‘Oh, pretty uneventful, Mum,’ I said. In a high-pitched voice.
‘Mr Harris wants to see you three in his office,’ said Madame Smith, our French teacher, the moment we walked through the school gates. Even she looked worried for us.
‘Bonne chance, mes enfants,’ she called after us. I’m no French language expert, but I think she was wishing us good luck – either that or saying ‘fat chance’.
Artie, Holly and I made our way along the corridors. Our footsteps were echoing around the walls and none of us said much.
We arrived at his secretary’s desk.
‘Go in, he’s waiting for you,’ said Mrs Hubert. I always felt so sorry for Mrs Hubert. Imagine having to work with that beast of a man all day every day. Sometimes I think she is a robot that he’s built. She often just smiles at you blankly when you ask her a question.
I knocked on the door.
‘ENTER,’ boomed the command from the other side. I opened the door and we went on in.
Fish Face, our beloved headmaster, was sitting behind his desk. Behind him, smiling smugly, stood his son Martin. Cracking his knuckles.
Fish Face leaned back in his giant throne of a chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘Sooooo,’ he began. ‘Have you made a decision? Will you be bowing out of Radio Star?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Holly.
This made him suddenly lean forward in his throne. He frowned. I frowned. Artie frowned. Martin didn’t frown – I don’t think he knew how to.
Holly still hadn’t told us her plan. What was she doing?
‘Why not?’ said Mr Harris.
‘Because of this,’ said Holly. She took a small tape recorder from her pocket and placed it on the desk. Then she pressed Play.
Mr Harris’s voice came tinnily from the little device.
‘I could do … nothing. I could say nothing. All of this – you stealing my mother’s cat – would be our little … secret. Sounds good, right …’
Mr Harris went white. He reached over and turned it off. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘So, we have something on each other. I could get your show shut down, you could play this … Thus, we are in a stalemate. I won’t tell the police about you stealing my mum’s cat, and you keep this to yourself. I assume you have copies?’
Holly nodded.
‘What?’ said Martin. ‘Make them pay, Dad!’
‘They have a recording of blackmail, you cretin,’ said Mr Harris. ‘If anyone heard that, I would be—’
‘Fired instantly?’ said Holly.
‘Um, yes. Not good. I don’t want this to be heard, ever. It’s not to protect myself, you understand, I was just joking with some of my favourite pupils, really. You know me, always up for laughs,’ he said, smiling a fake smile, some of the colour returning to his cheeks. ‘But this recording could be misunderstood, it could damage this wonderful education establishment. The children who look up to me would be … confused.’ He was scratching the side of his neck furiously.
‘So we forget all about the blackmail,’ said Holly.
‘A joke, really, not blackmail,’ said Mr Harris in a fake light-hearted manner. Like a robot who had downloaded the “human” program and it had a bug in it.
‘Blackmail and no disguising it,’ said Holly. ‘People will know that. We do nothing with our recording of you, Mr Harris, and you do nothing about the cat incident. The Secret Shed Show enters Radio Star.’
Mr Harris closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, flaring his nostrils/gills.
‘OK,’ he said quietly. Seeing as he was so agreeable, I seized my moment.
‘And no more litter-picking for me,’ I said.
His eyes widened, and his crocodile mouth snapped open. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said, slamming his desk with a fist. ‘Spike is on litter duty for the rest of his years at school.’
Holly smiled. ‘Fine. Then we release the recording … and I tell everyone why Martin got kicked out of Army Cadets.’
Now it was Martin’s turn to go white. ‘NO! Dad …’ he said.
‘You can’t,’ said Mr Harris to Holly. ‘You signed an agreement!’
‘Compared to the blackmail, I don’t think anyone will care,’ said Holly.
‘OK!’ yelled Mr Harris. ‘OK, you win.’
‘I know,’ said Holly.
‘Off you go, then,’ said Mr Harris, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll keep this.’ He took the voice recorder, placed it in a drawer and locked it.
‘Sure, help yourself, Mr Harris, because as you said – I’ve got copies,’ said Holly as we started to file out.
‘Spike Hughes, can I have a quick word?’ said Mr Harris. I nodded to Artie and Holly to carry on without me.
Mr Harris put his sweaty fish paw on my shoulder and leaned in close. Too close. I could smell the coffee breath. It was so strong it could’ve stripped wallpaper. He began whispering, like a psycho.
‘Your friend saved you, Spike Hughes. You got lucky. Mark my words, you will screw up again. You can’t help yourself. Hear me now: I will be there when you do and it will be glorious. Run along now … Radio Boy.’ He licked his lips. ‘Or should I say “On-borrowed-time Boy!” Tick … tock … until the next time,’ he bellowed after me.
