Barry Loser and the Case of the Crumpled Carton

by Jim Smith

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ trembled my granny, clambering back out of the box and giving me a scrapey spangle hug. ‘Thank you, Barry Warry!’ she whispered in my ear, and I giggled, but only because it tickled.

  I looked at The Great Hodgepodge and raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to say yes, and he scratched his bum with the non-sawing side of his saw.

  ‘You’ll have to wear the costume, of course,’ he sighed, hoping that would be enough to put me off, and I heard Bunky gasp.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Barry!’ he wailed from the audience, but I wasn’t listening.

  ‘Pass me the tutu,’ I said.

  ‘Phwoot-phwoo!’ wolf-whistled Sharonella as I walked back on stage from the dressing room, wearing Madame Harumpadunk’s spangly gold leotard and yellow tutu.

  ‘Look after little Des for me, Maureen,’ I blubbered to my mum, as I climbed into the coffin and saluted the crowd, looking around one more time before I was chopped into two bits and put in a bin out the back of Mogden Hall.

  ‘BLURGLE! GOOGOO!’ garbled Desmond, his dummy popping out of his mouth, and he pointed over at Bunky.

  ‘Yes, that’s right Des,’ I said. ‘Bunky’ll be your new brother once I’m gone, won’t you Bunky?’ I warbled, and I glanced at Bunky, hoping he’d agree.

  ‘GURGLE! DOODOO!’ blurgled Des, doing a sucking noise with his mouth, and I opened my eyes again and peeked out of the coffin, mainly because I was getting a tiny bit scared and hoped someone might stop me going through with it.

  ‘WAA WAA!’ shrieked Des, waggling his arm at his new brother, and I looked at Bunky properly. Something about him reminded me of Detective Manksniff all of a sudden.

  It wasn’t his voice, because he wasn’t saying anything. It wasn’t his hat, because he didn’t have one on. And it wasn’t his smile, because he wasn’t smiling.

  ‘What in the name of Great Uncle Desmond Loser is it?’ I mumbled, then I gasped, realising what it was. Sticking out of Bunky’s trouser pocket was a little straw with pink tear shapes dotted all over it.

  ‘Stop the show!’ I boomed, jumping out of the coffin, and The Great Hodgepodge ripped his bow tie off, throwing it on the floor all disappointed.

  I staggered towards Bunky, wondering how Desmond had recognised the Tears of Granny Laughter straw. Then I remembered him reaching out for the one on my carton of Irene that time when I was bouncing him on my mum’s yoga ball.

  The only question now was: what was Bunky doing with one sticking out of his pocket?

  ‘B-bunky, w-where did you get that straw?’ I stuttered.

  Bunky tapped the straw, tucking it further down into his pocket. ‘Er, umm, urggh . . .’ he mumbled, looking around. Everyone had stopped staring at me and swivelled their eyeballs over to him.

  His Daily Poo was still sticking out of his back pocket, and I whipped it out, staring at the photo of Anton’s crumpled carton of Beryl on the front page.

  ‘Just as I thought!’ I boomed, pointing at the photo. ‘There was no straw in Anton’s carton after it’d been crumpled . . . Whoever drank Beryl must’ve stolen the straw as well!’

  ‘B-but this is the straw from the carton of Gertrude my sister bought me!’ warbled Bunky, pincering it out of his pocket and sticking it between his lips, trying to look all innocent.

  ‘What, the straw I snapped in half and Nancy threw in the bin?’ I scoffed. ‘I don’t think so!’ I said, snuffling my nostrils around the end of the straw.

  ‘Anton,’ I shouted, ‘I think you’d better take a look at this.’

  Anton wobbled over, giving me an evil stare. ‘What do you want now, Beryl Murderer?’ he said.

  ‘Give this a snuffle,’ I said, wafting the non-Bunky-spit end of the straw under his nose, and he breathed in, but not like he wanted to smell it, more because he needed to breathe to keep on being alive.

  At first it was just a comperleeterly normal, everyday Anton Mildew breath. Then something happened to his face.

