Artie and the Grime Wave

by Richard Roxburgh

  The little Unpronounceable-enko twin sisters giggled at this vision, but the rest of the family, including Gladys, looked very troubled.

  ‘Artie, what happened?’ she said.

  ‘Let him eat, Gladys,’ chided Zoran, who was sitting forward, staring wide-eyed at Artie and clearly desperate for answers himself. ‘Here,’ he said, gently pushing a giant bowl of soup towards Artie. ‘Eat this. It’s my borsch. I make from beetroot. Yummy!’

  Artie stared momentarily at the substance, which was so purple it looked as if it would glow in the dark.

  Being too polite to say no, however, Artie lifted a spoonful of the stuff to his mouth.

  ‘Mmm…it looks really…nice,’ he said, prepared for the worst. Incredibly, though, it actually tasted delicious! It was so bizarre, he almost could have invented it himself!

  In spite of the pleasant surprise of Zoran’s purple soup, Artie had no appetite. He was too worried about Bumshoe.

  He wanted to tell the Unpronounceable-enkos what had happened, but his head was full of thoughts, swirling around like leaves in a storm. If only he’d gone to get the camera by himself. It was all his fault! He was faster … smaller. He wouldn’t have goofed about like Bumshoe. Everything would have been alright. But instead, Bumshoe was now captive to a gang of horrendous thieves, awaiting an unknown fate!

  ‘Artie, what happened?’ enquired Oksana gently.

  ‘Let him eat, Oksana,’ said Zoran, who was trying to stay calm, but was so desperate to know what had happened that he could barely sit in his seat. Artie tried to spoon another mouthful of purple soup, but his hand didn’t seem able to do it.

  Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Zoran finally leapt up and bellowed, ‘Artie! What happened?’

  Artie took a deep breath. ‘Well … there is this cave,’ he began. ‘And a robber with a tattoo on his face with spelling mistakes and a man with a birdcage on his head – that’s Mr Budgie. And there’s also Funnel-web, and Tinkerbell …’

  Artie saw Zoran and Oksana exchange a worried glance. He went on.

  ‘They’re the ones who are stealing everything. They stole Gareth the tortoise.’

  Gladys took a sharp breath.

  ‘We filmed them, but then Bumshoe got trapped in Mary’s sidecar and fell down in a washing machine and they caught him.’

  Artie heard himself speaking and suddenly realised how ridiculous the whole thing sounded. But in spite of this, the sheer relief he felt at telling the whole story made him unable to stop.

  ‘I escaped out the window hanging on to Funnel-web’s braces. But that gave him a wedgie. And then Tinkerbell bit him on the bum and I floated home.’

  The twins were now giggling uncontrollably. Zoran looked sadly at Oksana and gave a little head-shake.

  ‘Shush, girls!’ he cried. ‘Artie … This story …’

  ‘It’s not a story,’ Artie said. ‘It’s what happened!’

  ‘Artie,’ said Oksana, smiling gently. ‘It’s a wonderful thing to have a big imagination. And we know that things can be … a little difficult for you at home. You must miss your dad …’

  ‘I’m not making it up,’ protested Artie. ‘They’ve caught Bumshoe! And they’ve got Gareth!’

  Oksana took Artie’s hand across the table and stroked it gently. ‘It’s alright, Artie. If ever you need help, we are here for you.’

  Artie knew it was no use. He couldn’t blame the Unpronounceable-enkos for not believing him. He was the boy who cried wolf … Only this time he was crying Mary, Funnel-web, Mr Budgie and Tinkerbell! It sounded completely nuts. If it weren’t for the awful fact that Bumshoe was now their prisoner, he wouldn’t believe it himself!

  His clothes still warm from the dryer, Artie thanked Zoran and Oksana, and clutching the bag of sandwiches and a library book that she insisted he take, he closed the front door and dejectedly set off for school. The door flew open immediately behind him. It was Gladys.

  ‘Artie!’ she whispered. ‘I believe you.’

  He spun around to look at her, and felt his face flush as purple as Zoran’s beetroot soup.

