Little Badman and the Invasion of the Killer Aunties

by Humza Arshad

  ‘Exactly!’ said Grandpa. ‘Perfect disguise. And, once you are big and fat and round enough, aliens climb in and take over. Drive you, like a car.’

  ‘But why the school?’ said Wendy. ‘Why are they working so hard to fatten up a bunch of kids?’

  ‘Next phase of invasion,’ whispered Grandpa. ‘Slug babies …’

  We all stood in silence, taking it in. I mean, what can you say to something like that? One by one, they were converting us into walking slug nurseries.

  ‘Right,’ came an irritable voice from nearby. ‘Get in the car. We’re taking you lot home.’

  The police officers were looking pretty annoyed at this point.

  ‘Can we just have five more minutes?’ I begged.

  ‘What? No!’ snapped the policeman. ‘Of course you bloody can’t. Now get in the car.’

  But then he stopped and looked around. A puzzled expression fell across his face.

  ‘Where’s the old fella?’ he asked.

  We all turned to look. Apparently, it wasn’t just coins he was good with.

  Grandpa had vanished.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The New Canteen

  Things my dad is angry about:

  No. 1:

  Me getting an official caution from the police. Especially as they had a massive go at him for setting a bad example. Yeah, we all know he makes stuff up a lot, but we also know not to challenge him on it. He did not like the cops calling him a liar one bit. He was raging when they left.

  No. 2:

  Me running away from the travel agent’s that afternoon. Dad was furious about this one. He shouted at me for twenty minutes about that alone. He even showed me the tickets he’d booked for next month to Pakistan. One way. In my name … As soon as school was done, I was gone.

  No. 3:

  Me costing him that cricket game. Yup, that came back up again during the shouting. It had really hurt his pride. I was a bit surprised how much of his self-respect was based on that coach Siddiki guy and a cricket game from thirty years ago. Why was he putting that on me?

  No. 4:

  Mum not being as angry with me as he was. He couldn’t get his head round why she was feeding me snacks and being nice to me while he had to keep his hands jammed in his pockets just to keep from tearing my ears off. There was no point explaining to him that this thing wasn’t actually my mum and that the creature he’d been watching telly next to every night was really a big green alien slug. It would have just made him angrier.

  No. 5 (and this is the big one):

  We wouldn’t know it until we arrived at school the next morning, but the aunties were about to make Dad angrier than ever before. They were going to take away from him the one little thing that had been keeping him sane. The aunties had reached a decision …

  ‘WHAT?!??!’ came an earth-shaking cry from somewhere in the depths of the school.

  The windows rattled and a board-marker rolled off Auntie Uzma’s desk and on to the floor.

  ‘Uh … is it just me …’ said Umer, leaning over, ‘… or does that sound a lot like your dad?’

  ‘It sounds exactly like my dad,’ I replied, trying to figure out what else could possibly have gone wrong.

  Moments later we heard a further commotion coming from the playground. The whole class looked out the window to see my dad being escorted off the premises by a gang of aunties.

  ‘Do not touch me!’ he shouted. ‘This is unacceptable! You cannot do this!’

  ‘I wonder what they did to make him so angry?’ said Wendy.

  ‘He’s always angry,’ I replied. ‘He does this if you put the heating on before November.’

  But somehow I knew this was bigger. This was something that had genuinely upset him. He looked like he might cry or bite someone.

  ‘Cricket …’ I said. ‘It’s got to be the cricket. They must have fired him or something.’

  ‘Wow …’ said Wendy, as she watched my father attacking the school gates with a tree branch. ‘Your dad must really like cricket.’

  ‘Miss,’ I said, turning to the front of the room. ‘I mean, Auntie?’

  ‘What is it, Humza?’ said Auntie Uzma, looking up from the cake she was decorating.

  ‘Has anything happened with the cricket team?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, smiling. ‘It’s very good news. All the school sports have been suspended to make way for the new canteen.’

  ‘New canteen?’ said Wendy.