  His eyes seemed to get bigger, and his hair went even more curly than usual.

  ‘H-how in the why what when which why . . .’ he stuttered, snatching the straw out of my hands and holding it up to the window. ‘B-beryl? ‘Oh, my dear, sweet Beryl . . .’ he cried, dropping to his knees and beginning to sob.

  I peered into Bunky’s eyes the way I peer into them when I’ve just realised he’s the one who drank Anton’s carton of Tears of Granny Laughter.

  ‘Don’t hate me, Barry . . .’ he begged, dropping his head so that he looked even more like a walking stick than before.

  ‘Oh Bunky, how COULD you?’ said Nancy, taking off her glasses.

  Bunky put his hand on my shoulder and I shrugged it off, not believing my best friend could have done this to me. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ he cried, as I stood there in my spangly gold leotard and yellow tutu, waiting to hear his explanation.

  ‘I came looking for you when you went for your poo, but you weren’t in the classroom. Then I saw Anton’s carton . . .’ he said, not finishing his sentence.

  ‘I thought you didn’t even like Tears of Granny Laughter?’ I said, not looking at him. My whole body had turned to jelly, except the sort of jelly that’s too upset to wobble.

  ‘I was just really thirsty. I didn’t think . . .’ said Bunky, shrugging his shoulders, and I wondered what kind of idiot drinks a drink he doesn’t even like drinking, just because he fancies a drink. Then I remembered this was Bunky we were talking about.

  ‘I thought you were right-handed,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ said Bunky, holding his right hand up and looking at it like it wasn’t his. ‘I was picking my nose with this one when I crumpled the carton,’ he said, and I laughed to myself, in an angry sort of way.

  ‘That’s when I put the straw in my pocket,’ he mumbled, and we both peered down at Anton, who was lying on the ground sobbing, still clutching his Beryl straw.

  ‘It was just so keel, with its little pink tears dotted all over it . . . and I liked chewing on it too,’ said Bunky.

  I thought about how much I liked chewing on my Tears of Granny Laughter straw, and sort of knew what Bunky meant.

  ‘You let everyone think it was ME who stole it, though,’ I said, turning round and staring into Bunky’s eyes, and I remembered how he’d been acting all weird around me recently.

  Bunky looked down at his feet, which were pointing towards each other all guiltily. ‘I’m sozkeels, Barry,’ he whispered. ‘I was gonna say something, real-keely I was. Then Anton started screaming at you, and before I knew it . . .’ he said, not finishing his sentence for the second time in three minutes.

  I’d always thought Bunky was the brave one out of us two, but looking at him now, I wasn’t so sureypoos. After all, he hadn’t even had the guts to admit he’d drunk a carton of granny tears, for crying out keel.

  ‘PLEEEAAASE forgive me, Barry, I’ll do ANYTHING,’ squeaked Bunky, dropping to his knees, and I gave him one of my evil stares.

  You know when you’re giving your best friend one of your evil stares, but all you can see is your best friend, standing there in front of you? That’s what was happening now.

  I thought about all the times I’d done something annoying to Bunky, and how he’d always forgiven me for it in the end. Then I looked down at my spangly gold leotard and yellow tutu. And that was when I came up with one of my brilliant and amazekeel ideas.

  ‘ANYTHING, you say?’ I said, starting to wriggle out of my glamorous assistant outfit.

  ‘WAAAHHH!!!’ screamed Bunky, as me and Anton carried him on to the stage. He was dressed in a spangly gold leotard and yellow tutu with feathers sticking out of his hair. ‘HELLLP MEEE!!!’ he wailed, as we lowered him into the coffin and slotted on the lid.

  ‘Just a quick sliceypoos, then all is forgiven!’ I said, patting the lid, and Mr Hodgepodge plodded over, putting his stick-on bow tie back on.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am The Great Hodgepodge and today I am going to chop Mada
me Bunky in half !’ he boomed, holding the saw up in his shaky hand.

