Barry Loser Hates Half Term

by Jim Smith

  ‘Yep. And if we’re gonna find it, our best bet’s in there,’ I said, pointing at the hut.

  Morag was up on the porch, her big fat face snoring underneath her splayed-out holiday magazine. Her newly-cut toenails waggled on the ends of her feet, and a shiver went down my spine. Or maybe it was a leaf sticking out of a tree, scraping against my back.

  I peered through the hut’s grimy window and spotted a giant set of shelves stacked full of paper. It didn’t look like Morag had tidied up AT ALL since she’d taken over from Burt.

  ‘What a dump!’ I said, feeling like my dad when he talks about my bedroom. ‘No wonder Burt could never find anything . . . but if we could somehow sneak past Morag and have a peek ourselves, maybe we’d have more luck!’

  The kiddywinkles’ eyebrows all tilted into their scared positions as Renard let go of his mop and it clattered to the ground.

  ‘Let us do zees,’ he said.

  We all tiptoed over to the pirate hut, Stump Leg tip-stumping, but not too loudly thanks to all the woodchips.

  ‘Now what?’ I whispered, pointing at Morag, who was still up on the porch snoring her ugly head off, and I did a little blowoff out of fear.

  ‘Zees was your idea, Barry!’ whispered Renard, and I shook my head, because it’s one thing having an idea and a comperleeterly different thing doing it.

  I looked around for Gordon and spotted him on the other side of the clearing, sitting on a log reading a newspaper, pretending to be all grown-up.

  ‘Stump Leg, go and distract Gordon!’ I said, because the last thing we needed was her stomping around on the porch, waking up Morag. ‘Seymour, you and Renard sneak in to the hut and find the treasure map while I stay out here with Sally Bottom and everyone else and keep watch!’

  Seymour’s glasses de-steamed, and he peered through them at me like I’d gone comperleeterly mad. ‘But I’m just a kiddywinkle!’ he whisper-cried. ‘I can’t go!’

  ‘Yeah Barry, Seymour’s only little!’ whispered Sally.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll go - Renard, are you coming with me?’

  ‘Oui!’ grinned Renard, which means ‘yes’ in French but sounds exackerly like ‘wee’.

  I crept up the wooden stairs to the porch, blowing off with fear on every step, and Sally Bottom giggled, probably because I was reminding her of Clowny Wowny.

  ‘Sank you very much for zat, Barry. NOT!’ whispered Renard, who was creeping up the stairs behind me, holding his nose, and I twizzled my head around to look at him.

  ‘You have Future Ratboy in FRANCE?!’ I said, because he’d just said ‘NOT!’, and that’s what Future Ratboy’s sidekick, Not Bird, says.

  ‘Ooh la la, but of course!’ said Renard. ‘In my country, ’e eez called “Futur Garçon de Rat”,’ he grinned, doing his best Futur Garçon de Rat face, and I had to hold in a sniggle as I tiptoed past Morag.

  I pushed against the wooden door and it creaked, and Morag snuffled underneath her holiday magazine. The photo on the front of it was of a beach a bit like Mogden Island’s, except this one looked much hotter, like it might have real coconut trees instead of fake blow-up plastic ones.

  ‘Morag eez planning une vacation, non?’ whispered Renard, nodding at the magazine, and I imagined her jetting off on holiday with her suitcase full of Donald Cox’s money.

  ‘Not if we can help it!’ I said, stepping into the hut.

  ‘Ooh la la, mon unkeelness . . .’ whispered Renard, looking around inside the hut and doing a little whistle. ‘Zere eez a lot of, ’ow you say . . . junk, non?’

  I Future-Ratboy-unzoomed my eyes out so I could take it all in. ‘Sure iskeels,’ I said, wondering if Burt had been like one of those people on TV who can’t throw anything away.

  I tiptoed round a pile of empty yogurt pots, over to the shelf stacked full of paper I’d spotted through the grimy window. The corner of a yellowy treasure-map-lookingy sheet was sticking out of the pile, and I imagined myself as a magician whose main trick was being able to find treasure maps really easily.

  ‘Abracadabra!’ I whisper-shouted, closing my eyes and pulling out the yellowy sheet. I held it up in the air and opened my eyes, getting ready to see the treasure map, but it was just a boring old gas bill.

