The Third-Class Genie

by Robert Leeson

He was sure Granddad would have liked it, but he had to think of his own interests and Abu’s. When the can was empty, he slipped it back into his inside pocket and walked back to the classroom. As he entered, Mr Cartwright had been on a reconnaissance. Now all was deadly quiet, save for the mournful squeak of a pen here and there.

  Suddenly there came a tremendous belch. Those nearest Alec turned round.

  “Bowden, you dirty old man,” said Ronnie Carter, who sat just in front of him.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Alec, truthfully.

  “Not much, it wasn’t. You’re disgusting.”

  “Oh, belt up,” whispered Alec, as he heard footsteps in the corridor.

  “Haa-up-errp.” This time there was a combined hiccup and belch. Then Alec’s heart stood still as this was followed by a sudden burst of singing in a lively, but slurred, baritone.

  “Hey, give over, Bowden. You’ll have Cartwright here in a minute.”

  “You have Cartwright in here!” said a voice from the doorway. “What is the excitement about?”

  He was answered by a series of hiccups, fired off like a machine gun. Then a ferocious burp and another line of the Baghdad Genies’ Anthem, or whatever it was Abu was singing.

  Mr Cartwright’s eyes opened wide. “Bowden?” he said, with shock in his voice.

  “It’s my transistor,” said Alec, desperately.

  “Well, switch it off.”

  “I can’t, it’s stuck in my pocket. Please can I go outside, sir?”

  “I’d strongly recommend it,” said Mr Cartwright menacingly, “and stand outside my room. What are you laughing about?”

  “I’m not laughing, sir.” But the laughter, full, hearty drunken, laughter, mocked him. The sounds of singing and hiccuping followed Alec as he fled red-faced down the corridor and into the washroom. They finally disappeared in gargling and bubbling sounds as Alec turned on a tap and sent a stream of cold water pouring into the can. He emptied it, refilled and emptied it again, shook it, rubbed it against his coat, and then raised it to his ear. Only the faintest of snoring sounds could now be heard. He put the can into his pocket and went down the corridor to Mr Cartwright’s office.

  “Come in, come in. Shut the door.”

  Oh, thought Alec, that sounds nasty.

  “Sit down over there.”

  “Ah, that sounds better,” he thought.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re playing at, Alec Bowden,” said Mr Cartwright. “I’m equally sure that song was never broadcast, even on Cairo Radio, even if you could get it on your transistor. May I ask where you picked it up? Have you any idea what the words meant? And why the belches and hiccups?”

  Alec’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of a sensible answer to any of the questions. Mr Cartwright, however, was not looking for answers today; he steamed on.

  “Your interest in things Arabian is quite remarkable. The History Department let me have a look at your Crusader project.”

  Alec groaned. This was disaster day, all right.

  “Very interesting. I read it with some fascination. I served for years in the Middle East and I came to realize that the Arabs have quite a different view of history from ours.”

  “That’s right, sir. They thought the Crusaders were a pack of barbarians.”

  Cartwright nodded. “The trouble was, their civilization was on the way down, and ours in the West was on the way up. We owe them a lot.”

  This time Alec stopped himself from saying, “That’s what Abu says.” Instead he said on impulse, “I don’t see why any civilization should be up while another’s down, sir. It’d be better if they were all on the same level.”

  Mr Cartwright nodded and laughed. “You’re probably right, but it’s easier said than done. Look at the problems in this school now. There’s Miss Welch doing her best to teach you English and you disrupting the lesson with impersonations of a drunken Arab.

  “I m sorry, sir.

  “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. I don’t think you’re a troublemaker, Alec Bowden, but trouble certainly centres round you. See if you can keep out of it. Now clear off.”

  Alec felt cheerful on his way from school. Near disaster had been avoided. He couldn’t claim a goal for triumphs, but he could reckon a goalless draw for the day. In order not to spoil his team’s chances, he decided to give Boner’s Street a miss and go home along Station Road.

