The Astounding Broccoli Boy

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  ‘Downing Street,’ said the man in the face mask. ‘Number 10. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Downing Street?’ asked Koko. ‘That’s excellent. Are you the Prime Minister?’

  ‘I’m the personal assistant to his permanent private secretary. I was asked to give you these.’ He pointed to a silver tureen on the sideboard. Koko took the lid off. ‘Snack a Jacks,’ she said. ‘How did we get here? Last thing I remember we were standing on a jetty in the Thames.’

  ‘Did we maybe,’ I asked, ‘teleport?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said the personal assistant to the permanent private secretary, ‘we had to taser you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The electric shock knocked you out and you were brought here. I hope you’re feeling slightly better now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Koko. ‘Feeling great. I love it here.’ She got up and sat herself down at the head of the table and stretched her legs. ‘You can bring the Prime Minister in now,’ she said. ‘I’ve got loads of ideas for him. These Snack a Jacks are Caramel, by the way. We asked for Salt & Vinegar. I don’t like Caramel. Puffed rice is bland. It really needs that vinegar bite. I’m going to tell the Prime Minister he should ban Caramel. Is he coming?’

  ‘Soon. We just have a few formalities to run through first.’

  There are astonishing scenes here outside Downing Street as reporters and members of the public fight for a glimpse of the so-called aliens. An official government car pulled up to the door of Number 10 just half an hour ago and the suspected aliens were taken inside. They appeared to be unconscious. Also bright green.

  Standing here on this historic pavement, one is bound to wonder if this house – this house which has seen wars begin and end, empires rise and fall – has ever in all its long years witnessed scenes as strange as the scenes it will witness today as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom opens talks with what may be two alien life forms . . .

  Top-Secret Meeting . . .

  The ‘formalities’ were X-rays, fingerprints, photographs and being stared at. A lot. The people doing the X-raying, photographing and staring were in white overalls, white boots, white rubber gloves and face masks. You couldn’t tell if they were men, women or ghosts. ‘About these Snack a Jacks,’ said Koko to one of them, ‘they’re the wrong flavour.’

  ‘We’re not waiters,’ said one of the mask people. ‘We’re top government scientists. We’re here to give you blood tests.’

  Tommy-Lee is not going to like that, I thought. Which is when I remembered that Tommy-Lee had swum away.

  ‘Where’s Tommy-Lee? Did you catch him? Be careful with him. He’s not as confident as he seems.’

  ‘One of your number is still at large. Roll up your sleeve, please. Blood test.’

  I don’t mind blood tests. I’ve got certificates to prove it. But once these people knew we were just some inexplicably green children, we’d be back eating quinoa in Junior Isolation before you could say ‘nut allergy’.

  ‘We haven’t agreed to blood tests,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t agree to being tasered. Hackney Free School Year 8 Thames History Project didn’t agree to being kidnapped. Some things happen whether you agree to them or not. We need to take blood samples in order prove to the general public that you’re human.’

  ‘Why do we have to prove we’re human? No one else does.’

  ‘No one else is bright green. No one else goes around saying, “We Come In Peace,” or, “Take Me to Your Leader.”’

  By now Koko had figured out what I was trying to do. ‘What if we’re not human?’ she said. ‘What if our blood is full of alien antibodies that could jump out and spread previously unknown and incurable diseases all over the planet, killing everyone on Earth in a single weekend, starting with you?’

  The top government scientist seemed flustered. She made a phone call, then said she was going to do a risk assessment.

  A few minutes later a man in a dressing gown came in with another silver bowl of Snack a Jacks. ‘Salt & Vinegar,’ he said, ‘as requested.’ He kept sniffing and blowing his nose. ‘I’ve got Killer Kittens; you’d better keep back.’

  ‘I know you from somewhere,’ said Koko. ‘Are you off the telly?’

  ‘I’m the Prime Minister,’ said the man. ‘I’m on the news quite a lot. You’re sitting in my chair.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Koko. ‘Cool.’ She didn’t move. ‘I’m so excited to meet you. I’ve got loads of ideas about how to make this into a better country.’

