Bug Eyed Monsters

by Jean Ure

  Contents

  One A Staffroom Full of Aliens

  Two Asking About Aliens

  Three Red Eye

  Four Blop

  Five Not a Normal Human

  Six Close Encounter

  Seven If Not… Then Who?

  Eight Mr Smith Gets His Chips

  Back ads

  Chapter One

  A Staffroom Full of Aliens

  ‘Pass it on… Mr Snitcher isn’t human!’

  ‘Pst! Mr Snitcher isn’t human!’

  ‘Mr Snitcher… he’s not human!’

  Nobody ever knew where the rumour first came from. Harry heard it from his best friend, Joe Fredericks. Joe heard it from Andy Bicknell, standing in the lunch queue. Andy got it from his cousin, who got it from a boy in Year 7, who got it from his brother, who was in Year 8. Andy didn’t say where the brother got it from. Not that it mattered. It was the second week of term, and people were ready for a good story.

  ‘Hear about the Snitch? He’s not human!’

  It wasn’t the first time there had been rumours of extra-terrestrials at St Bede’s. Back in Year 4, when Harry had just started, Joe had solemnly informed him that there were aliens on the teaching staff.

  ‘Dunno who, exactly, but we reckon there could be a whole nest of ‘em.’

  Looking at the teachers, Harry had been quite prepared to believe it. What a bunch! Any single one of them could have come from another planet.

  There was Mr Bulstrode, the science teacher, who spat when he got excited. Splattered huge distances, right from the front of the lab to the back. Baljit Singh had once taken an umbrella in with him.

  ‘Don’t want to get wet, sir!’

  Mr Bulstrode had stared up at the ceiling in surprise.

  ‘Have we sssprung a leak, then?’

  Baljit said, ‘No, sir,’ (dodging spit), ‘it’s just a precaution, sir.’

  ‘Strange boy,’ mused Mr Bulstrode.

  He thought Bal was strange? How about Mrs Jellaby, the art mistress, otherwise known as Mrs Jellybaby? Mrs Jellybaby looked like a jellybaby. She was immensely round, and soft, and squishy, and so strung about with great ropes of beads and bangles that when she went shopping she had to use the supermarket trolley to take some of the weight.

  Fact! She had been seen, walking the aisles of the local Tesco, with her great jangling necklaces resting on top of a bunch of toilet rolls.

  ‘Reckon she’d have overbalanced, otherwise!’

  Then there was Mr O’Hooligan, the PE teacher, who slept upside down every night, hanging off his bedroom door like a bat.

  Also fact. Piers Allan, in Year 7, swore to it. Piers had actually been climbing up the drainpipe at the time, trying to sneak back into his dorm before anyone discovered he was missing, and had just happened to stop on the way and peer in at Mr O’Hooligan’s window.

  ‘Upside down, he was, like a bat!’

  And how about Mr McNutter, the woodwork teacher, who stuck pencils in his ear and then forgot about them? Or Monsieur Tittinbot, who taught French and had a glass eye, which sometimes fell out when he grew agitated? Once when it fell out it had rolled across the floor, and Monsieur Tittinbot had screamed at the boys not to trample on it.

  ‘Attention, attention! Beware of the eye!’

  Even the Head, Dr Dredge, a long thin man like a length of rubber tubing, was not above suspicion. Dr Dredge was so very long, and so very bendy, that he was able to twist his arms and legs into strange knots, all tangled up together, so that he looked as if he were made of elastic.

  Furthermore, he could bend his thumbs back until they touched his wrists. He did this frequently, sitting there in morning assembly, in front of the whole school, bending his thumbs and twisting his legs, winding them round like strings of spaghetti.

  What normal human being could do that?

  Joe had a theory – Joe had theories about everything – that the entire staff was probably made up of extra-terrestrials, with Dr Dredge at the head.

  ‘He’ll be the mastermind… the one behind it all. World domination,’ said Joe, darkly. ‘That’s what they’re after.’

  Rumours came, and rumours went. As one died down, another started up.

  The next one, Harry remembered, had been about Mr Potts.

  ‘Hey! Guess what?’

  Poor old Pudgy Potts had been abducted by aliens! They had come, and they had taken him.

