by Tara Basi
“That’s my fake blood,” I whispered.
“Leftovers, I just poke his finger with a pencil, he needs all the encouragement he can get,” Bobby answered with a smile.
“What about Tony?”
“Taken care of, never mess with the masses,” Bobby said with obvious satisfaction and nodded his head towards the far side of the playground.
Tony was standing all on his own, a little island of loneliness in a sea of chatter. I saw him causally make a move to approach Tiny Tim but quick as a flash the WAD whistle was in Tiny Tim’s mouth and Tony visibly sighed and stepped back into his empty circle.
“We’ll give him a couple of days and then offer him a tee-shirt. I think he’ll take it,” Bobby unexpectedly suggested.
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re bullying him, and that’s not what the WAD would want,” Bobby replied and smiled a very calm top-of-the-range Masterminder smile.
Chapter Twelve – Dying – Part 1 – It’s Expensive
I’d been trudging around town for hours but hadn’t found Bobby. This near to Christmas you’d have expected snow to be covering the village, instead it was raining, one of the downsides of Global Warming I suppose. The tall fir tree in the middle of the square towered over the bronze cod but it looked kind of depressed, like an upside-down toilet brush. All the Christmas decorations looked miserable in the rain, everything was dull and sad. At least the rain kept anyone from seeing me cry; I’d been crying for most of the morning. It was a small village on a small island. Where could Bobby be? The first place I’d tried was his house but his mum, who looked like she’d been crying as well, didn’t know where Bobby was. Everyone seemed to be in tears on this miserable Saturday morning. My mum hadn’t stopped since she’d told me the horrible news. I’d looked for Bobby everywhere, in the Library, the changing rooms at the sports field, Mr Singh’s shop and in the Café Tent. In desperation I’d even checked the bus shelter, the beach dump and, finally, the playground, which was all locked up, just as you’d expect on a Saturday. No one had seen Bobby and the playground was the last place I could think of looking. Bobby was the only person who’d really understand how I felt right now, and better still, he’d come up with some scam to put everything right.
Tired and soaked I decided to nip next door into the church, empty my wellies, wring out my socks and have a proper Masterminder think about where Bobby might be. I sneaked in to the back of the church, anxious not to be seen and have to do any pretend praying, especially as my knees were sore enough from all the trudging I’d been doing. Inside it was colder than outside but a lot dryer. For a Saturday the church was packed. I counted two and half people plus me. A half? Right on the front pew, next to the aisle was a skinny hunched up figure, trembling strangely. It was Bobby. I kept low and made my way around the outside of the pews, back against the church walls and keeping to the shadows. Eventually I had to leave the protection of the dark and make my way across to where Bobby was sitting. No one seemed to notice me, not even Bobby. Ready to pour out my heart, the tears started to pool as I leant over to let him know I was there, then I saw what a wretched state he was in and stopped. Bobby looked terrible and was crying quietly. Every now and again he’d sob really heavily, like an old asthmatic, and the flag stones under his feet were darkly stained. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen anyone cry like that. It felt like I shouldn’t be there, he wouldn’t want me seeing him like this. Before I could turn around and leave Bobby looked up, his face was dirty and his eyes were puffy and red.
“Terry, um, things at home… you know,” Bobby squeezed out slowly after he’d got over his surprise at seeing me. He paused for a moment, pulled out a big soggy hanky, blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
“It’s not bad news or anything, it’s just,” Bobby added quietly, but he didn’t finish. He slumped down, chin in his hands, hunched over staring at his feet.
“What’s up Bobby, tell me, I’ll help,” I whispered, putting my own bad news on hold for now.
“Well, it’s hard Terry. Not easy to explain.”
“You can tell me,” I offered, trying to get Bobby to open up.
“My mum and dad have decided,” Bobby whispered, almost inaudibly still staring down at his shoes.
“Decided? What?”
“They’re… going… on a… trip.”
“Like a holiday?” I asked, struggling to understand exactly what Bobby was so upset about.
