Charlie and the Karaoke Cockroaches

by Alan Brough

  I was confused.

  I worried about being so confused.

  I worried that I was the most confused person ever.

  Then I heard the noise.

  I stopped worrying about being confused and I started worrying about the noise.

  I wasn’t worried about worrying about the noise because I was completely right to be worrying about the noise.

  I was completely right to be worrying about the noise because it was the noise of someone trying to break into my house though the front door.

  29

  THE BREAK-IN

  No one had ever tried to break into my house before but I knew that what I was hearing was the sound of someone trying to break into my house.

  I knew all the night-time sounds my house made.

  Possums jumping onto our roof.

  Water pipes clunking.

  The floorboard outside the toilet that makes a high-pitched squeak like an old mouse struggling to start a mouse-sized lawnmower.

  I couldn’t hear any of that.

  I could only hear the noise of someone trying to break into my house.

  I had to call the police.

  I couldn’t call the police.

  We don’t have a home phone.

  Mum and Dad say they are old-fashioned.

  I do not have a mobile phone.

  If I wanted to call the police I would have to go and wake up Mum and Dad. Or sneak into their room, get one of their phones and call the police.

  I had never called the police before.

  They would probably need a lot of information about what was happening.

  How many burglars are there?

  Are they average height?

  Are they Caucasian? (I had no idea what Caucasian was, but whenever I read about burglars in the newspaper, a lot of burglars seemed to be it.)

  Were they wearing dark clothes?

  What were they last seen doing?

  To find out any of this information-the-police-would-probably-want-to-know, I would have to leave my bedroom, go downstairs to the front-door-that-was-being-broken-into and try to observe the burglar or burglars.

  I was not going to leave my bedroom.

  I was definitely not going to go downstairs.

  I was absolutely certainly not going to try to observe the burglar or burglars.

  I looked at my feet.

  They were moving.

  They were moving out of my bedroom.

  They were moving to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Stop moving,’ I told my feet.

  They ignored me. (Of course they ignored me. They couldn’t hear a word I was saying. They were feet. Feet don’t have ears.)

  My feet moved down the stairs.

  ‘Stop! I command you to stop!’ I said to my feet.

  They just kept on walking towards the sounds of the burglarising.

  My feet finally arrived at the sounds of the burglarising. Through the glass panel in the front door I could see a dark shape.

  One dark shape.

  There was only one person trying to break into my house.

  That made me feel better.

  Maybe I could take care of one burglar.

  (I wished the ‘take care’ that I would need to do to the burglar was the sort of ‘take care’ where you wrapped them up in a blanket, put on their favourite TV program and told them to drink lots of fluids, not the ‘take care’ where you wrapped them up in a fist, put on your favourite wrestling hold and made them drink lots of being unconscious.)

  Maybe I could capture him (or her; Hils would remind me that women can be burglars too) and become a hero.

  That made me feel better.

  Then the fact that an actual person was actually trying to break into my actual house made me feel really, very, super un-better.

  This burglar was clearly really good at being a burglar because they were doing it on their own. If I was going to do burglarising I would want someone to help me. I needed help with geography so I would certainly need help with burglary.

  As I wondered all this I was standing by my front door watching the shadowy outline of the burglar trying to do a burglary.

  I realised that I recognised the burglar’s shadowy outline.

  It looked a lot like the shadowy outline of a walking-mountain-man.

  My feet moved closer to the shadowy outline.

  It looked a lot like the shadowy outline of a walking-mountain-man because . . .

  IT WAS THE SHADOWY OUTLINE OF THE WALKING-MOUNTAIN-MAN.

  THE WALKING-MOUNTAIN-MAN WAS TRYING TO BREAK INTO MY HOUSE!

  This wouldn’t have been happening if I had only listened to Hils.

  30

  THE TRAPS

  Last year – not long after we had won the war against the grannies – Hils came to visit.

  Hils never comes to just ‘visit’.

  ‘You never come to just visit,’ I said to Hils as she walked in.

  ‘Let’s start upstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s start what upstairs?’

  ‘Your house is not secure,’ said Hils as she walked to the top of the stairs. ‘If our recent conflict with the grannies has taught us anything, it is that we must be more security-conscious.’

  Hils pointed up at the skylight.

  ‘Right there you should have an “Arr-arr-grr-owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww-ooo-ooo-pooouuuuuuurrrrrr!”’

  ‘A what? Where?’ I said.

  Hils was already downstairs looking out at the alcove where the gas meter is.

  ‘Here you’ll need a “No-no-no-fff-ff-ahhhhhh-hhhhhh-aaarrrrr-fuuuuuufff!”’

  ‘Hils, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  She’d moved again.

  ‘These two doors leading out to the patio present a major risk of incursion.’ (Army-talk = burglary.) ‘I would suggest a “Please-no-aaaiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee-eeeeeee-eeeee-ee-e-grrroooggggg!”’

  I had decided to stop asking what Hils was going on about. She would tell me when she was ready.