  ‘Thanks,’ he murmured. ‘Do you think you can save Bumshoe and Gareth?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Artie. ‘I’ll save them.’ He turned and set off once more. But the fact of the matter was that Artie had no clue how to save them. He was in completely unknown territory. Once again he thought of his dad’s words about how the best discoveries happen when you step into the unknown. But Artie just couldn’t figure how that could be, in a situation as tangled and dangerous as this. Maybe, he thought bitterly, it only applied to people who were already strong and brave: to tightrope walkers, or trapeze artists! Artie trudged onwards to school, his heart full of dread.

  Chapter 14

  Why was grammar even invented? This was the question that was ringing in Artie’s head as he sat in class listening to Mrs Meller. Well, he wasn’t really listening to Mrs Meller at all, he was only hearing her.

  Mrs Meller was mostly referred to by the students as Mrs Smeller. Bumshoe maintained that you could call her that to her face without her even noticing.

  Mrs Meller made Mr Graystains seem like the most vivacious and exciting teacher on earth, even though, as we've already discussed, dear reader, Mr Graystains was the most boring teacher in the galaxy.

  Mrs Meller had a mouth like a drawstring purse, which, when angry, would snap into a hard little knot, but when talking about her favourite things, like conjunctions and prepositions, it would flap open and closed with dreary enthusiasm.

  Mrs Meller had a particular dislike of Artie. She liked things to be ordered, clean and neat, and Artie, of course, was none of those things. He was never prepared for his lessons, and he often skipped a shower or two because, well … because he could.

  One of Mrs Meller’s favourite tricks was to use Artie as an example to illustrate points of grammar. She would write sentences on the whiteboard like:

  The boy was lazy, grubby and unpunctual.

  The messy boy has holes in his socks.

  If the boy doesn’t bathe, nobody will want to sit next to him.

  Artie sat in her class daydreaming, and was remembering one particular time when she had said, ‘The small boy needs to have a shower … What is the subject of that sentence, class?’

  Nate’s hand had shot straight up in the air.

  ‘Yes, Mr Grime?’

  ‘The subject is Artie, Mrs Meller.’ Some snickers erupted around the class, and Wart doubled over, shaking with silent laughter.

  ‘Er…um…well,’ said Mrs Meller, attempting to conceal a little smirk. ‘That’s not quite what I meant …’

  ‘But it is, Mrs Smeller!’ came Bumshoe’s voice. The whole class turned. Bumshoe continued, ‘The subject is really Artie, because you like to embarrass him, Mrs Smeller.’

  ‘How DARE you!’ snapped the teacher. ‘The subject of the sentence is “the boy”.’

  ‘Yeah, but you really mean Artie, to try and make him feel bad, because you enjoy that.’ Bumshoe shrugged matter-offactly. The class fell utterly silent. Even Wart stopped giggling and stared, slack-mouthed, between the teacher and Bumshoe. Mrs Meller’s mouth sprang into a knot that was so tight it looked as if the circulation had been cut off altogether and she may actually end up with gangrene of the lip. And Bumshoe received lunchtime detention for the following two weeks.

  Artie felt terrible. He gazed now at the empty seat where Bumshoe normally sat. His friend had done that for him, got himself into trouble, to try to help him. And Artie had repaid him by leaving him alone in the hands of the world’s freakiest gang of robbers! Who knew where Bumshoe was at this moment, or what was befalling him? An awful wave of panic overtook him.

  His heart pounding like a jackhammer, he suddenly noticed that Mrs Meller seemed to be pointing at the board but talking directly at him!

  ‘… look at this centre clause. Is the shorter clause next to it a relative clause or not?’

  The whole clas
s turned to stare at Artie.

  ‘Have you been listening to me, Mr Small?’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Meller.’

  ‘Then what did I just say?’

  ‘Um … You said, “Look at Santa Claus. Is the shorter Claus a relative of Santa Claus, or not?”’

  Laughter exploded across the room like a volcano.

  Artie looked about wildly. On the other side of the room he could see Gladys, who, far from laughing, was looking extremely worried.

  He could no longer contain his panic. His breath was coming in little gasps and his heart was thumping so hard that he couldn’t sit still.

  He leapt up and, staring at Mrs Meller, began bouncing on the spot, doing star jumps.

  The class was now convulsed with laughter. The star jumps became bigger and bigger, until finally Artie was springing all over the room like a mad kangaroo.

  ‘SIT DOWN AT ONCE, MR SMALL!’ bellowed Mrs Meller. ‘SIT DOWN, I TELL YOU! IT’S A RED CARD FOR YOU! A RED CARD, I TELL YOU!’

