Eye-burning lights
Blood pressure lie detector
Nervy-looking Mrs Hubert
What I hadn’t expected to see was that the huge whiteboard normally used for dull maths equations or chemical formulas now held various photos of pupils in two columns.
‘SUSPECTS’ and ‘NOT THEM’.
When the police do this for a big murder investigation or something, the photos of the criminal suspects are mugshots and look really mean and scary. Mr Harris’s board, full of smiling kids’ faces from their annual school photos, didn’t have quite the same effect. The FBI doesn’t issue wanted posters with Cody Vincent from 5b’s gap-toothed, smiling face in his school tie and blazer.
More worryingly, the interrogation chamber also contained a detailed satellite map of our town on the wall with pins in it. Red pins and blue pins in various back gardens. It didn’t take me long to work out that a blue pin marked a house with a shed. So now we had a shed hunt and a manhunt.
I was trying to find my house when Mr Harris sauntered in, whistling.
He seemed very casual. Was this a ruse? Some mind trick he’d heard the Germans did in the war?
‘This won’t take long for you, Spike. Same with your fellow AV Club spods.’
There was something about the way he patronisingly said ‘AV Club’: as if it was a joke. Well, Fish Face, I don’t see any joke in studying the multidisciplines of sound and vision.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he continued. ‘I know it can’t be you lot.’
There he went again. ‘You lot’, as if we were barely functioning, spineless bags of organs. I was relieved but annoyed at the same time: almost tempted to confess just to see the surprised look on his face.
Mr Harris chuckled to himself at the very thought that we could build a station in a shed, get equipment, plan a show, carry it off and motivate everyone to strike.
‘I mean, your mum would never let such a thing happen, would she?’ he went on as I sat there, silent. ‘And you a mummy’s boy if ever I saw one, eh? He he he he.’
More snorting. I don’t think I could’ve hated him any more.
‘No, you’re only in here so I can fire a few names at you. Remember, I’ll give you the rest of your time here off homework if I can find out who this idiot Radio Boy is. No one needs to know you told me – it can be a special secret we share.’ The thought of sharing anything with Fish Face made me feel a bit sick.
‘No idea, Mr Harris,’ I said. ‘Trust me, if I knew, I would say.’
‘Guessed as much. Right, better chat to the others, Arnie and Dolly.’
‘Artie and Holly, sir.’
‘Exactly.’
I left his office/interrogation chamber and winked as I walked towards Artie and Holly. Artie looked terrified, Holly chilled. Their prison warden escorts had left them alone. Neither of them really met my eye though.
‘Easy!’ I said. ‘Apparently, we’re far too spineless to have done this. He just wants information. Be cool. He didn’t even get your names right.’
‘I’ve done counter-interrogation training with the cadets, so he won’t break me. Unless I decide I want to tell him,’ said Holly.
‘You won’t, will you?’ I said.
She rolled her eyes. Did that mean … obviously not? I wasn’t sure.
A horrible thought occurred to me. If Holly and Artie spilled the beans, our friendship would be over forever. I would officially have no friends. None at all.
At the end of school that day, I waited anxiously for them both outside the school gates. Our normal meeting spot. As everyone filed past, there was still only one thing being discussed: who was Radio Boy and how could they uncover him?
I couldn’t see Artie or Holly.
I sent them both texts:
No replies. Nothing.
Now I was getting really worried. I couldn’t help but imagine what kind of fresh interrogation torture they were undergoing. Was Artie being made to endure Abigail Dickins playing the recorder non-stop? The poor kid. Who could blame him if he gave me up?
And actually … were they … maybe … right?
That I had gone too far? I mean, kids being interrogated was not part of my plan.
I dragged myself home full of a thousand different concerns and no one to talk about them with. I got back and managed to pull myself together by bringing Sherlock up to speed with the day’s events. He listened intently while drooling as the story took its unexpected twist with my manhunt. After my debrief with Sherlock, I decided action was the best way forward, so I posted on our website and Facebook that there would be a special show that night. I needed to speak directly to my listeners, friends and enemies alike.
