Frankie Fish and the Sonic Suitcase

by Peter Helliar

  ‘Also me,’ Frankie added. ‘Probably.’

  ‘But you got your hand back!’ Other Grandad said.

  ‘It wasn’t worth it,’ Grandad replied firmly. ‘Trust me. We need to send you back. Having three of me in the same time dimension could be disastrous. We should never have broken the rules. Frankie, get Other Grandad’s Suitcase. We’re sending him back and then we’re going home too.’

  ‘Right!’ said Frankie, and spun around to grab the ruby suitcase. Except that it wasn’t in the alley. ‘Uh-oh …’

  The Other Sonic Suitcase was still in front of the house, where Other Grandad had dropped it.

  In perfect sync, the two grandads said the exact same swear word. And it wasn’t ‘hell’ or ‘damn’.

  The three Fish men collectively gulped and poked their heads around the corner like a set of terrible traffic lights – just in time to see the front door of the Fish family house opening. All three retreated faster than a rabbit after drinking too much red cordial.

  The two Grandads and Frankie stood as still and silently as possible, listening carefully. Somebody stepped outside and there was a scraping noise that sounded suspiciously like a suitcase being picked up off the ground. Then a cat’s meow pierced the cold Glasgow air.

  ‘Aw, that’s Mr Wallace, our cat,’ whispered Grandad. ‘He was a cranky little thing – hated strangers and always used to steal our black pudding.’

  ‘What’s black pudding?’ Frankie whispered.

  ‘A sausage made from blood.’

  Frankie gagged. Why would any person or cat eat, let alone steal, such a thing? Yuck!

  The next moment, Mr Wallace came slinking around the corner. He stared up at the three Fish men frozen awkwardly against the wall, and then went right over to Other Grandad and started purring loudly.

  ‘Mr Wallace, is that ye purring?’ someone called from around the corner. It sounded like a young man. Maybe a young Alfie Fish? ‘Have ye found a little friend?’

  Mr Wallace meowed happily and loudly. Frankie closed his eyes, imagining the universe imploding at the exact moment the three Alfie Fishes laid eyes on each other.

  ‘Mr Wallace?’ the young man said again.

  ‘Wash up for lunch, boys!’ came a woman’s voice from inside the house.

  After another long, painful moment, they heard footsteps going back inside and the door closing with a bang.

  The three Fish men breathed a sigh of relief. But the drama was just beginning. Once again, the three poked their heads around the corner and gave a collective gasp as they all saw the same thing … nothing. The Other Sonic Suitcase was gone. Grandad groaned loudly.

  ‘This is a disaster,’ Frankie cried.

  Other Grandad didn’t seem to get it. ‘It’s OK. We still have this one,’ he said, patting Grandad’s Sonic Suitcase.

  And that’s when Frankie found some of his grandad’s fireball ways. ‘No, it’s not OK at all,’ he scolded. ‘Haven’t you seen The Terminator? Or Back to the Future? Or the third Harry Potter movie? Or – or – or even Doctor Who?!’

  ‘Who?’ replied Other Grandad, confused.

  ‘EXACTLY!’ replied Frankie. ‘We CANNOT leave a time machine in the hands of unknowing people from the past. Anything could happen.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘We need to send you home. The longer you stay, the worse the odds that trouble will find us.’

  ‘But … what if I don’t want to go home?’ asked Other Grandad.

  ‘What?’ came the dual voices of Grandad and Frankie.

  ‘I like it here. My memory is clearer, and I feel more like myself,’ Other Grandad said, staring off into the distance. ‘The world feels safer than it does back home, too. And they’ll probably let me drive as much as I want.’ Then he leaned heavily against the wall.

  There was a long silence. Frankie glanced at Grandad, and saw from his face that he felt the same way as his time-travel twin – at least a little bit.

  Frankie leaned next to Other Grandad.

  ‘I think I get what you mean, Other Grandad,’ he said gently. ‘I do. See, I made a mistake and now my school hates me, which is why I had to come stay with you for the school holidays even though I didn’t want to – no offence.