  ‘Eet will not be zat easy, Barry,’ smiled Renard, walking over to a fridge and opening the door. ‘Sometimes, zee sing you are looking for, eet eez een zee place you least expect.’ He poked his head in and looked under a packet of mouldy sliced cheese.

  I rolled my gobstopper eyeballs in my pocket, then my real-life ones to myself in a little mirror on the wall. The mirror was cracked, which didn’t surprise me, seeing as Morag probably looked in it every morning when she was sticking on her tarantula eyelashes.

  ‘Eet looks as eef somebody ’as ’ad zee bad luck, non?’ said Renard, pointing at the crack, and I nodded, because everyone knows breaking a mirror is bad luck.

  ‘Burt, I spose . . .’ I whispered, then I did a freeze-frame, like when you pause Future Ratboy on TV.

  Peeking out of a gap in the cracked mirror, just above where my freeze-framed nose was being reflected, was a tiny triangle of yellowy paper.

  ‘Renard, do you see what I see?’ I said, tiptoeing over to the mirror.

  ‘’Ow could I see what you see, Barry?’ said Renard. ‘You ’ave your eyes . . . and I ’ave mine.’

  I lifted the mirror off the wall, and immedikeely realised it was about seventeen times heavier than it looked. The frame slipped through my fingers and crashed on to the wooden floor.

  ‘Zat eez even worse luck, non?!’ whisper-shouted Renard, and I heard Morag snuffling around on the porch.

  ‘Woss all the racket?’ I heard her grunt, as I looked down at the broken bits of mirror scattered around my feet. I could see my face, reflected a million times, peering back up at me. And lying in the middle of all the pieces was a yellowy-looking map.

  ‘It’s Burt’s treasure map!’ I cried, picking it up and stuffing it in my pocket. ‘He must’ve hidden it here, then forgotten all about it!’ I laughed, and then I stopped laughing, because I remembered that Morag had woken up.

  ‘’Oo’s in there?’ boomed Morag, and I heard her great big fat feet stomping towards the wooden door.

  ‘Run for eet, Barry - I will deal wiz Morag!’ Renard shouted, and I tilted my nose forwards into its extra-fast position.

  ‘Abracadabkeels!’ I cried, as the hut door flung open.

  ‘You wait till I get me ’ands on you!’ cackled Morag, standing in the doorway like a ginormous podgy door with its legs wide open, and I dived between them out on to the porch.

  I ran down the wooden steps and looked around for all the kiddywinkles. ‘Psst! Barry!’ whispered Sally, and I spotted them all, hiding behind a particukeely wide tree trunk.

  ‘Where’s Renard?’ asked Seymour as I crouched behind the tree next to them, and I pointed at the hut, just as the grimy window opened.

  Renard’s head poked out, then his arms, then the whole rest of his body.

  ‘Zis Morag, she eez une crazy lady!’ he cried, as he fell on to the porch and Futur-Garçon-de-Rat-forward-rolled down the steps over to us.

  Morag squidged herself back out of the door on to the porch and looked around. ‘Gordy-Wordy, where are ya, boy?’ she hollered, and I spotted Gordon on the Nettle Forest side of the clearing, looking at Stump Leg, who was distracting him by waggling her hands in the air, pretending to be a tree.

  ‘What is it, boss?’ warbled Gordon, putting down his newspaper and standing up.

  ‘WOT IS IT?’ grunted Morag. ‘THOSE BLINKING KIDDYWINKLES BEEN RUMMAGING ROUND IN MORAG’S PERSONAL BELONGING-FINGS, THAT’S WOT. NOW GO GET ’EM, BOY!’ she roared, stomping her foot down on the porch, and it crashed straight through the floorboard.

  ‘Run for it!’ cried Stump Leg, hobbling away into the forest of trees, and I zoomed after her, everyone else behind me.

  ‘I think we’ve lost Smugly for now!’ I shouted, as w
e all skidded to a stop next to a ginormous dead tree, its crooked branches reaching into the sky like ancient granny arms. I pulled Burt Barnacle’s map out of my pocket and held it up for everyone to see.

  ‘You found it!’ gasped Stump Leg, then she started chuckling.

  ‘What’s so funny, Stump Leg?’ I said, because this really wasn’t the time for chuckling - Gordon was running after us, and we needed to find the treasure before Morag sold Mogden Island to Donald Cox.

  ‘Mogden Island - it looks just like you, Barry!’ laughed Stump Leg, and I flipped the map round to face my face.

