by Sam Rhodes
Contents
Cover
Acknowledgements
Chapter One: A DOZY SUPERHERO
Chapter Two: COPYCATS
Chapter Three: LONG ARM’S LAIR
Chapter Four: STAMPEDE!
Chapter Five: HAMSTER BURGLAR
Chapter Six: HANGING BY A THREAD
Chapter Seven: A PAIN IN THE NECK
Chapter Eight: LONG NECK ON THE RAMPAGE
Chapter Nine: LONG ARM VS LONG NECK
Chapter Ten: A DISAPPOINTING ENDING
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
A DOZY SUPERHERO
“Wake up, Mitre!” shouted his teacher, Mr Pinkerton.
Ricky sat bolt upright, his mind a mess. “What? Yes, Mummy. Coming!”
The class laughed, and Ricky blushed. Even Simon, Ricky’s best friend, was grinning.
“Sorry, sir,” said Ricky. “I must have dozed off.”
Mr Pinkerton was holding a stack of papers and his knuckles whitened. His face twisted into a frown, like an angry letter being screwed up.
“Children falling asleep in lessons” was a long way down Mr Pinkerton’s List of Favourite Things (L.O.F.T). Let’s take a look shall we?
L.O.F.T #1,233 – Children enjoying lessons
L.O.F.T #1,234 – Children falling asleep in lessons
L.O.F.T #1,235 – Children
“Dozing! DOZING? In maths!”
He said it as though dozing in maths was impossible. But Ricky didn’t hear, because he’d fallen asleep again.
Mr Pinkerton slammed the papers down on to Ricky’s desk. “Eyes open!” he yelled.
His face went pink. Then red. Then blue. It turned a shade of purple that frankly wasn’t natural.
And when Mr Pinkerton’s face goes THAT colour, there’s no going back.
Ricky knew what was coming next. The whole class knew. You at home with this book in your hands, you know. Heck, even the aliens living on the planet Skidillybop probably have a good idea. A trump, a bottom burp. Or, if you’re posh, a “breaking wind”.
“Pinker-pump alert!” said Vince. “Activate defensive measures!”
But Mr Pinkerton took deep breaths, and performed a series of stretches like a yoga master.
“Flatulence averted!” he mumbled.
The entire class was shocked. It was unlike Mr Pinkerton to hold in a good trump. He always took immense pleasure in releasing his foul-smelling gas into the atmosphere. One time he let out a trump on every step he took leading up to the school library – all fifty-two of them. Nobody else visited the library that day.
Whatever the reason, everyone was grateful, including the aliens.
“He should be careful,” Simon whispered to Ricky. “I’ve read that people can spontaneously combust from a build-up of methane. One spark, and BOOM!”
Ricky chuckled, but cut his chuckle short when Mr Pinkerton laid his latest test paper down on the desk. It had been graded W.
“What does W mean, sir?”
“Worse-Than-Even-I-Expected,” replied Mr Pinkerton. “Which is very bad indeed.”
“Ouch,” muttered Simon.
“Double-Ouch,” said Mr Pinkerton, giving Simon his test paper. Ricky saw Simon’s face go pale as a flour-dusted sheet. His mouth opened in sheer horror. He began to tremble uncontrollably.
“Are you OK?” said Ricky. “What did you get?”
Simon seemed to have lost the ability to speak, so Ricky peered over his shoulder. His paper was marked with an A.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ricky. “An A is amazing.”
“My parents are going to kill me,” said Simon. “I’ve never got below an A+ before now.”
Ricky was a bit disappointed though. Normally he got Cs. One time he thought he’d got a C+, but it turned out the “+” was just a bit of Pinkerton’s curried egg that had fallen on to the paper.
But a W … that was definitelyWorse-Than-Even-Ricky-Expected.
The problem? Well, being a superhero was tiring. Since Ricky’s arm had stretched miraculously long in a hideous toilet-cleaning accident*, he’d been busy. Between completing the final levels of Barry the Hedgehog (his new favourite computer game), basketball practice and saving the world, Ricky didn’t have a lot of time for maths revision. Still, if they asked, he would just tell his parents that the W stood for “Winner”.
