It was as if someone had just hit the rewind button.
I was aware I was still live on air, as well as my life probably being under threat.
‘Er … I think I’m b-b-being attacked! Please help me,’ was all I could stammer out.
I peered nervously through the dusty shed window as the garden security lights came on, illuminating two figures in my garden.
What happened next will be burned into my mind for eternity. And my life will forever be the better for it.
The owner of the yelling-madman-grabbing hand, the newest arrival to the scene, I could now see was most definitely Sensei Terry. Neighbourhood Watch vigilante, karate teacher and our trusty postman. A man of many hats.
His face tonight was not that of our friendly local postman, however, nor that of a protective Neighbourhood Watch member. It was a face I’d seen before in my own fateful karate lesson. This was Sensei Terry about to attack. He was defending me.
Finally, after twenty years of teaching karate to bored kids and overweight accountants, he was getting his chance to use his finely honed martial arts skills. This was the day he’d been training for, waiting for, praying for his entire life. This was going to be Sensei Terry’s defining moment.
Sensei Terry’s body was coiled like a cobra postman. The masked madman was about to meet the full force of the karate teacher’s most feared move. The front kick.
In the one karate lesson I attended, this move proved too much for me and my sister’s karate pants. But this was Sensei Terry. A master of this ancient art. His kick, after thousands of repetitions, was now like a finely oiled piston. The masked madman didn’t stand a chance.
Piercing the night air was the war cry from Sensei Terry.
‘MAE GERI!’
Even in battle, Sensei Terry was using the correct Japanese terminology. Maybe he was also summoning the spirit of ancient warriors who first used this fearsome move.
‘MAE GERI!’
… and out it fired again.
His rear leg came up, powered by those hips made so strong by years of carrying letters, parcels and my mum’s seven-kilogram clothing catalogue. He flicked it out, and this time it rose high, not into the stomach of his opponent as I thought he intended, no: this time he’d set his kick on a different trajectory. Towards the face of the masked madman.
How can I best describe what happened next? If you’ve ever seen a watermelon explode, then that.
Sensei Terry’s right foot met the masked madman’s face and reorganised it. A front tooth came flying out and the man screamed in agony as he slumped to the ground. Perfect technique by Sensei Terry. I half expected him to bow.
Lots of things then happened at the same time.
The noise of Sensei Terry’s blood-curdling ‘MAE GERI!’ war cry had obviously got some of my family’s attention as they settled down to watch TV for the evening. As had the now-murmuring cries of the fallen, tooth-missing masked madman.
Dad came flying out into the garden.
Then my sister.
Then my mum.
I was still watching this box office movie from the shed window, for the moment not even remembering that my mic was live.
All anyone still listening to the Secret Shed Show would’ve heard was: ‘Oh no. My mum! It’s all over now.’
Dad spoke first.
‘Terry?’ he said, peering into the floodlit garden that was now also an arena of Japanese combat.
‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Hughes. Do not be alarmed, but I have just apprehended a masked intruder in your garden. You are in no danger from him now.’ And to reinforce this point he gave a little nudge to the blood-masked, tooth-missing madman.
Sensei Terry continued his eyewitness report.
‘… at approximately 5.57pm tonight I was making my usual rounds in my capacity as a member of our Neighbourhood Watch security team. I investigated a noise from your hedges, Mr Hughes. It was then I saw this person with binoculars, spying on your shed. Following this, I saw him try to get into it, whereupon I gave pursuit and pulled him out as he was yelling at someone inside.’
‘Right …’ said Dad, trying to put together the pieces of this bizarre jigsaw.
The blood-masked, tooth-missing madman began murmuring again and pointing towards the shed. Towards me.
‘Oh, my poor boy, Spike! Is he still alive in there? Working on his mummy’s birthday present, you BEAST!’ Mum yelled at the blood-masked, tooth-missing madman.
Mum began to sprint towards me in the shed.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no.
‘NO!’ yelled Dad as Mum closed in on the shed and grasped the door handle.
