by Alex Wheatle
Mum had told me that Greyback was much more mature than my dad. But what was the point of dating someone much more responsible if death was whispering to him?
“How was your day, Welton?” Greyback asked me.
I’d had the worst day of anyone who had ever lived, but I wasn’t about to tell Greyback all about it. “Not too bad,” I replied.
“We’ve made a decision,” Mum cut in, unable to stop grinning. It was like her smile had a lifetime battery wired to it.
What decision could this be? I wondered. Maybe they’d decided to send Devon to some far-off boarding school on the other side of the universe?
“Kingsley and Devon are moving in with us for a while,” Mum blurted out.
I didn’t quite register what Mum said. I sort of stared into space and lost all the feeling in my face. The throbbing in my ankle suddenly stopped and I had this out-of-body experience like I was looking down at myself from the ceiling. I was beginning to think I had died. I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t move my tongue or my mouth.
“Kingsley’s struggling to pay the rent at his place, so I suggested he move in here with us until we can get somewhere bigger together. Makes sense, don’t you think, Welton … Welton?”
I think I passed out for a couple of seconds. Maybe a minute. This couldn’t be. Greyback and the Brat that even hell would reject were going to live with us! What had I ever done to deserve this 18+ rated horror?
“Er, what?” I said, finally getting my mouth moving. “How? What was that? Moving in? Our place is too small … Is Devon going to sleep on the couch?”
“Don’t be silly, Welton,” Mum said. “I have already ordered another single bed. Devon will be sleeping in your room. There’s plenty of space in there. He’ll be the younger brother you never had. I’ve seen how well you guys get along.”
Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!
Devon bounced up and down on my bad ankle and I let out a real scream. “Arrrrgggghhhh!”
“He’s a lively one, isn’t he?” Greyback laughed, ignoring my pain. “So full of energy all the time. I can hardly keep up with him.”
Because you’re too old, I thought.
Mum nodded. “Yes, he is lively,” she said. “Just like Welton was at his age. It’ll be great all of us living together. It’ll give us a chance to save and get a bigger place. Who knows? Maybe we can go on holiday together? Jamaica?”
I imagined sitting on a plane next to the Brat for ten hours.
Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh!
Devon had to go.
“We’ve ordered pizza for this evening,” Mum announced. “And we’re going to sit down like a proper family to eat it.”
Greyback kissed her on the cheek. The Brat bounced on my bad ankle yet again. I leaned in close to him. “If you jump on my leg once more,” I hissed, “I’m gonna wait till you’re sleeping, take you up to the church spire and drop you onto the concrete head-first. Do you know what will happen to your head after that? It will crack open and the inside of it will look like the pizza you’re gonna eat but with added tomato sauce.”
The Brat looked at me as if he was expecting me to laugh. I had my serious face on, like Luke Skywalker before he fought Darth Vader in The Empire Strikes Back.
“Dad, Dad,” the Brat wailed. “Welton said he’s gonna drop me off the church to land on my head!”
“He knows I was joking,” I chuckled. I laughed so Mum and Greyback were really convinced I was messing around. I ruffled the Brat’s hair and he sort of smiled, maybe 25 per cent, not sure whether to trust me.
*
Half an hour later we sat down around our small table in the kitchen and had pizza. I made sure I got my fair share of garlic bread. I couldn’t help but worry about what Dad would make of Greyback and the Brat moving in. He didn’t even know that Mum had a boyfriend. He always asked me if Mum was seeing someone else and I would answer no.
Living in his damp flat alongside every species of spider, cockroach and fly had slowly turned Dad insane. Well, not totally insane, but on some Saturday mornings he didn’t bother to wash, shave, get out of his pyjamas or move from the couch. Even worse, I couldn’t get the TV remote control out of his hands. I didn’t want to add to Dad’s depression by telling him Mum had a new boyfriend who seemed much more mature than him.
After the pizza, I took off to hide in my room. Mum followed me in and asked, “Aren’t you happy that Kingsley and I are trying to make a life together?”