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Auntie Uzma. ‘A brand-new, multi-storey, state-of-the-art school canteen! It will be so big and so efficient we will be able to ship in children from every school in the area and feed them to bursting!’

  ‘What does that have to do with cricket?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Auntie Uzma, ‘it has to go somewhere, doesn’t it? So where better than the horrible old playing field! All that exercise was making you all look so skinny and ill.’

  ‘The playing field?’ said Wendy. ‘You’re getting rid of the entire playing field? You can’t do that!’

  ‘It’s already done,’ said Auntie Uzma, smiling broadly. ‘See?’

  She pointed out of the far window, past the tarmac area of the playground, towards where the playing field had always been. But there was no playing field any more. No grass, no goals, no kids doing sport. Just a huge, brand-new, state-of-theart canteen.

  ‘It’s impossible …’ said Wendy, removing her glasses, as though they might be the problem.

  There had been no construction work, no builders, no lorries – nothing at all. Yesterday it was the playing field, today it was a shiny glass building, as tall as the school. It was like it had appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘The ship!’ All three of us gasped at once – though not quite loud enough to be heard by Auntie Uzma.

  It had to be. There was no other explanation. They’d parked their ship right here in the school and disguised it again to fit in with its surroundings.

  ‘But you are not to go in there until the night of the grand opening,’ said Auntie Uzma in a stern tone. ‘There is still work going on inside and it is dangerous for children.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ whispered Wendy.

  ‘When is that, miss? The grand opening,’ I asked.

  ‘Why, the night of the talent show – tomorrow!’ she answered with a grin. ‘No more dingy old assembly hall for us! We shall be holding the entire event in our beautiful new canteen.’

  ‘We’re having the talent show inside that thing?’ I said, trying not to sound concerned.

  ‘Won’t it be wonderful!’ said Auntie Uzma, glowing.

  Umer, Wendy and I exchanged a worried look.

  ‘And don’t forget: attendance is compulsory,’ she added. ‘Now, who would like a slice of cake?’

  ‘Did you hear her?’ said Wendy, the moment we were alone at break. ‘Attendance is compulsory! They’re planning to turn us all at once!’

  ‘I don’t want to be a slug person!’ cried Umer.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Wendy. ‘How are we going to stop them?’

  They were both looking at me like I had the answer.

  Luckily, I did.

  ‘With the track,’ I replied in a voice that sounded calmer than I felt. ‘There’s still one copy left and we’re gonna get it. If attendance is compulsory for us, you can bet every last one of them’s gonna be there too. So that’s when we hit back.’

  ‘You mean …’ said Umer.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said with a nod, ‘… we’re entering the talent show.’

  And that was it. We had a plan. And it wasn’t just any plan – it was a last-ditch, no-room-for-error, fail-and-we-die kind of plan. If it went wrong this time, they won. More schools would get taken over. More aunties, more teachers, more kids – all becoming slug people. First Eggington, then England, then the world. We had to stop them. We couldn’t fail.

  But there wasn’t much time to get organized. We’d have to get
on it, fast! We found the sign-up sheet for the talent show pinned to the notice board, exactly where Mr T had left it. There was a single blank box left at the bottom; room for one more entry. I took up the pen that was dangling beside it and signed my name.

  ‘Here you go, Umer,’ I said, holding it out towards him.

  ‘Me?’ he replied. ‘Are you sure? I only have to hit PLAY. You’re the one up on stage.’

  ‘I can’t do it without you, man,’ I told him.

  Umer smiled and took the pen. He carefully added his name beside mine.

  ‘You too, Wendy,’ I said, nodding at the pen in Umer’s hand.

  ‘What?’ she replied. ‘It’s not my song.’

  ‘If this works,’ I said, ‘it’s only because we did it together.’

  Umer held out the pen towards her, a goofy grin on his face. Wendy looked at the pen for a moment. Then, smiling back at us, took it and signed her name.