I needed to do what I’d told Holly and Artie I would do.
I needed to fix this.
Meanwhile …
What I didn’t know, as I spoke to Sherlock, was that Mr Harris had already received information that I was Radio Boy.
Remember Graham, the human gnome from my old hospital radio? The man whose studio I filled with stink bombs and who I got suspended after he almost caught us during the heist?
Turns out his grandson goes to my school. The gnome heard about Radio Boy and the Secret Shed Show, and put two and two together. He wasted no time in phoning up Mr Harris to turn me in.
But I was lucky.
Fish Face checked his satellite map and my address. And … he didn’t see the shed. Remember me telling you it was all grown over with bushes? Well, they were still there: Dad may have tidied the inside of the shed and the path, but the roof was still completely covered.
Seeing only shrubbery in our garden, Mr Harris ignored Graham the Gnome’s tip-off. Those dagger-like thorns turned out to be the thing that kept my identity secret … for the time being.
I was safe.
But not for long.
I had a plan to fix things, but I also had to do everything I possibly could to try to get Artie and Holly back for that night’s show.
I needed them.
Which meant I needed to talk to them. To apologise. They were the only friends I had and I’d let them down. I told Dad I was going to be doing a one-off exam revision radio show that night and we needed a cover story as Mum would be at home. He came up with a great idea and told Mum not to worry if she saw me heading to the shed as I was working on a very special present for her birthday.
But later, as I set off to find Artie and Holly, I saw that Dad had more pressing concerns. He was under some intense cross-examination from Mum. Mum made Mr Harris look an amateur at interrogation.
‘Can you tell me why several hundred pounds have been spent on eBay items?’ she said to him, brandishing a credit-card bill.
Sorry, Dad, forgot to tell you about that …
‘I … I … meant to speak to you about that,’ he said. ‘I …’
I could almost see my dad’s brain furiously scanning his database for an excuse. He picked a bad one.
‘I’ve been getting some second-hand equipment as I’ve been thinking about playing the drums again, you know, like in a band or something …’ he offered.
‘WHAT! AT YOUR AGE? AREN’T YOU TOO OLD FOR THAT?’
‘Well, no, actually—’
‘If it’s second-hand equipment, it will be LETHAL! Did I tell you about the poor boy on my ward who got electrocuted by his guitar? FRIED HIS HAND RIGHT OFF!’
‘What?’
‘All he has now is a small doll’s hand they had to attach to him.’
With Mum in full medical horror mode, I snuck out. But not before I saw Dad glaring at me. Yeah. I did mean to tell you about all that. Sorry again, Dad. Gotta go.
My bike had a flat tyre, so in desperation to get to Artie and Holly as quickly as I could, I had to borrow Mum’s. It was fluorescent pink so as to be visible at night (safety first always with Mum) and had a big wicker shopping basket on the front. The sight of a boy clearly on his mum’s bike, which was also too big for him, was making heads turn
as I sped out of Crow Crescent, the pedals a blur.
It didn’t take long to reach Artie’s house. I hurtled up the crunchy gravel driveway. I saw Holly’s bike outside. Great, they were both here.
I rang the bell at Gateaux Chateau: no answer.
I knew they were inside though, and I was pretty sure I saw Artie’s owl-like face appear, then quickly disappear, from the front-room window. They were avoiding me. This was all such a mess.
I pushed the huge letter box open and called through. ‘Artie, Holly, it’s Spike. Please let me in. I know you’re there. I need you two.’
Artie’s Jack Russell, Douglas, started his usual irritating habit of yapping non-stop.
I peered in through the letter box again.
Me: Hey it’s me, come on.
Stupid Dog: YAP YAP YAP YAP.
Me, louder: HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN FRIENDS?