I wanted to say no, but if I did Mum would want to talk the rest of the night and try to convince me to connect with Greyback and spend some quality time with him. I couldn’t see how we would have anything in common as he was so ancient. He worked as a security guard in the Orchard shopping centre and liked to wear his uniform everywhere he went. So embarrassing!
“Yeah, I’m happy, Mum … How long do you think we’ll be staying here before we move to a bigger place?”
“Maybe six to nine months.”
I took a deep breath. Six to nine months of the Brat sharing my room. Six to nine months! There’s no way in the Star Wars universe that I’ll last even six to nine nights without committing a murder most stinkful.
Maybe I can live with Dad? Then again, no. I’m sick and tired of chasing all brands of spiders out of his bathtub, not getting my choice on his TV, and the fish and chip shop is a twenty-minute trek from his place. I’ll have to run away. I’ll live in the woods for six to nine months and live on squirrels or something. I’ll use the Force to hunt food.
“Is there anything you want to say, Welton?” Mum said, using her gentle voice. “I know all this is a bit sudden and I’m sorry to spring it on you. We’ve been talking about it for ages, but we finally made a decision last night. We wanted to tell you together.”
I didn’t know what to say. Well, something came to my mind, but it would’ve been rude to say it. Something like, “Greyback’s only got about fifteen years max in him, Mum. And that’s if he’s lucky. Dad might be immature, but at least he’ll live longer, is a painter and decorator, and he’ll decorate the hallway when you want it done.” Instead, I suddenly thought that maybe I could use this moment to ask for something.
“Can … can I have a new phone, Mum? Please!”
Mum put her hands on her hips and gave me the look that told me I had said something real dumb again. “My priority is to get the new bed and to make sure we have everything ready for when Kingsley and Devon move in,” she said. “I’m afraid a new phone can wait.”
“But, Mum, my phone doesn’t work! It won’t even switch on! It’s dead.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive without a phone until your birthday.”
“My birthday’s three months away,” I complained. “Mum, please! You can’t do this to me. This is child abuse! It’s having an effect on my mental health. You might as well throw me in Jabba the Hutt’s dungeon.”
“Stop being so dramatic, Welton,” Mum said. “Having a new phone is not an emergency or even on the first page of my priorities! I could do with an upgrade myself, but I have to wait.”
How could I make her see it was an emergency? I had to admit to myself there was now only a very slim chance that I would be taking Carmella McKenzie to the movies, but I still wanted to call her. Maybe I still had a 1 per cent chance of going to the movies with her. Then again, maybe not. It would be easier to get Carmella’s official “Sorry, Welton, I found somebody else” talk on the phone rather than hearing it face to face.
God! Face to face! I didn’t think I could handle that. It might push me over the edge. I might spontaneously combust. Or do something really stupid like cry in front of her. I was gonna end up like Dad: not bothering to wash or change my clothes, farting on the sofa and not going out on a Saturday.
“There are bills to pay,” Mum said, and then she went off on one. When she went off on one, she always started with “there are bills to pay”. “New school shirts, trousers and shoes to buy, but, oh no! Welton wan
ts a new phone! Let’s drop everything until Welton gets his new phone!”
“I get it, Mum,” I said.
She gave me an evil look and stomped out of my room, my faint hope of a new phone going with her.
To be honest I wouldn’t have minded going without shirts, trousers and shoes if it meant I got a new phone. Mum was too old to realise that kids of my age were judged by what type of phone you had. I could turn up at school wearing old tennis racquets on my feet, a baseball hat made out of cardboard and Oliver Twist’s hand-me-downs, but if I had a cool phone, I’d be on point.
*
For the rest of the evening I tried to work out what I was going to do if I bumped into Carmella. Somehow, I had to regain my cool. The popular kids in my year owned the latest mobile phones, were good at sports, wore name-brand trainers and didn’t get taxed by Broxslater. My ancient phone was a brick that didn’t work, my trainers had no name and Broxslater still taxed me. So that left sport.
