Little Badman and the Invasion of the Killer Aunties

by Humza Arshad

‘Not the police,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Real help.’

  ‘Well, you better hurry up, because those slugs have got something big planned tomorrow. I think they’re getting ready to finish it.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ said Grandpa, looking concerned.

  ‘Yeah, at the school talent show. That ship of theirs is parked up in the playground now. They’re planning on holding the show there. Once they’ve got us where they want us – bang! They’re gonna make their move. I just know it.’

  Before Grandpa even had a chance to reply, we heard a voice from the hall.

  ‘Humza?’

  It was Mum! The key clicked in the lock, the handle turned and the door swung open. She was in her dressing gown, flour and icing sugar in her hair. Did she never sleep?

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ she said suspiciously.

  I turned back to the window to find Grandpa had pulled his disappearing act.

  ‘Uh … no one,’ I replied, moving to sit back down on the bed. ‘Just practising my lyrics for the talent show.’

  I held up my notepad, so she could see the rap I’d written.

  ‘Time for sleep,’ she said as that grin – that weird, sinister grin my real mum would never make – spread across her face. ‘It’s a big day tomorrow,’ she added. ‘For both of us.’

  ‘Both of us?’ I replied.

  ‘Did I not tell you? It is my first day of work,’ she said, her smile widening. ‘The school cannot run without a headmaster … or mistress.’

  Her grin was the last thing to disappear in the shadows as she pulled the door closed behind her.

  Whoa! … Mum was the new headmistress? This was bad. Those aliens were cunning enough already. Imagine what they’d be like with someone as ingenious as my mum in charge!

  When I returned to the window, I wasn’t surprised to find the garden empty and Grandpa gone.

  After that, I could barely sleep. I tossed and turned for the rest of the night, just waiting for morning to arrive. But when it did, it turned out I wasn’t going anywhere. Dad kept me locked in the room the whole of the next day. I was his prisoner. Completely stuck. Hours passed. I couldn’t even get to the phone to let Umer know what had happened. They’d be thinking the aunties had got me. It was a nightmare.

  Eventually, to keep from going stir crazy, I started reading the old PIA comics I’d drawn. I’d found a big pile of them in my drawer while looking for something I might use as a grappling hook. They were pretty good, and it was helping to take my mind off the fact that the world was about to end.

  I’d just finished reading one about the PIA’s top operative, Agent Khan. He’d been infiltrating the headquarters of a villainous chicken-shop boss. He was like an evil version of the KFC Colonel, and he’d been swapping chicken out for rat meat. In the end he gets punched out by Agent Khan and falls into a vat of secret sauce. Then Khan says, ‘Finger-lickin’ dead.’

  You gotta admit that’s pretty sick. That’s Hollywood-level writing, and I was only, like, eight when I did it. If it wasn’t for this alien invasion and the world coming to an end, I was pretty sure that, one day, they’d have made a film adaptation. I sat looking at my drawings of Agent Khan and daydreaming about who they might have cast.

  Huh … That’s weird …

  I had never noticed it before, but Agent Khan did look like someone. In fact, he looked so much like them, I couldn’t believe I’d never spotted it. Agent Khan was the spitting image of Grandpa. Not now, obviously, but when he was much younger. My dad had shown me some old photos of him once as a joke, laughing at the idea that Grandpa was ever a young man. And, I swear, it could have been Agent Khan. How had I never spotted it before?

  I started flipping back through all the old comics, looking for one panel in particular. I was sure that early on, when I’d just started drawing them, I had put in a few more details about our mysterious hero. Something was telling me I needed to remember.

  There it was, the page I was looking for: Agent Khan imprisoned in Professor Pig’s underwater lair. (Don’t ask me why a pig has an underwater lair. I was eight.) Locked in his cell, Khan had no chance of escaping. Professor Pig was so certain of his victory he’d had a tombstone carved.

  ‘Tariq Khan …’ I said, lowering the page.

