Get Me Out of Here!

by Andy McNab

  “Come on, I’m waiting,” he grunts.

  So I start up the clippers, step forward, and gulp, even though the tennis ball in my throat refuses to budge…

  I am exactly three seconds into the haircut when I realize I am serious trouble.

  Tubs’ hair is way too long and lustrous for the clippers to make even the smallest of dents in.

  In fact, it’s worse than that as the hair simply gets locked in the machine’s teeth, which grinds and howls before yanking his head back like I’ve pulled it.

  “Noooooooooooo,” I howl under my breath, but fortunately Tubs’ neck muscles are so full-on that it feels like nothing more than a playful tug and he keeps his eyes front and centre.

  “Quick,” I whisper to Giraffles, who’s stood wide-eyed beside me, “Hold these. Just for a minute.”

  He shakes his head so viciously it looks in danger of rolling off his shoulders, and steps back a dozen paces. “I warned you. This was never going to end well.”

  But it has to. I can’t mess this up without my face ending up just as mangled as Tubs’ hair, if not more. So I flick the clippers off and leave them clinging to his locks, while I dive into Dylan’s toilet bag, which I nicked from the bathroom cupboard.

  “Come on…” I mouth, “there has to be some in there, has to be…”

  I pull out plasters, unused and otherwise, empty bottles of shower gel and a deodorant that smells worse than any armpit ever did, until, with my heart screaming in panic, I find them: Dyl’s nail scissors. They’re small and blunt, and appear to still have one of his toenails attached to them, but they are my (and my face’s) lifeline.

  I return to the dangling clippers, and begin to hack around Tubs’ twisted locks.

  “Oh yes,” I coo, like I know what I’m flippin’ doing, “this is really starting to take shape…” And although it isn’t, it is kind of working, as the clippers fall free into my hand and I continue to cut as much hair as I can from Tubs’ head.

  I work with speed, purely out of fear, and as the minutes go on, the hair starts to build up on top of my feet. In fact, I’m starting to look more like a Hobbit than an eleven-year-old barber.

  Within minutes I’ve cut the entire left hand side of his head. It’s patchy, to say the least, but it’s kind of all the same length.

  But then, as I snip at the last strand, disaster strikes again.

  The scissors – exhausted by a workout that would leave an Olympic sprinter wheezing – fall into two pieces. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot entice them back together.

  In my head, I’m wailing and screaming and panicking. Out loud I’m still cooing and bragging about how I’m creating some kind of masterpiece. Anything to not give the game away. But with every passing second I feel more and more out of control, until a little miracle pipes up in my ear.

  “Buy yourself some time and get the clippers on the short bit. I’ll run and grab some more scissors from home. Mum’s got a sharp pair in the kitchen.”

  In that moment, I could kiss old Giraffles. Well, I say that but his neck’s too long to get anywhere near his face, so I settle for a whispered thank you, and turn the clippers back on.

  The next three minutes are perfection. The clippers are working, the short hair is coming off easily and I manage not to chop off any part of Tubs’ face. It’s win, win, win and I smile as I turn my attention to the last bit of unclipped hair. Once that’s done, half of the head will be complete. And I know that if I can do one side, then I can definitely do the other.

  The clippers slide under the hair at the nape of his neck, but then, nothing happens.

  Well actually that’s a lie.

  There’s a beep, then another beep, then a third beep and then nothing. Because the clippers stop working altogether.

  “Is there an issue?” asks Tubs.

  “No, ’course not,” I lie.

  But there is. There really, really is. The clippers are out of battery. And with a sinking feeling I remember that the charger is in the flat, halfway up to the chuffing moon!

  I look behind me, desperate for sight of Giraffles sprinting while simultaneously carrying a pair of super-sharp scissors.

  At least if I have them I can start cutting the other half. Maybe he’d even sprint up to the flat and charge the clippers while I work.

  That would work. Or at least it would if he was anywhere to be seen.