I was rubbish at football, even worse at cricket, so it would have to be basketball. I’d never really tried my best at basketball, but it seemed pretty simple. You just had to chuck a ball in a basket. That’s it, I thought, I will try out for our year’s basketball team. I decided I would go and see Mr Purrfoot the very next day.
Chapter 9
The Rhino with the Stinkin’ Armpit
My dreams that night were filled with nightmares where I shared a bedroom with the Brat for over twenty years and he grew so big he could tax me and smack me down. I woke up early and tired, but I still felt determined to give this B-ball thing a real go. The swelling had gone down in my ankle and it felt a lot better. I used my deodorant stick to try to delete the vomit smell from my school jacket. I packed my PE kit into my schoolbag thinking, Today’s gonna be a good day.
Jumping off the bus, I suddenly remembered that I didn’t want to bump into Carmella at the main school entrance, so I headed for the side gate. I wanted to avoid her until I’d achieved my new plan of B-ball stardom.
Oh, for the life of Yoda!
Standing at the side gate was Brian Broxslater. He was chewing gum and leaning against the meshed fencing. His school tie was fat and his shirt cuffs were pulled over his jacket sleeves. His long brown hair reached his shoulders. He was wearing brand-new trainers. His thick legs seemed to be about to burst from his trousers, all Hulk-like. His eyes ignored everybody else and were trained on me. An evil grin escaped from the corners of his mouth. His moustache twitched. Beside him was his second-in-command – the skinny Corrington Wingburter with his pale, ghostly face.
I stopped in my tracks, but Broxslater’s eyes never left me. I really should’ve hot-footed it outta there, but I decided that I’d rather pay my tax quietly than have Broxslater chase me around the school sports field.
“I heard you sold two insults yesterday,” Broxslater said in a calm voice. His moustache danced. His fangs ripped into his chewing gum.
“Er, kind of—” I started to say.
“What do you mean ‘kind of’?” Broxslater cut me off. “You either sold two cusses or you didn’t. My spies tell me you sold ’em.”
“Er, yeah, I did,” I admitted.
“Then that’s sixty p tax for the Chancellor,” Broxslater demanded, holding out his hand. “Come on, Blakey, be a good soldier and pay the Chancellor.”
Suddenly, a tiny Luke Skywalker appeared on my shoulder. Only I could see him. Are you going to take that? Luke said. When are you going to stand up for yourself? You can’t let him scare you for ever. Are you a mouse or a Jedi?
Broxslater had massive fists. I imagined them pounding me into the ground up to my neck.
I thought about it. I chose being a mouse again.
Corrington laughed as I fished in my pockets for my jingles. I was grateful that Broxslater hadn’t yet heard of my higher prices. I handed the money over and Broxslater’s moustache twitched again as he pocketed my hard-earned cash.
“Now, be a good soldier and run along, Blakey,” Broxslater laughed. “You don’t wanna be late for registration.”
This tiny ball of mad anger was ping-ponging side to side in my chest. It was being chased by this bigger ball of fear. Like a basketball, but much heavier. Very quickly, the gigantic ball of fear crushed the teeny ball of anger.
*
I made registration with five minutes to spare. As soon as I sat down, Harry Stanley started his performance. He had obviously been waiting for me. In between acting like a zombie, he made retching and vomiting sounds. He also came out with a new rhyme:
Hip hip, hip hip, Blakey’s gonna be sick
Hip hip, hip hip, Blakey’s gonna be sick
Duck down low
If you’re sitting in the back row
Turn your face
Or it’ll be covered in food waste
Get out of the way, you don’t wanna be hit
He puked over Karen Francis and she had a proper fit
Standing up to face him you must not dare
Karen Francis is still brushing sick out of her hair
Hip hip, hip hip, Blakey’s gonna be sick!
I tried to ignore him, but the roars of laughter encouraged Harry Stanley to go for an encore. My situation was tragic, but I couldn’t help but admire Harry’s lyrical skills.
