Just Annoying!

by Andy Griffiths

  Not all of the smoke is coming from the barbecue.

  Dad is always saying how he’s going to pull the old dead passionfruit vine off the back fence. Well, he won’t have to bother now.

  ‘Danny! No more fanning! The vine is on fire.’

  Danny comes to his senses.

  ‘Huh? What? Help!’ he yells. FIRE!’

  I remember I’m holding the hose.

  I point it towards the fire but it’s too short to reach. I try to pull it closer but the water almost cuts off completely because of the tangle.

  The flames are leaping high into the air. The whole fence will go up unless we do something fast.

  ‘What do I do?’ yells Danny.

  There is a pile of fresh grass clippings on the other side of the driveway. They’re only a couple of days old. They might help to damp the blaze.

  ‘The grass clippings, Danny! Behind you! Throw them on the fire!’

  Danny throws great armfuls of grass all over the fence and onto the barbecue.

  It puts the fire out alright.

  But now we have a new problem.

  Smoke.

  Thick, white, eye-watering smoke.

  My eyes are streaming.

  A loud thrumming noise breaks the silence.

  I look up and realise that I’m blasting the hose directly against Mr Broadbent’s office window.

  Big mistake.

  And the rainforest tape is starting to sound really weird. It’s not only distorted, it’s speeding up and slowing down as well.

  Sooty is standing at the door of his kennel, barking.

  Danny’s still yelling. I can’t make out what he’s saying.

  There’s smoke and distorted music and yelling and barking and the next thing I see is Mr Broadbent’s head—his eyes wide and bloodshot, his teeth bared—and his enormous hands reaching for me through the smoke.

  I don’t think he wants to hug me, either.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ I offer. ‘Talking through your problems can really help . . .’

  He doesn’t respond.

  I point the hose at him and let him have it. No use. It’s like firing a water pistol at Godzilla. Mr Broadbent just keeps coming—arms outstretched.

  I want to run but I can’t move. I’m too scared.

  Just as Mr Broadbent’s hands are about to close around my neck I see Danny charging up behind him.

  He lets out a blood-curdling yell and leaps onto Mr Broadbent’s back.

  Mr Broadbent roars. He knocks Danny off with one swipe and turns his attention back to me. Danny falls to the ground. He gets straight back up and runs at Mr Broadbent. Mr Broadbent is unfazed. He simultaneously grabs Danny by the throat with his right hand and me by the throat with his left.

  I look at Danny. Danny looks at me.

  We nod.

  We know exactly what to do.

  We’ve practised it many times.

  We each take a deep breath and give it everything we’ve got.

  ‘MURDER!’ we yell. ‘MURDER, BLOODY MURDER!’

  ’m spewing.

  James Bond is just about to be eaten by a shark and I’m going to miss it because I can’t see past the hair of the woman in front of me.

  It doesn’t matter where I sit in a movie theatre, a person with a really big pile of hair on their head will always sit right in front of me. And if they don’t, then the tallest person in the world will.

  It’s not fair. Nobody else has got a big-hair person in front of them. Why me?

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ I say, ‘wanna swap seats?’

  Danny is stuffing his mouth full of popcorn.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ he says, spitting little bits of popcorn all over me.

  I’m glad I don’t have popcorn. Popcorn is for kids. I’ve got a box of Jaffas. Well, to be more accurate, a box of Jaffa because there’s only one left.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘Dad? Want to change seats?’

  ‘Shush,’ he says. ‘James Bond is about to be eaten by a shark.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’d really like to see it.’

  I know he’s not really going to be eaten because he’s James Bond and James Bond always escapes, but it’s fun to watch how he does it. Well, it would be fun if I could see the screen.

  I’d go and sit somewhere else, but the theatre is packed.

  ‘Who’s that, Mummy?’ says a little boy with a loud voice a couple of rows in front of us.

  ‘A bad man.’

  ‘What’s he doing, Mummy?’

  ‘He’s going to feed James Bond to the sharks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s a bad man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Shhh,’ she says. ‘Just watch.’

  What kind of person would bring a little kid to a James Bond movie? I have enough trouble understanding all the double-crossings and plot twists myself, and I’m quite intelligent. Well, compared to Danny that is.

  I can hardly see anything through all the hair. I lean over towards Danny.

  This is one nasty bad man. He’s got this trapdoor that falls open onto a pool with a shark in it. If there’s somebody he doesn’t like he just chains them up, hoists them above the pool and dunks them in. James Bond’s toes are only centimetres from the water.

  The lady with the big hair tilts her head to the side.

  I lean a little further over towards Danny.

  She tilts again.

  I lean further.

  Danny elbows me in the ribs. He does it so hard that my Jaffa is knocked out of my fingers and falls to the floor.

  ‘Keep on your side of the seat,’ he says.

  ‘You idiot!’ I hiss. ‘You made me drop my Jaffa.’

  ‘Have some popcorn,’ says Danny.

  He shoves the box under my nose. I brush it away.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say. ‘That was my last Jaffa!’

  The lady with the big hair turns around.

  ‘Shhh!’ she says. ‘I’m trying to watch the movie.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing,’ I mumble.