  ‘Right,’ I said, turning towards the music room. ‘Now for the track …’

  Inside Mrs Jahib’s classroom, three dozen chubby-looking Year Twos were digging into the centre of a massive sticky toffee pudding.

  They’d help themselves to a spoonful, then, while they chewed, pick up a triangle and ding it once, before returning to the pudding. This wasn’t a music lesson – it was a joke! The aunties weren’t even pretending to teach us any more. And check out all the tummies in there! I doubted there was a single stomach left in the school that wouldn’t make a nice studio flat for an alien slug. This had to end, now!

  ‘Do you need me to dress up as a ghost again?’ asked Umer.

  ‘Not this time,’ I told him. ‘The way I see it, Mr T said the memory stick’s ours. So we’re taking it.’

  I turned the handle and marched into Mrs Jahib’s class. She looked up, startled.

  ‘You again!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I walked straight to Mr T’s desk and pulled open the drawer. There it was: the little white plastic memory stick he used for backups. I grabbed it before Mrs Jahib could even see what it was.

  ‘What have you got there?’ she demanded.

  ‘Fudge,’ I said, spinning round to face her. ‘Mr Turnbull’s delicious homemade fudge. He always hides it there.’

  There was a moment’s pause as she considered this. Then a big smile spread across her face.

  ‘Oh, you cheeky kiddies and your sweets!’ she said, beaming. ‘You go ahead and eat your treat. And help yourself to a spoonful of sticky toffee pudding too, there’s enough to go around.’

  ‘Nah, you’re good,’ I replied, and walked out without another word.

  Umer and Wendy ran after me.

  ‘Wow, that was easy,’ said Umer, once we were back in the hall.

  ‘I ain’t messing around no more,’ I replied. ‘For a super-advanced race of evil masterminds, these aliens are pretty stupid when it comes to food. Just tell ’em what they want to hear.’

  ‘So now what?’ said Wendy.

  ‘Do you have something we can play this on?’

  ‘We could use my laptop,’ she replied. ‘It’s at home.’

  Linda Wang opened the door with a blue face pack on. She looked surprised to see us (though I guess that could have just been because she was blue).

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Linda Wang, ‘you three again. I don’t want any more trouble from the police!’

  ‘They’re just here to use my computer,’ replied Wendy, marching past her and into the house.

  ‘Thanks for coming to rescue Grandpa last night, Linda Wang,’ I said, as I wiped my feet.

  ‘Where is that old man now?’ she asked. ‘He looks like he should be in a care home.’

  ‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘He ran away from the police and we ain’t seen him since. He’ll be OK, I reckon. He’s pretty smart, for an old guy.’

  But, the truth was, I wasn’t sure at all. Those aunties were everywhere and they’d be looking for him. He couldn’t go home to his own house, that was for sure. Auntie Uzma would have him re-abducted before he could even get his slippers on.

  We raced upstairs to Wendy’s room, and she was opening the memory stick before I could even sit down.

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ she said, ‘“Badman Demo Clean”.’

  ‘That’s it! That’s the one!’ I yelled.

  ‘Why does it say “Clean”?’ asked Umer, leaning in.

  ‘Hmm …’ said Wendy, opening the file. ‘Hold up a minute …’

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m just …’ she replied, looking through the stacks of coloured bars that made up the track. ‘There’s bits missing. It’s not all there. It’s not like the last one.’

  ‘Play it,’ I told her.

  Wendy hit PLAY and the familiar bass kicked in. It sounded all right so far. Then it just kept going. I waited for my first lines to start, but they never came.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Umer, looking puzzled.

  ‘There are no vocals,’ said Wendy and I at the same time.

  ‘He must have removed them for you, like I did,’ added Wendy.

  ‘You kept saying you wanted to replace them,’ said Umer. ‘I guess he listened.’

  ‘Right, OK, so we just need to record some more then, yeah?’ I said.

  ‘How?’ replied Wendy. ‘I don’t have a microphone. Where did you do it last time?’