  ‘GAAAH!!!’ I screamed, because Stump Leg was right - Mogden Island was EXACKERLY the same shape as my head.

  Renard peered over my shoulder. ‘Stomp Leg, she eez correct, non?’ he said, pointing at the bit of the map that showed the forest of nettles.

  ‘Zees is your ’air,’ he muttered, ruffling my hair. ‘And zees is your face, Barry,’ he smiled, waggling his finger over the middle of the island, where all the tents were.

  ‘And ZEES . . .’ he carried on, moving his finger over to a huge bulge of land that I didn’t even know existed, ‘zees is your big nose!’

  The kiddywinkles all snortled, and I tried to shrink my nose a centimetre, which I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to do it, but it isn’t easy.

  ‘CURSE THE SHAPE OF MOGDEN ISLAND!’ I cried, waggling my fists up at the sky like the dead tree’s branches, and I Future-Ratboy-darted my eyes around on the map, looking for a cross.

  ‘Where’s the X?’ I said, because treasure maps always have an X on them somewhere - to tell you where the treasure is.

  ‘Zere eez no X, Barry,’ muttered Renard, stroking his chin. ‘Only zees leetle scribbles . . .’ he said, pointing at the top right hand corner of the map.

  I peered at the top right hand corner of the map. There, written in tiny, wobbly little capitals, was the word ‘CLUES’, with three sentences underneath:

  ‘I can seeee yooou!’ cried a familikeels voice from behind us, and I Future-Ratboy-unzoomed my eyes out from the clues and poked my head up from the map.

  ‘It’s Chief Operation Manager Smugly!’ screamed Sally Bottom, as Gordon appeared from behind a tree.

  ‘What’s that smelly bit of old paper, Loser?’ sneered Gordon, and I Future-Ratboy-speed-folded the map in half and stuffed it in my pocket, hoping he’d forget he’d ever seen it.

  ‘It’s a TREASURE map!’ said Seymour, his glasses steaming up again.

  ‘Treasure, eh?’ said Gordon, still panting from running after us. ‘Well, if there’s any treasure on THIS island, I think it should go to Chief Operations Manager Smugly!’

  ‘Treasure THIS!’ shouted Stump Leg, stomping on Gordon’s foot, and he crumpled on to the ground like a smug, ugly deckchair. ‘RUN FER IT!’ she cried, hobbling off in the direction of the island’s nose.

  Which seemed like a good idea to me, so we all followed her.

  I whipped the map back out of my pocket and started re-reading the first clue, which isn’t an easy thing to do when you’re running behind a load of kiddywinkles.

  ‘Stupid wobbly writing!’ I shouted, shaking my fist as we all skidded to our stops on the edge of a beach.

  ‘This isn’t the beach we landed on with Captain Two Fingers,’ said Sally, looking around.

  ‘Where ARE we, then?’ cried Seymour.

  I looked down at the map and tried reading the first clue again. ‘“Follow ye nose with the tips of ye toze . . .”’ I muttered, ‘But what in the name of unkeelness is a “toze”?’

  Stump Leg looked at me like I’d gone mad.

  ‘It’s the first clue!’ I said, and I looked back up at the beach. Sticking out of the sand were two giant rocks, covered in seaweed.

  ‘Hey! They’re the nostrils on Mogden Island’s nose!’ I grinned, pointing at the nostrils on the map, then at the rocks.

  ‘“Follow ye nose with the tips of ye TOES . . .”’ said Sally Bottom. ‘Isn’t that what we just did?’

  I looked at Sally, trying to work out what she meant. ‘What do you mean, Sally Bottom?’ I said, and she giggled.

  ‘We just used the tips of our toes to get to the island’s nose!’ she said, and I rolled my gobstopper eyes, because ‘toes’ had been spelled ‘toze’ on the map.

  ‘What kind of loseroid wrote these clues?’ I groaned, then I realised it was probably Burt, so I did a quick back-to-front-salute at a passing cloud, just in case it was his pirate sofa ship and he was watching.

  ‘WHAT NOW?’ cried Seymour, as I peered down at the wobbly writing on the map and read out clue number two.

  ‘“When ye are there, ye should have a good stair . . .”’ I said, and I scratched my head, looking around the beach for some stairs.

  ‘Stare - zees eez when zee person eez staring out to sea, non?’ said Renard, staring out at the lake.

