The Amazing Brain of O C Longbotham

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘Taking a pee. Tidying my room. Oh come on, OC,’ Kitty fluttered her eye-lashes. ‘Your essay’s not due till Monday. You’ve got the whole weekend.’

  She wandered over to the computer and peered at the screen. ‘The 19th century! And that’s the century you’ve chosen?’ She shuddered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ her brother asked. ‘You can close the window if you like.’

  ‘Give me strength, OC, you’re getting worse! So why not choose this century, with its mod-cons, or a century in the future, where people don’t get their heads chopped off or starve in a garret.’

  The choice was too great. OC felt his brain begin to seize, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish that has suddenly found itself stranded on a beach, and his cheeks began to burn. Desperately he searched the wall, trying to find the right poster, before he lost his breath all together.

  Kitty yawned. After so many years, the drama of OC’s brain seizing up had become a total bore. It never lasted long. OC didn’t remember it happening, and most probably wouldn’t even remember what he’d been saying five minutes before. She began to check her newly varnished nails.

  ‘Breathe, OC - Breathe,’ she chanted in a monotone.

  OC’s head felt ready to explode, just like the water melon he’d dropped on the pavement that had squidged, leaving a mess of red watery stuff and black pips.

  Somehow he scrambled in a breath. ‘I don’t know what is going to happen in the future,’ he managed. Dragging in another breath, he felt the pressure begin to ease. ‘In the present day, people still get their heads chopped off. That happens in many Arabic countries as a punishment for murder.’

  Kitty looked up and began counting on her fingers.

  Another breath. ‘We still have wars.’ A breath. ‘Poverty is not eradicated.’ A very quick breath. ‘Therefore, I would choose to live in a century that expects men to do their duty without question.’

  Kitty’s fingers counted four. 1 2 3 4

  ‘Bravo!’ she yelled, slapping her brother so hard on the back he overbalanced and collapsed on the floor in a heap. ‘You’ve actually reasoned out a list of four things without exploding. I told you, you’d get better. What I don’t understand is, why you can work out loads of stuff like maths and chess – and it makes no difference to your brain?’

  OC smiled and picked himself up off the carpet. ‘That’s easy. Mrs Edwards told me that my brain can only move in straight lines – like a rook in chess.’

  ‘And that means what?’

  ‘That means I can follow anything logical like algebra, computers and chess.’

  Kitty sprawled on the bed, her legs crossed and swinging in the air. Idly, she flipped over the pages of a book. ‘But if anyone asks you a question that makes your brain double back on itself – you’re done for.’

  ‘Done for?’

  ‘Finished, caput, flummoxed. So what about tidying my room? I’ll pay.’

  OC sat up straight. ‘Okay, the minimum wage is £5 an hour,’ he said, suddenly recalling that Cash had told him prices must go up.

  Kitty whistled. ‘You gotta-be joking. I’m not paying that, it’s extortionate. In any case, the minimum wage only applies if you’re over 18. You’re not. If I deduct ...’

  The door banged open and Anna stuck her head round.

  ‘You two deaf? I’ve bin shouting.’ Anna shot her eyes at her brother. ‘No need to answer that, Phil, it’s rhetorical,’ she explained hurriedly. Spotting the expression on her brother’s face, all screwed up like a scrumpled piece of paper, she hastily added, ‘RHETORICAL means something that doesn’t need an answer.’ She fixed Kitty with a stern look. ‘Have you asked him?’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘Well?’ She rounded on her brother.

  Suddenly OC’s memory kicked in. ‘I know why you want me to tidy your room.’ The words came out in a happy shout, OC delighted that he’d actually remembered something important without looking it up in his notebook first.

  Kitty shied a pillow at him. ‘Shut it, can’t you,’ she hissed. ‘You want the whole world to know about our little arrangement. So why, clever clogs?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. I bet Mum has said you can’t go out until you do your homework and tidy your room.’

  ‘So! You doin’ it?’

  OC nodded and carefully replaced his pillow, smoothing the bedcover back into place. ‘OK. Five pounds for the two.’