  But Artie couldn’t control his limbs. Try as he might he could not stop leaping about, his arms flailing up and down. Gladys was suddenly beside him, trying to hold him still.

  ‘Artie! Artie! It’s alright … calm down …’

  Mrs Meller continued her shrieking.

  ‘RED CARD! AUTOMATIC EXPULSION! RED CARD!’

  Before he knew it, Artie had bounced out of the classroom and down the corridor. SPROING. SPROING. SPROING.

  Then he was running as fast as he could through the school gates and off into the town. At last, he slowed and caught his breath. Star jumps? Really? Why was he doing star jumps? In a grammar lesson? In front of Gladys! The whole class must have thought he was completely mental! And maybe he was mental … Maybe all the worry about Bumshoe had made him lose his mind!

  He could never go back to school, that was certain. He would go and live in a hollow tree somewhere in a forest, and gather berries and fish for trout. (First of all he was going to have to learn to like trout …) He would become a hermit. There would be no stepping into the unknown. No gangs with filed teeth and tattooed faces, or star jumps out of grammar class! Just his hollow tree, and his berries and trout.

  Before long, Artie began to realise that he was heading in the direction of the robbers’ factory. His mind was racing faster than his feet.

  Somehow … somehow, he had to save his friend!

  Chapter 15

  As he neared Aunty-boy’s house, he heard it rocking on its foundations as she thundered away at the piano. He snuck past, trying to avoid being spotted. He had no time to lose.

  But sure enough, just as he was creeping by, the piano stopped, the window flew open and Aunty-boy stuck her head out.

  ‘Cup of cocoa, coco-loco?’ she cooed, clacking her dentures out at him. Macaroni the dog joined her at the window, and gave Artie an excited woof.

  Not wanting to seem rude, Artie said, ‘Okay, thanks, Aunty-boy.’ He dutifully waited at her door as he heard all the locks and bolts being flung open.

  ‘Quick-sticks!’ she cried, bobbing from one foot to another in a little dance. ‘In you pop. Hoppity-hop!’ She slammed the door behind him and set about re-locking it.

  Artie had never been inside Aunty-boy’s home. It was very dark, and he was amazed at how soft the carpet felt under his feet, until he realised that what he was standing on was a thick layer of baby powder! Every surface in the entire house was coated with the repulsive stuff. It looked like the inside of a snow dome. As Artie shuffled down the corridor, a cloud puffed up, covering him from head to toe.

  Aunty-boy set a cup of watery cocoa in front of him, with little islands of white talc floating on top of it.

  ‘Why aren’t you in school, custard pie?’ she cried.

  Artie hesitated. There was no point trying to tell anyone what had happened. It all sounded too nutty! Then again, if anyone was going to believe such a nutty story, it would most likely be someone who actually was nuts!

  ‘Well … This is why I’m not in school,’ he began. And before he knew it he had recounted his entire story from beginning to end, all the way from Nate throwing his shoes over the telephone lines, through Bumshoe’s capture, to star-jumping out of school.

  To Artie’s amazement, Aunty-boy was very good at listening. She sat bobbing her head from side to side and clucking at all the scary bits. At the end of Artie’s story she sat blinking at him through her goggle lenses and saying, ‘Poop! Poop! Poop!’

  Artie felt quite relieved.

  ‘Off to the police we go!’ she cried.

  ‘We can’t go to the police!’ exclaimed Artie.

  ‘Why not, gooseberry tart?’

  ‘Well, because … because …’

  Artie knew exactly why. If he turned up alone at the police station and tried to tell his outlandish story it would be bad enough. But if he arrived with Aunty-boy as well, they’d probably just ship them both straight off to a mental care facility!

  ‘I can’t talk to the police about it,’ continued Artie. ‘I need to go back to the robbers’ factory myself and somehow get Bumshoe out!’

  ‘I’m coming too, cream puff!’ she chirped. ‘We’ll need energy!’ she added, thrusting a packet of biscuits at him. Artie stared at them for a second. They had obviously been opened about ten years prior, were crawling with weevils, and had a generous coating of baby powder.

  ‘Quick. Straight down the biscuit-hole!’ said Aunty-boy, shaking them at him and glaring through her spectacles.