“Hip hip, hip hip, Blakey’s gonna be sick—”
“Harry Stanley!” my form tutor, Mr Gable, called out.
I hadn’t seen him enter the classroom, but I breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down behind his desk.
The classroom calmed down and Gable started to read out the names in his register. I was third on the list. “Welton Blake!”
“Here!” I responded.
A second after I answered, Harry fell off his chair in mock agony and pretended to be kicked and punched from all sides. “Leave me alone,” he squealed. “Leave me alone! I don’t fight girls! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I don’t fight girls!”
The classroom erupted once more and the only thing I could do was bury my face into my desk. I could hear pockets of giggles all around and when I did lift my head a bit and opened my eyes, everybody still chuckled – apart from Coral Chipglider. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at me. She was staring as if I had puked in her hair every day for a month. Whatever did I do to her? I made a note to myself: stay out of Coral’s spitting range.
*
When the bell went, I hot-stepped to the music room for my first lesson of the day. The class had settled into their seats and the only free chair was the one next to Timothy “Stink Bomb” Smotheram. Today he had a mushroom, garlic and fishy smell about him. There was a mini snowstorm of dandruff on his shoulders and his lips had turned blue after chewing the wrong end of a biro. Despite all this, he grinned a strange grin.
“Blakey!” he greeted me. “Glad you’re sitting here. Wanna ask you a favour. I need another insult.”
“What? Another one?” I replied.
“Yeah, I need a smelly cuss.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because the girl I cussed said I smell like a Slumdog Millionaire toilet that even the ghetto kids won’t use.”
“That’s deep,” I sympathised.
“It was deep.” Timothy nodded. “And nasty. Have you got something I can use? I’m desperate. This girl’s a real pain on my ear lobes and knows her cusses.”
“Let me think about it,” I said. “By the way, my insults are now retailing for seventy pence.”
“Seventy pence? What crook worked out your inflation? You’re taking the double mickey.”
“I don’t care if I’m taking the treble mickey. Seventy pence.”
“Why?” Timothy asked.
“Cos word got out to Broxslater about my insults yesterday and he taxed me this morning.”
There was a guilty look on Timothy’s face. My Jedi powers told me that Broxslater attempted to tax Timothy, who told him he’d given the last of his money to me.
“All right, I’ll pay the seventy pence,�
�� Timothy said. “But the cuss better be one of your best. I don’t want any D-minus cuss – it has to be A plus. I want tears on the floor.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be a business-class cuss,” I told him. “And when I sell the insult, please keep it to yourself.”
“All right.”
“Promise!” I insisted.
“I promise,” Timothy agreed.
I couldn’t remember if I had a smelly cuss in my catalogue, so I had to make up one. I also thought that Timothy might help his cause by having the odd shower. “Tell her … tell her she smells even worse than the armpit of a rhino who scrubs out the toilets in the rhino jail. Yeah, tell her that.”
Timothy’s eyes lit up. He wrote the cuss down and smiled an evil smile. Another satisfied customer. He paid me the seventy pence and I banked it in my right sock. “Remember,” I said. “Keep this between me and you. Don’t even tell your bedroom mirror. Broxslater must never know. We never had this conversation.”
Timothy nodded and a bit of dandruff fell off his shoulders and onto his desk.
Chapter 10
The Secret Note
The morning classes passed in a boring blur and I managed to avoid Carmella. I still hadn’t thought of a plan to avoid being lamed and shamed by her in public, so I spent lunch break in a corner in the library.
The book folk, the nerdy, the friendless and the weird kids all stared at me, but I didn’t care. Broxslater wasn’t taxing me, Harry Stanley wasn’t rapping about my projectile vomiting and Coral Chipglider wasn’t looking at me as if she wanted to drown me in an ocean of spit.
The buzzer sounded and I made my way to the next lesson of the day: Woodwork. I kept a careful look-out for Carmella in case I had to make a quick dash for it.
