by Andy McNab
“It’s OK,” says Giraffles, hacking at the last bits of undergrowth with a stray dead twig, “We’re nearly through the worst of it.”
These turn out to be famous last words for, as he swishes at the last branch, he triggers a booby trap and up from nowhere springs the most evil-looking scarecrow you have ever seen in your flippin’ life. It’s naked, for starters, which doesn’t help, but somehow, in practically no time at all, Dyl has built a figure entirely out of branches and twigs, all tied together with ivy. It stands over two metres high and, despite having no face, it is the scariest thing I have ever seen: its long arms loom over us like a zombie.
“ARGGGGHHHHHHH!”cries Giraffles.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”yell MandM, while Jonny breaks wind with such a savage blast that I know it’s the worst kind of fart: the liquid kind.
But I don’t flinch, parp or even blink. I’m prepared. I have seen evil every day of my life, so when it appears, I’m ready for it.
“You’ll have to do better than THAT, Dylan!” I yell into the trees.
And for the next twenty minutes, he tries his utmost: things tap us on the shoulders, but when we turn round there’s no one there; we’re pelted with acorns from all angles, but when we try to throw back there is no one to aim at; our ears are peppered with calls and wails that could either come from the most ferocious, dangerous animals on the planet, or from the lips of the biggest irritant that ever slimed his way across the earth.
By the end of it, even I’m starting to feel edgy, until I see, like a mirage in front of me, a break in the tree-line, and beyond it a pile of kayaks, and, even better than that, I can hear the faint gurgling of a river (which makes me instantly need a wee, but it’s OK, I can live with that).
I break into a dance of joy, somewhere between the floss and the sort of dancing your mum does at a wedding disco after too many glasses of wine, and I skip towards the clearing. I don’t care if I’m first or not. I don’t care if I get a kayak with more holes in it than a cheese grater. All I care about is not falling foul of Dylan … again.
And it’s actually that last thought that stops me dancing. It’s that thought that makes the others stop dancing too. Instead I hold my arms out wide to stop them getting past me.
“Wait!” I whisper.
“What?” they reply.
“It’s too easy. There’s no way Dyl would let us get to the end without nailing us. He’s too evil for that…” And that’s when I see it. The most pathetic excuse for a disguised trap ever.
There, on the floor, right on the edge of the wood, is a huge rug of twigs, dead branches and leaves. And the second I see it, I know that lurking below is a Danny-shaped hole, dug by my own brother’s hands.
It’s so obvious and so pathetic that I laugh out loud, in fact I howl, bent double with my hands on my knees.
“I’ve seen through you – you and your rubbish, pathetic trap!” I shout.
And with the greatest of care, I lead my friends around the side of the “pit” to safety, and towards the majesty of the river.
But, in that one simple side-step, I realize my fatal error: the blanket of twigs left for me, is simply that. A blanket.
There is no pit beneath.
I realize this when my feet are suddenly whipped out from beneath me, and I’m sent whizzing skywards and upside down, attached to a bungee rope that Dyl has hidden beneath a dense coil of ivy.
The blood races to my head, and it’s a buzz, ’course it is. How could being thrown thirty metres in the air not be? But it’s not the buzz I wanted. And although the view from the top of the tallest tree should be epic, it is most definitely not. Because all I can see as I look down is my big brother, laughing his bits off. And others in my class joining in too.
Nothing stops your bum stinging like being unexpectedly thrown thirty metres into the air. Honest, it’s true. It makes your pride throb a bit, though.
Everyone had a right good laugh, until they realized it wasn’t going to be so easy to get me down, and Geri had to climb up to make sure I didn’t fall on my head.
Can’t say it did a lot for my confidence, listening to her electric skeleton whirring its way towards me. No one really wants to be rescued by a person fifteen times their age, do they?
Still, better her than Dylan, and, believe me, he volunteered only to be shot down by an icy glare from Miss D.
They couldn’t pin it on him, of course. There was no CCTV out in the back end of nowhere, and Dyl is as good at lying as he is at being a scumbucket.