Mr Pinkerton had finished handing out the rest of the papers. “Anyone below an F, you’ll be doing lines at break time.”
Ricky put up his hand. “Is a W below an F?”
Mr Pinkerton rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ricky. Don’t you know your alphabet either?” He turned to the board and wrote: Mathematics nourishes the mind. “Thirty times please, Ricky.”
The bell went for assembly, and everyone scrambled up from their desks. On the way past, the class bully Vince bashed into Ricky. “Sorry, Mitre,” he said. “Didn’t see you down there.”
The school hall was already filling up when Ricky’s class arrived, so the only place left to sit was right at the front, in what was known as Spittle Row, because of head teacher Mrs Wilson’s over-active saliva glands.
“Oh, great,” said Vince, sliding on yesterday’s outpouring. “I haven’t brought my umbrella. Or a wetsuit.”
Ricky found a dry spot on the floor and sat down. Simon pushed a button on the side of his thick spectacles, and a full-face visor slotted down. Typical Simon – always prepared.
But it wasn’t Mrs Wilson who came into the hall. Instead, it was a youngish woman dressed head-to-toe in leathers, with a motorcycle helmet under her arm. She unzipped the leather jacket and tossed it on to the stage. Underneath she wore a T-shirt that read Schoolz Out For Summer.
“Who’s that?” Katie Locke muttered, wide-eyed.
“Hi, guys!” said the woman, smiling brightly. “I’m afraid I have some bad news about Mrs Wilson.”
Ricky and everyone else drew in a deep breath. What could have happened?
“Unfortunately, last night we lost Mrs Wilson.”
Everyone gasped in shock. Someone started to weep at the back of the hall.
The biker lady continued, “She was playing hide-and-seek with her family, but her hiding place this time is just too good and she simply can’t be found. Until she is, I am acting as her replacement. My name is Mrs Schofield. But you call me Miss, The Schofatron, The Schofinator, or whatever you like, really.”
Ricky looked at Simon, who was slowly removing his visor.
“The Schofatron is cool,” Ricky whispered.
She looked to the door and gave a wave with her hand. “Come in, Spencer. Don’t be shy.”
A boy Ricky’s age, with sandy hair and lots of freckles, shuffled into the hall, barely lifting his eyes.
“This is my son, Spencer,” said Mrs Schofield. “We’ve just moved to the area, so I hope you’ll all make him welcome. He’ll be in Mr Pinkerton’s class.”
Spencer looked up briefly, casting a glance for somewhere to sit. On the front row, Vince called, “Here’s a spot next to me.”
Ricky frowned. Normally Vince was about as friendly as a rattlesnake. Spencer walked over, and the next moment cried “Argh!”, as his feet shot from beneath him.
“Oops,” said Vince, chuckling. “Must’ve been a wet spot.”
“Right,” said Mrs Schofield. “Enjoy your day, guys. I have only one rule, and I’ll come down hard if you break it. That rule is … have fun!”
The whole assembly broke into applause. Apart from Mr Pinkerton. He was shifting uncomfortably, like he really wanted to let rip with a good trump. Stinkerton loved rules, so the idea of there only being one would not please
him AT ALL.
As everyone stood up to leave for their next lesson, Ricky went over to Spencer. He offered him his left hand. “Stick with us,” he said. “My name’s Ricky and this is Simon.”
Spencer smiled gratefully and shook Ricky’s hand. Vince muttered, “Creep,” under his breath.
“Tell you what,” said Mrs Schofield as they walked towards the doors. “Let’s not bother with your next lesson. Go outside and play instead. Fresh air is good for you.”
Everyone looked at each other in shock and then cheered. Ricky started running for the doors to the playground.
A hand dropped on to his shoulder. He turned to see Mr Pinkerton. “Forgotten something, Mitre? You’ve got lines to do.”
Ricky’s heart sank as he watched the other kids run out into the sunshine.
* * *
* It’s pretty disgusting, but if you like that sort of thing, read The Adventures of Long Arm.