  “Come on,” says Tubs, pouring yet more panic on top of me. “I haven’t got all day.”

  I try to say something, but all that comes out is a jumble of terrified sounds that are barely words, never mind a sentence that makes any kind of sense.

  A muscly arm shoots up in the air. “Mirror,” Tubs demands.

  “But … er … I’m not done yet. Only h-h-halfway through…”

  “MIRROR.”The voice is louder and full of menace and threat.

  “An artist never reveals all until the masterpiece is complete!”

  But Tubs is done with waiting and instead he pulls out his phone and flicks it into selfie mode, and that’s it. That’s all he needs to see. Suddenly, he’s on his feet and towering over me, one half of his head as smooth as a baby’s bottom, while the other looks more like he’s had an electric shock.

  “What’s this?” he yells, pointing at his head.

  “It’s not finished…” I reply, taking a step back.

  “Too right it’s not. You trying to make me look daft?”

  “Course not. It’s just my scissors. They…”

  “They what?”

  “They. Well, they…” I hold them up.

  “You’ve cut my hair with them?”

  “Er, yeah?”

  “They’re all rusty … and they’re nail scissors!”

  “Well, they were. I don’t know what they are now, except junk maybe.”

  I mean it to be light-hearted. To kind of show how well I’ve done with rubbish equipment. But all it does is make him crosser than I thought was possible.

  Before I know it, he’s grabbed hold of me and flipped me upside down, holding me by the ankles and shaking me like a moneybox.

  “I want my money back!”

  “But you haven’t paid me yet!”

  “Then I want compensation.”

  “For what?”

  “Damages. To my reputation, and cos someone has to put this mess straight.”

  And he carries on shaking me. Endlessly. Till my pockets give in and spit twenty-nine pound coins all over the pavement.

  That’s his cue to drop me and scoop up a handful of my wages. At least a tenner’s worth, I reckon.

  “That should cover it,” he says. “And I’d suggest you think about a different career. Come within a mile of me with a pair of scissors again and I’ll rearrange your face.”

  And with that he departs, pulling a beanie from his pocket to hide his shame.

  I feel myself deflate, but also feel relief flow over me too. Clutching my face, it feels like my nose is still where it was earlier, and so is everything else, and I have to be pleased with that.

  I’m also eighteen pounds richer than I was this morning, so it’s not all wrecked.

  Quickly, I scamper around and scoop the coins back into my pocket, only to be tapped on the shoulder by a rosy-cheeked Giraffles.

  “Did you finish Tubs already?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I found the scissors.”

  “I think I’m retiring from the barber business.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, not sure I’m cut out for it.”

  I didn’t mean it to be funny, but for once Giraffles thinks I’m hilarious.

  “So what are you going to do now? To pay for the trip?”

  I’m about to shrug, clean out of ideas, when I see a woman walking a dog.

  In fact she’s not walking a dog. She’s walking eight of them.

  And my ears prick up quicker than a bloodhound’s.

  Bingo.

  Brillian
t.

  I’m back in the game.

  Ten minutes into my first ride and we’re going so fast I think we might be in danger of taking off.

  It is, without doubt, the most exciting husky ride of my life.

  Kind of.

  Because I’m not stood on a sled, I’m stood on Dyl’s old micro-scooter, and it’s not being pulled by a pack of highly trained huskies, it’s being dragged by nine different dogs: a Dalmatian, a Staffie, a Whippet and a host of others that I know nothing about, other than that they are fast!

  What I do know is that if they keep this up, or rather if their owners keep on paying me, I’ll have the money in no time. In fact, I’ll probably be rich enough to retire!

  I grin wildly as the pack pulls me round the park. I still can’t believe how easy it was to find so many punters. All I had to do was get up super early and pounce on people as they set off, bleary-eyed for their morning walk. Nobody likes scooping up dog poo at six-thirty in the morning.

  Nor do they like traipsing the streets when it’s honking down with rain. Not when they could be sat on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea and Netflix on the telly.