  I pictured all the ‘Tariq’ boxes in Grandpa’s loft. Had he been my inspiration for Agent Khan all along? Why on earth had I picked Grandpa? And how had I forgotten? Sure, Grandpa was starting to seem more interesting lately but most of the time I’d known him he’d been pretty much a zombie. Why would I use him for a comic-book hero?

  It made me smile though. I guess, whether I’d been aware of it or not, I must have always liked Grandpa. I turned back to the comic to see how Grandpa would escape. As I scanned the page, the story began to come back to me. My mouth fell open. This was it! I remembered this one! I remembered how he got out! This was the answer!

  In the comic, Agent Khan had used his trusty secret agent’s gadget pen to push the key out of the lock, on to a sheet of paper. He’d slid the paper back into the room … and the key had come with it.

  In an instant, I was crouching by the door, a pen in one hand and the comic in the other. Just like in the story, I slid the comic under the gap, then wiggled the pen about in the lock until the key started to jiggle. It had to be just right. If I pushed too hard, the key would bounce off down the hallway and I’d never get it back. I applied a little more pressure as I wiggled the pen back and forth. All at once, the key slipped free, and I heard it drop on the other side.

  Very carefully, I slid the comic back into the room. The key was lying right on the edge of the page. I had it.

  I was out of my bedroom and running for the front door before I could even do my laces. I heard a crash from the living room.

  ‘Humza?’ shouted my dad.

  I heard a plate smashing on the ground. He must have spilled whatever he was in the middle of eating.

  I grabbed the door handle and tore it open, just in time to see Dad burst out of the living room. He crashed into the hallway wall, taking out a table lamp and a photo of my mum at the beach. His vest was covered in curry sauce from his spilled dinner and his pyjama bottoms weren’t tied, so he was having to hold them up with one hand. He growled at me as our eyes locked. There was a moment’s pause. And then he charged.

  His foot had become tangled in the telephone cable and he tore it out of the wall as he stumbled forward. I wasn’t about to stick around to watch though. I leapt over the gate and tore off down the street. When I got to the corner, I stole a quick glance back. He was still coming. His face was dark red. He had a weird look in his eye that was either determination or a small stroke. This wasn’t over yet. I ran for the park.

  It was two minutes from the house, and I hoped I might be able to lose him in the wooded section, or maybe among the hedges near the playground. As I sprinted through the park gates he came hurtling round the corner and crashed into a parked van, setting off its alarm. But it wasn’t going to slow him down. His eyes narrowed when he saw me and, in an instant, he was off again.

  Through the park we ran. Young mums and their confused toddlers watched us tear past. We were both in pretty bad shape and were dripping with sweat by that point. I started to worry that if my dad didn’t kill me, the exercise would almost certainly kill him. But he wasn’t giving up.

  He managed to stick behind me all the way through the woods. I tell you, he was nimble on his feet for a fat guy holding up his trousers. Even in the hedges, no matter what I tried – ducking and diving, weaving and hiding – I just couldn’t seem to lose him. He tore through bushes like they were made of paper. He looked like King Kong crashing through the jungle.

  I was just starting to worry that I might have to give up and try to reason with him when I remembered the pond. If I could lead Dad to the middle of it, I knew we’d both be forced to run across the stepping stones. I’d done it a thousand times. I could probably do it blindfold. I could definite
ly do it at a sprint. But could he? It was my only chance.

  As I weaved around the last bush, gasping for air, I spotted it up ahead – the long, snaking pond. It stretched off in either direction as far as the eye could see. If you didn’t know better, you’d have thought it was a river. There were a dozen or so stepping stones, right in the middle, that cut right the way across it. Kids had stuck ’em there years ago so they didn’t have to go the long way round. And beyond the stones was the exit.

  I didn’t hesitate – I just leapt. If it had rained recently the stones would be slippery. Landing on a wet stone at this speed would send me in head first, guaranteed.

  But my foot found its grip and I sprang forward towards the next stone. Then the next. I didn’t slow down for a second. I leapt two a time at one point. Before I knew it I was on the other bank. I couldn’t help myself; I turned back to watch. My dad had come to a stop. He looked left, trying to figure out how far he’d have to go around. He looked right. He realized he had no choice.

