‘Well, it will either be dead on the road somewhere, killed instantly if it’s lucky, obliterated, or you will never see it again, as it will most likely have just run away like those feline creatures tend to do.’
Wowzer. Heart of gold, that man. Subtle as a brick. Funnily enough, Mr Harris’s words hadn’t comforted Artie in any way. In fact, they had the opposite effect.
Artie suddenly looked very pale and threw up on to the shiny polished school floor. The headmaster had overloaded Artie’s emotionally sensitive circuits and his breakfast was now on display all over the place. Joyously, some of the breakfast surprise had made its way on to Mr Harris’s shoes. Brilliant. My day was already made. Nice one, Artie. Awesome!
‘Oh my goodness! Disgusting!’ screamed Fish Face as he yanked his handkerchief from his top pocket and covered his own mouth, looking away from Artie’s breakfast, which was coating his previously shiny floor and his equally previously shiny shoes.
‘Get the caretaker and take this boy to the nurse,’ instructed Fish Face behind his hanky-covered mouth as he ducked back into his office/lair, slamming the door behind him so hard it shook. Later on that day there were stills bits of dried Coco Pops on his shoes, which delighted any pupils who were lucky enough to see them. What a surprise that would be later when Fish Face got home from work and went to take his shoes off before feeding his pet sharks.
Mr Taggart, Holly and I guided Artie to the school nurse, Miss Clench, and as we walked Mr Taggart whispered to me.
‘You know what to do for Artie, don’t you, Spike?’
‘Get him some deodorant?’ I replied.
‘No – but, er, yes, you should do that as he does smell a bit now – but I meant you need to help him find Mr Cake Face.’
‘Me? How can I help find his cat?’ I asked.
‘Use the Secret Shed Show, Spike.’
‘Huh?’
‘You have an audience. You can get people searching for this cat of his,’ he urged.
‘Really?’ I asked. But I was starting to see the logic of it.
‘You have to be aware, Spike, that ideas and material are all around you. The best radio DJs and comedians talk about real life. This would make a great competition entry – I mean, what great radio, the search for your sidekick’s missing cat.’ With that, my audio and visual mentor Mr Taggart gave a wise nod. The buddha of broadcasting.
Yes! Genius, Mr T.
That night I would call upon our listeners to help find Artie’s cat. They love a mission. We would do a good deed. And help my Radio Star entry.
The music coming from my bedroom wasn’t the first thing that got my attention. It was the sound of a woman giggling. No, two women giggling. I nervously pushed the door open a few inches to see what was going on.
Grandad Ray was dancing with a woman I’d never seen before. Two other ladies I’d also never seen before were watching and clapping in time to what I think was some sort of ballroom dance music. I only knew this as it sounded like the stuff on Mum’s fave TV show, Strictly Come Dancing.
Grandad Ray had the lady in a very tight embrace and was twirling her around with a ridiculously pompous look on his face.
I need to remind you that this was not the Grand Ballroom of Blackpool Pier. This was my very cramped bedroom, so the other two ladies had to sit awkwardly on my bed (or should I say Grandad’s bed), while Grandad and his dance partner waltzed around a space no bigger than a broom cupboard.
‘Spike, I can see you there lurking by the door – come on in.’
Oh no. Caught.
‘This, ladies, is my grandson Spike who I was telling you all about.’
The three ladies all cooed and made ‘Isn’t he cute?’ noises.
‘Spike, meet Susan, Daphne and, last but by no means least, Jackie …’
Jackie was the lady he had been dancing with. She curtsied in front of me.
‘Just doing a quick foxtrot before we broadcast our first Ballroom Banter radio show,’ said Grandad Ray, grinning slyly and waving his hand to the corner of his temporary home in my bedroom.
‘Erm, where’s my bed?’ I asked. Noticing the lack of my inflatable bed from hell.
‘I had to move it out so we can do the show,’ explained Grandad.
A couple of microphones were positioned on stands on our fold-out picnic table (I had the chair in my shed studio). It was a basic set-up like ours in the shed, but still very capable of going live to the world. Well, to anyone who wanted to hear an old man tell the same three stories over and over again, while some ladies talked over each other. Nothing to worry about here, I thought.