  Without a shadow of a doubt, Mr Potts had disappeared. There one day, gone the next. The official explanation was a nervous breakdown.

  ‘Caused, I do not doubt,’ spat Mr Bulstrode, ‘by the loutish behaviour of some of you boys. Baljit Ssssingh, why are you holding a book over your head?’

  ‘Just taking cover, sir,’ said Bal. ‘Sir, are you absolutely certain, sir, that Mr Potts has had a breakdown?’

  ‘What elsssse,’ hissed Mr Bulstrode, ‘would you ssssuggest?’

  ‘We thought he might have been abducted by aliens, sir.’

  ‘A likely tale!’ scoffed Mr Bulstrode.

  Well, it wasn’t very likely, of course. No one really took it seriously.

  Still, it was funny how the rumours persisted. Aliens on the staff – teachers being abducted – Mr Snitcher not being human.

  ‘Word! The Snitch ain’t human!’

  Rumours didn’t come from nowhere.

  Joe still reckoned that Mr Snitcher wasn’t the only one. ‘I reckon there’s hordes of ‘em!’

  The others weren’t so sure. It was a nice idea, but… why choose St Bede’s?

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Joe, ‘a school’s exactly what they would choose. Plant a few aliens in with the teachers, who’d know the difference?’

  ‘Should have thought they’d go for somewhere a bit more important,’ said Bal. Bal had a bit of a tendency to argue. ‘Like the Houses of Parliament, or somewhere.’

  ‘Parliament’s probably already full of ‘em,’ said Joe. ‘Whole country’s probably overrun by now.’

  It was only a game, of course. They all accepted that; even Joe. Nobody really believed the country was overrun by aliens. The Houses of Parliament, maybe; but the whole country? That was felt to be pushing it.

  On the other hand, Mr Snitcher not being human… well! That was a different matter. That really might be true. As Ryan said, he certainly didn’t look human. What he looked like, more than anything, was an alien trying to blend in and not quite succeeding.

  What human being ever had a body that was so thin and twiglike? So covered in knobbly bits? With a face that was so froglike, and eyes that were so bulgy?

  ‘Bug eyes,’ said Joe. ‘Sure sign.’

  As for his ears…! They flapped on either side of his head like giant pancakes in the breeze. Sometimes, when he was taking class, he would pull one of his ears forward so that it almost wrapped round his cheek.

  ‘Antennae,’ said Joe, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Needs ‘em for picking up extra-terrestrial signals.’

  But then there was his name: Snitcher. Would an alien really choose a name like that?

  Joe, as always, had a theory. He said it was precisely the sort of name an alien would choose.

  ‘Obviously he liked the sound of it… obviously appeals to an alien ear.’

  They considered it, the four of them, as they lay in bed in the dormitory after lights out.

  ‘You don’t reckon,’ said Bal, at last, ‘that he’d go for something a bit more ordinary, like Smith or something?’

  ‘Nah!’ Joe dismissed the suggestion with an airy wave of the hand. ‘Dead give-away. Anyone calls themselves Smith, you know at once it’s not their real name.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘My auntie’s called Smith,’ said Ryan.

 
‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your auntie an alien?’

  Carefully, Ryan said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ Joe lay down, with a satisfied thump. ‘That proves it!’

  No one was quite certain exactly what it was that had been proved, but you didn’t argue with Joe. He had an answer for everything.

  ‘Guess we could always try asking the Fish,’ said Harry.

  ‘Ask the Fish? What for?’ Joe shot back up again, immediately suspicious. Was Harry daring to question him? ‘I already told you, Smith’s what people choose when they want an alias.’

  ‘Alien alias,’ said Bal. He chortled. ‘Hey, that’s really difficult to say! Alienaylias. Ali– ’

  ‘Do you mind?’ said Joe.

  ‘I was just saying! Alienaylias. Ali– ’

  ‘Thought we could pick his brains,’ said Harry.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About how you might recognise one. An alien, that is.’

  The Fish would know, if anyone did. He was acknowledged to be an expert on extra-terrestrials. Anything to do with alien life forms. Space ships, unidentified flying objects, inter-galactic missiles.