  He was cheerfully crossing the open space in front of the railway station, thinking about how he would have a quiet chat and feast with Abu after the genie had slept off his orgy that evening, when he was stopped violently in his tracks. A hand came out of nowhere, gripped his collar and nearly strangled him.

  “Hey, leggo,” he gasped. He jerked round and found himself face to face with the tall young man he had done the currency deal with at the weekend. But this time the young man was not smiling. He was looking dangerous.

  “You little… you conned me.”

  Alec turned white. “I never… You gave me five quid, I gave you twenty coins. And you got a bargain. I reckon they were worth more.”

  “Twenty coins? Twenty flipping milk tokens.”

  Alec nearly passed out as the young man waved in his face the marble bag Alec had given him. What had happened? He must have given him the wrong bag, but how…?

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to con you. Look, I’ll go home and get you another lot.”

  “You’ll give me my five quid back, that’s what you’ll do, and quick.” His collar was given an extra twist and Alec started to choke. He dropped his satchel, felt in his back pocket and produced four coins. Then, from his other pocket, he found twenty pence in loose change.

  “That’s all I’ve got left, but I’ll get it for you by the weekend.”

  The young man’s face reddened. He gave Alec’s collar yet another twist.

  “I want it all back, today. Right now.”

  “Arthur Blaggett. What do you think you’re on about?” At the sound of the voice behind him, the young man let Alec go with a jerk. Alec bent, picked up his satchel and moved off sharply.

  “Just a minute, Alec, where are you off to?”

  It was Earn on her way home from work, raincoat over her overalls, handbag swinging from her arm, with an angry frown on her face.

  “Come on, now, Alec. What’s it all about?”

  Reluctantly, Alec told her about the coin deal. The frown deepened. She turned to the young man.

  “If you had more than sawdust between your ears, you’d have known better. Serves you right, though. You thought you were on to something, didn’t you? Typical of your family!”

  To Alec’s surprise, the young man just shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. Kim turned to Alec.

  “You get off home. I’ll settle up here and you can pay me back out of your pocket money. And you lay off fiddling. We don’t do that sort of thing, whatever other folks do.”

  Alec wasted no more time, but ran off down the road. As he reached the corner, he looked back. Kim and the young man were still talking.

  Chapter Ten

  FLASH BOWDEN – NIGHT RIDER

  “SO YOU SEE, Abu, you’re a theoretical possibility, but a practical impossibility,” said Alec.

  “But I believe in you,” he added hastily.

  “Big thrills,” replied Abu.

  “You know, Abu, you’re getting very slangy lately. Are you reading my comics on the sly?”

  Abu did not answer. Alec, who was lying on the bed, too idle to get up and get undressed for the night, picked up the can and peered inside.

  “Do you know, Abu, I think you’re offended, but I can’t see you. It’s a nuisance really. Why can’t you materialize, just once, to please me?”

  Abu sighed.

  “It has always been my fate. Ever since I began to work as a genie, my masters always became unreasonable in the end.”

  “Oh, all right, forget it. But I must say I’m beginning to lose confidence in you and your insta
matic miracles. I mean, apart from providing me with shish kebab now and then and the odd half-ton of sherbet, what have you done except get me into trouble and disgrace me in public?”

  “Oh, ungrateful…” groaned Abu. “Did I not free you from the menace of one Ginger Wallace?”

  “Ginger Wallace?” Alec leapt off the bed. “What do you mean?”

  “Did I not strike him with the Great Itch so that he must stay home and not cloud your days at school?”

  “Oh no, Abu! Was it you who did that? Well, you shouldn’t have.” Alec was torn between guilt and glee. Then a thought struck him.

  “But what if the rest of the family catch it, you idiot genie?”

  Abu was offended now. “That Great Itch is not a plague. It descends only upon those who are chosen.”

  “I wish I knew whether to trust you or not.”

  Abu was silent.

  “Look, Abu, I’ll give you a chance. We’ll kill two birds with one stone. You lift the curse from Ginger Wallace and take me over to their house now, so I can check up that they’re all OK. Only, they mustn’t see me, get it?”