“A holiday? Yes, a holiday, I supposed you could say that,” Bobby replied quietly though he didn’t seem that convinced.
“Where are you going?” I asked, wanting to get to the bottom of how a family holiday could have caused so much grief.
“Zurich.”
“Zurich? What’s in Zurich?”
“Digni,” Bobby mumbled. I could barely hear what he said.
“Disneyland? There’s a Disneyland in Zurich, like Paris? Wow, fantastic, so why’re you upset?” I asked, feeling quite jealous and even more puzzled.
“It’s not, never mind. It’s just my dad really wants to go, and it’s really expensive and… I won’t be going,” Bobby whispered, almost crying again.
“Your dad wants to go? OK, sure, I mean he’s been sick a long time, probably wants a bit of fun. So, how much is it?” I asked. I had a bit saved up from all our scams and thought maybe I could help my friend.
“£16,000 for my mum and dad, another £4,000 if I go,” Bobby squeezed out between sniffles.
“Jesus Christ Bobby, Zurich must be way better than Paris,” I blurted out, then realised where I was and added a quick, “Amen.” I realised my savings of £25 were not going to be much use.
“Hmm,” was all Bobby said.
I was finally beginning to understand why Bobby was so upset. I’d be upset if mum went to Disneyland without me, which was now quite likely after what she’d told me this morning.
“We’ll just raise the money. What’s the plan?” I asked, assuming there had to be a plan despite the lack of any visible trouser hitching from Bobby.
“It’s just too much money; they’re going in two weeks, just before Christmas. If my dad waits any longer he might be too sick to travel. They’ve already taken out a loan for the trip, they can’t afford anymore. It’s probably better this way Terry,” Bobby answered sadly and then turned away to stare at his feet. I think he was crying again.
“Bobby we can do it. You won sports day, brought us Global Warming, conquered the Power 3, martyred the WAD, and,”
“Forget it Terry, just forget it. And you can’t tell anyone about Zurich or… Disneyland, you’ve got to promise. No one can know, especially the nuns, OK? Promise?” Bobby insisted, getting a little animated and looking really worried.
“Sure Bobby, I won’t tell anyone. I’m sorry you can’t go but at least your dad will have a nice time,” I added, trying to find something that would cheer Bobby up. It didn’t work, Bobby burst into tears.
I sat with Bobby for a little while longer but we didn’t speak again. He just cried quietly and I decided I had to do something.
I started where Bobby and I nearly always started: Mr Singh’s.
“So you see Mr Singh, it’d be really nice to send Bobby’s dad on a little holiday for Christmas, and Bobby’s done so much for your business, right?” was how I finished my pitch to Mr Singh. I wasn’t in Bobby’s class, but if I could get Mr Singh’s help it might make the absolutely impossible a little bit easier.
“Only two weeks to Christmas, where he going, how much you need?” Mr Singh said after he’d listened to me silently, quietly sipping his CAC. “Well, since you’re going to be the head of this charity drive, I think you should decide where would be the best place to send Bobby’s very sick dad on holiday,” I answered, remembering the promise I’d made to Bobby about not mentioning Zurich or Disneyland.
“He want better, not just fun, so… has to be Amritsar. Very holy place, he cured for sure. How much you need?”
&
nbsp; “Not much, say £20,000?” I suggested, quietly hoping we could skip over that part.
Mr Singh sprayed CAC all over me and started coughing so hard I thought one of his internal organs might hit me in the face at any moment. I rushed round behind the counter and started smacking Mr Singh on the back till his coughing subsided to a splutter.
“You mad boy, Aeroflot Gulag-class tickets only £100. He sleep on ground like proper pilgrim, eat roti and dhal, cost nothing at temple. Maybe £20 spending money, so £350, tops for whole family,” an indignant Mr Singh carefully explained while waving his pointy brown finger in my face.
“You’re the man Mr Singh, so what’s next?”
“Well, need Post Office account for money collected, maybe have a raffle and of course agree split, like me and Bobby always do,” Mr Singh reeled off, looking up at the shop ceiling.
“Split?”
