Little Badman and the Invasion of the Killer Aunties

by Humza Arshad

  ‘The only “extra” you’re getting is an hour’s extra detention after school.’

  ‘Ah, man! That ain’t fair!’ I said. ‘It wasn’t on purpose!’

  ‘Isn’t that always your excuse, Humza?’ said Mr Offalbox.

  ‘No. I’ve got lots of excuses. I once said a ghost broke the canteen window.’

  ‘And did anyone believe you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no one believes you now. So, unless you want detention every day this week, get out of this toilet immediately and take that ridiculous graffiti with you. I’ll be teaching your lessons for the rest of the day. And I’m in the mood for extra homework.’

  Man, Offalbox had to be the worst headmaster in the world! We used to have this nice old woman named Mrs Prume, who was pretty easy to confuse. I barely ever got caught when she was around. Then Offalbox showed up and suddenly we got detentions, extra homework, lines … I tell you, that ain’t acceptable at primary school! How was I meant to enjoy misbehaving if I kept getting punished for it?

  It was already getting dark when Umer and I got out of school. I was dragging my feet because I knew I’d be in trouble when I got home. My mum would ask me why I was late and, if I lied, she’d work it out. So I’d have to tell her the truth, and then she’d tell my dad, and then he’d threaten me with some weird punishment I’ve never heard of before, like a two-hour headstand or sleeping in a drawer.

  Umer was looking at his phone and the screen was lighting up his face in the darkness.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said after a while. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work after all.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  He turned the phone screen to show me the footage we’d shot earlier. At least that’s what I think it was. A blocky brown thing was moving near some blocky white things.

  ‘What the hell is that, man?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re the blocky brown thing,’ said Umer helpfully.

  ‘I figured that. But you can’t even tell I’m handsome! Hell, you can’t even tell I’m human!’

  ‘Well, on the plus side, at least you can’t tell it’s a toilet either.’

  ‘You can’t tell anything! This is terrible! How old is that phone?’

  ‘About twice as old as us,’ replied Umer.

  ‘Ah, man, this is never gonna work. Why can’t you have a proper phone?’

  ‘It’s the only phone my dad will give me. Can we use yours?’

  ‘You know I’ve only got a pager,’ I snapped.

  ‘What’s a pager?’

  I showed him the little black box my dad had given me.

  ‘It’s like a phone that only accepts text messages,’ I said. ‘Doctors have ’em. I think it’s three times as old as we are.’

  ‘Does it have a video camera?’

  ‘Take a wild guess.’

  ‘Well then, I don’t know how we’re going to make your music video, Humza.’

  ‘But I’ve got to make it, man! How else am I gonna take over the world and leave all you suckers behind?’

  ‘You could study hard and gain qualifications in an area you find rewarding?’ suggested Umer.

  ‘Yeah, or I could catch a leprechaun and make him grant me wishes, but both those ideas are fantasy. I’ve got to make this video, Umer! I’ve just got to!’

  And that was when I saw it. We’d come to a stop outside the shops on the high street and, at first, neither of us had noticed the window display. When Umer saw me staring open-mouthed, he turned to look. Right there in the centre of the window was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The Matsani S3000 Home Pro Compact Video Camera. White moulded plastic with sharp black outlining. Optical zoom lens. 16-megapixel sensor. Three-inch fold-out LCD screen. And all this in a package roughly the size of a chihuahua’s head. I had to have it.

  ‘That’d do the job,’ said Umer.

  ‘That will do the job,’ I replied.

  ‘Really? How? It’s £150.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s marked down from £300.’

  ‘OK, but that’s still £150 more than you’ve got.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I replied, staring at the twinkling lens in the display case. ‘It’s destiny, Umer. It will be mine … Oh yes … It will be mine!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Little Badman / Big Trouble

  ‘“Detention”?’ shouted my dad. ‘What do you mean, “detention”?’