  Which was pretty much my sales pitch to be honest…

  “Wouldn’t you rather me get cold walking Bonzo instead of you? I’ll pick up his poo for you this morning if you like? As many as he can coil out, and it’ll only cost you four quid an hour.”

  They bit my hand off quicker than an Alsatian that hasn’t eaten in a week.

  And as for the poo picking?

  I haven’t scooped up a single one yet. No need, because I’ve invented this brilliant new game called Poo Golf.

  All you need to join in the fun is a stick and a poo, preferably belonging to a dog.

  As soon as Fido does his business you take your stick and flick the poo into the nearest bush in as few shots as possible. You get extra points if you can flick the poo into the bush without it breaking into pieces. Or hitting your shoe by accident.

  It’s funny the games you can make up at 6.37 in the morning… I give it ten years before you see it in the Olympics.

  Anyway, it’s worked out a treat, though it’s took me a day of having my arms pulled out of their sockets to realize that I needed a vehicle, both to exercise the dogs properly, and to give me the best rush possible.

  After three hours of endless searching, I found Dyl’s scooter hidden under all his army clobber. And honest, you could’ve abseiled from Mars to earth with the amount of rope he has stashed away. So I borrowed a bit of that too, building a harness that keeps the dogs safe while they pull me along like Usain Bolt on a superbike.

  Which brings me here, beaming at joggers as I hare past them.

  And it makes me feel magic, all the speed. Makes me hungry to get to Wild Out and beat every challenge they put in front of me.

  BOULDERING? No problem, I’ll make ’em look like pebbles.

  RAPIDS? Pah, they don’t look so quick to me… Right now, with the wind whipping at my face and the G-force blowing my cheeks behind my ears, I feel powerful. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the thought of being shaken upside down by big Tubs doesn’t fill me with dread and fear. Not any more.

  I feel like I could stand up to him, or Dyl, or any other meathead who comes my way.

  No one can touch me. I’m Danny Mack! Prince of Speed, King of the Jungle.

  Except, while I’m having these thoughts of grandeur, a cat crosses the path. And my crown most definitely slips…

  At first, I don’t think the moggy’s even going to move. It just stands there, eyes wide, back arched. The dogs, of course, go mental, turning the sled into a fighter jet, but that doesn’t bother the cat, which simply hisses like a kettle then roars like a panther, before turning on its tail and legging it.

  But the pack howl in reply and tear after it, paying little attention to the highway code or the fact that the cat has left the path and is now haring down the gravel that leads to the skate park.

  I feel the surface change under my feet, the vibrations shaking every muscle and cell in my body. I try to adapt – bend my knees, absorb as much of the track as I can – but it’s tough, unforgiving, and I see my knuckles turn red, then white, as I cling to the bars of the scooter.

  “WHOOOOOOOOOOOA!” I yelp, trying to remember the names of the dogs and failing miserably, but if anything they take my plea as encouragement and hammer on even quicker, desperate to close the gap between their prey and their jaws.

  The gap between the two shortens slightly, and I do my best to steer the scooter clear of potholes and puddles. The wheels respond, somehow, and I start to feel something I don’t expect: a tiny, teeny bit of control, and in return a drip-drip-drip of excitement.

  I’m doing it.

  I’m rolling with the punches, taking everything the dumb cat can throw at me and surfing right over the top of it.

  Except then, right then, it’s like the cat is listening to my thoughts and thinking, OK, Danny Mack, let’s see what you do with this, before taking a sharp left towards the skate park.

  “OH, MAAAAAAAAN,” I yell, as I know only too well what is lying ahead: the most extreme array of bumps, jumps and half-pipes imaginable. The sort of challenges that test the most able of skaters, never mind undersized idiots in charge of nine dogs and a battered microscooter.

  The cat is going mental now, dashing in every direction, to avoid not only my trusty pack, but the astonished mob of skaters, who quickly start filming my every move.