‘Well, have fun, everyone, and good luck,’ I said.
‘Oh, I will have fun, Spike,’ said Grandad smugly.
This whole situation was insane. I was about to go into our garden shed and do my radio show, while my own grandad was about to start his radio show, deliberately at the same time, in MY OWN BEDROOM.
I walked past Dad as I headed out into the garden towards the shed studio.
‘Spike, don’t worry,’ Dad said. ‘He will be bored in a week’s time. What you do is brilliant and takes proper hard work. That’s something Grandad is allergic to.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Dad. I gotta go get ready,’ I said. I couldn’t help but notice as I walked away that Dad had a new haircut. But it wasn’t his usual boring ‘dad haircut’. It was a new style that clearly required hair gel. Was TV changing him already? These talent shows change people and not always for the best. I hoped Dad was going to be OK. Would he start wearing earrings or make-up next? That would make it even worse when he was on TV. I’d never be able to go to school again.
Sherlock trotted eagerly alongside me as we made our way to the shed to set up for tonight’s show. I was, as always, excited when I opened the creaky old shed door and entered my hideaway.
Tonight I had a plan. I wanted to help my friend Artie find his cat, Mr Bun Face.
Holly arrived first. All business, calm as ever, and focused. ‘You heard from him?’ she said, referring to the man in question, Artie.
‘Nah – I’m sure he’ll be here soon, though. I’ve never seen him so upset,’ I said.
‘Artie is a big softie. You know he plays the cat music?’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, he told me not to tell you in case you took the mickey,’ said Holly, smiling. ‘I’ve been desperate to tell you for ages,’ she said.
‘Does Mr Bun Face tap his paw to the music or do air guitar?’
Holly and I both started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Artie as he opened the shed studio door. We quickly stopped laughing. In the way that people do when it’s obvious they’ve been laughing about something to do with you.
‘Just … my …’
Think, Spike, think.
Holly was looking at me, also saying, with her eyes, ‘Think, Spike, think.’
‘My silly old Grandad Ray. Starting his Ballroom Banter show tonight; what’s he like, eh?’ I said. Relieved I had thought of something.
‘I’m not stupid, and, Holly – you are many things, but you’re a rubbish actor. Spike, when you lie you get high-pitched.’
‘No, I don’t,’ I said in a very high-pitched voice.
‘See!’ said Artie.
Holly came clean. ‘Look, we were worried about you and wondering if you’d come tonight. Spike said he’d never seen you so upset so I said how much I know that cat means to you—’
‘Mr Bun Face, Holly – not “that cat”. Who are you, Fish Face?’
‘Sorry, I meant Bun Face, Mr Bun Face and … I … told Spike that you play him music.’
‘YOU TOLD HIM? I TOLD YOU NOT TO!’ yelled Artie. His arms flailed wildly in the air, knocking an old tin of paint off the shelf and on to the floor, narrowly missing Sherlock by a few precious inches.
‘Spike, I know you will never let me forget this and laugh about it from now until eternity,’ wailed Artie.
‘Well, tha
t’s a bit dramatic,’ I said. I helped Artie sit on his chair. ‘You know how much I love my dog Sherlock. I talk to him all the time,’ I said, hoping to make Artie feel better.
‘Do you?’ asked Artie.
‘All the time. You love your cat and you love music. I get it. It’s really sweet,’ I said.
I looked at Artie, who seemed utterly broken, and I remembered my plan.
‘I want to try and help find your cat, Artie. The best way I can do that is with the show. So tonight we launch the hunt for Mr Bun Face.’
‘What?’ asked Artie quietly.
‘I know you’d help me look for Sherlock,’ I replied.
‘I don’t know what to say … um, thanks,’ mumbled Artie.
‘It’s the least we can do and it’ll be fun. Everyone listening will want to help, Artie. I’m sure of it. Our listeners love being set a new mission and this is it. What should be our first song on the show tonight, Artie?’
Artie rummaged around in the bottomless bag where he kept his vinyl records and then looked in the storage boxes in the shed.
‘Got it,’ he said.
Time to start the show. I pushed the fader buttons up that turn our microphones on, and the bright red MIC LIVE sign glowed.
