Masterminders

by Tara Basi

  We’d won everything, first and second in every event. Bobby’s mum and dad were ecstatic. Bobby’s dad didn’t look sick at all that day, he was so happy he almost fell out of his wheelchair from cheering and arm waving. My mum was really proud too, just a shame my dad couldn’t make it, again. The team jumped up and down like demented kangaroos for ages, shouting and screaming. We never even noticed the Protestants leave. Maybe all that horrible training had been worth it.

  Later, when we’d calmed down a bit, we went to find our fabulous coach. “Thanks Mr McStrumpy, thanks for everything!” Bobby and I shouted as we shook his hands.

  “That tonic stuff you gave us, that was a placebo right, a bit of sports psychology?” Bobby smilingly asked.

  “Brandy with a couple of pinches of rat poison. Don’t know how to make that other placebo stuff. Don’t worry, your shit might be a bit a blue for a few days and the other thing hardly ever happens. Anyway, my pleasure boys, now where’s my cash.”

  This was the moment I’d been dreading. McStrumpy was sure to give us a level three sacking.

  “There you go Mr McStrumpy, ten pounds. And, Mr Singh has loaded another gallon in the back of your pickup, his thanks for a roaring trade today,” Bobby answered, a huge smile plastered across his face.

  “Ah there are you are Mr McStrumpy,” said Mother Superior. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for our little school and the team. How would you like to be our guest on a trip to Rome, just before the start of autumn term? I’m sure the team would be delighted if you could make it.”

  “How Bobby, how?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “Terry, Mother Superior offered the trip to Rome right at the start, if we won. I just jazzed it up a bit by mentioning the Pussycat Dolls.”

  “There’s no Dolls?” I squealed trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “No Terry, we’re going to see the Pope address the faithful, but still, it is Rome!”

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  “25p on the Catholics to win at a 1000 to 1 with Doggie the bookmaker. Now let’s go pay the winners!”

  So ended our glorious summer Olympics. Next year we’d probably go back to losing. It was great to win, but the side effects and the thought of revisiting the sofa, the sand bags, the dogs, the electric fence and the bear traps put most of us off sports for life. Though Madge decided she’d like to be a trainer, just like Mr McStrumpy, when she grew up. I was just looking forward to the holidays and being nice to my body.

  Chapter Nine – Human Rights

  It was a warmish autumn Saturday afternoon and a calm sea, only ruffled by the ferry’s wake and the odd iceberg dotted here and there. As we headed back to the island the nuns and rest of the team were in high spirits, unlike our sorry looking trio at the back of the ferry. Bobby had a whopper of a shiner and a white turban of bandages. Mr McStrumpy was flat out on a stretcher, one leg and a stick-up arm in plaster. I wasn’t doing too badly, just a sling across my chest nursing a sprained elbow.

  “Does it still hurt?” I asked Bobby sympathetically.

  “Only when I blink or think,” was Bobby’s testy response.

  No point asking Mr McStrumpy how he felt, he’d sedated himself with the last of his duty free.

  “Still it was nice to see Maria again,” I added trying to lighten the mood.

  “Except for the almost dying bit, it was just peachy,” Bobby growled.

  If only Mr McStrumpy hadn’t tried his hand at pole dancing and then sheep tossing the club bouncers, we might’ve actually got to speak to Maria. Instead a small war broke out. I don’t think Bobby was ever going to forgive Mr McStrumpy.

  “Well the rest of Rome was very friendly,” I cheerily replied. Bobby just hung his head and sighed. “Anyway we’re almost home now and there’s still one whole week of hols left!” I added trying to cheer Bobby up.

  By Monday week my sling was off, Bobby’s bandages were gone and his eye just looked ugly rather than yucky. All I wanted was a calm start to the school week. I needed it after the traumas of our Roman campaign and a disastrous summer holiday. Bobby had missed most of the hols. He’d spent weeks on the mainland with his mum so his dad could have some kind of chemical therapy. It seemed to work, his dad looked a lot better when they all got back. I’m not sure why Bobby’s dad decided to go all bald while they were away, but it suited him. Spending most of the summer without Bobby for company would have been no fun anyway, but mum and dad had gone all Eastenders as well. Mum was constantly whispering loudly down the phone. I always knew when mum was talking to dad, she scrunched up her face and cracked her knuckles. In-between calls mum talked to me sensibly about grown-ups, relationships, drifting apart and amicable separations. None of which made a lot of sense but I figured they were getting a divorce and fighting over custody. Custody of what though, and who was winning? Mum only had two things worth anything, the house and her Mini, so I could see dad would want his share of the spoils. It was only fair, he was the man.