  ‘But even though I never want to go back to school, I know I have to because that’s where my best friend Drew Bird is, and that’s where my mum goes to pick me up, and where my annoying sister Lou is …’

  Frankie swallowed. He never thought it’d be possible, but he actually missed his dumb family. ‘You need to go home, get me and come back, Other Grandad, so that we can stop you from ruining everything,’ he said firmly. ‘Nanna Fish needs you.’

  His two grandads stared at him in astonishment. Frankie had surprised even himself with that speech, given that he wasn’t much of a public speaker. The last time he’d done an oral presentation was in History class. He was supposed to talk about Apollo 13, and he’d vomited from nerves before the shuttle left Houston. It wasn’t a small vomit either – he blew chunks, hard chunks. Some carrot even landed on Mr Balconi’s leather shoes (which was weird, because Frankie couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten carrots).

  Other Grandad looked up, his eyes welling with tears. ‘But I’m scared,’ he whispered.

  ‘So am I,’ Frankie whispered back. ‘But it would be super weird if we weren’t scared, considering the circumstances, right?’ He smiled hopefully at Other Grandad.

  Then something bizarre happened: Other Grandad smiled back.

  ‘You’re right,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll go home with this suitcase, and you two can go recover mine.’

  Then he took their Sonic Suitcase and squinted at the combination lock. ‘Fifty-two per cent battery … that’ll be more than enough. It loses its charge the longer you stay, but you only need –’

  ‘Seventeen per cent to get back, I know,’ Grandad interrupted Other Grandad. ‘Just go already!’

  And with the typing in of some co-ordinates, the use of the neighbour’s backyard toilet without permission, and a muttered, ‘Happy travels,’ the Other Grandad was gone.

  Now that Other Grandad was out of Scotland and out of their hair, Frankie and this Grandad could plot their next move. They needed to get the Other Sonic Suitcase back, and get it back fast.

  ‘How about you distract them,’ suggested Frankie, ‘while I look for the case?’

  ‘Good plan, boy,’ said Grandad. ‘Let’s go!’

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

  The door was opened by a man younger than Grandad by about twenty-five years, but just as grumpy. ‘What in the blazes do ye want?’ he said in a thick Scottish brogue.

  Grandad seemed to stand a little straighter. Frankie stared at the man’s huge Christmas-ham fists, and realised this must be Grandad’s own dad, Frankie’s great-grandad Ernest Fish. Ernest was glaring expectantly and unwittingly at his own son, who was almost twice his age.

  Weirdest. Day. Ever.

  ‘Ahem,’ Grandad said awkwardly, with a quiver in his voice that Frankie had never heard before. ‘Um … I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said politely, ‘but would you mind terribly if we used your lavatory? My grandson here, um … er … needs to poop.’

  Frankie blushed. If anyone had bowel-control issues, it was the man who had farted at least fifty times since they arrived from the future.

  ‘Is this true, lad?’ asked the man sternly. ‘Do ye need to POOP?’

  Frankie briefly considered protesting his innocence, but reminded himself there was a bigger mission at stake. ‘Yes, sir, I … I need to poop,’ he replied, his cheeks hot.

  ‘And by the whiff in my nostrils, it appears its arrival may be quite imminent!’ pressed Grandad.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ muttered Frankie. He was suddenly grateful that the kids at school were sixty-five years into the future and would never find out about this.

  The rather frightening-looking man sighed. ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘The lav is upstairs. But mind ye don’t leave any boo
gers on the walls!’

  Seriously, what is it about this family and boogers? Frankie thought.

  ‘I’ll wait out here,’ replied Grandad, as Frankie entered the house.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ernest briskly. ‘Come on in from the cold.’

  Grandad reluctantly stepped inside his childhood home as Frankie headed for the stairs.

  There was a funny smell in the air, like something had died. ‘What is that?’ Frankie said, sniffing. ‘It smells like –’

  ‘We’re having haggis for lunch,’ Ernest said. ‘Special day and all. With neeps and tatties on the side.’

  Frankie gave him the side-eye. NEEPS and TATTIES? He had no idea what they were, but he was pretty sure that saying it at school would get you three detentions with Miss Merryweather.

  Then Grandad gave Frankie a shove, and he remembered that he was supposed to be saving the day. When Ernest was looking the other way, he lunged for the stairs.