‘Hey, everyone, what’s up?’ I said. ‘I’m Radio Boy, and welcome to the Secret Shed Show. With me as always are Artie and Holly, and tonight’s show is all about looking out for your friends. Two-legged and four-legged. Let’s play our first song tonight. Artie is missing a friend of his and he needs your help in trying to find him. I’ll tell you more after this …’
I played the song. Blink-182 and ‘I Miss You’. Good call, Artie, as ever.
What a cliffhanger.
Who wouldn’t be staying with us to hear what happens next? I thought to myself.
This was the kind of advanced radio skill Grandad Ray and his gaggle of ladies could only dream about.
The song ended.
‘Radio Boy and the Secret Shed Show here. Now, listen up. Artie’s cat has gone missing and we need your help. Give us the facts, Artie, please,’ I said.
‘Yes, thanks, Radio Boy. I feel silly getting so upset but he’s my cat and, you know, if you have a pet, they’re your special friend. They get excited when they see you after school. They follow you around. He’s never gone missing before,’ said Artie.
‘So what’s his name?’ I said for the benefit of the listeners and just because, frankly, the name of Artie’s cat was worth a show on its own.
‘Mr Bun Face,’ said Artie, in a matter-of-fact kind of way. Like it wasn’t at all odd that a cat had the name Mr Bun Face.
‘Mr Bun Face … I guess because his face looks like an iced currant bun or perhaps a Chelsea bun?’ I enquired.
‘No, my cat looks nothing like a cake! That would be weird. No, I just like the name,’ said Artie as if that made the slightest bit of sense.
He clearly had cakes on the brain and didn’t even know it.
‘Where were we … yes … Mr Bun Face. You liked the name, of course. So, what do you shout if you want to call him? What name does he answer to, just in case one of the listeners spots him? Bun Face or Mr Bun Face?’ I asked sensibly.
‘MISTER Bun Face, of course, duh,’ said Artie, as if I was being a bit slow.
‘Anyway, we need to find Mr Bun Face. Artie, can you describe him?’
‘He is a very tubby cat, and he needs to go on a diet. He is black with four white paws, that make him look like he is wearing socks.’
‘So why didn’t you call him White Socks?’ I asked, in all innocence.
‘Enough with the names!’ shouted Artie.
‘Sorry! Where are you, Mr Bun Face? Can we all have a lookout for him, please.’
I played another song.
‘I’m getting sightings,’ said an excited Holly as if she was reporting from the front line of a military operation. She was right: there’d been quite a few texts and emails.
‘You have a caller ready, Spike. He’s called Ted.’
‘Great, thanks. On line one?’ I asked.
‘We only have one line,’ she said.
‘I know, I just like to say it,’ I said. I flicked on the phone line. ‘Radio Boy here on the Secret Shed Show, thanks for the great response in trying to find Artie’s cat. We have a caller on line one. Ted, hello?’
‘Hi, Radio Boy, I live a few doors down from Artie – you must know me, Artie, it’s Ted? Ted Perkins?’
‘Nope, never heard of you,’ said Artie.
‘We used to play together at nursery. You ate all my lunch once,’ caller Ted said, to all our amusement. Well, mostly all. Artie looked aghast.
‘I-I-I-I don’t remember that. Anyway, Ted, have you seen my cat?’ stammered out Artie.
‘Yeah, old Mrs Birchem was feeding him last night,’ Ted said.
‘What! That crazy old lady? My dad said he went and asked her if she’d seen Mr Bun Face and she said she hadn’t. When did you say you saw him there?’ asked Artie.
‘Last night,’ said caller Ted.
‘How do you know?’
‘I was using my new Super Interstellar 5000 telescope and having a nose around. The planets can get a bit boring after a while. I actually saw you dancing in your bedroom in your underpants last week, Artie,’ said caller Ted, again making me and Holly laugh, but not Artie.
‘Lies, all lies!’ said Artie, shaking his head and crossing his arms defiantly.
‘But,’ I pointed out, ‘if Ted saw Mr Bun Face with this Mrs Birchem last night and then Mrs Birchem told your dad she hadn’t seen your cat … that means someone is telling lies.’