  ‘Three!’ Kitty glared.

  ‘Four?’ OC said hopefully, knowing that four pounds would be a one hundred-per-cent increase, and he could save two of it.

  ‘Done,’ said Anna.

  ‘But you’ve got to throw in my algebra homework for that,’ Kitty insisted. ‘And this time, you doughnut, do it in my rough pad. Mr Davidson guessed right away I hadn’t done it; your writing’s too neat.’

  OC nodded, writing a note in his book in case he forgot.

  The girls clattered downstairs, happily chattering about the disco they were going to that night. OC slowly closed his bedroom door, intending to follow them. Then a thought appeared, which he needed to think about, and he stopped.

  OC OC retraced his steps back along the landing and opened the door to his bedroom, peering in. No, there was absolutely no tidying to be done in his room. He took a step back towards the staircase, dreaming happily of Kitty’s room. He liked to believe Kitty hid plates under her bed and toast crusts in her shoes as some sort of test that he was cleaning up properly.

  By comparison Anna’s room seemed very dull. Only the floor ever needed tidying, covered in clothes where she had pulled out the entire contents of her wardrobe, looking for something to wear for that evening’s disco.

  ‘Philip!’ his mother yelled, ‘Have you got lost on the stairs again - your dinner’s getting cold.’

  Spotting a large dish of mashed potato on the table, OC raced to the cloakroom to wash his hands. Of all things mashed potato was his absolute favourite and he would have happily eaten it for breakfast, dinner, and tea, if given half a chance.

  ‘Anything to report,’ Mum said in a cheerful tone. She took a large serving spoon, mounding the mashed potato onto OC’s plate, adding fish fingers, broccoli and peas.

  ‘Nothing from me.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Kitty?’

  Kitty pursed up her lips. ‘Can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘I need £20 for my school trip.’

  OC’s brain danced a jig. He fished in his jacket pocket for his notebook. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he handed it to his mum. ‘I forgot. Our class is visiting the Arboretum. I don’t remember what that is but can I go?’

  Mum read the note and shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Phil, do you?’ she said, memories of their visit to the adventure park still giving her nightmares.

  OC opened his notebook again, reading aloud the message in it. ‘Charles says, there’s no river and he’ll look after me. He promises.’ OC glanced up. ‘I’d like to go. I’ve never been on a school trip.’ He inspected his notebook again. ‘I am to remind you that I am now almost 12 and going to secondary school.’

  ‘Honestly, Mum, ever since he met Cash, he’s got on ever so well. No trouble.’

  OC beamed. ‘Thank you, Kitty.’

  ‘Don’t mention it!’ Kitty’s tone was airy.

  ‘W-ell, I supp-o-o-se,’ Mum added a few more peas to OC’s plate. She turned away to drop the saucepan onto the draining board. Instantly, Kitty aimed her foot at her brother’s ankle. He looked down. When he looked up, he had four pieces of broccoli on his plate while Kitty had none.

  He opened his mouth to object, saw Kitty drag her first finger across her throat, and stopped. There was no mistaking what it meant – speak and you’re dead.

  ‘Well,’ Mum sat down at the table. ‘I guess you could go on the trip if Charles is there. I don’t see how looking at trees can create a problem.’

  OC scribbled a note
in his book. ‘I’ll tell Cash when I see him this afternoon.’

  ‘So what are you doing, Kitty?’

  ‘Getting ready for the disco – what else.’

  ‘You’re not going out till six,’ her mother protested.

  Kitty sighed. ‘So! It will take me four hours to get ready.’

  ‘You’ve already done your nails.’ Anna pointed her knife at the gleaming red talons.

  Kitty glared across the table.

  Too late, her mother had already spotted them.

  ‘Kitty! You know you’re not allowed bright red nails.’

  ‘Rita has red nails. I expect it’s because her mum is more modern than mine,’ she jeered, using her best sarcastic tone.

  Mrs Longbotham shut her eyes for a second. ‘Change them or you don’t go.’