  ‘Really?’ The Prime Minister sniffed into his handkerchief.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not on some other show as well, by the way? Something funny? Like a funny quiz show.’

  ‘No. I’m not on a funny quiz show. I just run the country.’

  Koko started to outline her ideas about the price of sweets in cinemas, also about Peace and Harmony. ‘See, people,’ she said, ‘are all different colours. And this causes friction. Take me and Rory and Tommy-Lee, we were different colours too. Chinese, pinkish white, kind of brown. But then we all went green. I was thinking . . . what if everyone in the world went green like us? Then there’d be no more fighting about who’s the best, would there? If everyone was the same colour – namely green – there would be Peace and Harmony across the World.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the Prime Minister, putting a hand in the air to tell her stop. He called the government scientist over. ‘You were worried,’ he said, ‘that these creatures might really be aliens?’

  ‘We have to prepare for every possibility, Prime Minister.’

  ‘You didn’t notice that that one –’ he pointed at Koko – ‘has a remarkable command of the English language?’

  ‘I can explain that,’ said Koko. ‘I’ve been having lessons.’

  ‘And,’ added the Prime Minister, ‘that the other one has a Birmingham accent?’

  ‘How do you know,’ I said, ‘that there’s no Birmingham on Mars?’

  ‘Is that where you’re claiming your home is? Mars?’

  ‘We’re not claiming to be from anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘Where do you think the other one is? Your friend. Might he have gone home?’

  Home.

  I hadn’t been home for so long. It took all 200 per cent of my enhanced brain to stop me drifting off into thoughts of Spam, Dad’s Rocket Chilli Sauce and Perry Barr Millennium Centre. ‘No,’ I said, ‘he can’t have gone home. Home is too far away. He doesn’t know the way. He’s not good with finding his way and things like that.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m sure the police will find him.’

  Of all the strange things that had happened in the last few weeks, the very strangest was realizing that at that moment I was really worried about Tommy-Lee. ‘He’s got a nut allergy,’ I said. ‘Tell them if they find him, they mustn’t give him anything with nuts. Or even traces of nuts. Not even Chocolate Frisbees.’

  The Prime Minister pulled Koko’s chair out so she had to stand up, then sat down in it himself. He pointed to a chair further down the table where she could sit. He was taking charge. ‘You two,’ he said, ‘have a problem. There are people outside this building who believe that you are aliens. Aliens who threatened the royal baby with a gun.’

  ‘We did not!’ protested Koko.

  ‘We did slightly point at it with a gun,’ I admitted, ‘which may have been misinterpreted as a threat.’

  The Prime Minister went on, ‘Some of the people outside – the nice ones – think that if you really are aliens, I should put you in a zoo. The others – the less nice ones – think I should dissect you in the name of science.’

  ‘It’s illegal to dissect people without their permission,’ said Koko. ‘Even in the name of science.’

  ‘It’s illegal to dissect people,’ admitted the Prime Minister. ‘But are hostile baby-threatening aliens people? The law is a lot fuzzier about dissecting hostile aliens.’ He munched a Snack a Jack. ‘The point is, this country – which I’m in charge of – is in
a mess. There’s this moggy virus. I may have to cancel Christmas. The only inhabitant of this building that the public has any time for is the cat and I had to have him put down. That’s before we even mention global warming and the Middle East. Frankly, I have better things to do with my time than sitting around eating rice cakes with you.’

  ‘Snack a Jacks,’ said Koko. ‘Not rice cakes. No wonder the country’s in a mess if the Prime Minister can’t even tell the difference between a Snack a Jack and a rice cake.’

  ‘But I do know the difference between an alien invader and a funny-coloured Brummie,’ said the Prime Minister, raising one eyebrow at me. ‘So let’s do some blood tests so that I can reassure the nation.’

  ‘Does it have to be a blood test?’ asked Koko. ‘We have had loads of blood tests. I’m surprised we’ve got any blood left. Could we have X-rays? We like seeing our own skeletons.’