  ‘Can I get ye some tea?’ Ernest asked Grandad. Then he squinted and added, ‘Ye look familiar, ye know. Did ye know my father, Brian … Brian Fish?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Grandad, squirming. ‘We’re from out of town, just here for a quick visit.’ He sounded reluctant to speak at all.

  Good on you, Grandad, Frankie thought as he got to the top of the stairs. Don’t say a word!

  Upstairs, Frankie found four rooms. The first was a toilet, which was possibly the least likely room for somebody to keep a stolen suitcase. As expected, nothing. Behind the next door was a bedroom. Nothing again.

  Frankie crept into the third room, another bedroom. There he found not the suitcase, but a familiar-looking man snoring with his mouth wide open, as happy as a pig in suspiciously stinky mud. Frankie froze. It was a young Alfie Fish.

  Frankie backed out quickly, puzzled. Grandad hadn’t mentioned anything about his younger self being asleep when he came to give him advice. And if that hadn’t been young Alfie opening the front door … who was it?

  Frankie tried to ignore his creeping sense of unease. At least young Alfie being asleep kept him and old Alfie apart this time.

  The floorboards let out tiny creaks as Frankie sneaked across them, as quickly as he dared. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone came up to check on him – or before young Alfie woke up and caught him. The suitcase had to be here somewhere.

  Glancing towards the end of the upstairs hallway, Frankie Fish felt a rush of delight. There, just visible through the crack in the doorway, was the Sonic Suitcase, sitting patiently against the wall. Frankie just had to grab it and then he and his grandad could go home.

  He moved nimbly through the door and leapt for the –

  ‘May I help ye?’ came a voice from behind him.

  Frankie cringed, and slowly turned around. Busted.

  Frankie saw a boy of about fifteen, sitting by the window, surrounded by butcher’s paper and coloured pencils. It looked like they were in a study.

  ‘Looking for something?’ the boy asked knowingly.

  Frankie realised that he’d been stupid not to check the room before barging in. He also realised that this must be his great-uncle Roddy, whom Grandad hadn’t spoken to in forty years.

  ‘Hi,’ said Frankie, trying to sound casual, and failing.

  Roddy just looked at him, and then put his pencil down on a nearby sketch. It was a rough outline of what was obviously two old men fighting over a suitcase. Next to it was a more detailed drawing of a steam train, not unlike the one Frankie and Grandad had taken into Glasgow. The drawing was amazing. Every line was perfect, like the train might chug right off the page.

  Roddy stood up slowly. ‘Look here, kid,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I know this suitcase belongs to ye and that weird old man downstairs, and I know he just had a fight with another old man who looks exactly like him, AND that both those old men look a lot like my father. I’m assuming it was them that Mr Wallace went right up to before, which he never does to strangers, the grumpy little git. Something fishy is going on here, so give me one good reason why I shouldn’t scream out loud right now and have my father call the police?’

  Frankie gulped, not sure what to do. And really, what were his options? The truth probably wouldn’t go down well. And even if he could get over the thought of jumping through a glass window to escape, they were on the second floor. Which only left option three: lying. The words glided past his tongue and out of his mouth.

  ‘My grandad’s twin has a medical condition and the medicine he needs is in that suitcase.’

  Roddy raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the medical condition, exactly?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Um,’ said Frankie, flustered. He didn’t know of any medical conditions. ‘I forget what it’s called, but the main symptoms are extreme gas, severe crankiness and delusions.’

  Roddy’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of delusions?’

  ‘Well … sometimes he thinks he's been sent from the future, which is pretty super weird. Last night in his sleep he was saying he was King of the Planet Netflix and he needed to get back to save Queen Twitter by logging into Facebook on his iPod,’ explained Frankie, who realised he was having way too much fun all of a sudden. ‘Like I said, he is SUPER WEIRD without his medication.’

  ‘What a strange man he must be,’ Roddy mused.

  The two boys stared at each other for a moment. Frankie felt a little bead of sweat dribble down his back.

  ‘Fine,’ Roddy muttered, and sat down again heavily. ‘Just take it. Wouldn’t make a difference if you were lying, anyway. My family wouldn’t listen to me if I told them to call the police. There’s only one thing they care about, and that’s racing.’