  Abu grunted. “The Great Itch cannot be removed.”

  “Oh yes it can. You put it on, you take it off.” Alec was so masterful that he surprised himself.

  “Oh, as you will,” replied Abu reluctantly, “but the curse must endure for seven days.”

  Alec did a quick count on his fingers. “That means Ginger will be OK by Sunday. Now,” he added, “I’m ready for a quick, invisible trip to the Wallaces, Number 85, Boner’s Street.”

  “Thy will…” said Abu, and the room vanished. Alec had a sensation of flying with the wind whistling past him, but before he had a chance to enjoy it, he had landed.

  “Hey, Abu, where are we?”

  He was in a bedroom with an old broken sash window, which let in light from a street lamp outside. In its glow he could see that the room was very untidy; bits of furniture, old clothes, newspaper, cups, saucers and plates were all lying about.

  “Who’s that?”

  Alec stared. Someone was sitting up in bed, a woman with her hair in curlers and her thin shoulders showing through a tattered nightie.

  “Who’s there?” she wheezed.

  Alec goggled. Oh no, Abu strikes again. They had come to the wrong floor. They were in Miss Morris’s bedroom and the old lady had woken up.

  “I don’t care who you are, I’ll have you as soon as I’ve got my specs on.”

  The old lady jerked back her bedclothes and with astonishing agility launched herself out of bed towards Alec. “That’s funny,” she muttered, “I was sure someone was down there. It’ll be one of them poltergeists Harry Bowden was talking about.” Shaking her head, Miss Morris clambered back into bed.

  “Quick, Abu, you Great Arabian Plonker. Get us out of here and upstairs to the Wallaces,” whispered Alec.

  The room disappeared and re-formed. Now it was long and narrow and very dark. Because there was no light from the street, Alec guessed they were now at the back of the house. He could just make out a bed and a cot. In the bed he thought he could see Eulalia. She lay on her back, one arm awkwardly behind her head, the other cradling a smaller dark head on the pillow beside her. It must be one of her sisters.

  Alec moved over to the door which barely opened. He saw why. The bed would have to be shifted round first because there wasn’t room. He shook his head. This beat the boxroom any day of the week. The baby in the cot whimpered. Eulalia stirred in her sleep, sat up slowly, drawing her arm carefully from under her sister’s neck. Then she slid her feet out of bed and tiptoed over to the cot making shushing noises.

  Alec called to Abu and a second later he was lying on his own bed again. It was some while before he got to sleep.

  Next day in line-up, Eulalia and her friends giggled and whispered as they passed him. “Believe it or not, I had a dream about him last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Little Skinny over there. He stood right by my bed, staring at me.”

  “Why, you’re not safe even in your bed, are you?”

  Mrs Wyatt, the PE mistress, came charging down the line. “Quiet there!”

  One of Eulalia’s friends muttered under her breath. Mrs Wyatt heard though, and advanced on the girl.

  “I heard that. Let me tell you, I’ve eaten people like you for breakfast before.”

  “Oh, Miss. It’s us who are supposed to be cannibals, not you,” said Eulalia impulsively.

  Mrs Wyatt looked grim for a moment, then grinned.

  “All right. You win that one. Now get inside.”

  That night Kim was late home from work and teatime passed quietly. But just as Alec was going up to his room, Dad, who had been reading the local paper as usual, exploded with laughter.

  “Do you see this about Hetty Morris?”

  Mum looked surprised.

  ‘“Another case of poltergeists reported by a senior citizen of Bugletown. Miss Hetty Morris, of Boner’s Street, reports that on Thursday night, after she had gone to bed, she became aware of a mysterious presence in her room. A search of the room disclosed nothing, but Miss Morris declared, “I’m sure someone was there.”

  “‘This follows the case reported in last week’s Gazette, involving Mr Henry Bowden of the Roundhill Estate.’”

  Dad put the paper down and laughed. Alec had never seen him laugh so much before.

  “I might have known it. If our Dad had a poltergeist, Hetty Morris would have one too.”