  I skipped down the steps from the stage and wandered over to my mum, who was holding Desmond Loser the Second, my dad with his arm round them both.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Barry,’ my mum whispered, as I glanced down at Granny Harumpadunk’s stall and spotted the little china pig she’d slipped into her purse a few days before.

  I picked it up and passed it to my mum. ‘Sorry about breaking your other one into ten bits,’ I said, and she grinned.

  ‘BLURGLE! GOOGOO! BARRY!’ gurgled Des, and my mum waggled her eyebrows.

  ‘Barry! He said Barry!’ she laughed, and my dad opened his arm out for me to join their cuddle.

  I looked at my mum and dad, and my annoying baby brother, and wondered if they maybe weren’t so bad after all. ‘Eeve keelse!’ I smiled, and I reached my arms around them all, which wasn’t easy, because my dad’s quite fat.

  ‘And now for the cutting-in-half bit!’ boomed The Great Hodgepodge, holding his saw up in the air with his shaky hand.

  ‘HELLLPPP MEEEE, MUMMMMYYYY!!!’ screamed Bunky’s voice from inside the coffin, which is a pretty loserish thing to scream, especially when you’re wearing a gold spangly leotard and yellow tutu, with feathers in your hair.

  Sharonella walked over to me, doing a snortle. She cupped her hand round her mouth and put it up to my ear. ‘Thanks for not telling anyone about the you-know-what, Bazza,’ she whispered, making my ear tickle.

  ‘That’s keel,’ I smiled. ‘You really shouldn’t be stealing air-fresheners, though, Shazza,’ I said, reminding myself of Detective Manksniff when he’s teaching the baddy a lesson at the end of one of his shows.

  Sharonella pointed the ends of her feet together, all guiltily. ‘I know . . . I’ve been a bad Shazza,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘That’s why I’m gonna be the Phantom Air-Freshener Putter-Backerer from now on!’ she beamed, and I patted her on the head and looked up at the stage.

  ‘Er, what exactly is happening out there?’ squeaked Bunky’s voice from inside the coffin, and I chuckled to myself, feeling happy for the first time since sliced slices.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bunky, this won’t hurt a bit!’ warbled The Great Hodgepodge, and Anton started chuckling too. Then Nancy joined in, then Granny Harumpadunk, then her friend Ethel, then all the other grannies as well.

  ‘Ooh, it is nice to have a little giggle, isn’t it!’ warbled Sharonella’s gran, as a shiny, wet, teardrop-sized globule of liquid started to appear in the corner of her eye.

  ‘I haven’t laughed so much since I was this high!’ cried Ethel, holding her hand up thirteen centimetres above her head, and a globule of liquid bubbled out of her eye too.

  I Future-Ratboy-darted my eyes around Mogden Hall and counted seventeen more eyeball globules, all of them coming out of the corners of old grannies’ eyes.

  ‘Real-life Tears of Granny Laughter!’ I cried, and Anton’s eyes lit up.

  ‘URGGH!’ burped Darren Darrenofski, slurping on a can of Pineapple and Grapefruit Fronkle, and he wobbled towards the front door. ‘I can’t take any more of this!’

  A 50p-sized puddle of real-life Tears of Granny Laughter had begun to spread out on the floor underneath Granny Harumpadunk and I gawped at it, remembering how much I’d wanted to try a carton.

  ‘It was a bit of a stupid idea for a drink really, wasn’t it,’ I chuckled, imagining slurping up the puddle and feeling sick.

  ‘It wasn’t even that nice to be honest with you Barry,’ said Anton, and I rolled my eyes to myself.

  ‘What a comperleet and utter waste of time!’ I giggled, and I got ready to watch my best friend in the whole wide world amen get chopped in half.

  Jim Smith is the keelest kids’ book producer stroke director in the whole world amen.

  He graduated from art school with first class honours (the best you can get) and went on to create the branding for a sweet little chain of coffee shops.

  He also designs cards and gifts under the name Waldo Pancake.

  ‘That’s a wrap!’ says Jim, every time he finishes one of his books, because he saw a film director say it once, and he thinks it makes him look keel.