“Sure, got expenses, say 50:50?”
“Mr Singh, it’s for Bobby’s sick Dad.”
“That Bobby trains you well, OK, 40:60.”
“Mr Singh.”
“You real devil. OK, 20:80, last offer, I organise raffle, I set up special Post Office platinum super saver account in Bobby’s name. Special account, we get free pen and no admin bother, very good zero interest rate.”
“Mr Singh.”
“I hate you boys, no respect for business or anything. OK, 0.1:99.9, can’t go lower, my heart break or brain explode. Bobby can have pen and Bobby get special 0.1% interest rate.”
“You’re a saint, Mr Singh. A few little admin things, it’s got to be a surprise so Bobby can’t find out. Perhaps we shouldn’t actually mention Amritsar either, just in case. And I’ll buy £25 worth of raffle tickets,” I carefully explained, handing over my year of scam savings to a very surprised Mr Singh.
“Tricky, very tricky. Not to mention what charity raffle for, OK? But get people buy tickets anyway. Here’s your 25 tickets and hundred more for selling. Let you know prize later,” Mr Singh muttered, mostly to himself.
It dawned on me as I rushed out of the shop clutching my own 25 raffle tickets and the hundred I had to try and sell, that with Bobby out of the picture I was going to need some help.
“So, Madge will you help? Are you listening?” I asked again. I’d already spent ten minutes explaining to Madge all about the plan to raise money for Bobby’s family to have a holiday.
Madge had just received a mini HD video recorder as an early Christmas present. She filmed everything I said, though apart from the odd direction to speak up, or to “do that bit again with more feeling”, she hadn’t actually said she would help.
“Sure, I’ll help,” she said eventually. “I’ll make a documentary film about the whole thing and we’ll sell tickets to the world premiere. I’ll have to go with you everywhere, and of course I’ll be directing.”
It wasn’t quite the help I’d been expecting but just spending time with Madge would make up for it. Then I discovered what Madge meant about directing. We re-shot my whole charity explanation piece about twenty times in different scenic locations around the village with me in floods of tears, or looking brave but nearly crying, being demanding and masterful, there was a saintly version and a final one delivered in the style of a drug crazed gangsta rapper threatening to horribly kill anyone who didn’t cough up a donation. Obviously, I quite liked that version.
In between takes, while Madge fiddled with her video camera and stared at me through finger frames, the idea came to me that we should get in touch with all the people Bobby and I had met over the year, to see if they’d cough up some money or maybe run a charity event. The obvious place to start, after Mr Singh, was the nuns. School was closed for Christmas holidays but I knew wherever there was a mass there would be nuns.
“It’s a very Christian thing you’re doing Terry, you’re a very good boy. You know there really is only one place we should send Bobby’s Dad? Lourdes,” Mother Superior suggested, after she’d finished listening to my appeal and getting over Madge filming the whole thing from various angles.
“Lourdes, is that in London, like next to Parliament? I’m sure they’d love a trip to London,” I replied, slightly confused by Mother Superior’s suggestion.
“Terry, no, it’s a place of healing in France. It’s a very sacred place, but it can be quite an expensive trip.”
It sounded really boring but if they were in France they could always bunk off to Disneyland in Paris. Then I remembered where Bobby’s parents were really going and just nodded enthusiastically and asked the only important question.
“How much would we have to raise Mother Superior?”
“For the whole family, by coach, with one overnight I think £750 should be enough Terry.”
“Is that all… Why that would be great, how do we get it?” I blurted out in disappointment before quickly correcting myself.
“We could run some special masses, take extra collections, have a homemade Christmas pudding sale, some early carol singing, lots of things. Tricky that we can’t mention Bobby, or Lourdes, but the Lord will guide us. Shall I put you and Madge down for the carol singing?” Mother Superior asked in a commanding sort of way.
“Sure Mother Superior. And would you like to buy a raffle ticket for Bobby? Only a pound each, the prize is a mystery. You can take as many as you like and give the money to Mr Singh to put into a special Bobby account,” I explained, thrusting a book of tickets into her startled face.