  Frankie allowed himself one small sigh of relief. He picked up the suitcase, looking around the room he did so. He was surprised to find that it was an almost exact replica of the Not-So-Forbidden Shed back in 2017, but with a lot less dust. The shelves were lined with trophies and photographs of young Alfie in cars, holding prizes and grinning like a loon. Framed newspaper articles declared ‘FISH NEW FORCE IN MOTORSPORTS’ and ‘FAIRPLAY MEETS NEW CHALLENGER’.

  Then he realised something else. All the photographs and all the newspaper clippings were of Grandad, and not a single one was of Great Uncle Roddy.

  Roddy was ignoring Frankie now, and had returned to his drawing.

  Frankie didn’t need to be a fancy art expert to see that Roddy had talent. His drawings were phenomenal. There were drawings of wartime aircraft, and buildings, and even a small sketch of a racing car with a familiar man leaning casually against it.

  Frankie wondered what that must have been like for Roddy. He sure knew what it was like to grow up in your brother’s – or in Frankie’s case, sister’s – shadow. But this seemed bigger than that. It seemed sadder.

  Before Frankie could even understand the emotion he was feeling, he heard the voice of Great-Grandma Iris screaming from downstairs.

  ‘Roddy, ye put away those SILLY DRAWINGS and come downstairs RIGHT NOW. I didn’t spend the morning stuffing OFFAL and OATMEAL into a sheep’s STOMACH for it to go to waste! Just because ye don’t want to come along and SUPPORT YER BROTHER this afternoon at the Big Race does not mean yer EXCUSED from LUNCH with yer FAMILY!’ There was a pause, and then she added: ‘And WAKE YER BROTHER UP FROM HIS NAP while yer at it!’

  Frankie heard Roddy sigh as he started to pack up his papers and pencils. He thought of Saint Lou, and how his parents were always proud of her, and how it made him sad because he never seemed able to do things that made them proud of him, too.

  Frankie felt another bunch of words glide over his tongue and into the world. ‘Your dad was telling us downstairs that you’re an amazing artist, you know,’ he said. ‘He told us you’d be world-famous one day. Just like your brother.’

  Roddy didn’t lift his head from his sketch. But Frankie saw a tinge of pink appear in his cheeks.

  Frankie hoped he was doing the right thing. ‘He sure seemed equ
ally proud of you both,’ he added. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. See you around.’

  Roddy nodded, a tiny smile on his face. ‘See ye ’round.’

  With that, Frankie bounded back down the stairs with the Sonic Suitcase, away from the study and his Great Uncle Roddy, whom he knew he’d probably never see again.

  As he got to the bottom, he heard the radio crackling away in a nearby room.

  ‘Who do you fancy to take out the Big Race, William?’ an announcer was saying. ‘Fairplay or Fish?’

  ‘Ooh, look, they’re both excellent drivers, but I just can’t go past that Clancy Fairplay. He’s not as slippery as Fish, but he definitely has the superior skill –’

  The radio was suddenly turned off. Frankie, now peering into the kitchen, saw Ernest shaking his head vigorously. ‘Clancy Pompouspants, more like. They don’t know WHAT they’re talking about. I wouldn’t trust them to iron my trousers! What do you say, erm – what’s your name again, chap?’ he said to his son from the future.

  ‘Oh, there you are, boy,’ Grandad said, dodging the question and leaping to his feet. ‘Did you remember to wipe your bum?’

  Frankie couldn’t quite work out if Grandad was deliberately trying to embarrass him, or if he just didn’t know at what age you can stop asking those types of questions. ‘Yes, Grandad, I did everything I needed to do,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘We can go now.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Ernest said, ushering them to the door. ‘That’s one hell of a nice suitcase you have there. I don’t remember seeing it when you arrived,’ he added, a little suspiciously.

  ‘Must have been out of view,’ Grandad said, nudging Frankie. ‘We don’t travel anywhere without it, do we Frankie?’

  Behind Ernest, Frankie saw young Alfie Fish wandering sleepily down the stairs. Tugging on his grandad’s hand, he hissed, ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘I must be getting old,’ mused Ernest.

  ‘Aye, it happens to all of us, Fa–’ Grandad coughed. ‘I mean, chap. Thanks again, best be off!’