  For a second I wasn’t sure if he was actually asking me what the word ‘detention’ meant, or whether he was just angry that I’d got in trouble again. Seriously, it could have been either. For someone who’s lived here for twenty years, he’s got a weird vocabulary. I swear, he still calls every type of underpants ‘knickers’ – even his big baggy brown Y-fronts. Where are my knickers, woman? It just ain’t right.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ I replied, holding my palms up like it was a robbery. ‘They made me stay after school because I saved a teacher’s life.’

  ‘Is that really all?’ asked my mother, who stood beside him in the hallway, peering right into my soul.

  ‘Well … I might also have been partly responsible for nearly killing her. But I swear that was mostly Umer’s fault. Him and Mustafa.’

  ‘Who is this Mustafa?’ shouted my father. ‘You are forbidden to spend time with him!’

  ‘Uh … OK,’ I said. ‘I mean, it’ll be a great sacrifice. But, if that’s the full extent of my punishment, then I agree. You’re a harsh but fair judge.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed my dad. ‘You think this is your punishment? Ha ha ha! Did you hear that, Nausheen? He thinks this is all the punishment I can come up with for him. Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no!’

  I could tell he was starting to go off on one. That was the last thing I wanted. When my dad takes something as a personal challenge, it can only go badly wrong.

  ‘You need discipline, boy!’ he continued. ‘When I was your age, I ran seventy miles to school every morning and seventy miles back. Sometimes, I was the only one who made it in, including the teachers! I had to teach myself. And did I complain? Of course not! It is what made me the man I am today!’

  Ah, man, I’d heard this one so many times I could have mouthed along with him, but I figured that would have only made things worse. So I stayed quiet. Instead I tried to guess which line he’d go for next: How many shops do I own? or Look at the calluses on these hands!

  ‘How many shops do I own?’ he asked.

  ‘Twooo,’ I said in that drawn-out way a class says good morning.

  ‘Two. That’s right! And how many bathrooms do we have in this house?’

  ‘Threeee,’ I replied.

  ‘Three!’ he barked back at me. ‘Plus one in each shop – that’s five bathrooms! No one in my family has ever had five bathrooms. And do you know how I have done so well?’

  ‘Scratch cards?’ I began, but he shouted over me:

  ‘Discipline! Without discipline, you will end up like Grandpa!’

  Now, just to be clear here, Grandpa ain’t my grandpa – he’s my uncle. Confusing, right? In fact, he ain’t anyone’s grandpa – he doesn’t even have kids. It’s just his nickname because he’s so old and tired-looking. Always has been, even when he was at school. At fifteen, he looked like a twice-divorced accountant about to get the sack. By thirty, he was bald and grey and slept twenty-seven hours a day. Nowadays I’ve got no idea how old he is, but if someone told me he was a thousand I’d believe them.

  He looks like he’s made of the stuff you empty out of a vacuum cleaner. I think maybe his only purpose in life is to be used in stories to scare little kids into having more discipline. If it wasn’t for Auntie Uzma, I reckon he’d have wasted away already.

  Now, my mum had remained pretty quiet through all of this. But that doesn’t mean she’s any less dangerous. They just work differently. My dad’s a volcano, blowing his top at the first sign of trouble. My mum, on the other hand, is a carbon monoxide leak. Silent but deadly. She’ll get you and you’ll ba
rely know she was in the room.

  ‘What do you want, Humza?’ she said, when my dad had paused for breath.

  ‘Uh, you mean like for dinner?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘What do you want from your life?’

  Huh … That was unexpected.

  See, that’s what I’m talking about. Mums work on a whole other level to dads. While my dad’s caught up trying to think of a way to throw me out of a window without getting arrested, my mum is getting straight to the important stuff.

  ‘Well, funny you should mention it, but I want – no! – I need a Matsani S3000 Home Pro Compact Video Camera, so I can make the greatest rap video the world has ever seen and –’

  ‘Video camera? What the hell are we talking about?’ interrupted my father.

  My mum silenced him with a stare.

  ‘And are they expensive, these video cameras?’

  ‘No, man! That’s the best bit – only £150!’ I replied.

  ‘And do you have £150?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh, no,’ I replied. I could see by the look on my dad’s face that he was as confused as I was about where this was going.