  ‘School. Mr T set it up in the music room.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think Mrs Jahib’s going to help us with that,’ added Umer.

  Everyone was quiet for a time. I knew they were both thinking the same thing. There weren’t really any other options.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ said Wendy. ‘Live?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Umer. ‘After … last time?’

  ‘What choice do we have?’

  ‘But it’s our only shot,’ said Wendy. ‘If it was too much pressure before, this time it’s going to be even worse! What if it goes wrong again? What if you –’

  ‘I can do it,’ I told her. ‘It’s different this time.’ And I truly hoped it was. Because Wendy was right: this was our one shot to pull this off. This wasn’t about whether I was gonna be famous or not. This wasn’t about me at all. This was about the end of the world.

  It was a couple of hours later when I slid my house key into the door. I thought, if I was quiet enough, maybe I could just sneak upstairs to bed. Mum wouldn’t care where I’d been, as long as I’d eaten. I wasn’t keen on running into Dad though, especially after everything with the cricket team. He’d still be fuming.

  I turned the key as quietly as I could and slipped inside. The smell of cooking was stronger than ever. I could hear Mum bashing pots and pans in the kitchen. Dad was nowhere to be seen.

  I tiptoed up the stairs, trying not to make a sound. My only plan was to get into bed and practise my lyrics again and again. I had to get it right this time. I had to lock it down. No sign of Dad on the landing. His door was open but his bed was empty. He must be out. More confidently now, I walked across the hall and into my room.

  He was sitting there on my bed, looking at his feet. He had a cricket ball in his hands and was turning it slowly in his fingers.

  ‘Oh … hey, Dad,’ I said, nearly jumping out of my skin.

  ‘You have heard?’ he said.

  ‘About cricket?’

  ‘It is over. Cancelled,’ he replied, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I know how much you were enjoying it.’

  ‘I asked you to do one thing for me,’ he said, looking up. ‘I asked you to play cricket and win. How is that so hard?’

  ‘Dad …’ I began, but he kept going.

  ‘When I was your age, all I wanted to do was play cricket. I wish my father had wanted to play cricket with me.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Dad, but it ain’t me. I don’t love cricket like you do.’

  ‘You will!’ he said, st
anding up.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You will keep practising. With me. Every day. And when you are ready we will beat that dog Siddiki and his worthless team of goats. You and me!’

  ‘What, me and you against a whole cricket team? What are you talking about?’

  ‘When I was your age, I thrashed eleven professional cricket players single-handedly at Gaddafi Stadium!’

  ‘Dad! Stop!’ I snapped. ‘You didn’t! No one’s ever done that!’

  ‘How dare you!’ he shouted.

  ‘Why you gotta do this all the time, man?’

  ‘Right! That is it! You are grounded! You are not to leave this room!’ he yelled, storming past me towards the door.

  ‘What? You can’t lock me in here – I’ve got school!’

  ‘No more school! Your uncle in Karachi is very eager to give you proper Pakistani education.’

  ‘You can’t do this! I need to go in tomorrow! I’ve got to do the talent show!’

  ‘Talent show? Ha! There will be no talent show for you. You are finished at that school!’

  ‘Dad!’ I shouted, but it was too late.

  He slammed the door shut. I heard the lock click. I tugged the handle with all my strength, but it was no good. I was trapped. A prisoner in my own house. And tomorrow, without me there, the aunties would finish everybody.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Grounded

  I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep at all that night, but I must have drifted off, because all of a sudden I woke with a start. Something was banging on my window.

  ‘Humza! Open up!’ came a familiar voice.

  ‘Grandpa?’ I whispered, a little too loudly.

  Shh! he mouthed, from the other side of the glass. Let me in.

  I jumped up and ran over, careful not to knock him off the roof as I pushed open the window.

  ‘Grandpa, are you OK? What happened? You just vanished!’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he reassured me. ‘I went for help.’

  ‘Help? Who’s gonna help us? It’s a miracle you didn’t get arrested last time.’