  ‘The nation,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘will not be reassured by skeletons.’

  ‘We have really green wee,’ I said. ‘Is that any use?’

  The Prime Minister didn’t seem keen. ‘The nation,’ he said, ‘really wants your blood. Look . . .’

  He turned on the TV. Twenty-four-hour news showed crowds of journalists with microphones and cameras swarming around Downing Street. They were talking about all the ‘inexplicable crimes’ we had committed.

  ‘Did you really steal a bin lorry?’ asked the Prime Minister.

  ‘We didn’t steal it. We moved it.’

  ‘And emptied it over someone’s car?’

  ‘That was a misunderstanding. I misunderstood the controls.’

  ‘But why were you driving a bin lorry in the first place?’

  If you had to explain stealing a bin lorry, where would you begin? I began with me turning up at Handsworth High and finding out I was the smallest and that the biggest was also the meanest. ‘Then when I turned green, I didn’t think I was sick. For the first time in my whole life it didn’t matter that I was small. I felt huge. I thought I was astounding. My brain was enhanced. I could slightly teleport. Tommy-Lee stopped pushing me around.’

  ‘And my brain,’ said Koko, ‘filled up with all these great ideas about how to make the country a better place.’

  ‘So you thought you’d get revenge on all the people who’d made you feel small? You thought you would bully London?’

  ‘No!!! We thought we were trying to do good things. I thought we were like the Green Hornet or the Hulk or the Green Lantern. We thought we were heroes.’

  ‘I thought we could rule the world,’ said Koko. ‘I still think I’d be good at it. I’ve got a great idea for how to stop wars, for instance, and one about—’

  ‘Who’s the Green Lantern?’

  ‘He was part of the Green Lantern Corps. Their job was to spread peace through the whole universe. We thought we could do something good. But it turned out wrong.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘I became a politician to make the world a better place. Now it looks as if I’m going to be the first British head of government since Oliver Cromwell to pass a law against Christmas.’ He blew his nose.

  ‘You try to do the right thing but it comes out wrong. Like when I gave Tommy-Lee a biscuit and he turned out to have a nut allergy. Do we have to go back to hospital?’

  ‘We’re not even sick,’ said Koko, ‘so why should we be in bed? You’re the one who’s ill. Why don’t you go to bed and let us run the country for a bit?’

  ‘Is hospital that bad?’ asked the Prime Minister.

  ‘They make you eat quinoa,’ Tommy-Lee said.

  ‘I actually quite like quinoa. It’s better than these rice things. In fact I might order a bowl of quinoa now.’ But before he could think any more about catering, the door banged open. A chubby woman came in, plonked an armful of folders on the table, picked up the TV remote and turned the TV off. Without glancing at us she said, ‘Main Post Office. Central London. Killer Kittens cluster. Chaps who sort the mail – nearly all got the virus.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked the Prime Minister.

  ‘It means no Christmas cards. No parcels either. But it also means that nearly everyone who has had mail in the last few days is going to catch it too. The virus has gone viral. Literally. By post. And you know that that means? It means most of London. In bed. With twelve shopping days to the big day. Are they . . .’ she said, pointing at us, ‘. . . the aliens?’

  ‘Rory Rooney,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘and Koko Kwok, meet the Home Secretary.’

  Koko explained that the Home Secretary isn’t really a secretary at all and has nothing to do with homes.

  ‘What an unusually politically aware little girl,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Politically aware. And bright green.’

  ‘You’re really in charge,’ said Koko, ‘of locking people up. I’d be so good at that. I can think of loads of people that should be locked up. But you probably want to lock us up.’

  ‘I should coco,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Emptying the zoo, kidnapping half a school . . . Why aren’t you languishing in chains as we speak?’

  Some more important people came in. One of them was the Lord Chancellor – a fat bloke with very red hair. I forget who the others were. Only that they were very serious, except the Lord Chancellor, who winked at us. The Prime Minister said this was a Top Secret meeting – strictly off the record. No one should take any notes. There was a pad and a pen in front of each minister, but when he said this they all pushed them into the middle of the table.