Sensei Terry, meanwhile, was grappling to unmask the blood-masked, tooth-missing madman.
‘Angel, are you OK in there?’ cried my mum as yet again tonight the shed door was violently flung open.
‘Um …’
‘Spike? What’s … all … this … equipment … What is all this stuff? Microphones … speakers …’
‘Er …’
My mum processed everything in the shed and put it all together.
‘It’s a radio studio!!!!’
As if brought back to life by these words, the blood-masked, tooth-missing, mumbling madman suddenly found the bodily strength to peel off the overly tight ski mask. Despite being blood-splattered, missing a tooth and still looking demented, the madman was unmistakably visible for who he was.
It was Mr Harris, my headmaster. He had finally found Radio Boy.
Fish Face began shouting excitedly. Due to the state of his mouth and the fact that a tooth of his was somewhere in our rose bush, all that came out was ‘nmph nadio toy … nadio toy’.
Sensei Terry gave him another prod in the ribs to silence him.
Over Mum’s shoulder I saw my dad’s face: it was like he was watching a car crash about to happen. I also caught my sister’s expression as she was trying to see beyond Mum and into the shed.
Mum spoke again.
‘You’re Radio Boy? You? My Spike?’
‘Um. Yes.’ I swallowed.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Who else knew?’
Dad braced himself for impact.
She looked over at him, and he looked down at his feet. She looked over at Mr Harris, back to me and then to the studio. She slammed the shed door closed in my face, as if to shut out the deception that was behind it. The force of it shook the entire shed, and our neighbourhood, possibly even registering ‘small earthquake’ on the Richter scale.
It all proved to be too much for the shed door, as it gave up and fell off into the garden. Leaving me in full view.
And then the police arrived.
They had kindly responded to several calls from my concerned listeners, but they were somewhat delayed as most of the callers could give my location only as ‘a garden shed’. Luckily, one of them could, but strangely only gave his name as ‘Elvis’.
The sight of them arresting Mr Harris and charging him with illegal trespassing was incredible, yet made perfect sense among the barely believable events of the weirdest day of my life.
As Fish Face was led away from my garden in handcuffs and put in the back of a police car, a familiar face appeared at the front door.
Derek Mountfield, there to get his big news scoop.
Mr Harris had sneakily telephoned Derek and told him to get to my house, because he was about to uncover the identity of Radio Boy. Mr Harris, unable to predict what would actually happen, had excitedly imagined that a juicy front cover was surely awaiting him in the local paper – perhaps a photo of him holding me up by the scruff of the neck. Like a hunter with his prize catch.
Derek Mountfield did get his second scoop of the day, but not the one Fish Face planned. Instead, it was a front-page snap of a local headmaster being handcuffed and put into the back of a police car yelling, ‘HE’S THE CRIMINAL, NOT ME!’
Goodness knows how this will all be reported on Merit Radio, I thought.
I couldn’t really
enjoy that thought for too long as there was a gloomy silence now in my house after the drama of the last hour.
The atmosphere in the living room was, to say the least, ‘strained’. How could it not be?
My mum had been lied to not only by her son, but her husband as well. She’d seen my headmaster break into our garden, be attacked by our postman and get arrested. And she’d discovered that her son had been broadcasting a secret show from the family shed. That her husband knew all about and had helped set it up. This was like one of those daytime TV shows my nan loves where angry-faced people with few or no teeth shout across a TV studio at each other, while a man in a suit sits on the studio floor, patronising them.
‘Just go to your bedroom, son, I’ll handle this,’ Dad said quietly. I’d never seen him so dejected. ‘No, I think I need to do this, Dad.’
And I did. I felt really awful. Like the worst son in the world. I could be starring in my own episode of those daytime TV shows: When Good Sons Go Bad.
TV host in suit grinning into camera with perfect hair and super-white teeth.
‘Coming up after the break, we meet this poor, hard-working mother of two who is a hospital ward manager.’
Cut to image of my mum smiling, maybe that holiday one of her in a sombrero despite the fact we weren’t in Spain but camping.