  I bend over and pat the carpet all around me. No luck. It must have rolled into one of the rows in front.

  This is terrible. Trapped behind a woman with big hair and I’ve lost my last Jaffa. And, to make things even worse, I missed seeing how James Bond got out of having his toes chomped by the sharks.

  I slump down in my seat.

  Life can be very cruel.

  It’s not like I can just go looking for the Jaffa.

  The cinema is packed. I’m in the middle of the centre row. I would have to disturb nine people to get to the aisle. Besides, I can’t just crawl down the centre. It would attract too much attention. People might guess what I’m looking for. It might start a Jaffa-rush.

  Safer just to sit here and sulk.

  But then I think of how James Bond would react in this situation. He wouldn’t just sit here. How did he put it? A field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective. He would go after the Jaffa and do whatever necessary to retrieve it—no matter how great the odds against him—no matter how dangerous.

  I’m going to find that Jaffa.

  Before I know it, I’m on my belly crawling commando-style underneath a row of movie theatre seats. The darkness makes it hard to see and the danger of accidentally touching somebody’s leg is high. But I have to do it.

  I have a mission.

  It’s slow going. My body keeps sticking to the carpet—there must be millions of cups of spilled Coke and Fanta down here. Not to mention all the other stuff. Old chip buckets, ice-cream wrappers, drink cups, lolly boxes, ripped up movie tickets, used tissues . . . everything except my Jaffa.

  At the end of the aisle I do a sort of tumble-turn and slip into the next row. There is a forest of legs and shoes for as far as I can see.

  Hang on.

 
I can smell Jaffa.

  I wriggle my way towards the smell and stop. It’s directly above me.

  I can see two small legs dangling over the edge of the seat.

  It’s the little kid with the big mouth. If anybody knows anything about my Jaffa then he will. Kids and Jaffas go together like . . . well . . . kids and Jaffas.

  I can hear cellophane crackling.

  The sound of an engine fills the theatre.

  ‘Why is that man hanging from the aeroplane?’ says the boy.

  ‘He’s trying to catch the bad man,’ says his mother in a low voice.

  ‘Why don’t they stop and let him in?’

  ‘Shhh!’ says his mother. ‘Just watch.’

  ‘That’s very dangerous, isn’t it, Mummy?’ says the boy.

  ‘Shush!’

  I roll onto my back. I push myself slowly out to a position where I can see the boy. Just as I suspected. He’s got Jaffas. I have an excellent sense of smell.

  He’s holding them in his left hand. They are resting on the seat beside his knee. The box is almost full. I can see a Jaffa poking out of the top.

  I could just reach up and take it. Just one. It’s not my lost one, but it would do. The kid won’t mind. He won’t even know. He’s staring at the screen. It’s a low thing to steal lollies off children. Very low. James Bond would never do that. I would never do that.

  I’m just going to borrow it.

  I raise my hand towards the Jaffa. My thumb and forefinger are poised, like a cobra about to strike. The Jaffa is almost mine.

  ‘Mummy,’ says the kid in a loud voice, ‘why is there a boy under my seat?’

  I pull my hand back and wriggle back under cover. Bigmouth strikes again!

  ‘Shhh!’ says his mother. ‘Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘But, Mum,’ he says, ‘there’s a boy under my seat.’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ she says, ‘stop telling stories.’

  My cover’s been blown! I have to get out of the danger zone. Fast.

  I take off down the aisle, elbows pumping. I bump my head. I burn my knees. I knock my shoulders. But I keep going until I can’t go any further. I’m caught on a strap. It’s pulled tight under my arm. At the end of the strap I can see a handbag. And that’s not all. The strap is looped around a woman’s ankle.

  ‘Hey!’ says a voice. A hand with long fingernails reaches down and starts tugging on the strap. ‘Help! Someone’s trying to steal my handbag. Usher!’

  But the harder she pulls the strap, the harder it is to unhook it from my shoulder.

  I flop onto my back and push myself out from under the seat to help slip the strap off my arm.

  It works. My arm is free.

  But now I have an even bigger problem.

  Someone is screaming.

  ‘Pervert!’

  It takes me a moment to realise that I’m looking up the dress of the woman in the next seat.

  Not that I am looking. I’m not. I’m just trying to get rid of the handbag strap. But it’s going to be hard to explain the difference. James Bond would know how to do it, but when it comes to the crunch I’m no James Bond. It’s safer and easier just to scram.

  I pull my head back under the seat and start the long journey back to where I started. Operation find-the-lost-Jaffa has been aborted. I’ll be happy just to find my seat.

  Too late.

  I can see a white torch beam sweeping across the carpet.

  The usher!

  I can’t go forward and I can’t go back.

  He stops at the end of my aisle.

  He is wearing black leather shoes. The shoelaces are tied in big floppy bows. The toes are scuffed. Probably from kicking trouble-makers like me out of the cinema.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ calls the usher.

  ‘Thief!’ gasps the handbag woman.

  ‘Pervert!’ says the woman sitting next to her.

  ‘Who me?’ says the usher.

  ‘No, under the seat!’ says the handbag woman.