  The first school assembly of the autumn term would be peaceful and spiritual, just what I needed.

  “Terrible news children! Your parents, the church and the WI have failed to stop an evil band of Satan worshippers from coming to our beautiful little island. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you it would be completely incompatible with our faith and your continuing attendance at this school for any of you to become involved with these people. Your parents no doubt will have something more to say on the subject when you get home. Now let us pray for the poor misguided souls of the Satanists.”

  “Rock and roll Bobby, rock and roll!” I shrieked after assembly was over.

  “What are you talking about Terry? My head still aches, please don’t squeal!”

  “It must be the Brainchewers! They’ve been trying to get a gig on the island for ages. They’re a six islands’ rock legend, and now it’ll be seven. Once they even gigged on the mainland, I think. And they sacrifice a live cod on stage. We must get tickets!”

  “Why do I think they’re not exactly Coldplay?” Bobby half asked himself. “Anyway for once I agree with the nuns, why would anyone want to subject themselves to an evening of hideous thrash metal devil worship, cod or no cod?”

  “Bet you’d go and see no-talent grandma Madonna with the singing problem if she was on the island, nuns or no nuns!” I loudly protested.

  “Madonna is an internationally renowned artiste!”

  “At least the Brainchewers have natural hip joints and their own teeth! Besides, that’s not the point, why can’t I go see them if I want?”

  “Because they’re rubbish and,” then Bobby just stopped, mid-insult and started fiddling with his trousers. Which was a shame, I was starting to enjoy the exchange of verbal abuse.

  “Under the European Convention on Human Rights it’s your absolute entitlement to abuse your ears in anyway you see fit. We’ll fight this Terry, on principle. You will go to the ball,” Bobby triumphantly declared.

  “What ball?”

  “But how? That’s the question. Where did you say they’re playing?” Bobby quizzed.

  “Don’t know, but probably the Sick Bucket Tavern out by the sewage farm,” I offered.

  “Double jeopardy, risk of excommunication if you go and you’re barred from pubs anyway,” Bobby said as he screwed up his face in deep thought.

  “What’s so bad about excommunication, we’ll just go to another school,” I defiantly insisted adopting a petulant pose, arms tightly folded across my chest, leaning back slightly while trying to touch the end of my nose with my lower lip.

  “Idiot, that means a horrible ferry ride twice a day or go to the crazy bunker school,” Bobby hissed.

  I’d heard about the Advanced Learning Experience, a private school in an old fallout shelter deep under the mountain. They only taught a few subjects, Japanese, Eastern Philosophy, Martial Arts, Quantum Mechanics and Medieval Woodwork. At 11 you were sent straight to Kyoto to complete your PhD. />
  “But they don’t have a playground,” I whispered and then shuddered in horror.

  “Exactly, anyway we’re too clever and too poor to get in. What we need is a way of getting you past the picketing nuns and into the gig without anyone ever finding out,” Bobby said, then wandered off humming to himself, “Like a virgin,” while fingering his waistband.

  Picketing nuns? I hadn’t seen that coming, but it was just the sort of thing the mad nuns would do. Mother Superior was dead set against the Brainchewers and devil worship for no good reason. Why couldn’t we have devil worship and rock on Thursday nights and God on Sundays? What exactly was the problem with a musical evening of devil horned rock? I was thinking of asking Bobby about this as we strolled around the village square after school and soaking up the last bits of sun we were likely to see for the next six months. But I never did get to ask him, my body suddenly froze and a moment later my brain figured out why.