  I caught up with Hils. She was standing back by the front door.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ she said. ‘Here I think you will definitely need something very strong and simple, probably an “Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhh-no-no-not-again-aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”’

  ‘Hils, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Booby traps,’ said Hils. ‘I think you need to fit all the entrances to your house with booby traps. I have been developing a new range of booby traps. Each booby trap is named after what an enemy will yell out when they are caught in the booby trap.’

  ‘They all sound very horrible and painful.’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘How much will they cost?’

  ‘Peace of mind doesn’t come cheap,’ said Hils.

  ‘Does that mean your new booby traps cost a lot of money?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  I did not have a lot of money.

  I did not get the booby traps installed.

  Now I was being burglarised by a walking-mountain-man.

  A walking-mountain-man who had THREATENED TO RIP OFF ONE OF MY ARMS AND USE IT TO POUND MY BRAIN INTO HUMMUS.

  31

  THE PROTECTION

  I had to stop the walking-mountain-man getting into my house.

  I was never going to stop the walking-mountain-man getting into my house.

  I would forget about stopping the walking-mountain-man.

  I would concentrate on protecting myself.

  Especially my arms.

  Especially my brain.

  I ran back up to my room.

  Then I ran into the bathroom.

  Then down into the laundry.


  Then into the kitchen.

  Eventually I had everything I needed:

  A bike helmet

  A bag of cottonwool balls

  A pair of Mum’s tights

  A large saucepan

  A roll of plastic kitchen wrap

  A tube of CementStik glue

  A normal helmet was not going to be strong enough to protect me from an arm-ripping-off-brain-hummus-making-walking-mountain-man. I needed a really, very, super much-much-much-better-than-normal helmet. I glued the top bit of Mum’s tights to the bottom of the saucepan. Then I stuffed all the cottonwool balls inside the bike helmet and held them in place by wrapping the helmet in lots and lots and lots of plastic kitchen wrap. Then I glued the bottom of the helmet onto the bottom of the saucepan. Then I turned the saucepan over so the cottonwool-ball-filled bike helmet was on top and I put the saucepan on my head (I knew it would fit perfectly because I had worn that saucepan on my head before) and fastened it securely by tying the legs of Mum’s tights in a bow under my chin.

  Want to stop a huge man from making your brains into a tasty Middle Eastern dip?

  You need Duncan’s ultra-safe Woolly Sauce Helmet Pan™.

  Now I just needed to protect my arms.

  I had never had to protect my arms before.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to do it.

  I raced (slowly) back up to my room.

  (Duncan’s Woolly Sauce Helmet Pan™ wasn’t very stable and it made racing back up to my room a lot less racy than I wanted it to be.)

  I looked around. What was in my room that I could use to protect my arms?

  Jumpers. I had lots of jumpers. I’d use jumpers.

  I tried to pull on a jumper. It wouldn’t fit over Duncan’s Woolly Sauce Helmet Pan™.

  ‘BUM!’ I said. ‘THIS IS NEVER GOING TO WORK! Think, Charlie. Think.’

  I thought.

  Nothing.

  I thought. Again.

  Nothing. Again.

  I thought. Again again.

  Nothing. Again again.

  No. Wait. Something. Yes. Something. I had thought something. Something good.

  This is what I had thought: I was going about this entirely the wrong way. My arms didn’t need to be thicker and woollier.

  They needed to be skinnier and slipperier.

  I ran back down to the kitchen.

  I unbuttoned my pyjama top and took it off.

  I grabbed the olive oil.

  I poured olive oil all over both my arms. If my arms were really slippery then the walking-mountain-man wouldn’t be able to get hold of my arms to rip them off. He’d try to rip them off but he wouldn’t be able to get a good enough grip. I’d laugh at him as his hands kept slipping off my arms.

  Wait a minute, what if me laughing at him made him so really, very, super angry that he forgot about ripping off my arms and ripped off my legs instead? You could make brain hummus with a ripped-off leg just as easily.

  Yes. Yes, you could.

  I took off my pyjama pants and poured olive oil all over my legs and feet.

  Better safe than sorry.

  I slipped out of the kitchen.

  I had Duncan’s Woolly Sauce Helmet Pan™ on my head, I was only wearing my underpants, and my arms, legs and feet were dripping with olive oil.

  I was ready to face the walking-mountain-man.

  32

  THE SURPRISE

  Having a Duncan’s Woolly Sauce Helmet Pan™ on my head and olive oil all over my arms, legs and feet made it really, very, super difficult to get from the kitchen to the front door.

  I kept slipping over.

  Slipping over into a door.

  Slipping over into a wall.

  Slipping over into a framed photo of a kitten sitting in a pumpkin. (My mum loves pictures of kittens sitting in vegetables. She buys a lot of them on the internet.)

  Finally I managed to slip over to the front door.

  The front door where the walking-mountain-man was trying to break into my house.

  Only he wasn’t trying to break into my house any more.