Stupid Dog, getting even louder too: YAP YAP YAP.
Me, yelling now: YOU ARE MY BEST FRIENDS, PLEASE—
But at this point, not content with ruining my apology with his awful high-pitched yapping, Douglas, the world’s most irritating dog, took a huge chunk out of my left hand, which had been propping the letter box open.
‘ARGGGHHHH!’ I cried out. Not even this, my cry of genuine agony, brought either of my friends out to see if I was OK or bleeding to death.
Then Holly broke the silence from an upstairs window that suddenly opened.
‘I hope he hurt you! Might bite some sense into you. It’s all about you. Not about us. I told you to back off Mr Harris and—’
‘I know, I’m so—’
‘What about us, Spike? We could be expelled thanks to your BIG HEAD and your dumb strike. We never wanted the show to be secret in the first place. That was YOUR STUPID IDEA.’
The window slammed shut.
I shouted up.
‘PLEASE, I’M SORRY! I NEED YOU. JUST ONE MORE SHOW. TONIGHT. I’M GOING TO MAKE IT ALL RIGHT.’
Then Artie started blasting his music at full volume to drown me out. I stood no chance. His speakers were the size of my dad.
As ever, Artie let his music do the talking. He was playing Ugly Kid Joe’s ‘Everything About You’, which if you’re not familiar with the lyrics basically goes ‘I hate everything about you’ about three thousand times.
Subtle, Artie, subtle.
I reached into my backpack, found a pen and paper and wrote a note:
I was halfway through putting it through the letter box when Douglas grabbed it from my hand and began eating it. Could the day get any worse?
Yes.
It really could.
Meanwhile …
What I didn’t know then, and only found out later, was that Mr Harris was getting another tip-off.
And this one he didn’t disregard.
Guess who it came from?
Yes, that’s right – the one person who could BREAK MY HEART by turning me in.
The tip-off came from …
Katherine Hamilton. The girl I wanted to marry.
What happened was this: while Holly was being interrogated by Mr Harris, she left her phone back in the classroom.
Katherine Hamilton took it home, thinking that she would give it to Holly the next day. At least that was her story later. Since she turned out to be such a SNAKE, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was just helping herself to it.
Anyway, she got home, and put Holly’s phone on the table while she made herself some kind of snake snack of mice or whatever witches eat.
Which is when the phone pinged with a message from me.
A message from me to Holly.
THE message in fact I’d sent, saying don’t give me up and that Radio Boy could fix this. Then, of course, she saw who the message was from.
Spike Hughes.
My once-future wife picked up her own phone and dialled the school office number. She didn’t even hesitate. She gave me up in a heartbeat, in exchange for no more homework.
But what about the overgrown foliage covering our shed?
Well.
Remember when my sister said that Katherine Hamilton had changed since I used to be friends with her in primary school?1
So this is how it went down; it will make your blood boil.
Mr Harris: Katherine, thank you for the information, but I’ve already ruled Spike Hughes out of the investigation. He doesn’t have a shed, you see.
Katherine Hamilton (the girl I will now never marry even at gunpoint): Oh no, Mr Harris, he does. It’s just really overgrown. There’s, like, brambles all over it.
Mr Harris: Really? How do you know?
Katherine Hamilton: I used to play round there all the time. It was like a joke in the family, how his dad left all these bushes to grow, and how they covered the shed. They called it the jungle.
Mr Harris, checking out his satellite map: Interesting, Katherine. Very interesting.
Me: Busted.
That night I could just sense Mum’s prying eyes behind her bedroom curtains, watching me as I made my way to the shed. In her mind, I’d be crafting, building and painting some amazing gift for her birthday. I would’ve felt guilty about the deception, or worried about what I was going to give her for her birthday, but I didn’t have time for that. I was on a mission to protect my identity and save the show.
Being in the shed without Artie and Holly felt really odd. I’d texted them again, saying what I was doing and that I needed them, but still nothing.