  Last year, when poor old Pudgy had disappeared, the Fish had even made the headlines in the local paper, the Uxenholme Times:

  UFO OVER

  UXENHOLME

  Last night, whilst the good folk of Uxenholme lay asleep in their beds, an alien spaceship landed at the top of Bunkers Hill.

  That, at any rate, is the claim made by Mr Clarence Trout, 45, maths teacher at St Bede’s prep school.

  ‘I was out taking a late night stroll,’ says Mr Trout (affectionately known to his boys as Fish), ‘when I saw this strange light appear in the sky. It was bright green, and quite blinding.

  ‘After a while, I became aware that some kind of craft had landed. I couldn’t make out the shape of it, but I distinctly saw a curtain of light dissolve to give access to the interior of the ship. As I watched, I beheld one figure go in, and another figure come out.

  ‘Whether the figure that went in was human or alien, man or woman, whether it was abducted or went of its own free will, I am unable to say. I only report what I saw - and what I saw was very clear.’

  The good Mr Trout can offer no explanation, but as a long-time believer in the existence of visitors from outer space he is not particularly surprised. When asked, ‘Why Uxenholme?’ his reply is short and to the point: ‘Why not?’

  All we can say is, why not, indeed! We look forward to future visitations.

  That was when the rumour had started about Mr Potts having been abducted. Dr Dredge had not been pleased. Indeed, he had been heard to complain that the school had been made a laughing stock. The Fish was certainly a laughing stock, especially in the staff room.

  ‘Poor old Trout and his little green men!’

  ‘Dunno why we need his help,’ said Joe, jealously. You only had to look at Mr Snitcher to see he wasn’t human. Why bring a teacher into it?

  ‘No, Harry’s right, let’s ask the Fish!’ Ryan sat up. ‘I just remembered – he’s threatening a maths test tomorrow!’

  ‘Ah…’

  A quivering sigh ran round the dorm. Anything rather than a maths test!

  ‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll do it!’

  Chapter Two

  Asking About Aliens

  Mr Trout was happy: he was going to give Year 6 a maths test. Mr Trout enjoyed giving maths tests. It meant that while the boys were wrestling with problems – how many gallons of water would it take to fill a leaky tank? How many rolls of wallpaper would be needed to paper a room of a certain size? – Mr Trout could sit back and dream about UFOs.

  Mr Trout spent most of his day dreaming about UFOs. Ones that he had seen, ones that other people had seen: ones that he had heard about, ones that he had read about. Unidentified flying objects were fast taking over Mr Trout’s life. He knew they existed; why didn’t anyone believe him?

  Year 6 came surging into class, clattering and banging and making loud honking noises which passed for human speech. Mr Trout reflected, not for the first time, that teaching Year 6 was like teaching a horde of animals.

  ‘Boys!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Settle down! Andrew Bicknell, what are you eating? Whatever it is, kindly swallow it at once. Ryan Daley, I saw what you just did!’

  Ryan looked hurt. ‘Me, sir? I didn’t do anything, sir.’

  ‘I distinctly saw you punch another boy!’

  ‘It was only Bal, sir. We punch each other all the time.’

  A zoo, thought Mr Trout, bitterly. He was teaching in a zoo. The sooner they got started on their maths test, the better.

  ‘Baljit Singh,’ he said, ‘just because you have been punched it does not mean that you have to punch back. Sit, the pair of you. Everyone! Just be silent. Your behaviour appals me! I dread to think what a superior race of beings would make of you all. A very poor advertisement for humanity! Now, open your text books, please, at page 120. Questions 1 to – ’

  ‘Sir, sir!’ Joe was windmilling with both arms.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Trout. He tried not to lose patience with the boys, but they really could be extraordinarily tiresome.

  ‘Sir, when you talk about superior beings, sir, do you mean aliens, sir?’

  ‘You may choose to call them aliens,’ said Mr Trout. ‘Personally I prefer to use the term extra-terrestrials. Now – ’

  ‘Do you really believe they exist, sir?’

  ‘You know that I do,’ said Mr Trout, simply. ‘Now, if you – ’

  ‘Sir, what do you think they look like, sir?’

  ‘They wouldn’t look like us, would they, sir?’