CHAPTER 2
COPYCATS
Ricky could still hear their shouts of joy as he was writing his fifth line. At least he didn’t have to stand on a stool to reach the top of the board any more. Ever since that toilet-cleaning incident, Ricky Mitre had a special power that only a few people knew about.
When he heard footsteps coming, he tucked his arm away.
It was only Simon.
“Hey, mate,” he said, winking, “I’ve got a plan to break you out,” and he hurried over to his school bag.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” said Ricky. “If I don’t write my lines, Stinkerton’s bum will turn into a lethal weapon.”
“Wait and see,” said Simon. He undid the zip on his bag and took out a cardboard tube. Popping off the top, he slid out what looked like a stack of metal rulers. He flicked a switch, and the whole thing unfolded into a large frame of interlocking pieces.
“What is it?” said Ricky.
“I call it ‘the Copytron’,” said Simon. “I invented it. It’s a device used for copying. Watch!”
Simon took the weird contraption over to the board, and fastened several board pens into different slots. He wrote Mathematics nourishes the mind, and as if by magic, the same thing appeared in several rows below.
“Awesome!” said Ricky. “Simon, you’re like Einstein, Archimedes and Quasimodo all rolled into one!”
Simon frowned. “Thanks, but I haven’t got a hunchback.”
“Einstein had a hunchback?” asked Ricky.
Simon just shook his head.
“The point is,” said Ricky, “I’ll be able to do my lines ten times as quickly.”
Indeed, two minutes later, Ricky was walking on to the schoolyard. Mr Pinkerton was eating cold baked beans out of the tin. When he saw Ricky, he squinted. “What are you doing outside?”
“Lines done,” said Ricky, proudly. “Go and check.”
“Oh, I will,” said Mr Pinkerton, wiping bean juice from his chin.
As soon as he was gone, Ricky heard the sound of Vince’s voice. “Hey, Spencer, catch!”
Through a crowd, Ricky saw Spencer. He was wandering round blindly, with his school tie covering his eyes. His hands scrabbled to untie the knot as a football hit him in the back of the head. Vince took aim again. “Close!” he said. “Try one more time.”
Oof! The football hit him in the stomach.
Ricky’s skin tingled. He wouldn’t stand for this.
“Wait!” said Simon, as if sensing Ricky’s anger. “You can’t go up against Vince. He eats rocks for breakfast and bench-presses Year Ones.”
“I’m not going to fight him,” said Ricky. “I’m going to teach him a lesson.”
All eyes were on poor Spencer, so Ricky let his arm unfurl from under his top, and snaked it through the crowd. He reached for Vince’s trousers and unfastened his belt. Vince was wearing a pair of boxer shorts decorated with pink unicorns.
As he hopped away, everyone laughed. Ricky went to Spencer and helped untie the blindfold.
“Thanks again,” said Spencer. “It’s always like this when your mum’s a teacher. I hate it.”
“But your mum is awesome,” said Ricky.
Spencer shrugged. “I guess so.” He hesitated, blushing. “Listen, can I sit next to you in class?”
Ricky thought about Simon briefly. They always sat together, and had since they first came to school. But Spencer was new – he had no friends.
“Sure,” said Ricky.
Simon would understand.
*
Simon did not understand.
“But we always sit together,” he said.
“It’s just for a few days,” said Ricky. “Till Spencer settles in.”
“OK,” said Simon. Then he lowered his voice. “You should be careful – using your arm like that in the open.”
“No one saw,” said Ricky, feeling annoyed. He’d only done it to help Spencer. “I know what I’m doing.”
Simon looked like he was going to argue, but in the end he just said, “Are we still on for lunchtime?”
“Of course,” said Ricky.
*
The next lesson was history. The topic was Ancient Egypt, so Mr Pinkerton was showing the class pictures of the pyramids, Tutankhamen and then a weird-looking statue of a cat. Mr Pinkerton let out a very high-pitched squeal (and almost a trump).
The class began to laugh.
Everyone in the school knew of Mr Pinkerton’s hatred for cats but no one knew why. Rumours had gone around for years about the possible reasons.