Out in the corridor, I caught up with Holly and Artie.
‘You’re a genius,’ I said to Holly. ‘But how did you record him?’ I was remembering how she’d stooped to adjust her laces at Mrs Birchem’s house, which must have been when she turned something on.
She shrugged. ‘I recorded him on my phone, then put it on to my dad’s tape recorder. Action, Spike. Action beats inaction. Classic army teaching.’
‘And Martin was in the Cadets with you?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’
‘So … why did he get kicked out?’ said Artie.
‘I can’t tell you, honestly,’ said Holly. ‘I had to sign something his dad’s lawyers gave me. And there was an industrial cleaning team involved too that had to be sworn to silence. Awful business. The screams will always stay with me.’ She stared off into the distance at the memory of the incident that could not be discussed. What a family of monsters.
‘You’re making lasagne in cookery class today?!’ Mum yelled on Monday morning when I handed her a crumpled-up bit of paper from the bottom of my school bag that I was meant to give her several days before. ‘How on earth am I supposed to find fresh parmesan at seven o’clock in the morning? This isn’t good enough, Spike!’ she complained as she opened and slammed various kitchen cupboards and doors.
Within a few minutes, though, she’d worked her magic. Who needs fresh parmesan when you have some mouldy cheddar at the back of the fridge?
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said sheepishly as she handed me a large plastic box with everything in.
‘Be careful when you fry your onions not to get too near the naked flame,’ she warned.
Great advice, Mum. I hadn’t thought of that and had fully intended to cook my own flesh. Fact is, the only danger in that cookery class was from my cooking. I was terrible.
The cooking class was first lesson, and our extremely miserable teacher, Mrs Cankle, told us to get all our ingredients out. We were assembled round the various kitchen units and ovens and I was with Artie and Holly. Unsurprisingly, Artie was a very good chef and food mattered to him. For Artie, the cooking of a lasagne was serious business. Mrs Cankle often asked Artie questions during lessons, not to check he was paying attention, but to check she had got it right.
Martin Harris was opposite us, with Katherine Hamilton next to him. To my jealous eyes they looked like some happily married couple cooking together. But from the beginning of that lesson Martin only had eyes for Holly – and not in a good way. Clearly, Holly laughing at his awful feature, Martin’s Minute, and talking about whatever he’d done at Cadets to get him fired, had really got to him. But there wasn’t a chance to warn her about his evil eyes, as Mrs Cankle was shouting at me.
‘Why haven’t you start
ed making your sauce yet, Spike?’
‘Uh, oh yes, sorry, Mrs Cankle,’ I said.
‘Artie, what’s the best temperature for a lasagne to cook in the oven?’
‘One hundred and eighty degrees for around forty-five minutes. Until the top is bubbling and lightly browned.’
‘There you are, everyone. Do what Artie just said,’ said Mrs Cankle.
We had all built our lasagnes as best we could, but Artie’s was of course singled out as showing how they should look before we put them in the oven. Mine did not look anything like Artie’s intricately layered masterpiece. Mine looked like someone had sat on it. Repeatedly.
‘Put them into the ovens now, VERY CAREFULLY!’ ordered Mrs Cankle.
Then Mrs Cankle said she had to leave the classroom kitchen for a few minutes, so we should use that time to wash up. I began filling the sink with hot water as Mrs Cankle foolishly left the class all alone.
‘We haven’t got any tea towels,’ noticed Holly.
‘They live in the supply cupboard,’ Artie said.
‘I’ll go and get some,’ said Holly.
I didn’t see what happened next, but I suddenly became aware of some commotion, and then screaming and thumping sounds. I looked around to see Martin Harris laughing to one side of the supply cupboard door. He had the key in his hand.
The revolting mutant ape of a boy had locked Holly in! He’d been watching her the whole time and waiting for his moment of revenge. Now he had it. Holly was kicking the door from within the supply cupboard. I knew, though, that it would just be a matter of time before she had improvised a paperclip and a coathanger to pick the lock and let herself out. Martin would sure be in trouble then.
But time passed and it didn’t seem to be happening.
Then, a moment later, I could hear her shouting in there.
And … was she crying?
I was stunned. She couldn’t be. She was invincible. What was going on?
‘Let her out, Martin,’ I yelled. Katherine Hamilton was cackling like a witch behind him. For the first time ever, I hated her. This was the girl I was going to marry? Well, those wedding plans were definitely off.
‘Make me,’ he said defiantly, puffing his chest out like the ape boy he was. I was no Sensei Spike, so that wasn’t about to happen. Instead, it was Artie who sprang into action. Flew into action would be more accurate.