  ‘No, Renard, that’s spelt S-T-A-R-E,’ I said, carrying on looking for some stairs, but I couldn’t see any. The only interestikeels-looking things were the nine or ten tiny little mini islands sticking out of Mogden Lake, a couple of metres off the tip of Mogden Island’s nose. They were mostly made out of rock and had slimy green seaweed growing all over them.

  ‘Hey, those little islands look like bogies!’ giggled Sally Bottom, pointing at them on the treasure map.

  ‘Eeew,’ said Seymour, pushing his glasses up his nose, and I giggled, realising something.

  ‘Hang on a millikeels, it was stupid old Burt and his spelling again - he meant “STARE”, not “STAIR”!’ I cried, staring out at the bogie islands, and Renard tutted.

  ‘Zis eez what I am saying all along, non?’ he sighed.

  ‘These are the worst clues EVER, Barry Loser!’ said Stump Leg, doing a little mini-stomp on my foot, and I was just about to do a mini-scream when I spotted clue number three out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘I’ve got it! It’s the bogie islands! The treasure must be on one of the bogie islands!’ I shouted.

  ‘Huh?’ said Sally Bottom, scratching her bum. ‘I don’t get it, Barry Loser.’

  ‘Look!’ I said, pointing at clue number three. ‘“Pick ye bogie care-fully. The wrong one and you’ll get smel-ly.” We have to pick a bogie island - and the least smelly one, by the sound of it!’

  I started wading out into Mogden Lake, then stopped, sensing something annoying behind me. ‘Gordon!’ I gasped, looking over my shoulder, because Gordon Smugly was up at the top of the beach, panting.

  ‘The treasure will be MINE!’ he shouted, flinging his hands out wide like Donald Cox, and he started hobbling towards us all slowly, limping from his stomped-on foot.

  ‘NEVERRR!!!’ I shouted in my keelest pirate voice, stepping forwards with my right foot, and the whole leg that was attached to it disappeared into the lake.

  ‘WAAAHHH!!! BE CAREFUL OF THE FISHIES, BARRY!’ cried Sally Bottom, stuffing her hands into her pockets for safekeeping, and I remembered Captain Two Fingers telling us how he lost his fingers.

  ‘Don’t worry Sally, Captain Two Fingers was only joking!’ I shouted over my shoulder, and I felt something nibbling at my leg.

  ‘WAAAHHH!!! SHARK!!!’ I screamed, then I realised it was just my mum-phone, vibrating in my pocket. I whipped the phone out, breathing a sigh of relief that it’d been in my left pocket which was still dry, and I pressed the ‘answer’ button.

  ‘Donald Cox!’ crackled Bunky’s voice.

  ‘Donald Cox!’ I sniggled, even though there wasn’t really time for any sniggling.

  ‘Donald, just checking in - long time no see!’ said Bunky, and I looked back at the others. Renard, Stump Leg, Sally Bottom, Seymour and all the other kiddywinkles were right behind me, with Gordon just behind them.

  I pulled out the piece of string I’d stuffed in my pocket earlier that day and threw it over to Renard. I pointed to some logs that’d rolled down the beach out of the forest. ‘Tie those logs together with this string to make a pirate raft,’ I c
ried. ‘Load the kiddywinkles on to it and follow me!’

  ‘Oui oui, Captain Barry!’ grinned Renard.

  ‘Stump Leg, see what you can do about Smugly!’ I shouted, and Stump Leg immedikeely whipped off her wooden leg and started using it to scoop a ginormous hole in the beach’s sand.

  ‘What’s all this unkeelness?’ said Gordon, hobbling up to the edge of it, and Seymour gave him a push from behind. ‘WAAAHHH!!!’ screamed Gordon, falling ugly-face-first into Stump Leg’s pit.

  I gave Stump Leg and Seymour a quadruple-salute and turned back to my phone.

  ‘Donald, I’m a little tied up right now,’ I said to Bunky, swimming over to the first of the bogie islands and having a sniff around. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds, seeing as I was using one of my hands to hold my mum-phone out of the water. ‘I’m looking for a non-smelly bogie island, Donald,’ I said, as if that was a comperleeterly normal sentence.

  ‘Not a problem, Donald,’ said Bunky. ‘Just wanted to fill you in on the Poo Tour - we’re having a fantastikeels time over here!’ he crackled.

  ‘That’s great, Donald!’ I said, except it came out as ‘Dat’s date, Donald!’ because I was holding my nose, what with the stink of the seaweed growing all over the first bogie island.