  He so wasn’t trying to break into my house any more that he wasn’t even there.

  He’d gone.

  I slipped over into the shoe rack we have just inside the front door.

  He’d gone.

  I heard a noise coming from upstairs.

  He’d gone . . . to try to break into my house through an upstairs window.

  33

  THE KNOB

  The walking-mountain-man was upstairs. Still trying to break in. He wasn’t at the front door. I was at the front door. The front door that was great for going out of. Out of and away from walking-mountain-men who are trying to break into my house. Upstairs.

  I grabbed hold of the front doorknob.

  Actually, I didn’t grab hold of the front doorknob. I tried to grab hold of it but I couldn’t because my hand was covered in olive oil. I tried using both hands to grab the doorknob but both hands were covered in olive oil. It was no use.

  I couldn’t get out.

  I WAS TRAPPED.

  No I wasn’t. Because my teeth weren’t covered in olive oil.

  I crouched down and bit the doorknob. My teeth gripped it. I bit harder and then started turning my head to the right. The doorknob moved. I bit even harder. I moved my head more. The doorknob moved more. The front door gave a click. I slipped over. The front door swung open.

  I could get out.

  I WASN’T TRAPPED.

  34

  THE SLIP

  I stood up and slipped out the front door.

  I needed help. I needed Hils.

  Then I stopped.

  I needed to save the box.

  I’d promised Vivien I would look after it no matter what happened.

  This was a matter.

  This matter was happening. Really, very, super happening.

  I needed to do some looking after.

  The box was in my room. Upstairs.

  I started slipping upstairs.

  Slipping upstairs – to where a walking-mountain-man is trying to break into your house – when your arms, hands, legs and feet are covered in olive oil is exactly as hard and as scary as it sounds.

  I slipped to the top of the stairs.

  I slipped into my room.

  I slipped up to the box.

  I grabbed hold of the box and lifted it up.

  I managed to lift the box up quite high before it slipped out of my oily arms and hit the floor of my room. Hard.

  It hit the floor of my room hard and broke in half.

  ‘Finally,’ said a deep voice from inside one half of the broken box. ‘Are you here to give me a massage?’

  35

  THE AMAZEMENT

  I looked inside the damaged box.

  There were three cockroaches.

  ‘Are you here to give me a massage?’ said the largest and shiniest of the three.

  ‘That child does not look well,’ said a slightly smaller, slightly red-coloured cockroach to the other two.

  ‘I TALK TO HATS!’ said the smallest cockroach.

  36

  THE OBVIOUS

  ‘You can talk!’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the largest, shiniest one.

  ‘Yes,’ said the red-coloured one.

  ‘I TALK TO HATS!’ said the smallest one.

  37

  THE FREAK-OUT

  ‘YOU CAN TALK!

  YOU’RE TALKING

  COCKROACHES!’

  I said.

  ‘AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR RRRRRRRRRRRRHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHH!’

  38

  THE MASSAGE

  ‘DO NOT SHOUT NEAR ME,’ said the large, shiny cockroach to me. ‘A massage. I require a massage. Then, and only then, will I be able to sing. For I must sing. I was born to sing.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about massages,’ I said.

  ‘ARE YOU DEAF? I must sing. But first I mu
st be massaged. I have not sung for many years now. I must sing but I CANNOT SING UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES!’ said the large, shiny cockroach.

  ‘Why do you think I am here to give you a massage?’ I said.

  ‘Because your arms are covered in oil. Massage oil.’

  ‘It’s olive oil,’ I said.

  ‘OLIVE OIL! LUCIANO PAVAROACHI WILL NOT BE MASSAGED WITH OLIVE OIL. GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!’ said Luciano Pavaroachi.

  ‘Calm yourself, Big Lucy. I know you love to sing,’ said the red-coloured cockroach to Luciano Pavaroachi.

  Then she turned and looked at me.

  ‘You see, honey, we don’t just talk,’ she said. ‘We sing. All three of us. We love to sing. We especially love to sing for other people. We love to bathe people in the healin’ power of song. That’s why we’re going to sing for you now.’

  ‘But I am un-massaged,’ said Pavaroachi.

  ‘Hit it!’ said the red-coloured cockroach.

  The smallest cockroach scuttled down inside the broken black box. Seconds later there was a loud, sharp buzzing, a pained yell and the smell of smoke.

  ‘This box, this ain’t just a box. No sir,’ said the red-coloured cockroach. ‘It is a karaoke machine.’

  The smallest cockroach emerged from the inside of the box. His antennae seemed to be smouldering slightly.

  Music started coming out of the box. Upbeat, happy music.

  I heard a crash. It sounded exactly like the sort of crash a walking-mountain-man would make as he finally broke into my house.

  ‘I’m not a massage person! I don’t need healing! I don’t need to hear a song! I need to get out!’ I said to the cockroaches.

  I grabbed the half of the box the cockroaches were in and managed to wedge it under my arm.

  The three cockroaches started to sing.

  You look at us,