  ‘All right, I won’t go.’ Kitty pushed her half-eaten dinner away. ‘And I’ll be the only girl in our class not there. Do you want that on your conscience, Mother?’

  Mrs Longbotham sighed loudly. ‘Have you done your homework and tidied your room?’

  ‘I will have by the time I go out,’ Kitty’s voice was sulky.

  ‘OK, then. I’m sure Anna will lend you some polish. So how’s school, Phil?’

  OC had just forked a large dollop of buttery mashed potato into his mouth and it was a minute or two before he could reply. When he did, he came out with the dreaded words: ‘My teacher was not very pleased with me.’

  Mum gave him her thinking look. ‘So why wasn’t Miss Jarvis pleased? Last time I saw her, she said you were doing brilliantly.’

  OC nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Mum looked confused.

  ‘I bet it wasn’t Miss Jarvis.’ Anna got the sentence in before her mother could speak.

  OC’s face brightened. ‘How clever of you, Anna. How did you know that Miss Jarvis has the flu. This was Mrs Willis. She’s a … a sort of teacher.’

  ‘Supply?’

  ‘Does that mean she comes to school when Miss Jarvis has the flu?’

  Anna nodded. ‘Does she know about you?’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

  ‘An-na!’ Mother used her warning voice.

  ‘Come off it, Mum. If she had known about Phil, do you honestly think she’d have taken the job?’

  ‘Quiet, Anna!’ Mum snapped. ‘So what were you doing, Phillip?’

  ‘As if you didn’t know,’ Anna muttered under her breath. She caught the glare that Mum threw at her and shrugged, ‘Oh, come on, Mum, there’s only one subject that ever causes trouble.’

  OC paused. He really hated his family asking questions when there was mashed potato on the table, because it got cold so quickly – and there was nothing worse than eating cold mashed potato. He took another mouthful, enjoying the buttery taste on his tongue.

  ‘We were doing spellings,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Mum put her hand over her eyes.

  OC took no notice. His mother had loads of strange habits – like heaving deep sighs and counting up to ten.

  ‘Told you!’ jeered Anna, in a triumphant voice. ‘So what was it this time?’

  ‘Bought and taught.’

  Mum groaned.

  Kitty laughed, her sulks gone. ‘You der brain, OC. Didn’t I tell you to avoid awkward words. You know they cause trouble.’

  OC stared down at his plate.

  ‘Remember? I warned you there were some words even worse than swear words?’ Kitty continued.

  OC looked guilty. ‘I don’t remember. Just a minute.’ Casting a loving glance in the direction of his mashed potato, he ran upstairs to check his wall.

  He charged downstairs again, wondering exactly how many minutes it took for potato, freshly cooked, to get cold.

  ‘You are quite right, Kitty, I wrote down all the swear words you told me not to use …’

  ‘And the rest,’ Kitty demanded, ‘like bought and taught and … cough?’

  ‘I must have forgotten them.’

  ‘Mu-um, you’ve really got to find something more efficient than posters,’ Kitty moaned. ‘He can’t keep leaping up and down stairs, whenever he wants to remember something. Anyway, there’s far too many.’

  ‘18,’ OC added helpfully.

  ‘There you go, then. He can’t possibly remember them all. And that notebook he carries, it’s useless. It’s crammed with stuff, now.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Kitty. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Why not tattoo the words on him?’ Anna said.

  Mum shrieked.

  She glared at Anna, her expression changing four times in a second.

  ‘You are never to suggest OC does anything,’ she hissed, sounding like a cat that’s had its tail trodden on.

  She glanced down at her son, who had lifted up his t-shirt and was busily calculating the area of his chest and stomach in square centimetres.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done. Phil? Phil? Look at me!

  OK!’

  ‘Yes, Mum but I was …’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ Mum said firmly. ‘Remember – listening to me comes first. And you do not … ever … do I make myself clear.’

  OC sighed. It wasn’t in the least bit clear. If only Mum would stop talking so he could eat his dinner.