  ‘D’you reckon they’d have bug eyes, sir?’

  ‘Do you reckon, sir?’

  ‘That would very much depend,’ said Mr Trout, ‘on which planet they came from. What the conditions were. What sort of atmosphere.’

  ‘But they would look different from us, sir, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I would say that is a fair assumption. Now, if you would kindly open your b— ’

  ‘So, if they look different from us, sir, how come we don’t notice them? I mean, if they’re here with us, sir?’

  ‘Are they here with us, sir?’

  ‘Sir, are they?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well…’ Mr Trout cleared his throat. Eighteen pairs of eyes fixed themselves anxiously upon him. For a moment Mr Trout seemed undecided. His hand still lingered over Key Stage 2 Mathematics. Then slowly, very slowly, he sank down on the edge of his desk. Year 6 breathed a sigh of happy relief.

  ‘That,’ said Mr Trout, ‘is a good question. Are they actually here with us?’

  Year 6 waited, expectantly.

  ‘My own feelings,’ said Mr Trout, ‘for what they are worth – ’ He paused, and knitted his fingers together. ‘My own feelings are that we do indeed have extra-terrestrials amongst us. How many, of course, one cannot begin to speculate. But I would imagine a fair number.’

  ‘In that case, sir – sir!’ Ryan waved his hand like a flag. ‘How come we don’t recognise them, sir?’

  Joe was quick with the answer: ‘They’d use cloaking devices, wouldn’t they, sir?’

  ‘That is a distinct possibility,’ agreed Mr Trout.

  ‘Cos their technology would be way beyond ours, wouldn’t it, sir?’

  ‘It would, indeed! Way beyond.’

  ‘What would a cloaking device look like, do you think, sir? Would it be like a little black box, kind of thing?’

  ‘Strapped on their belt, or something?’

  ‘It could be.’ Mr Trout nodded. ‘It could well be.’

  ‘So that’d mean they could just press a button and – whoosh! Change in an instant.’

  ‘And when they’d had enough – ’ Bal rocketed up out of his desk – ‘they could just press it again and go back to being monsters! Now I’m a human, now I’m a monster! Now I’m a hum
an – ’

  It was all Year 6 needed. Within seconds, the entire room was on its feet, pressing buttons and turning into monsters. All the monsters honked and grunted and fell about, coarsely laughing, amongst the desks.

  That, reflected Mr Trout wearily, was the trouble with boys. You tried to discuss something intelligent with them and they just grew over-excited and silly.

  Mr Trout reached for his ruler and rapped, loudly.

  ‘Enough! Be seated!’

  Honking and panting, Year 6 clattered jubilantly back to their desks.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Trout. ‘Let us get on! Kindly take out your – ’

  ‘Sir!’ Harry’s hand was up in the air. ‘D’you reckon that’s how it would work, sir? They could make themselves look just like us?’

  ‘As to that,’ said Mr Trout, ‘I really could not say for certain. We have no knowledge of how these devices might function. Now if you would just – ’

  ‘Could work on batteries, sir. Have to be recharged.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Joe liked that idea. ‘Then if they couldn’t recharge ‘em in time, bits of their real selves would start showing through. Fangs, and claws, and stuff.’

  ‘Cos otherwise, how would you ever be able to recognise them, sir?’

  ‘One has to face the possibility,’ said Mr Trout, ‘that we are not able to recognise them. Now, if you would j— ’

  ‘Are you saying, sir – ’ Bal sounded incredulous – ‘there could be loads of ‘em just walking around all over the place and nobody knowing?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Mr Trout. He smiled and laced his fingers together. That would give them something to think about!

  ‘I dunno.’ Joe sounded doubtful. ‘I reckon sooner or later they’d give themselves away. People always do.’

  ‘Yeah,’ cried Ryan, ‘’cept these ain’t people!’

  ‘Aren’t people,’ said Mr Trout.

  ‘’s what I’m saying, sir. They ain’t human!’

  Mr Trout raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Sir!’ Bal’s hand was back up. ‘What d’you think they’re doing here, sir? D’you reckon they want to take over, sir?’

  ‘World domination!’ shouted Joe.

  ‘D’you reckon, sir?’