  ‘Which one?’ says the usher.

  I’m breathing hard. Heart thudding.

  Any minute now he’s going to shine the torch under the seat.

  Unless . . .

  Brainwave!

  Now don’t get me wrong. Tying somebody’s shoelaces together is on a par with stealing lollies from children. It’s not an activity that I would normally have any part of or recommend to others. But this is an emergency. After all, a field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective.

  I reach out and pluck the end of the usher’s shoelace from its loose knot. It unties easily. The lace of his other shoe comes undone just as easily. I tie the two laces together in a simple slip knot. I brace myself. This is it. I spread my fingers apart like I’m steadying myself for the start of a one-hundred-metre sprint.

  That’s weird.

  I can feel something underneath my right hand.

  It’s small and hard. And round.

  Hang on!

  I don’t believe it.

  My Jaffa! I’ve found it.

  Against incredible odds.

  I put it in my pocket.

  James Bond would be proud of me. I steady myself and prepare to bolt.

  ‘Which row?’ says the usher.

  ‘This row!’ scream the women in unison.

  The usher bends down and shines his torch right in my face.

  ‘Good evening!’ I say in my suavest James Bond voice and then launch myself right at him and into the aisle.

  In his surprise the usher steps backwards. And falls. Ouch!

  The torch goes flying.

  I’m out in the centre aisle. But in all the excitement I can’t remember where I was sitting.

  I could yell ‘cooee!’ and hope that Danny replies, but that wouldn’t be too smart. Everyone would know where I am.

  There is one way, though.

  It’s not going to be pleasant but I have to do it. Only my uncanny sense of smell can help me now.

  I empty my lungs. I close my eyes. I breathe in through my nose, searching for a particular smell. A particularly bad smell. The worst smell in the whole world. A smell that’s kind of a cross between bad breath, dog pooh and garlic.

  Danny’s foot odour.

  Lucky for me Danny has a habit of taking his shoes off in the cinema. Judging by the smell, it must be about the only time he ever does take them off.

  Got it! Two rows back to the middle and nine seats across.

  Just in time. At least half-a-dozen torch beams start streaming down the aisles.

  Backup ushers!

  I throw myself towards the aisle where the stench is the strongest and dive under the seats before the torch beams hit.

  I move smoothly until I get to a seat without any legs in front of it. That must be mine. I emerge and slip back into my place as if nothing has happened.

  ‘Right on!’ says Danny.

  ‘Shut up!’ I say. ‘Just act normal.’

  The ushers are patrolling the aisles like prison guards.

  I pretend to be absorbed by the movie.

  It’s not easy. I’ve completely lost track of what’s going on. And I still can’t see the screen properly.

  All I can make out is that James Bond and his girlfriend are trapped in this enormous factory. It’s filled with smoke and fire. Explosions left, right and centre. They are desperately pressing buttons to get the doors open.

  My Jaffa!

  I have to eat the Jaffa before I lose it again.

  I put the Jaffa in my mouth. This is going to be good. I worked for this. I deserve it.

  That’s funny. I didn’t know they made Jaffas with a mint centre. And so chewy.

  That’s not right. It’s not a Jaffa. It’s somebody’s old chewing gum.

  I clutch at my throat. What if the person who last chewed that gum was really sick and now I’ve got some horrible disease?

  I spit the gum out.

  It flies through the
air, straight into the hair of the woman in front of me.

  She jumps up.

  ‘There’s something in my hair!’ she screams ‘Urgh! Chewing gum.’

  She turns to me and points.

  ‘You did this, you nasty little boy!’

  I slump down in my seat.

  The handbag woman stands up.

  ‘That’s the boy who tried to steal my handbag!’

  The other woman is beside her.

  ‘He tried to look up my dress!’

  ‘No!’ I say to them. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake. That was just somebody who looks like me!’

  Ushers everywhere. More and more people are crowding around my seat. Nobody seems to be interested in the movie any more.

  Even the little kid is standing on his seat and pointing.

  ‘That’s him,’ he says. ‘See, Mummy! That’s the boy who was under my seat.’

  His mother stands up.

  ‘Is this true?’ she says.

  Before I can answer, the first usher is shining his torch in my face.

  ‘It’s you!’ he says. ‘The one who tied my shoelaces together!’

  The faces of these people appear twisted and evil in the half-light of the movie house. The usher is a dead-ringer for the villain in the film.

  I turn to Danny for support.

  ‘Tell them I’m innocent, Danny! Tell them!’ I plead.

  But Danny’s seat is empty. So is Dad’s.

  They’ve abandoned me. I can’t say I blame them. This is one ugly mob.

  ‘Hey, look, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’d love to stay and chat but I have to be going . . .’

  ‘Stay right there,’ says the usher. ‘You’re in big trouble!’

  He pushes me back down into my seat.

  ‘Let’s speargun him!’ says the handbag lady.

  People cheer.

  ‘Feed him to the sharks!’ cries the dress lady.

  Even more cheering.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says a voice. ‘Does anybody have a speargun or a shark?’

  People go quiet. They shake their heads.

  On the screen James Bond has just set a man on fire with a cigarette lighter.