  He stepped on to the first stone. They were pretty small, even for my feet. For Dad, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  ‘Just go back!’ I shouted.

  ‘Never!’ he cried, stepping to the next stone.

  ‘Dad! I have to go! I have to do this!’

  ‘You will do as you are told!’

  He was approaching the halfway mark when he began to wobble badly.

  ‘Dad, go back while you can!’

  ‘I am not going back!’ he yelled. ‘I am going to punish you worse than you have ever been punished in your life!’

  But the more he yelled, the wobblier he got.

  ‘Dad! You’re not gonna make it!’

  ‘I am!’ he cried, balancing on one leg.

  He was swaying all over the place now. While one of his hands was kept busy stopping his pyjama bottoms from falling down, the other one was waving this way and that in an effort to keep himself from toppling in.

  ‘Dad, please …’ I yelled, but it was too late.

  As he began to lose his balance, the hand holding up his pyjama bottoms shot out instinctively to try and catch hold of something. But, now, there was nothing left to keep his great baggy pyjamas from slipping down to his knees. In an instant they were tangled round his feet, preventing him from raising his legs properly. His grubby white pants, with the fraying elastic and the holes around the bum, were exposed to everybody. I saw a young mum cover her toddler’s eyes.

  ‘Humzz-aaaarrrggghhhh!’ he cried.

  Everything seemed to go into slow motion as he finally lost all balance and tipped over into the pond. I should have run straight away, but I couldn’t leave him. Not like that, upside down in a duck pond with his bum out. Thankfully, he popped back up a moment later with some pondweed on his head.

  His teeth were gritted. His eyes were burning. He was nuclear.

  ‘Dad,’ I said in as calm a voice as I could manage, ‘I have to do this. You don’t have to believe me, but, I swear, I’m telling the truth. These aunties are aliens. Mum’s an alien. And by tonight all of us are gonna be aliens! I have to try and stop them!’

  He stared at me with red, bulging eyes. There was so much water dribbling down his face from the pondweed that I thought he might be crying.

  ‘Aliens? Aliens?’ he yelled. ‘Do you think I am simple-minded like Grandpa?’

  ‘Grandpa ain’t simple-minded – he’s the one who figured this all out!’

  ‘He is a joke!’ shouted my dad. ‘He has wasted his life!’

  ‘No he hasn’t! He’s happier than you are! He doesn’t need to lie about everything. He doesn’t need to impress people so he can feel good about himself. All my life, you’ve been telling me how great you are. How many amazing things you did growing up in Pakistan. And you know what I realized? I’m doing exactly the same thing! I go around telling everyone I’m gonna be a superstar. I make stuff up just to sound important. And none of it’s real. It’s just about being scared. Scared of not being special. Not being liked. Not being good enough.’

  Dad wasn’t moving now. He was just stood in the middle of the pond watching me.

  ‘But you know what?’ I told him. ‘Truth is, you never had to do any of that. Not with me. You’re my dad. I was born thinking you were great. You came to a new country, made a business from nothing, bought your own house and a whole load of toilets. Yeah, it ain’t gangsta, but it’s pretty amazing. I don’t need you to have punched a bear or jumped over a Burger King. Because that other stuff you did, the stuff you don’t boast about – that stuff’s pretty amazing already.’

  Dad just stared at me. He didn’t look angry any more. He had an expression on his face I’d never seen before. I still don’t know what you’d call it.

  ‘I’ve got something important to do, Abu-jee. I know you’ll be angry and I know you’ll punish me, but I need to do this. You don’t have to believe me about the aliens. You don’t have to help me. But, I swear, that ain’t Mum. And it ain’t Auntie Uzma. And tonight, if I don’t stop ’em, they’re gonna take over everything. So I’ve got to go.’

  And I ran. Out of the park and towards the setting sun. Towards the school.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Talent Show

  Nicholas Gemmel was practising a pretty weird dance routine as I ran through the school gates.

  ‘Have I missed it?’ I yelled.

  ‘Aargh!’ screeched Nicholas, dropping his coloured handkerchiefs and flinching as if I was gonna attack him.