  Unable to say no, Artie took one of the revolting objects and, shaking away as many weevils as he could, chewed off a little chunk. Aunty-boy took a great chomp from hers and sat munching merrily in front of him, her eyes closed in utter pleasure.

  Feeling the weevils scuttling around inside his mouth, Artie realised he was never going to be able to swallow the horrible mass.

  ‘Excushe me … um … I need to ushe the baffroom, pleashe?’

  ‘Down the corridor on the left, sausage pie!’ Aunty-boy exclaimed, helping herself to another weevil and powder treat.

  Artie bolted down the hall. Slamming the bathroom door behind him, he spat the hideous wriggling mouthful into the toilet and, along with the rest of the biscuit, flushed it away.

  As he was returning along the corridor, Artie noticed a door that was slightly ajar. Through the gap he could see all kinds of equipment, and couldn’t help but push the door open a little more. The room was a proper laboratory! There were chemicals of all colours in glass beakers, bubbling away and emitting strange smells. There were odd bits and pieces of machinery and metal parts everywhere. On a long table in the middle of the room sat all manner of incredible mechanical objects.

  ‘Haha!’

  Artie jumped out of his skin. It was Aunty-boy, right behind him.

  ‘You’ve spotted my toys!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘My toys, my toys, my pride, my joys!’

  ‘What … are they exactly?’ whispered Artie.

  ‘I’m ready for the showdown, toffee-cake!’ said Aunty-boy.

  ‘What showdown?’ said Artie.

  ‘When the aliens invade from the planet Zuthor!’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been listening to their conversations on my radio. I know what they’re up to! And I’m ready!’ she cried. With this she gave a little whoop and a jig.

  Artie couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not. ‘Did you make all these yourself?’ he asked in amazement.

  ‘Of course, of course, chocolate sauce!’

  She stroked an object that looked like an intricate collection of intertwined pipes, gazing at it fondly. ‘The Fartex 120Y. A launcher that fires capsules of hydrogen sulphide, otherwise known as rotten-egg gas!’

  ‘And this …’ She smiled, picking up a black shiny ball about the size of a grapefruit, with a red pin sticking out of it. ‘My treasure! The Prickle-ator … Once the pin is pulled, after ten seconds she sends out thousands of needles! POOF!’

  ‘Cool!’ breathed Art
ie. He was beginning to see Aunty-boy in a whole new light. ‘What about this?’ he asked, lifting a heavy, two-handled machine attached to a large canister. Some thick yellow goo oozed out the end of it.

  ‘Ahhhh! Take care. Take care. My beauty! The Super-Snotter! She fires marvellous streams of synthetic snot up to fifty metres.’ And with a note of slight disappointment she added, ‘I’m trying to extend its range.’

  Artie couldn’t believe his eyes. He was sure that none of the weapons actually worked, but still, they were amazing-looking objects … Maybe Aunty-boy wasn’t so nuts after all!

  ‘And what’s this?’ said Artie, wide-eyed, pointing at something that looked exactly like a cheese sandwich. ‘It looks exactly like a cheese sandwich!’

  ‘It is a cheese sandwich,’ said Aunty-boy, offering no further explanation.

  Artie noticed a silver necklace lying at the very end of the table. Carefully picking it up, he gazed at the little pendant attached to it. It was a tiny figurine of two trapeze artists, one suspended from the other’s arms. They swung gently on the heavy chain.

  ‘Hmmm … that’s a lucky charm, carrot cake.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ murmured Artie.

  ‘Do you know who gave me that?’

  ‘No,’ said Artie.

  ‘Your dad! As a thank-you gift for teaching him the piano.’

  Artie was gobsmacked! He knew his dad had played the piano. One of his famous stunts was playing a sonata on a toy piano upside down on the flying trapeze. But he’d had no idea that his dad had learned from Aunty-boy.

  ‘Pop it on. And don’t ever take it off, cinnamon buns! When the aliens arrive from Zuthor, you’ll be needing all the luck you can get. And a Fartex 120Y!’ she said, blinking at him through her thick lenses.

  Artie stared at the trinket. He was awe-struck to think that his dad had touched this very object, and had chosen it for Aunty-boy as a special present. Beaming, Artie fastened it around his neck.

  ‘Quick! Let’s bounce, beachball! No time to dilly-dally! Off to the robbers’ den!’ Aunty-boy chirped.