Put it this way, if it was his job, he’d be a billionaire by now.
Anyway, to cut a long and devastatingly embarrassing story short, I ended up getting a piggyback down off Geri, before she took Miss D aside for a chat.
This just makes me feel even worse.
I mean, it’s not my fault my brother is a psycho. Why can’t he single someone else out instead of me?
This, and the nettle fiasco only happened to me – and who knew how long it would take before I was singled out again?
I tried not to think about it as I munched on a soggy egg sarnie, but wasn’t helped by Miss D, who calls me aside.
“Danny, I’m worried.”
“Me too,” I say.
“I need you to stay away from Dylan.”
“Believe me, I’m trying!”
“I appreciate that, but I need you to try harder. Now, I really don’t know what’s going on between you, but I’ve just had Geri in my ear, and she is more than a little concerned.”
“Then tell Dyl, not me, Miss!” I plead. “He’s tricking me, again and again.”
“I’m telling you the same thing I’ve already told your brother. The reputation of the school is on the line. But, more important than that, I have to keep you all safe. And I can’t do that if you and Dylan are engaged in some kind of deathmatch.”
“But, Miss—”
“But nothing. Give him a wide berth, Danny, that’s all I’m asking.”
There’s nothing I could say to that, but it was still on my mind as Giraffles and me clambered into our kayak, ready for phase two of the day. The only positive was that I stopped thinking about it as soon as I sat down in the cold, wet boat. My bum cheeks hurt too much for me to worry about anything else.
Turns out Giraffles had things on his mind though.
“Er, Geri,” he says apologetically. “Shouldn’t we be wearing life vests or nothing?”
Seems sensible to me.
Geri, however, thinks otherwise.
“My dear boy, I’ve been bringing recruits down this river for decades now, and I’ve never lost a soldier yet. Should you fall out, just swim to the surface. You can swim can’t you?”
Giraffles nods, and that’s all Geri needs to move swiftly on.
“The mission is a simple one. Navigate your way downriver as quickly, BUT AS SAFELY as possible,” (and I know this is aimed at me), “and there are two things that you need to avoid at all costs. Firstly, this river is a nesting ground for the lesser-spotted, orange-crested warbler, a bird whose numbers have been falling in recent years. It is critical, CRITICAL, that you – like any good intrepid explorer – respect their habitat and do not disturb their nests! This is an important time for their young and, without them, the orange-crested warbler has no future.”
There’s a concerned murmur amongst the ranks, until Jonny pipes up with,
“What colour are they, Miss? So we know what to look out for?”
Honestly, if he keeps going on like this we’ll have enough material for a book before we get home. Geri very sensibly pretends he doesn’t exist and carries on to point two, which is…
“Rapids! They’re called that for a reason—” Jonny goes to open his mouth, but isn’t quick enough.
“—And that’s because, they are quicker and more deadly than any rollercoaster you’ve ever ridden. These rapids here would test even the most accomplished of adrenaline junkies, so I’m telling you now: stay clear of them. T
hey are well signposted, so if you like your limbs attached to your bodies then keep your senses about you and do what the signs tell you. Now, go well, look after your partner, and we’ll see you at the final checkpoint.”
As warnings go, it’s pretty clear, and as me and Giraffles push out from the bank I’m in no doubt about the fact that I’ll be doing two things:
1. Exactly what Geri and Miss D told us
2. Not letting our Dylan anywhere near me
As long as I do that, there’s no way he can stitch me up.
And at first, this goes to plan. In fact, it goes better than that, because guess what? Me and Giraffles turn out to be kayaking heroes. This could, of course, be all down to my long-limbed mate and his epically telescopic arms that propel us downriver at a wild pace, but I’d like to think I’m doing my bit too, keeping us in rhythm and well away from the riverbank.