  ‘Damn it, Nick! The talent show – is it over?’ I shouted.

  ‘No. It’s on right now,’ he replied, picking up his hankies. ‘You don’t need to shout at me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, turning to run, before skidding to a stop immediately.

  ‘Nick,’ I called, looking back at him. ‘Go home, man. Seriously.’

  I didn’t wait to see if he listened. There was no time. I ran across the playground and over to where the sports field had sat just two days earlier. The new canteen towered above everything: bright glass and polished steel. It was an evil canteen if ever I’d seen one.

  ‘Humza!’ shouted Wendy from the doorway. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter … I’m here now,’ I said, gasping for breath.

  ‘Is Umer with you?’

  ‘Umer?’ I said, confused. ‘No? He’s with you, isn’t he?’

  ‘When you didn’t come in, he went looking for you. He never came back.’

  ‘You don’t think …’ I began.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Wendy.

  Neither of us said anything for a moment. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘He’ll come back,’ I murmured. ‘He has to.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Wendy. ‘He’ll come back.’

  She didn’t sound convinced. Neither did I.

  ‘Are we ready to go?’ I asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. We’re all hooked up to the sound system. But, Humza, there’s something you’ve got to see.’

  Wendy led me inside, through the great dark metal doors of the new canteen. We were in a long, well-lit corridor. It felt kinda like it had last time round, but, like the outside of the building, they’d adapted it. Tweaked it. It felt like a school hallway, sure, but not a normal one. It was too cold, too hard. I felt like I was being watched.

  Somewhere up ahead, I could hear music playing. My heart was thumping in my chest. We were back on their territory. Nothing in here was safe.

  ‘Look,’ said Wendy, as we arrived at an inner set of doors.

  With great care not to make a sound, Wendy pushed them open a crack and gestured for me to look in. Even though it was dark inside, I knew immediately it was the same room we’d been in before: the huge open warehouse. They’d reconfigured it all to look like a canteen, and at the front they’d set up a large stage for the show. Amanda Mump from Year Five was standing in the spotlight singing a song about cats.

  ‘Scary, huh?’ said Wendy.

&n
bsp; ‘The cat song?’ I replied.

  ‘No, look,’ said Wendy, pointing. ‘The audience.’

  I hadn’t even looked at the audience – hundreds of people, adults and children, all facing the stage. It was pretty dark, so it took me a minute to work out what I was seeing. And then it hit me. Every single grown-up in the room was wearing the same grin – they all had that same look in their eyes. And it wasn’t just the aunties; it was everyone we’d seen at the warehouse. All the missing teachers. All the missing adults. They were awake now. And all of them were slug people.

  I pulled my head back into the corridor.

  ‘It’s everyone!’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wendy. ‘Mr Turnbull’s in there. And the headmaster. Loads of people I’ve never even seen before. The only ones in that audience who aren’t slugs already are the kids. And they’re next.’

  ‘Not if we’ve got anything to say about it,’ I replied. ‘Come on.’

  We made our way past rows of seats, to the side of the stage. No one seemed to notice us as we slipped behind the curtain. A small set of stairs led up to where Wendy had hooked her computer into the PA system. Mr T’s memory stick was poking out the side. Everything looked ready to go.

  ‘Ah, Humza! Good,’ said Mrs Masood, appearing from the shadows, clipboard in hand. ‘You are up next. Once you are finished, take a bow and head out through the little red door.’

  She pointed to the far side of the stage, where I could just make out a small red doorway. Wendy leaned in close to my ear.

  ‘Everyone who’s performed has gone through that door,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t seen them since.’

  It was happening. It was happening right now. Somewhere in this canteen-spaceship, the aunties were turning kids into slug people.

  ‘I’m ready,’ I said to Wendy.

  She nodded, smiling.

  ‘I know you are. You’ve got this,’ she replied.

  ‘I don’t think Umer’s gonna come,’ I told her. ‘You’re gonna have to play me in.’

  Wendy nodded.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ she said, putting one hand on my arm. ‘We’ll find him.’