  “My god Bobby, this is amazing. But how are we going to get tickets? It’s probably completely sold out already and they’ll be mega expensive,” I chattered excitedly as we stood staring at the poster in Mr Singh’s window. The main image was a subtle and gracefully drawn picture of a small devil sitting on the shoulders of a nun in suspenders. The cute little fellow had removed the top of the nun’s skull and was scooping out her brain with a clawed hand. In dripping blood red letters sloping diagonally across the poster it read, “Brainchewers, Thursday 8p.m., the Sick Bucket Tavern, no knives or hatchets.” How can the nuns object to this sort of thing Bobby? It’s art, proper art.”

  Inside Mr Singh was happy to tell us all about the concert.

  “Stupid boys, no tickets, people go, buy beer, kebabs and Mr Singh’s super strong homemade chapati plugs for ears, if they have any brains,” Mr Singh kindly explained.

  “Great no tickets needed, so how do we get by the nuns and sneak past the landlord?” I asked Bobby, trying not to break into a childish dance of glee. I knew how much Bobby hated my glee dancing, especially when he was sporting a black eye and a whopper headache.

  “Terry, I’ve been thinking.”

  Suddenly I smelled trouble.

  “What’s the point of our protest and standing up for our human rights, if no one knows?” Bobby asked me.

  “There’s no point! I just want to go to the gig and bang my head a bit. That’s it! Got it? Now, how do we get in?”

  “Terry, we can’t give into this sort of tyranny and censorship, we have to make a stand. We get in, protest our human rights, and get out, undetected. How difficult can that be?”

  “OK, OK so long as I get to hear the band or I’m not going at all,” I angrily insisted.

  “Suddenly it’s got more difficult,” Bobby sadly observed.

  By Tuesday afternoon excitement had reached fever pitch in the playground. We were heroes. Everyone wanted to know how we were going to get away with it. Even Madge was slightly impressed and Tiny Tim applied to join our Duo.

  “You told them? You told all of them?” Bobby spluttered in horror.

  “You said people had to know about our protest and it’s cool to be going. Well now we’re now officially cool,” I said with some pride.

  “Idiot, have you ever wondered why superheroes have secret identities?” Bobby rather ungraciously replied.

  “That’s obvious, so the super-villains don’t steal their cat or something and hold it hostage,” I answered, trying not to be defensive.

  “Give me strength! The Power Three will be here any moment. And how long before someone tells the nuns?” Bobby wildly extrapolated.

  Before the sound of the last syllable of “nuns” had faded, two large and one lovely figure surrounded us.

  “Duck bum, get us in as well or you’re dead,” Tony playfully suggested while twisting Bobby’s arm way up his back. Before Bobby could scream or reply there was another, even harsher sound.

  “Bobby, Terry, I want to see the two of you in my study, now!” Mother Superior menacingly shouted across the playground.

  “Oh I see, well I’m really sorry to have jumped to conclusions,” Mother Superior gushed. “Will your parents let you stay up that late? You know these devil worshippers aren’t likely to finish their heresy till after 11pm. If your parents are happy about it, then of course I would be delighted. And you can come in a bit later on Friday. The two of you set such a wonderful example for the whole school.”

  “Well done Bobby that went really well, don’t you think?” I gingerly suggested. Bobby had collapsed into a bony ball as soon as we got to the playground. His head was tucked tightly between his knees with his arms crossed over the back of his neck. Gentle sounds of sobbing escaped from the coiled up Bobby bundle. After a while he uncurled.

  “Don’t you think it’s going to be a little bit of a challenge to get us and the Power Three into the gig, sit through the whole thing, make our human rights protest and escape undetected while simultaneously spending the whole evening at the nuns’ protest barbecue, right outside the pub?” Bobby reasonably asked.

  “You like a challenge,” I helpfully observed, hoping to lift his spirits, which suddenly turned into lifting my legs into a run, when I noticed Bobby reaching for a rock.

  Later, he caught up with me, put down the rock and said he had a plan, a special Bobby plan of such cunning not all of it could be properly articulated. But it was going to be good, really good. And I thought, “Here comes the pain.”

  That afternoon we secretly met with Tiny Tim.

  “You still got that Chinese exchange student staying with you Tim?” Bobby bizarrely asked.