It’s going so well that, actually, for a while we’re at the front of the pack, waving to the imaginary crowds that line the bank. But after ten minutes or so, we feel two other kayaks drawing alongside us, and I know full well who one of them will belong to. It’s Dyl, of course, which sets my heart racing and my bruised cheeks twitching. But then I see who’s in the second boat and it’s Geri, powering her twig arms (seriously, her paddles are more muscular) along at a furious rate. And that makes me feel way better, and safer too.
So we glide on, cutting the water in two, giving even the quickest of fish below us a serious, serious race.
Until…
“Hey, Danny. Look up there – that Dylan waiting for us?”
I knew it. What he’s done to Geri I’ve no idea. Drowned her probably, or thrown her off the nearest waterfall, before he does the same to me, but as we draw closer, I see his plan up close and personal, and it’s obvious – almost pitiful – what he’s trying to do.
“Look, Giraffles,” I say, “look where he’s stopped. Right by the sign to the rapids.”
He looks and nods, cos it’s true. Dyl has parked himself up at a small island in the middle of the river, where the water forks off in two different directions. And dug into the island is a wooden sign showing which way people go for the rapids.
Instantly, INSTANTLY, I am wise to his plan.
“I AM NOT FALLING FOR THIS!” I yell, full of anger.
“Falling for what?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s changed the direction of the sign, hasn’t he? He’s pointed it in the wrong way, so we maim ourselves on the rapids. As soon as we go past, he’ll change it back again so everyone else is safe.”
“You sure?”
I look to my brother: my nemesis, my uber-archest enemy, put on this planet to make my life a living hell. His face is stony, giving nothing away. But at that moment I can see into his brain, can visualize the evil pumping around his bloodstream.
“I am positive. Certain. Sure.”
“And he’s definitely not trying to double bluff us?”
“That would involve his current brain cell having made a new friend. He thinks bluff means being naked.”
“But if you take us down the rapids, you know we’re going to impale ourselves on a rock, right?”
We approach the island, and the moment of decision is on us.
Left or right.
Right or left.
I look to Dyl, but his face gives nothing away. If I was searching the expression on his face for some kind of meaning, I’d simply think he needed a poo.
I look to my best friend. “He’s changed the sign. I know he has.”
So we make a decision.
We steer left.
We pass Dylan.
And as we do he smiles slyly, waving with the very tips of his fingers.
Oh no.
We paddle on, and as we turn a corner the placid, mirror-like river disappears.
We appear to have steered into Niagara Falls.
We scream. Loudly. Wouldn’t you?
I’ve never ridden the rapids before. Obviously. The closest I got to it was when I was five and had to share a bath with Dyl after a tea of beans on toast.
And while that was distressing and scary, it’s nothing compared to this.
This is crazy stuff. There are waves bigger than anything a surfer would dare tackle. And there are bubbles. So many of them I reckon Dylan dropped a bottle of washing-up liquid in just to max the fear factor. So many of them it makes it hard to keep your eyes open, especially when the kayak is writhing like a rodeo bull.
I try to row against the madness, thrusting my paddles in roughly, imagining the water’s surface is Dyl’s ugly mug, but it does nothing for our path or my anger.
Giraffles is doing his best too, his long arms clutching the paddles in the water, trying his best to steer us away from the rocks that jut out like mini-icebergs.
We miss one to our left, then another, then a third, on our right this time, but as we straighten up we see another, like a shark’s fin haring towards us.
We scream and lean away, but we’re going way too quick, which leaves us with only one option…
“Bail out!!”
I go first, but from the splash I hear, Giraffles doesn’t need much persuading either.
Now, it may be spring, but nothing, NOTHING prepares us for the shock of the water as it blasts at our skin.
I kick to the surface and grab hold of the kayak. We can’t lose it, and besides, I’m scared at where the next rock is coming from, so the boat is a handy shield.
“Grab on!” I yell at Giraffles, offering him the end of my paddle.
He hears me, and latches on. “Don’t worry. I’ll try to steer us towards the bank.”
