Artie and the Grime Wave

by Richard Roxburgh

  ‘What day of the week is it?’

  ‘Erm … Not Sunday?’ said the thief.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘It’s not Sunday until I say it’s Sunday. Is it?’ ‘Is it?’ said the little voice from inside the birdcage.

  ‘Is what what?’ fumed the man.

  ‘Is it Sunday? Are you saying it’s Sunday?’

  ‘NO! THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!’

  ‘Right,’ said the tiny voice from inside the cage. ‘Just checking …’

  ‘WHY IS IT SO HARD TO FIND GOOD HELP NOWADAYS?’ screamed the man in the suit, turning to the others. ‘YOU KNOW, THEFT USED TO BE A NOBLE PROFESSION! THERE WAS RESPECT! THIEVES TOOK A BIT OF PRIDE IN THEIR WORK! BUT NOW … OH, NO! THERE’S NO RESPECT FOR THE BOSS … EVERYBODY’S JUST IN IT FOR THEMSELVES! WHERE ARE YOUR MORALS?!’

  He glanced about, looking for support. In exasperation, he clicked his fingers at the men in sunglasses, who immediately began shaking their heads and making ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’ noises.

  ‘Alright, that’s enough!’ he barked impatiently, turning back to the little man.

  ‘You’re going to keep this cage on your head until I say you can take it off,’ he seethed. ‘As a little reminder to work faster, and of who the boss is, Mr Budgie.’

  At this the other thieves snickered.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? GET TO WORK OR YOU’LL ALL BE WEARING BIRDCAGES!’ The man stared hard at the group, which scattered like mice, and Artie could see his face clearly for the first time. His eyes were unnaturally small, almost invisible, and something about him seemed oddly familiar.

  Miraculously failing to notice the boy pretending to be a koala up a nearby tree, the boss stomped back to his car. One of the men in sunglasses opened the door for him as the other climbed into the driver’s seat. In an instant, they were gone. Artie slid down, landing with a thud on Bumshoe, who flew face-first into the dirt.

  ‘Sorry!’ whispered Artie.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ grinned Bumshoe, spitting out some dust. ‘Did you see who the boss is?’

  ‘Who?’ said Artie.

  ‘THE MAYOR!’ Bumshoe scream-whispered.

  Artie sat staring at his friend, open-mouthed.

  ‘Nate’s dad!’ Bumshoe continued. ‘IT’S MAYOR GRIME!!’

  Chapter 7

  It was Monday. Artie’s least favourite day of the week. This Monday felt different though, because after school, he and Bumshoe were going to retrieve Angus’s camera and catch a gang of robbers. Over-excited, he had tossed and turned all night. Now he had to somehow get through the awful, endless, dreary day of school.

  But Artie still had no shoes. Realising that he wouldn’t be allowed at school in that state, he was at a loss, until he had a brainwave.

  He waited until he heard the front door slam as Lola left for school (there was never any doubt about this moment, because when his eternally furious sister slammed doors they nearly blew out of their frames). He found a box of old paints, took them into the bathroom, lay down on the floor and coated his feet top and bottom with a thick layer of black. Then, still lying with his feet in the air, Artie reached for Lola’s hair dryer and blew them dry.

  Artie stood and inspected his handiwork. Hopefully:

  1. Nobody would notice.

  2. It wouldn’t rain.

  Artie’s school was an unrelentingly dreary place of concrete and demountable classrooms. As if being a Monday wasn’t bad enough, Artie had a double maths class on Monday afternoons. His worst nightmare, double maths meant twice the amount of Mr Graystains, the most boring teacher in the galaxy, or indeed any outlying galaxies, and possibly the entire universe (although Artie realised this was difficult to independently confirm).

  Mr Graystains was very tall and very thin. He spoke quietly in a monotonous drone that sounded like a mosquito trapped in a spider web in a faraway land. His hair at some point had retreated from his head and started coming out of his nostrils instead. He also had a World Championship Adam’s apple. This, combined with his sudden darting movements, gave Artie the impression of an unhappy emu.

  On this particular Monday, Mr Graystains seemed especially unhappy.

  ‘I’ll have no nonsense today of any shape or form,’ he intoned. ‘Someone has burgled my house over the weekend and made off with my abacus collection, as well as my two beloved Mexican walking fish, so I’m not in any mood for hijinks or hoo-ha.’