“You are determined to help your friend, aren’t you Terry? Give me the whole book. I’m sure we can sell them for you, and everything else we manage to raise we’ll send to Mr Singh.”
Madge reacted quite badly to my suggestion that we visit Mr McStrumpy next, the ex-world champion sheep tosser and our school’s occasional sports coach.
“He kept calling me a boy, he’s an idiot,” Madge screamed.
She relented later when I told her all great film makers had to challenge their fear of old sports men with bad breath to achieve greatness.
We took the bus to the stormy end of the island and made our way to Mr McStrumpy’s shack, which was even more run down than I remembered. Someone was home: a very thin strand of black smoke snaked up in to the leaden sky from his crooked old chimney. Gingerly I knocked on the door as Madge shouted, “Action.”
“Bugger off. Ahm… this is a recording, no bugger’s home,” McStrumpy bellowed, rattling his battered front door.
“It’s me Mr McStrumpy, Terry, and Madge is with me.”
“I don’t want any berries or badgers, bugger off, or I’ll come out there and smack your head off,” McStrumpy shouted back.
“Terry and Madge, remember, sports day, Agent Orange?”
A second later McStrumpy had thrown open the door and was staring down at us through a tangle of food encrusted hair. He was naked apart from a grubby sporran. For a moment Madge stopped filming and just stared open mouthed.
“Did you bring some?” McStrumpy shouted at me even though his face was only inches from mine.
“What?” I coughed, nearly overcome by the fumes.
“That lovely Agent Orange, idiot, what else?” McStrumpy answered in a slightly quieter voice, tinged with disappointment when he saw we weren’t carrying gallon cans of the Cambodian whisky.
“And why’s he filming? Get my good side boy,” McStrumpy giggled, turning his naked bottom in Madge’s direction.
“I’m a girl, a girl, in girly clothes, you idiot,” Madge screamed. She fluffed up her lovely dress, then quickly returned to filming, as she whispered to me, “This is good stuff Terry.”
“Keep your skirt on. Now, what do you and your transvestite friend want with McStrumpy?” Madge screamed through gritted teeth. But she carried on filming while I explained all about our Bobby charity plans.
“How about a raffle? First prize a year’s supply of Agent Orange from Mr Singh. I’ll organise everything,” McStrumpy eagerly suggested
“We’ve got raffles, we want
an event, something exciting, something filmic,” Madge shouted from behind her camera before I could say anything.
“Madge is right Mr McStrumpy. We want to collect a lot of money for Bobby and us Small Island people can be a bit stingy. I think we’re going to have to come up with something that’ll loosen up those tight little fists,” I added, knowing we were a long way short of the £4000 Bobby needed to go with his mum and dad to Disneyland Zurich.
“We’ll toss sheep, starting with a demonstration by a world champion, and then everyone has a go. Hurling woolly bleating bastards is great fun, only second to the other thing with sheep, but that’s really not so good for a public event. Sheep tossing it is, we’ll collect loads of money.”
“Great idea Mr McStrumpy, but I really think we need something for the whole family,” I said, guessing that sheep tossing might not be to everyone’s liking. “Why bother, women don’t have any money anyway and they’re always trying to get between a man and his sheep.”
“You pig ignorant buffoon,” Madge squealed.
“OK, OK, keep your knickers on. Lamb lobbing, something for the whole family.”
“People might be a bit squeamish about hurling lambs,” I said before Madge lost her cool again.
“We’ll toss bankers, bet people would pay good money to fling a banker into Bumps and Bruises bay or the swamp bog,” McStrumpy announced after a moment of deep thought, convinced he’d come up with the perfect charity event.
“Sure Mr McStrumpy, great idea. But we need the money before the end of next week, and remember you can’t mention Bobby, his dad or the trip,” I concluded. I was resigned to the fact that any event McStrumpy organised would involve tossing things, and I wanted to avoid a long discussion about where McStrumpy would get his bankers from and if they wouldn’t mind being tossed. We still had a lot more people to visit.