And he does as well – try, that is. But the only problem is that Giraffles, like giraffes, aren’t known for their muscles. In fact, if they try to move quickly it often looks clumsy, like they only learnt how to walk twenty minutes earlier, and as a result of this we remain at the mercy of the rapids, buffeted and rocked from wave to wave, grimacing at the foam that peppers our faces.
Finally, we start to move towards the bank, giving us the chance to pull ourselves back on board, but as soon as we are sat back up, there are huge clumps of reeds and overhanging branches, at least thirty metres long, just waiting to gouge at us as we hare by.
“Brace yourself!” I yell, knowing it will be a lot easier for me to duck out of harm’s way than my long-necked pal, but as we career towards the bank, yet another obstacle appears, as three startled birds skitter from the undergrowth. Three birds, each with the brightest orange chests I have ever seen.
“The lesser spotted orange-crested warbler!” shouts Giraffles, and at that moment I’m so pleased he’s my co-pilot and not Jonny, who would probably have been screaming “ELEPHANT!” by now.
It’s still bad news though. Really bad. Geri was clear: do NOT disturb their nesting area, at any cost, and here we were, bombing into it like a speedboat.
The reeds and branches envelope us, all we can do is close our eyes, try and stay the right way up, and not kill any birds…
“You alive?” I ask as we come out the other side, eyes still closed. I literally daren’t look.
“…Kind of!” says Giraffles, though he sounds … weird.
I allow my eyes to open, only to be hit by the most ridiculous of sights. Our kayak seems to have been transformed into some kind of bird sanctuary. From its tip to the cockpit, it is nest after nest after nest – and they’re not empty, either. Each of them are chock-full of orange-bellied birds, adults, babies … there are even bloomin’ eggs teetering about as the waves continue to crash over us.
“What have we done!?” I scream. “These nests fall overboard, and we could wipe out the entire population. Geri will kill us!”
I look to Giraffles for the first time since emerging from the reeds, and at first I think he’s ditched his helmet for a weird elaborate hat, like one of those bonnets that they used to wear at Easter in the olden days. Then I realize it’s not a bonnet at all. It�
��s a nest, and there are two angry-looking orange-crested warblers flying round his head, presumably convinced that Giraffles is trying to kidnap their babies. And what’s worse, they seem to have spotted me too, as have their friends.
Next thing we know, we’re inundated, wafting them away from our faces like they were a swarm of killer bees.
It’s awful, it’s terrible, I’m cold, I’m wet and my bum hurts. This is, without doubt the final-est of final straws, and it makes me shout a sentence I never thought I’d shout:
“GET ME OUT
OF HERE!!!!!”
It’s darker than dark when me and Giraffles get back to camp. So late that even the campfire has given up, smoking lazily instead of roaring a welcome.
There’s precious little of the feast left over for our hungry bellies either, though from the piles of washing-up left for us to sort as part of our punishment, it’s clear it was quite a feed. Thick, meaty stew and rice, by the looks of it, plus a sticky chocolate-coated banana, roasted in the fire before cream was stuck all over it. I’m so hungry that licking a few plates crosses my mind… Don’t judge me.
Our afternoon wasn’t quite so entertaining.
Geri went loopy when we arrived at the finishing line disguised as a bird sanctuary.
“THERE WERE TWO RULES AND YOU BROKE THEM BOTH!”she roared. “No rapids, and no disturbing the nesting birds, so what happened, hhhhm?”
I tried to speak, but it turns out it was one of those rhetorical questions, when someone doesn’t actually want an answer at all.
“Firstly, you could’ve killed yourself. Those rapids would challenge the strongest of explorers, never mind a couple of empty-brained fools like you, and secondly, we’re only allowed to ride this river on the proviso that we don’t tamper with the delicate balance of nature. Didn’t I tell you that the orange-crested warbler was in danger? Didn’t I tell you that they were nesting and needed space? I did. So why, then, did you choose to camouflage your kayak not only with their nests, but with half of the population – AND more eggs than you’d find at an Easter parade!”