  “Sure, strange kid, studies all the time and makes funny noises on the phone. Why’re you interested?

  “That’s Mandarin,” Bobby replied with some irritation.

  “Doesn’t sound the least bit like someone sucking an orange,” Tiny replied. He was quite defiant for a Masterminder-half applicant.

  “OK, forget the phone noises, this is what you do. If all goes well you’ll be joining our Masterminder Duo next term. And if not, you’ll be feeding the cod!” Bobby warned.

  We were now committed. Time to move on to part two of the Bobby plan, and meet up with the Power Three.

  “What are you talking about you unpleasant streak of snot?” Tony demanded.

  “It won’t work with odd numbers, there’s me and Terry, and there’s three of you, one of you stays behind or we need one more,” Bobby explained between strangled gasps of pain as Madge tightened her headlock.

  “Leave the skid mark behind,” Tony cruelly proposed.

  “It’s my idea and my gig! If I don’t go, nobody goes. And who you calling a skid mark?” I shouted at Tony, as I was suddenly enveloped in a rock and roll haze of courage.

  Just before the Power Three set about dismantling me, Bobby spoke up, “It’s true, me and Terry have to go, the plan won’t work otherwise.”

  “I’m not bothered, I’m more of a Smiths person anyway,” George said, surprising everyone

  “You like gay guys singing about tortured love?” Bobby asked, not quite able to believe what George had said.

  “Idiot, what are you talking about? I’m staying in with a 48 multi-pack of crisps, you lot can go,” George called over his shoulder as he waddled off leaving me, Bobby, Tony and Madge feeling very confused.

  And so it was decided, somehow the four of us were going to sneak past the nuns’ blockade and the Sick Bucket landlord, see the gig, make our protest and escape undetected. Simultaneously, Bobby and I would also be supporting the nuns picket and singing hymns around the bonfire. Exactly how that was all going to be possible was a detail for Bobby to sort out later.

  That evening we secretly got together to try out our disguises. It was a catastrophe. No one could quite get the hang of it. Not even Bobby and me. Hours went by and all we got were more bruises from walking into trees or falling over, and it wasn’t getting any warmer after the sun had set.

  “The gig is tomorrow,
we have to get this right tonight and fit in a practice run at Mr Singh’s before we can go home,” Bobby pleaded as he saw enthusiasm and confidence flagging. “We have to keep practicing, we’ve nearly got it.”

  Well maybe we’d finally got it and maybe we hadn’t. Two pairs of us, me and Bobby, Tony and Madge, strolled nonchalantly into Mr Singh’s and headed straight for the top shelf.

  “One copy Busts and Bums and Cosmopolitan Female Orgasm special report, how much uncle?” Dimple screamed at the top her voice.

  “You nice gentlemen must be new on the island, if you need any help, any help at all here’s my number, byeeeeee,” Dimple whispered as she wrote something on the back of the receipt. We paid up and left as quickly as we could.

  It might’ve been trickier if Mr Singh had been serving, he was bound to have recognised us, but then again we’d never been to the Sick Bucket. We’d be mysterious, off-balance strangers. Maybe this was going to work.

  Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, Tiny Tim had started carefully briefing Paul Leung, the Chinese exchange student.

  “Protest? That’s not a very popular activity where I come from. Why would I want to protest and what about?” Paul demanded.

  “Against devil worshipers, especially tall ones,” Tiny Tim tried to explain.

  “You mean like imperialist, decadent western powers trying to unfairly suppress the will and ambition of the Chinese people?” Paul asked.

  “Exactly! Now remember no one must know it’s us protesting. We’ll be in disguise and using false names,” Tiny Tim instructed.

  “Absolutely right. You people have no concept of human rights, locking people up for months without charges. It’s a disgrace,” Paul contemptuously observed.

  All too soon it was Thursday evening, gig night. We got off the bus at the sewage farm. In the distance we could see the nuns’ protest bonfire in the Sick Bucket car park. Struggling into our big coats, wigs, beards and dark glasses we tried to look tough as we tottered towards the pub. As we got closer I wondered why Bobby had decided to take pictures of Tony and Madge changing with the pub and the bonfire in the background.