‘Well, sounds like Ted is full of them tonight,’ said Artie, still smarting from the scoffed-lunch and bedroom-dancing bombshells.
Time for another song. Another downer. Some old band called REM and a very long and sad, sad song called ‘Everybody Hurts’.
‘Holly, I’m thinking we need to check out caller Ted’s report,’ I said while the very sad-sounding man wailed the long sad song out around the shed.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking, Spike?’ asked Holly.
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘Do you have your Army Cadet binoculars with you?’
‘Of course, in my backpack here. Never know when they might be needed,’ she said.
‘Can I borrow them a second?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ she said as she handed them to me. I tested the binos out by focusing in on Grandad Ray’s room. I could even make out Grandad Ray’s gold sovereign rings on his fingers as he stood up, unmistakably clutching a microphone and singing. Those poor listeners to the Ballroom Banter show. Did he actually have any listeners?
‘These are amazing, Holly. Fancy doing some spying? Go and take a look at this Mrs Birchem’s house with your binos?’ I asked.
‘It’s called reconnaissance, not spying, and refers to the covert – that means secret – gathering of intel – that’s intelligence, or information to you. And the answer is yes,’ said Holly, who was sounding like she had swallowed the Army Cadets manual, which I couldn’t rule out.
‘Great, take your phone so we can get your “intel” live on air,’ I said.
‘On it!’ said Holly as she slipped out of the door. Leaving Artie and me in her wake, both in silent awe.
It would take her only a few minutes to get from Crow Crescent on our less posh housing estate to Artie’s mansion and Mrs Birchem’s evil cat lair across the road.
Meanwhile, back in the shed, the miserable song about sadness and hurting was thankfully coming to its dreary end.
‘Well, this is live radio, Holly is on her way to Artie’s to have a look at Mrs Birchem’s place after a tip-off from caller Ted who said he saw Mr Bun Face round there being fed … Wait … I can see Holly is calling in, so let’s go live to the scene right now …’
I put Holly live on air.
‘You there, Holly?’ I asked eagerly.
‘In position. I can see Artie’s hou
se – well, mansion—’
‘Gateaux Chateau is not a mansion!’ cried Artie.
‘It is! You could fit mine and Holly’s house, plus all our listeners’ houses, inside your lounge, no problem,’ I said. ‘It’s so big it has three postcodes!’
‘Can you two be quiet and focus!’ said Holly. ‘I need calm. I’m scanning the south-facing rear of Mrs Birchem’s property. Nothing illegal, I’m merely observing,’ said Holly.
‘What can you see?’ asked Artie. Keen for some good news.
‘Wait! She’s opening the back door! She’s calling out and banging a plate,’ Holly whispered excitedly.
I was on the edge of my seat.
Judging from texts coming into the show, so were our listeners. This was radio gold. It was definitely going in our ten-minute compilation for the Radio Star competition.
‘Let me get closer so I can hear what she’s saying,’ Holly said, and we heard rustling as she obviously crept closer to get a better position. Then … ‘I don’t believe it!’ said a surprised Holly.
‘What?’ said Artie angrily.
‘It’s Mr Bun Face all right, I can see the one, two, three … four white paws, but she’s calling him a different name!’
Artie looked like he was going to throw up. For the second time today. Just not over the equipment, Artie, please – maybe over those miserable songs you’ve got in your bag instead.
‘What’s the new name?’ I asked.
‘Mr Pickles.’
‘It’s MR BUN FACE,’ yelled Artie as he banged his clenched fists on the table.
‘It gets worse. The cat formerly known as Bun Face has been lured in by her. I repeat, Mr Bun Face has been picked up by Mrs Birchem and taken inside! You know what this is?’ asked Holly.
‘No,’ we both said at the same time. On tenterhooks.
‘A cat-napping.’
‘I’m calling my dad right now,’ Artie yelled as he leaped to his feet in anger. Rightly so. I’d ended the show on a cliffhanger so I could wait for Holly to return, and I was struggling to calm him.
Finally, Holly arrived back at the shed, breathless from running. ‘You can’t call your parents, Artie,’ she said, already guessing what he would want to do.
Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad Page 8