  At the mention of the robbery Artie locked eyes with Gladys, who, reminded of the loss of Gareth, looked scared and sad. Mr Graystains’s news was further confirmation of Artie and Bumshoe’s theory about the cave. An icy chill ran down the boy’s spine.

  The hours of maths dragged endlessly by, and Artie gazed out the window, hearing the distant mosquito hum of Mr Graystains: ‘… bzzzzz … integers … bzzzzz … prime number … bzzzzz … fraction … bzzzz … square root … your shoes!!!!’

  ‘Wha—?’

  With an awful jolt Artie realised that his shoulder was being shaken by Mr Graystains. He’d drifted off to sleep, his head on the desk, dreaming of the Cave-of-Possibly-But-Now-Almost-Definitely-Stolen-Stuff.

  ‘Where are your shoes, I said?’ demanded Mr Graystains. ‘Is this a joke? How dare you sleep in my classroom, and how dare you go barefoot in this school!’

  Artie stared vacantly at the incensed teacher, whose face was millimetres from his, and whose breath was like warm gusts of air from a Tupperware container in which something had gone off a great many years ago.

  The other students began trying to look at Artie’s feet, and an uncontrollable whoop of laughter spread around the room like a bushfire.

  ‘Silence!’ hissed Mr Graystains.

  Artie felt his cheeks burning. He squeezed his mouth into a tight line, which was his trick to stop crying, and caught sight of Gladys, who was gazing at him sadly.

  ‘Detention for you tomorrow lunchtime!!’ breathed Mr Graystains.

  PPPPRRRRRIIINGGGGGG.

  The school bell rang. The beautiful bell! The best bell in the whole wide world! How Artie loved the bell at that moment. He wanted to kiss that bell. To marry it. To take it away on a honeymoon!

  At last he was free on his bike, tearing along with Bumshoe up to the cave to complete their secret mission. They detoured via the charity shop so that Artie could run inside and find some shoes.

  Nearing Aunty-boy’s street, they heard the customary thumping of the piano, but they turned earlier than usual, to avoid being spotted by her. There was no time for fun – today they were on serious business. Also, the idea of more ancient powder lollies made their gizzards churn.

  At long last they were picking their way down through the bush towards the cave. A car, a van and the gigantic motorbike with a sidecar were parked in the clearing, but everything seemed mysteriously quiet.

  The stench emanating from the toilet pit seemed to be particularly hideous today, which made their eyes water. Bumshoe turned to Artie and waggled his hand backwards and forwards over his nose to give the internationally recognised signal for ‘stench’. He then knelt down to give Artie a boost up into the tree.

  Artie quickly shimmied along the branch to the exact spot he’d left the camera …

  It was gone.

  Panicking, he looked around to see if he’d made a mistake. But there was no doubt. The little hollow where he’d left the camera was empty!

  ‘IT’S NOT HERE!’ Artie shout-whispered.

  ‘WHAT?’ Bumshoe shout-whispered in reply.

  ‘THE CAMERA. IT’S NOT HERE!’ Artie shout-whispered again.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ came a deep and raspy voice from right beside them.

  A small shrub was thrust aside at the toilet pit, revealing a gigantic bald man. He was holding the boys’ camera in the air with one hand, and was struggling to pull up his trousers with the other. At least they knew now what that terrible stench was.

  Covering the man’s entire face was a tattoo, which read:r />
  The stench! The spelling mistakes! It was all too much for the boys, who froze like statues. The man gave an evil snicker.

  ‘OI!! FELLAS! I’VE CAUGHT THEM!’ he bellowed. Dark figures began to emerge from the cave.

  ‘COME ON, YOU IDIOTS!’ he screamed. ‘I’M TRYING TO GET MY PANTS UP!’

  Artie and Bumshoe, snapping out of their stupor, sprang to life. Artie dived straight out of the tree onto his friend’s shoulders, causing Bumshoe to stagger directly into the man.

  ‘Ah … Ahhh … AHHHHH,’ moaned the gigantic man, trying desperately to maintain his balance. But with his pants around his ankles, he tripped and plummeted backwards right into the pit with a nasty-sounding SPLAT.

  Horrified, the boys didn’t linger to see what had just happened, but turned and flew up the hill.

  Chapter 8

  The boys scarcely took a breath as they scrambled up over the hill and down the other side to where they had hidden their bikes. They didn’t utter a word but jumped on board and tore off down the hill.

  Finally they allowed themselves a moment to exchange a look.

  ‘Wow!’ said Artie. ‘I’d like to never see him again!’

