed as a giant baby chicken.
    â€˜Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!’ the baby chicken said into a scratchy microphone. ‘Twenty-five per cent off. That’s right. Twenty-five per cent off all children’s shoes, clothes, underwear and skateboards .’
    Michael was hooked.
    He drifted among the rows of sleek rides plastered with logos of skeletons, aliens, Tahitian surfers and roaring flames. They were the brands owned by cool kids at school. He tested one and imagined himself cruising along the streets, sliding down railings and hanging out with the popular boys. He’d be able to find a replacement for his second-hand termite biscuit now in pieces.
    Turning over the price tag, he sighed. Even ‘Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!’ was too expensive. Unless –
    He opened the homeless man’s wallet. Twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty, two hundred dollars! It contained a fortune! There was enough for a new board – plus shoes!
    A light flickered above and a security guard frowned at him. Moving on, Michael closed the wallet. A new skateboard could wait. The money wasn’t his. He’d hand it into the police and give a description of the homeless man. Olive coat, chequered hat, one aluminium crutch –
    That crutch. What kind of person faked an injury to sponge spare change from twelve-year-olds? And judging by the thickness of the wallet, he wasn’t the only sucker. Maybe he should buy the skateboard anyway. Yeah, teach the homeless man – if indeed he was homeless – about stealing.
    Minutes later, he walked through the sliding doors with a skateboard – the remains of his old one. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a new ride. That would be stealing too. His termite biscuit was only good for firewood now, but he’d earn the money picking blueberries at his dad’s farm.
    Angling into the rain, he detoured east. Since moving to the city, his mum had drilled the location of all the city’s police stations into him, his sister and brother. ‘Just in case there’s trouble,’ she said, after asking them to recite the addresses for the fourth time. The closest was near a giant movie complex, flashing with the latest blockbusters. He slowed at the first smell of popcorn. All those films wanting to be seen! All that chocolate waiting to be eaten! Again, he felt the weight of thehomeless man’s wallet. It would only be twenty bucks this time – small change compared to the price of a new skateboard. C’mon. Finders keepers, right?
    No. He pushed back his wet fringe then walked down the final street.
    Passing a TV store, he glanced into its docking bay when he saw, rummaging through flattened cardboard boxes, the homeless man.
    â€˜Where’s your crutch?’ Michael asked, spitting out rain.
    The homeless man grabbed the bin and hobbled round to face him. ‘Get away from me. They’re mine!’ He reached for his crutch leaning against the wall and jabbed it into his armpit.
    â€˜Remembered to take it with you this time, eh?’
    Ignoring him, the beggar collected three damp boxes then cl-lick ed, cl-lick ed, cl-lick ed into the street.
    â€˜I should report you to the police. It’s not right to rip off people, y’know.’
    â€˜Get lost, kid. I don’t talk to strangers.’ Then, with a change of mind, he turned on Michael and