  ‘What about a few selfies though?’ asked Koko. ‘This is my first Cabinet meeting. I’m really excited.’

  ‘No,’ said the PM. ‘In fact, could you all please leave your mobile phones on the desk outside.’

  They all sat at the far end of the table in case we were contagious. Every now and then, one of them would give us a dark look, just like Ms Stressley had. Except for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who fell asleep.

  The Prime Minister asked for any suggestions.

  Koko’s hand shot up.

  ‘Not you,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘You’re the problem we’re trying to solve.’

  ‘The problem is often the solution seen from a different point of view,’ said Koko.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said the PM.

  At the time I agreed with him, but in the end she turned out to be right.

  ‘The whole nation is in a state of panic,’ said the Defence Secretary. ‘We should go out and show them that it’s all a fuss over nothing. Just some naughty little children. It would be in the National Interest if we just took them outside and fed them to the press.’

  ‘Just to be clear,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘that they’re not naughty. It was all a bit of a misunderstanding.’ It was kind of him to stick up for us like that. He probably did it because he knew what it was like to be misunderstood.

  The most serious-looking of the serious-looking people coughed. ‘Has the Prime Minister,’ he asked, ‘considered the implications of this for the reputation of our security services?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted the Prime Minister, grabbing another Snack a Jack. ‘I’ve been ill, you know.’

  ‘Panic has swept London. The Royal Family has been threatened. There has been traffic chaos . . . are we happy to admit that two little kids could do that to our capital city?’

  ‘There were three in fact,’ mumbled the Prime Minister through his cracker, ‘and there’s no need to keep stressing how little they are. There’s nothing wrong with being little. Einstein was little.’

  ‘Even taking into account their height, it will be a grave embarrassment for the government, and the police will be a laughing stock.’

  ‘It is actually pretty funny when you think about it,’ chuckled the Prime Minister. The Chancellor of the Exchequer actually snorted – possibly a laugh, possibly a snore.

  ‘What about,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘if we say they ARE aliens an
d then we send them into space? Wave them off. Have a goodbye party. I think people would like that. You’d like it, wouldn’t you, Rory?’ I got the feeling that the Home Secretary was not very concerned about my safety.

  Luckily the Education Secretary was. ‘When people find out what these children did,’ she said, ‘they will most likely want to see them suffer.’

  ‘So we have to tell the public it was just a childish prank,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘but we have to avoid saying which children, in case people want to kill them.’

  ‘What about,’ whooped Koko, ‘instead of saying we are children, why don’t you say we are terrorists disguised as children? And now you’ve caught us and there’s nothing to worry about. Then you look good and we can just sneak off.’

  ‘That just might work!’ said the Culture Secretary.

  ‘What are you talking about!?’ said the Prime Minister. ‘How can anyone disguise themselves as a child?! You can’t make yourself smaller, can you?’

  ‘Small terrorists, dressed up as children? Trained-monkey terrorists?’ Everyone shook their heads. ‘Well, have you got a better idea?’ snapped the Culture Secretary.

  ‘Anyone fancy a bowl of quinoa?’ asked the Prime Minister. Why would anyone fancy a bowl of quinoa? ‘I think I have to go out and admit that three children fooled the nation. Then say that we can’t reveal who those children are. Because they’re so small. Rory is very young. I’ll say that the amount of ridicule and anger that people will show those children would be too much to bear so they’ll be under police protection. All you two have to do is keep quiet and keep out of sight until this is all over. As long as no one discovers your true identity, then we can keep you safe.’

  All this talk about secret identities was bringing back my own feelings of Superness.

  A man, young and breathless and wearing a suit, came in, looked at the Prime Minister, said, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ then looked at the telly and said, ‘Who’s got the control?’

  ‘Of the nation?’ asked the Prime Minister. ‘I have of course. I resent the implication that—’