  ‘,’ chuckled Bumshoe. ‘Do you reckon he’s realised his face is full of spelling mistakes?’ The boys giggled, relieved to have escaped, but then Bumshoe’s face clouded over. ‘What do we do about Angus’s camera?’ he said. The boys pondered their situation and at last slowed to a more leisurely pace.

  FUDFUDFUDFUDFUD

  Rounding the bend right behind them was Mary, on the enormous motorbike with a sidecar. His tumble into the toilet pit had left him a very unpleasant colour. He had a giant whip, and upon spying the boys he cracked it, making a noise like a gunshot as he roared towards them on his machine. He looked very, very, very cranky.

  In a shower of stones and dust, Mary was upon them, and grabbed hold of Artie’s arm.

  Bumshoe, cycling on the other side of Mary, screamed, ‘RABBITS!!!’

  The huge man, confused, turned to face him, but oversteered, letting go of Artie’s arm. He skidded off the road at high speed and ploughed into a ditch. In an instant the boys abandoned their bikes and ran into the thick bush at the side of the track. Scurrying up the hill through the undergrowth, they found a dense thicket of ferns where they crouched silent and still, their hearts hammering in their chests.

  Far below through the trees they could glimpse Mary hunched over with his bottom in the air as he cursed and tried to haul his bike out of the ditch.

  The big man turned and scanned the bushes all around, trying to catch sight of them. He flicked his whip for effect, letting out a monstrous WHAPPAT!!! The sound echoed up and down the valley.

  Artie and Bumshoe ducked even lower into the foliage. Soon they heard a roaring noise followed by a terrible crunching. The boys ventured a peek. Mary had managed to haul his machine out of the ditch, and was now riding it back and forth over the top of their bicycles, squishing them and smashing them to pieces. Artie gasped. It had been bad enough when he’d arrived home with no shoes. He couldn’t imagine how his mum was going to react when he turned up with no bicycle!

  ‘OH, SORRY, BOYS,’ Mary cried. ‘I DIDN’T SEE THOSE BIKES THERE! WHOOPSIE! OH NO, DIDN’T SEE THEM AGAIN! CLUMSY ME!’

  Not succeeding in rousing the boys from their hiding place, Mary yelled, ‘OI! DON’T YOU WANT YOUR CAMERA BACK, BOYS?’ He gave a snigger and held the little object high above his head. ‘NICE LITTLE CAMERA! FINDERS KEEPERS, I GUESS!’

  Artie, mortified, stared at Bumshoe, who shrugged and shook his head.

  Mary gave a lingering look up the hill, trying to see any sign of the boys, then, fuming, flung the camera into the sidecar.

  FUDFUDFUDFUDFUD

  The gigantic man rode up and down the track until it was almost dark, yelling threats and cracking his whip.

  WHAPPAT!! WHAPPAT!! WHAPPAT!!

  Artie and Bumshoe stayed buried among the bushes, sneaking an occasional glimpse at the road, until at last they heard the motorbike retreating up the hill.

  Artie gazed forlornly at his friend. Ruined bikes, lost camera, no proof, and their secret ploy uncovered. This day was not turning out as planned …

  Thunder cracked across the sky and rain began to fall in big fat drops.

  Chapter 9

  Artie and Bumshoe scampered over to a rock shelf, crouching underneath to shelter from the storm. Bumshoe offered some Chococaramel-Cococreambombs and they sat munching for a while, contemplating their predicament.

  ‘What do we do now?’ said Artie.

  ‘I can’t go home without that camera,’ said Bumshoe. ‘Angus will go ballistic.’

  ‘And what about the proof?’ said Artie. ‘Gladys will never see Gareth again.’

  ‘Well. We saw Mary throw the camera into his sidecar,’ mused Bumshoe. ‘My bet is it’s still there.’

  ‘But we can’t go back up again! What if they’re lying in wait for us?’ exclaimed Artie, who felt that he’d had enough adventures to last him until he was at least as old as Mr Graystains.

  ‘They’ll never expect us to turn up at the cave again!’ said Bumshoe. ‘We’d have to be mental to do that! Don’t you see, it’s the perfect plan!’ With a triumphant grin he was up, brushing Chococaramel-Cococreambomb crumbs off his pants.

  Artie was horrified at the thought of confronting the gang once again.

  ‘Can’t we just sell something and get enough money to buy Angus a new camera?’ he ventured.