  ‘Well then, I am going to help you to get that money,’ she continued.

  ‘What?’ my dad and I shouted at the same time.

  ‘This boy needs discipline, not a reward!’ he yelled, and again my mum silenced him with a sharp look.

  ‘That is all I will say about it for now,’ she added. ‘We will discuss this later.’

  I was so confused by what had just happened that I didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. I just stood there next to my dad, our mouths hanging open, trying to figure out what on earth my mum was up to.

  ‘Hiii-eeeee!’ came the squeal as my mum opened the front door. You can always tell an auntie from their squeal. Each one’s was unique. This squeal belonged to Auntie Uzma. She and my uncle, Grandpa, lived two roads away with their cat, David Chesterton.

  See, their neighbour, a human named David Chesterton, had died one afternoon a few years back and his cat had just wandered next door looking for food. They didn’t know the cat’s name, so just started calling it ‘David Chesterton’s cat’. Before long it became known as David Chesterton (and occasionally just Dave). It liked curling up on Grandpa, as he spent almost exactly as much of the day asleep as David Chesterton. So that was how a cat named after an old dead white guy came to live with a big round Pakistani lady and her thousand-year-old husband. Glad you asked, huh?

  Anyway, I was snapped out of my daze by a familiar pinching on my cheeks.

  ‘Who is a beautiful fat boy?’ said Auntie Uzma, squeezing the skin of my cheeks between her thumb and forefinger and wobbling them.

  ‘Don’t body-shame me, Auntie,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I ain’t fat. I’m big boned.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said, smiling. ‘You are too skinny. But we will fatten you up!’

  And, with that, she turned to Grandpa, who was standing behind her, halfway through a big yawn, and snatched the bowl he was carrying. It was a massive pile of gulab jamun, my favourite. If you haven’t had them you should. They’re these sweet little balls of something. I don’t know. And no one makes ’em like an auntie. Or maybe a mum if she’s in a good mood – but that ain’t often.

  ‘Are these for me?’ I asked, reaching for the large bowl.

  ‘No!’ she snapped, pulling it away. ‘They are for your mother. She may give you one if you are good.’

  ‘Oh, Uzma! Thank you,’ said my mum. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are too skinny also,’ replied Auntie Uzma. ‘You are all too skinny. And my cooking is wasted on Grandpa here. I’ve been trying to fatten him up for twenty years and I get nowhere. So I look after you now.’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s very kind of you,’ said my mum, taking the bowl.

  ‘You will have some now, yes?’ asked my auntie. ‘Now? Oh … well, we’re right in the middle of something actually,’ replied my mum.

  ‘Punishing the boy for being an idiot!’ added my dad, keen to get back to it.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Auntie Uzma, pinching one of the gulab jamun between her finger and thumb and lifting it from the bowl. ‘You will have a little taste right now!’

  ‘Really,’ said my mum, ‘thank you, but we’ve not had dinner yet and we’re –’

  ‘Just a taste!’ interrupted my aunt, holding the little brown ball right up to my mum’s mouth.

  My mum, who was still clutching the bowl, couldn’t do anything to stop her. She either had to open her mouth or have the food smushed against her teeth. So she took a bite, nodding happily.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, before adding, ‘Delicious!’ when she could manage it.

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: aunties are weird. You just have to go with it. And, to be fair, my parents weren’t shouting at me any more, so I was pretty happy with the outcome.

  ‘Give her another bite, Auntie,’ I suggested.

  ‘Here it comes,’ said Auntie Uzma, and she pushed the gooey ball into my mum’s mouth again, barely waiting for her to swallow the last piece.

  My mum stared at me with quiet irritation as she chewed. I knew I was in trouble … Might as well enjoy it while I could.

  Of course, at that time, I had no idea how much trouble I was in. How much trouble we were all in …

  The next morning in the classroom, there was no sign of Miss Crumble. There was no sign of any teacher. We all sat there waiting for someone to appear, but no one came. I noticed Wendy Wang had chosen to sit further away than usual and was avoiding meeting my eye. She had on her spare glasses, which were bright yellow and too small for her head. I was just thinking that I might get up and say something to her, when the door burst open and an ogre with a moustache looked in.