  ‘EVER,’ Mum started again. ‘HAVE A TATTOO!’

  ‘That’s all right, Mum. It was an impractical solution. If it’s okay, can I get on with my dinner?’ he said, picking up his fork.

  She nodded and for a few minutes there was silence, broken only by the sound of munching.

  OC sighed happily. Finally, his mashed potato was occupying a warm place in his belly and it felt good. Now he could concentrate on eating the broccoli, peas and fish fingers. They weren’t his favourites so it didn’t much matter about them being cold.

  ‘It was a really good idea of yours about the tattoo, Anna, but there isn’t enough space,’ he said.

  Dead silence.

  ‘I worked it out, though. If I grow 10 centimetres and put on 20 kilos, that would make enough skin area. We could try it then if you like.’

  Mrs Longbotham choked and grabbed for a glass of water.

  Anna and Kitty fell about laughing.

  Mum swung round exactly like a charging rhinoceros, and hurtled towards the photographs she kept on the sideboard. She grabbed one and waved it in front of her family’s face. It was picture no 3 – the one of her glaring.

  The room emptied. The two girls, still laughing, disappeared upstairs, while OC, carefully tucking his shirt back into his jeans, trotted next door to see Cash.

  OC had been trotting next door for more than a year, ever since the day he heard a ball thwacking against the wall and had looked over the fence. And invites which began as a mere trickle rapidly accelerated into a torrent. Mrs Longbotham, although not quite understanding what a sophisticated boy like Charles could possibly see in her adorable but naïve son, was delighted. At long last, Philip had made a friend and knowing he always did his homework, never questioned why he spent so much time next door.

  On several occasions, she had invited Charles to her house only to be met with a full-proof excuse that his chair wouldn’t go up steps. The fact that it would and frequently did go up steps, Charles made certain only his inner circle of friends knew.

  He had also made certain that no information about him was ever leaked to the school, knowing his status as a crime boss depended on it.

  ‘I know I can rely on you, Phil,’ he said.

  OC nodded. ‘Definitely, because I always forget.’

  Charles had not spent six months at his new school before his nickname, Cash, became: THE CASH.

  quickly became a stock answer for any child that had a problem; from bullying, to needing a sick note from Mum so they could play truant, or getting a temporary loan till the weekend. And, with the majority of their class settling to go to the same secondary school, naturally Cash’s reputation had preceded him.

  It is true to say that when Cash first m
et up with OC, he’d been thinking only selfish thoughts, like making himself a pile of money. After a very short time, however, he discovered that his new friend was also really nice. Unusual, maybe, but always happy, cheerful and content. And, surprisingly, they had a great deal in common. Of course, OC could never aspire to a life of crime, he was far too honest. Apart from that, neither liked sports, especially swimming, which they were forced to do because it was good for them. They preferred sedentary pastimes like computer games, and they both loved making money and eating. So, against his better judgement, Cash embarked on a scheme to make OC’s brain better.

  On days when business was slack and there was no homework to be done, the two boys rode the bus into Bristol. Starting small, Cash took OC into shops where there was a single sales-assistant and only a few customers. Once OC learned to cope with that without his brain seizing, Cash gradually introduced him to larger stores, which were more likely to be crowded. Here, he could indulge in a little light shoplifting …*

  while his friend learned how to cope with people treading on his toes and being pushed and shoved by shoppers, weighed down with large carrier bags.

  So far OC hadn’t felt his head seize once, although it was a near run thing when they set off the alarm at Debenhams.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Cash smiled charmingly, not the slightest bit concerned about the expensive t-shirt that lay concealed under the cover of his chair. ‘It’s my wretched chair – the electronics,’ he explained. ‘I expect I was pressing a button as we passed by.’

  The security guard gave an embarrassed grin. ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you. It does happen occasionally,’ and promptly turned off the alarm.

  They even went to the zoo.

  OC pushed open the back door and walked in. A year ago he might have felt concerned about walking into a strange house, but the downstairs of the Harris home had by now become almost as familiar as his own.