‘By day, caring for the sick; by night, BETRAYED BY HER SON with a secret radio show from their family shed.’
Cut to that school photo where I look like a crazed killer.
‘Today: IS THIS THE WORST SON IN THE WORLD – EVER?’
As I went to find her, I thought about everything that had happened as a result of me going too far with the strike. Everything was my fault. I’d had it all, and now I’d ruined it all.
Great work, me!
As I got to Mum’s bedroom, I could hear my sister in there already. No doubt sticking her unhelpful opinion in. Just loving her little brother being in DEEP, DEEP trouble. I was wrong though. As I hesitated outside the door, I heard Amber talking.
‘You know what, Mum? I’m embarrassed sometimes that Spike’s my brother.’
Oh, thanks for that, Amber.
But she carried on, and I stood there, stunned at what I heard.
‘He acts so weird, but I had no idea that the show everyone was talking about at school was being done by my little brother in our shed. I mean, him? I have to admit … I’m kinda proud. I’m pleased for him, Mum. He’s still a freak, but saying that, how the hell did he even do it?’
I was amazed. Let’s leave aside the fact she called me a ‘freak’ – this was still the kindest thing I’d ever heard my sister say, and for the first time that day I felt I had someone on my side.
Mum didn’t say anything.
My sister opened the bedroom door. ‘Good luck,’ she offered as she gently patted me on the shoulder.
I smiled at her. ‘Thanks.’
‘Yeah, don’t push it, weirdo,’ she said, and walked away.
Here goes.
I knocked on the door and went in. My mum was sitting on her bed. Even just seeing her sitting down and not moving or holding court said how much this had knocked it out of her. For once, Carol Bond hadn’t seen this one coming.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I mumbled.
She looked up. Her big eyes were full of hurt. Not anger, like I expected, but hurt. That was even worse in a way.
‘Why didn’t you and your dad tell me?’
‘Cos I thought you’d never let me do it.’
‘Well. That makes me sad, Spike. That you think I’d not support your dreams.’
‘You worry all the time though,’ I said. ‘What would people say? Could the equipment explode? Blowing my head clean off my shoulders into the neighbours’ garden, leaving me with a fake head like some made-up patient you once treated on the ward.’
‘I only want you and your sister to be safe! I do what I think is best for you,’ she protested. ‘If you’d seen the horrors I’ve seen, Spike, you’d be protective. Just yesterday a boy came in, had one of those hoverboards as a birthday present. It took him under a pig truck and now he has a tiny, tiny head and body after it was squished so badly. Poor kid will have to use Build-A-Bear outfits as clothing …’
‘Mum …’
‘OK, some of that I may have exaggerated.’
‘I know, but … this Secret Shed Show was a risk, Mum. You’d have been worried about me getting into trouble.’
‘Well, I would’ve been right to after what I’ve just seen. Mr Harris breaking into our garden! What have you done, Spike?’
I had nothing to say. It was my turn to look at my feet now.
‘Sit down, Spike.’ She patted the bed next to her. ‘What upsets me the most, more than the lies that you and your dad told, and don’t even get me started on your dad’s part in all this … I’ll deal with HIM LATER …’
Mum started to do that crazy-eyed, staring thing she does, where her eyes bulge and she begins chewing her lip. She was back. Poor Dad. He’d be praying for a cell next to Fish Face after Mum was finished with him.
‘No, what was I saying? Yes, what upsets me is why did you use the name Radio Boy? Why not be you?’
‘Well, I guess because otherwise Mr Harris would’ve found out and stopped us.’
‘But we wouldn’t have let him. It’s not illegal what you’ve been doing.’
Oh. I thought about that. She was right, I realised. Mr Harris couldn’t actually stop us broadcasting. It was just an internet radio show.
‘I didn’t … think of it like that,’ I said. ‘I was just scared of him, I guess.’
‘Is that really why you kept it secret?’
‘Well …’ I shrugged, awkwardly.
‘Come on. What really stopped you, Spike? I’m curious.’