  He stopped as he saw Mum glare at him.

  “What’s up then, Connie?”

  “It’s no laughing matter.”

  “How d’you mean? You don’t believe all this about Hetty Morris seeing a ghost, do you?”

  “No,” said Mum, impatiently. “I mean what’s happening to Miss Morris isn’t funny.”

  Dad looked puzzled.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, love.”

  “No, that daft story in the Gazette reminded me. Hetty Morris came here this afternoon. She’s very upset. She says the council man has been round to tell them that Boner’s Street is coming down and they’re all being shifted out to Moorside.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, she doesn’t want to go, that’s what. And you can’t blame her.”

  “No, but what’s all the rush? They’ve been talking for donkey’s years about pulling down Boner’s Street.”

  “She says it’s something to do with the Health Department as well as Councillor Blaggett.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! There’s something in the Gazette here. Front page and all,” said Dad, picking up the paper again.

  “Mystery sickness, among immigrants in Bugletown – that’s the headline.

  “Reports of an undiagnosed illness among black tenants of Boner’s Street took Council Health and Housing Department officials to the area this week. While the authorities stress that there is no cause for concern, the presence of the illness, which does not appear to be infectious, has raised again the question of the future of the tenants in this street which has been marked down for clearance…

  “Councillor Blaggett told our reporter, ‘We are not overlooking the possibility of sickness being brought into the area, perhaps by an illegal immigrant.’”

  Dad threw down the paper again.

  “That man talks a lot of rubbish. If it’s not infectious, how can it have been brought into the area?”

  “I don’t know that I’m all that interested in that. I’m more interested in poor old Miss Morris. She was so upset this afternoon that she was in tears.”

  Dad shook his head. “I don’t see why they have to move the whole street out to Moorside, just because someone’s been ill.”

  “I’ll tell you why, our Dad,” said Kim as she breezed in through the kitchen doorway and pulled off her scarf.

  “Ah, the late Kim Bowden,” said Mum.

  “Don’t be sarky now, Mum,” said Kim. “I’ve just been talking to Arth
ur Blaggett.”

  “Surprise us,” said Mum, but Kim ignored the comment.

  “He reckons there’s a big scheme on. They want all that area around Boner’s and Upshaw Street for high-rise flats, executive flats they call them, for people working at the refinery they’re supposed to be building on the Penfold Road. And I’ll tell you what. They’re getting rid of the Tank at last, and turning it into a big car park.”

  “Car park?” said Mum. “Whatever for? They’ve got that big place at the corner of Station Road and School Lane.”

  “Ah, that’s going to be turned into a big shopping centre, all linked up with the flats. This area’s going up in the world,” said Kim.

  “But,” Alec broke in excitedly, “they can’t use the Tank for a car park. It’s got no road in or out.”

  “It hasn’t now,” replied Mum. “But it did have at one time. They used to take stuff in and out under the railway arches door and along Boner’s Street and School Lane to the main road. When they closed the Tank down, they boarded up the arches. Anyway, it’s about time the Tank was cleared. Nothing but an eyesore.”

  “But they can’t do that,” said Alec.

  “You get off upstairs and finish your homework, our Alec,” said his mother. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  Alec banged out into the passage. Nothing to do with him, indeed! They couldn’t take the Tank and turn it into a mouldy old car park. The sound of voices from the kitchen stopped him again.

  “What do they want a big shopping centre for?” demanded Mum. “All that expense for nothing.”

  “Oh, that’s probably not for some time yet,” said Kim. “But I reckon they’ll clear Boner’s Street pretty soon. Councillor Blaggett and his mates are dead set on those executive flats.”

  “So poor old Hetty Morris and the others have to move out. Well, it’s not fair,” said Mum, “and somebody ought to tell them so.”

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” asked Dad.

  “Well, why don’t you lot up at the Railway Club do something?”

  “Huh, them,” said Kim, “all they ever do is argue the toss whether diesel trains are better than electric.”

  Alec heard Dad get up and put his paper aside.