  They whoop as I grab some serious air off the first ramp, yell as I soar even higher off the second, then cover their eyes (but not their phones) as I head straight down into the half pipe.

  I can’t begin to explain how it feels as I hit the top of the ramp and follow the dogs skywards. A little bit excited and a lot-a-bit scared: I think at some point I do actually let out a bit of wee in both fear and joy.

  Is this how Father Christmas feels, I wonder, when Rudolph and the others pull him into the clouds?

  Either way, it’s not Christmas Eve, not by a long chalk. And anyway, even Father Christmas has rough landings sometimes, which is exactly what happens to me.

  I’ve ridden my luck for as long as I can, but finally that luck gives way and the board flicks from under my feet, and tears at my fists, ripping them away from the handles.

  Onwards the dogs and the scooter fly, still in the direction of the poor, but deeply annoying, cat that I swear is now laughing at me.

  And as for me, I go in the only direction available: down.

  Down, down, down, until a grass verge reaches up and gives me the biggest and roughest hug of my life.

  Ouch.

  Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

  I wake up with an all-over body tattoo in the shape of a bruise.

  It hurts and it stings – but only when I try to move any part of my body, including my eyelids.

  But at the same time, I have never been so happy in my life, because on my bedside table is the biggest pile of coins I have ever seen.

  In my head, it looks like a million quid, but at the same time I know that it’s actually one hundred pounds. On the dot.

  Most of it is pound coins, shining like a pile of pirate’s treasure, but there’s fifty, twenty, ten, five, two and even one pence pieces, which makes me really, really happy ’cos it reminds me that I earned every single penny myself.

  The pain doesn’t hurt half as much, though, when you’ve proved a point to yourself, and so I manage to have a shower and try (unsuccessfully) to tame my hair. I smile when my mum gives me a hug and hands over the final fifty quid, though I also feel a bit guilty about taking it off her. Maybe if I’d worked a bit harder, I could’ve raised the whole amount myself.

  I have to walk to school slowly – a result of the bruise tattoo and the fact that I’m carrying two tons of loose change in my pockets – but that only gives me more time to become even more excited about the trip.

  “What are you looking forward to most?” I ask
the rest of the crew.

  “Bouldering,” reply MandM in unison, without pause or consultation.

  “Kayaking,” says Giraffles, and I momentarily wonder if they’ll have to make a special one to fit his epically long limbs.

  Lucky takes his time before shouting the most perfect sentence imaginable:

  “ALL OF IT!”

  I’d jump on his back in wild agreement if my legs weren’t so heavy with coins, because he’s nailed it. That’s EXACTLY what I’m thinking. This is going to be the most perfectest trip known to man. Or woman. Or child.

  And that is what I’m thinking as we walk into the playground. I’m even still thinking it when I hear someone shout my name in a tone that can only be described as vicious.

  “Are you Danny Mack?” It belongs to a woman with a perm as angry and wound up as her accusation.

  “Er…” my hesitation kind of gives me away, and the woman drags a small, cowering boy out from behind her legs. A boy with a haircut so disastrous that there can only be one explanation for it. That I was his hairdresser.

  “I need a word with you,” she says, before continuing to shout loads of them at me. “What did you do to our Cameron? He used to have lovely hair. Like a little prince he was. But now? Well, thanks to you he looks like a bloomin’ orc.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say the wrong thing, obviously.

  “But that’s the look we were going for. He told me his favourite book was Lord of the Rings, and let’s face it, no one wants a Hobbit cut. They’re so last year.”

  In my head it’s funny, or at least witty, but to the woman standing before me it’s the final insult she’s been waiting for, and just like Tubs, she threatens to turn me upside down until she gets her money back.

  I save her the trouble, and me the pain and shame, by digging four quid out of my pocket, though it isn’t until I let go of the money that I realize what it means.

  That I only have one hundred and forty-six quid. And to go on the trip, I need one hundred and fifty. I feel myself sag, and my bruises start shouting a whole lot louder.