  ‘Good morning, children,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Gooooood mornnnning, Missstteerrr Offallllbox,’ replied the class.

  ‘Sorry for the delay,’ he continued, entering the room. ‘We’ve been trying to find a substitute teacher for you, but have run into some problems.’

  ‘Where’s Miss Crumble?’ asked Wendy Wang, looking upset.

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Crumble’s allergy to bees has proven to be rather extreme,’ replied the head. ‘The doctors say she’ll be OK, but, due to the extent of the reaction, she’s been put into what’s called a medically-induced coma until the swelling goes down. It means they’re keeping her asleep.’

  Upon hearing this, the class all began to chatter at once.

  ‘Quieten down, students, quieten down,’ grumbled the headmaster until the noise settled. ‘Now it seems, unfortunately, that there are rather a lot of teacher absences in the borough today, and there’s a shortage of available substitutes. As such, we’ve had trouble finding someone to teach your class.’

  ‘Can’t you do it, sir?’ asked Wendy Wang.

  ‘I’m afraid I have quite enough other responsibilities to be getting on with, Wendy,’ said Mr Offalbox, with a smile that made his caterpillar curl up at the edges.

  ‘Thankfully, though,’ he continued, ‘we’ve had a volunteer from the community offer to stand in until Miss Crumble is well enough to return to work. Humza, I believe you two already know one another.’

  Before I could even turn to the door, I heard the voice. The shriek …

  ‘Hiii-eeeee!’

  It couldn’t be anyone else. Auntie Uzma. She was wearing a bright orange shalwar kameez that made her look like an enormous satsuma. Bumping the headmaster out of the way with her bottom, she dropped a large cardboard box on Miss Crumble’s desk, then turned to face the class.

  ‘Hello, children,’ she said, with a beaming smile. ‘I am Mrs Khan, but you can call me Auntie Uzma.’

  Then she spotted me. I tried to hide behind Umer, but it was too late. She was over in a flash.

  ‘There’s my beautiful fat boy!’ she said, squeezing my cheeks in her death grip.

  ‘Gah! Get off, Au
ntie – I mean, miss,’ I said, shaking her off.

  ‘Class,’ said the headmaster with a grin, ‘Mrs Khan is Humza’s aunt.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Auntie Uzma. Then she added with a giggle, ‘I used to change his nappy when he was so little and fat you couldn’t even see his winky!’

  Oh. My. God.

  The whole class burst out laughing. What was she doing to me? Was this my parents’ punishment? It couldn’t be. This was too cruel! This crazy old lady was going to destroy my reputation. Destroy my whole life!

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Offalbox, grinning right at me. ‘I think this is going to work out swimmingly. I shall leave you to it. Just call if they give you any trouble, Mrs Khan.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me,’ said Auntie Uzma. ‘I know how to handle these little scamps.’

  And, with that, she went to open her cardboard box. The headmaster flashed me one last grin before leaving the room. He was still punishing me; I could tell by the glint in his eye. When I turned back, Auntie Uzma was already handing out the contents of her box. Gulab jamun!

  She’d made enough for the whole class and was handing them out, one to each kid. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. Sure, she was going to ruin my life, but at least it would be tasty. When I got mine, I took a big bite straight away. Aaahhhhhh, man, it was good. So good. It kind of made up for the whole ‘winky’ story.

  ‘It sounds like Miss Crumble’s pretty ill,’ said Umer between mouthfuls. ‘I hope she’s OK.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ I replied. ‘She’s in hospital now. No one dies in hospital.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Umer, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Listen, don’t worry about that. We’ve got more important things to think about. Like shooting the rest of the video.’

  ‘But I thought you said my phone was worse than malaria.’

  ‘It is, that’s why we’re getting that video camera.’

  ‘How? Did you get the money?’

  ‘No, but I’m going to. My mum said she’d help me. She just hasn’t told me how yet.’

  ‘Hmm, that sounds a bit too good to be true.’