Mum put her arm round me. And it felt good. It had been an awful day. The first half amazing, second half the worst day of my life ever. The manhunt, losing Artie and Holly. Now the police were involved. There’s something about a hug from your mum or dad when you really need it. I guess I wasn’t really a superhero. Though I reckon even Batman would stop scowling for a bit if he had one of my mum’s hugs.
‘I thought …’ I said, finally. ‘That if I was just Spike Hughes no one would listen. Because I’m invisible at school, Mum. No one knows who I am. I’m not in the cool kids’ gang, or any gang. So I kinda invented Radio Boy. Like a superhero. He was everything I’m not. Funny, brave, exciting.’
‘You are all those things, Spike. You’re the funniest person I know.’
‘You always say that, but you’re my mum, so you have to. It’s like parent law. To all parents, their kids are great-looking and funny and clever. No parent has ever gone, “Jeez, you’re a bit of an ugly one, aren’t you? And thick with it.’’’
Mum laughed at this. Maybe we would be all right.
‘But I know it’s true. And so do you now, if you think about it. Radio Boy is you, Spike. Everyone’s been talking about how funny the show is, even the mums. He just woke something up that was always in there. He just helped you find that in you.’
‘I dunno …’
‘Look, I’m far from happy with what’s gone on in the last few weeks, and I’m furious with your dad for allowing it to go this far and letting you get yourself in trouble with this strike, but—’
‘Er, Mum, Dad didn’t know anything about the strike.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, that bit’s all my fault. It was all my idea. Artie and Holly begged me not to do it.’
‘Wow. Wow. I’m really surprised.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was the wrong thing to do and we will have to think about what you need to do next, but it’s also … pretty amazing.’
‘Amazing? How?’
‘That someone who thinks they’re so rubbish managed to pull all this off and right under my nose. That’s … seriously impressive. I can’t even begin to imagine how you did
it.’
‘I had help.’
‘I’m sure, but you made all this happen. Well, you surprised everyone, Spike Hughes.’
My heart swelled with joy and happiness.
‘I guess you want me to stop doing the show now …’ I said.
‘Let’s just wait for tonight to settle first. The police want us to go to the station first thing in the morning and we will have to speak to the school, and Artie’s and Holly’s parents.’
I got up, but as I was leaving her bedroom my mum had just one final thing to say.
‘Have you been to the toilet today?’
Normally, weekends are pretty standard and boring for me. Might go round Artie’s or Holly’s to hang out, might do some homework. Walk Sherlock, throw some sticks for Sherlock, pick up Sherlock’s poop. Avoid my sister and her pony, Mr Toffee, and do homework. Not this weekend though. This was no normal weekend. This was the morning after SHED ARMAGEDDON.
I was ‘invited’ by Dad to help him attach a new shed door. I also saw that there was a newly installed camp bed in the shed where Dad was apparently now going to sleep for a few days, ‘just until things settle down with your mum’, he whispered, casually. As if this was a normal thing. It was obviously his punishment for his part in the crime of the century. Over the past few weeks, the shed had gone from being a place to dump the lawnmower to a radio studio, and now it was doubling up as a dad prison.
He’d probably quite enjoy it actually. I noticed he’d already tried to make it as cosy as possible. He had a few books in there with him, and some snacks Mum doesn’t usually let him have – chocolate bars, cold pizza and beer. It looked like a friendly tramp had moved in.
All morning there were lots of ‘chats’ between Mum and Dad. When I say ‘chats’, I don’t mean some calm and reasonable exchanges of opinions between two caring parents. I mean that special ‘plane mode’ arguing your mum and dad do when they think they can kid you they aren’t actually having an argument by not raising their voices. It’s whispered shouting. I could guess the main topic of the ‘chats’.
Meanwhile, my phone was shaking every few minutes with texts. I’d never been so popular. They were asking if I was really Radio Boy. News spreads quickly, and news about the headmaster breaking into your garden, getting arrested and losing a tooth in the process spreads even quicker. Mum had told me not to speak to anyone until they (she) had worked out what was going to happen.
Radio Boy Page 13