  ‘What are we going to sell?’ Bumshoe asked. ‘All I’ve got at my place is a whole lot of junk and piles of brothers and sisters.’ After a moment he added, ‘S’pose I could sell one of them. Nobody’d really notice …’ He chuckled grimly.

  Artie knew his friend was right. The only thing he owned that was worth anything was his bicycle, which now lay squished beyond recognition on the track below. The boys wandered down and sadly inspected the remains.

  ‘Well, I guess we’ve got nothing to lose now,’ sighed Artie. And with that, the two boys trudged back up the hill in the rain.

  By the time they reached the cave night had fallen. They crouched in the bushes again and gazed at the scene below. The clearing was floodlit and the cars and vans were still parked outside. Right near the entrance to the cave sat Mary’s gigantic motorbike and sidecar.

  A skinny man wearing a filthy black T-shirt, black braces and black jeans was carrying objects from the back of a van into the cave. Artie noticed that one of these objects was a small fish tank. He briefly wondered if it contained Mr Graystains’s beloved Mexican walking fish. Mary suddenly emerged and yelled, ‘OI, FUNNEL-WEB, DID YOU PUT THAT TV IN THE SOUND SYSTEM SECTION?’

  ‘SO WHAT IF I DID?’ growled the skinny man. The boys suddenly saw that the man’s face was covered in hair, and that he had filed all his teeth to sharp little points. He looked horribly, as his name suggested, like a funnel-web spider.

  ‘YOU KNOW THE BOSS HATES MESS!’ shouted Mary.

  ‘AIN’T SCARED OF HIM!’ croaked Funnel-web.

  ‘Well, you should be scared … Look what he’s done to me!’ called a voice from behind Mary, and out of the shadows emerged the little robber, still wearing the birdcage on his head.

  Funnel-web emitted an awful rasping cackle. ‘HAHAHA.’

  ‘Not funny!’ said the little face from inside the birdcage.

  ‘Actually, it is pretty funny!’ whispered Bumshoe to Artie.

  ‘HAHAHA,’ gasped Funnel-web. ‘Does Mr Budgie want a cracker?’

  ‘Not funny, I said!’ cried the man in the birdcage. ‘You won’t be laughing when the boss makes you wear one of these on your head.’

  But the angrier Mr Budgie became the funnier the other thieves found it, and soon Funnel-web and Mary were falling about with laughter.

  ‘RIGHT!’ gasped Mary abruptly. ‘ENOUGH MUCKING ABOUT! BACK TO WORK! AND KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR THOSE NOSY BOYS! AND FUNNEL-WEB, A TV IS NOT A SOUND SYSTEM, ORRIGHT?!�
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  Funnel-web, muttering under his breath, sploshed through the rain with a large box, and the motley bunch disappeared into the cave.

  ‘Okay,’ sighed Bumshoe. ‘I guess this is the moment …’

  Artie took a deep breath. As much as he hated adventures, his concern for Bumshoe outweighed his fears for himself. He stood up.

  ‘Bumshoe,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  But Bumshoe merely patted his friend on the shoulder and gazed at him earnestly. ‘Look and learn, my friend. Look and learn.’

  He wriggled his eyebrows and bolted down through the scrub, straight out into the clearing. He was completely exposed under the floodlights. If anyone came out of the cave now, all would be lost.

  Artie crouched, terrified, and watched as his friend arrived at Mary’s motorbike and began trying to tear back the cover on the sidecar.

  This seemed to take an unbearable amount of time. In his head Artie was shouting, ‘HURRY UP!!!’ But Bumshoe was clearly struggling with the rubber cover. Artie stood, and was just about to run over and help, when at last his friend clawed the cover back and reached inside.

  Bumshoe turned, beaming, and kissed the camera, then lifted it high in the air, first to one side and then the other, like a Formula One driver parading a trophy on a podium.

  STOP GOOFING AROUND! Artie thought, and had begun signalling urgently at him to come back when the robbers poured out of the cave. The awful man called Funnel-web had a gigantic animal on a leash, a sort of zombie-dog, which immediately began baying and thrashing about.

  Artie watched in horror as Bumshoe dived headfirst into the sidecar, hauling the cover over himself. The thief had not seen Bumshoe, but the enormous animal was barking uncontrollably, baring its giant fangs, with slobber flying everywhere, trying to get to the sidecar.

  ‘SHUT UP, TINKERBELL, WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, YOU NAUGHTY BOY?’ growled Funnel-web, and he dragged the hound away, shoved it into the back of the car and roared off down the track. Since when is Tinkerbell a boy? thought Artie.