Focus, Spike, focus. I put my mind back on the job in hand. The only thing I could control right now was the Secret Shed Show. Secret for how much longer though?
I did my normal pre-show checks, like a pilot before take-off. This was the checklist Producer Holly had made for me; just seeing it made me a bit sad.
Turn on equipment
Turn on fan to keep equipment cool and us too
Check phone working
Log into our website
Check show messages, emails, texts, message board posts.
Reply to all of the messages
Check voice disguiser
Check headphone levels
Check microphone levels
Check song levels
Write notes on what I want to say
Check voice disguiser again
Check Sherlock has water in his bowl
Everything checked and done, I started the show. The song I’d chosen carefully to continue Artie’s great work: ‘Fight the Power’ by Public Enemy.
I opened the mic.
‘Radio Boy here. This is the Secret Shed Show.’
As I spoke, however, I realised I just didn’t feel like Radio Boy, the invisible superhero, any more. My superpowers were fading along with the listeners’ faith in me.
‘So, I guess we need to talk about today. Firstly, thanks for showing up for the strike. For a few minutes, we did something special. We had a voice, hundreds of us as ONE.’
I wanted the listeners to believe the strike had been worthwhile, despite the bounty on my head, and the now-looming threat of double homework for a year. But I wasn’t even sure I believed that myself any more. I was still hoping, however, that my listeners would stand by me.
I could see I had a call on the show mobile so I nervously took it straight on air. I had no idea what they were going to say.
‘Hi, Radio Boy here, you’re live on air. Who’s calling?’
‘No, Radio Boy, who are you?’ said the voice on the line. ‘We love this show and what you do, but we’ve all been dragged into Mr Harris’s pit of hell now to be interrogated, giving us nightmares for life, all so you can hide?’
‘Well … I …’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
I hung up and took another call.
‘Hello, who’s this? You’re live on the Secret Shed Show.’ I was hopeful this caller would be more on my side …
‘Hey, Radio Boy, tell me, why do you need it to be a secret who you really are? Chatting to m
y mates, we don’t care who you are; we love the show. Why do you need to hide? We need you to do the right thing for us. You said you were our friend.’
I hung up. Took another call.
‘Hello, line two, you’re live on the air,’ I lied. We didn’t have a line two, it just sounded good.
‘Radio Boy! This show is what gets me through the week, but you gotta tell them who you are or you’ll lose us all. I can’t hear Elvis or the girl in the background – have they quit?’
Maybe I had lost sight of why I’d done this show in the first place. It certainly seemed like I’d lost the listeners.
‘OK. Look, I …’
But whatever I was about to say was suddenly interrupted. The shed door shook violently.
Without any warning, it was then flung open with such force it was almost ripped off its hinges.
Right away Sherlock began barking at the crazed figure in the doorway. It was a masked madman yelling, ‘GOTCHA! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, RADIO BOY!’
LIVE ON AIR, a madman had just burst in through the shed door and yelled, ‘I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, RADIO BOY!’
A few things about this surprise development:
Round at Artie’s house I’d seen some action movies (unapproved by Mum) where mid-fight-scene the hero pauses mid-punch and tells you what he’s thinking. If I could have freeze-framed the scene before me as I sat there on my chair in the shed, here are a few things I would’ve noticed.
The madman was wearing a child’s woollen ski mask stretched tightly over his massive face.
The person doing the yelling wasn’t talking in a friendly ‘Hey! Look who’s here, it’s Radio Boy, have some pizza,’ kind of way. They seemed really, like, dangerously mad.
After the yelling, there was a familiar smell hanging like a stinky beef cloud in the shed.
But I didn’t have long to process any of this.
1.7 seconds later, following the madman’s sudden entrance, another hand was thrust in through the shed door. The hand then GRABBED the masked madman and YANKED him back out. The shed door slammed shut.
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