Some people said that his loathing for cats began when a cat ate his beloved goldfish, Karl.
Others said that when he was little the next-door neighbour’s cat stole his bike.
There’s one other rumour too, but it’s so ridiculous. The rumour is that Mr Pinkerton once married a cat, but the cat ran off with the postman. But like I say, that’s ridiculous – I mean who would ever marry Mr Pinkerton?
When the lunch bell went, Ricky gave Simon a nod, and they left the classroom. Instead of joining the lunch queue, they veered off into the direction of Mr Smears’s broom cupboard.
Ricky was about to knock, when a voice at his back said, “You not coming to lunch?”
It was Spencer. “Sorry, I can’t,” said Ricky. “Things to do.”
Spencer looked at him pleadingly.
“You’ll be fine on your own,” said Simon, patting him on the shoulder. “Just don’t touch the mashed potato. Chef bulks it up with his own hair.”
When Spencer had drifted off with the rest of the school to the canteen, Ricky did his secret knock.
Tap-Tap-Tappity… Pause… Tap.
“Enter,” said a gruff voice.
Ricky opened the door and they entered. It was gloomy inside, lit only by a faint shadeless light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were shelves with paint pots and overalls and tools. The air was thick with dust. As his eyes slowly adjusted, Ricky made out the caretaker, Mr Smears. He was reading a magazine called 50 Sheds in Grey (And Other Colours).
“Go right down,” he said.
Ricky went to a set of shelves. On the top one, way out of reach without a ladder, was a dusty thermos flask.
“Ready?” he said to Simon.
Simon nodded, and stood next to him.
As soon as Ricky touched the lid, it glowed green. “Fingerprints accepted,” said a soft electronic voice. Ricky turned the lid a full circle, and with a soft click, a portion of the floor dropped away. Ricky and Simon plummeted so fast Ricky felt his stomach trying to escape through his throat.
CHAPTER 3
LONG ARM’S LAIR
It stopped. Ricky stepped out of the elevator into a room lit by strip lights. There were work desks littered with pieces of wiring and machinery, and a wall of monitors linked to every CCTV camera in Wolvesley.
They had Mr Smears to thank for the lab. He’d told them that there were a series of tunnels running beneath the school, and Simon had kitted it out with all the latest technology. It even had Wi-F
i.
The first thing Ricky did, as always when he got down to the lab, was to give his arm a good stretch. Then he began to repair his suit with a needle and thread. It had been badly ripped in the incident at the garden centre with the exploding cacti.* Simon, meanwhile, went behind a screen. Ricky heard a series of clangs and curses.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Inventing,” said Simon.
Ricky went back to stitching. He was still thinking about what Simon had said about not using his arm for little things. Perhaps his pal was right. Or maybe he was just jealous.
“Get ready!” said Simon from behind the screen.
Ricky thought he was ready, but when Simon emerged he practically jumped out of his seat. His friend was encased in some sort of robot, towering seven feet high.
“Meet ED,” said Simon, as the machine stomped towards Ricky. It held out a hand.
“Er, hi, ED,” he said, taking the hand.
The metal fingers squeezed and Ricky felt the bones of his hand crush together. “Ouch!” he cried. “Stop!”
Simon released him. “Oops – sorry. Still adjusting the power controls.”
Ricky rubbed his sore hand. “Why ‘ED’?”
“Exoskeleton Droid,” said Simon proudly. “He’s programmed in combat arts, and can lift weights of up to 200 kilos. And he can fly. Watch.”
Simon pressed a couple of buttons and ED’s foot shot up in a high kick stopping a whisker short of Ricky’s chin. “Cool!” said Ricky.
“And he’s got a nunchuck attachment,” said Simon. ED opened a compartment in his leg and drew out two batons connected with a chain. He spun them in dizzying arcs in front of Ricky’s face.
“Double cool!” said Ricky.
“And he has a samurai mode.”
ED reached over his shoulder. Ricky stepped back, expecting a deadly sword. Instead, ED was holding a mop.