He picked up a large baking tray and, using it as a battering ram, ran at full speed towards Martin Harris. This was now an impromptu lesson in physics for the whole class to enjoy. Artie’s size, plus considerable speed, was more than a match for Martin. Artie and the non-stick baking tray rammed into him like a human wrecking ball, sending both of them sailing across the classroom.
The pair bounced off a chair and landed with a thud on top of one of the tables, with Artie, still armed with the trusty baking-tray shield, on top of Martin. The supply cupboard key flew out of Martin’s hand and, as if by divine intervention, landed at my feet.
The rest of the class stood open-mouthed in shock at what they had just witnessed.
It wasn’t over yet.
Unfortunately, the table Martin and Artie landed on had all of the yet-to-be-cooked lasagnes sitting on it. With a loud crack, the table slowly gave way under the weight of lasagnes+Martin+Artie+baking tray and as they hit the floor, they were showered with creamy cheese sauce, followed by a layer of mince, topped off with pasta and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.
I ran to the supply cupboard door and fumbled in desperate panic to free Holly, who was sobbing inside.
‘It’s OK, I’ve got the key!’ I shouted. I flung the door open. On the floor next to a large rack with various kitchen utensils, I found Holly, her knees drawn up into her chest.
I heard a noise and turned. Behind me, Martin Harris limped up, grinning – even though he was covered in lasagne sauce.
‘You see, Holly,’ he said, ‘you’re not the only one who remembers Cadets. And what I remember is how you freaked out when we had to crawl through that tunnel.’
I turned to him, nearly ready to punch him. ‘Go away, Martin,’ I hissed.
He winked. ‘For now,’ he said as he walked off.
‘Holly, it’s OK,’ I said gently as I crouched down in front of her. ‘But what’s Martin talking about?’
‘The thing is … I’m … um … terrified of small spaces, Spike,’ she said. She couldn’t even look me in the eye.
‘Well, it’s OK now,’ I said. ‘You’re safe.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. She looked down. ‘I’m just … embarrassed.’
‘I wouldn’t want to be shut in here,’ I said, looking around. It was like a prison cell. It was packed with bowls of all sizes and enough washing-up liquid to wash every plate in the world several times over.
‘I feel so stupid,’ she said under her breath.
‘Why? He shouldn’t have done it. No wonder you got upset.’
‘I don’t like being weak,’ she said, staring ahead at the wall.
‘Well, I think you are the strongest and bravest person I know! A karate champion, a rescuer of stolen cats – OK, bad example as it was the wrong cat, but you know what I mean. Everyone’s scared of something. If you didn’t have some fear, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be like Martin Harris.’
At that, she smiled weakly.
I don’t know why I did this, but I felt it was the right thing to do: I put my hand on Holly’s. Mine was warm and hers was icy cold. I let mine warm hers up for a few seconds.
We looked at each other.
This slightly confusing moment with Holly was interrupted by Mrs Cankle’s hysterical scream when she walked back into the classroom to find the lasagne explosion.
Then, a moment later:
‘YOU POOR GIRL!’ shouted Mrs Cankle as she burst into the store cupboard.
Martin Harris was sent immediately to the headmaster’s office. Mrs Cankle would never have doubted Artie the master chef’s word on what had occurred while she left the class unattended for just three and a half minutes.
I would have loved to have been in that room to hear Fish Face tearing his own son to shreds. I could hear it now: no doubt banging on about ‘bringing shame to the family name’.
That afternoon after school, it wasn’t me on litter-picking duty. It was Martin Harris. The school’s grounds had never looked so clean.
I looked over at Holly as Martin passed us, in his high-visibility jacket and with a small piece of lasagne still stuck to the back of his head.
We both laughed.
Holly turned to me. ‘You don’t think, like, less of me since what happened earlier?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I grinned at her. ‘At least now I know you’re human. I wasn’t ever entirely sure.’
‘Ha ha.’ She punched me in the arm. It hurt quite a lot.
Back to the old Holly.
When I got back home from school, a strange sight greeted me. My mum was lying flat out on the floor of the lounge. I dropped my school bag and ran to her, immediately fearing she had finally collapsed from too much talking to her mum friends, without taking adequate breaths. She undoubtedly holds the world record for longest telephone call with the least amount of oxygen intake.
Upon closer inspection I saw she was actually moving and fully conscious, busy following an exercise DVD on the TV. But what exercise benefits can you possibly get from lying on your back, thrashing your arms and legs around like an upside-down beetle in distress?
Grandad Ray had obviously heard me come in, and leaped down the stairs to find me and Beetle-Mum in the lounge.
‘Good for you, Carol. Gotta stay in shape. I’m as fit as a fiddle,’ he said. He then dropped down to the floor himself and started doing press-ups. He’d got no further than three when he asked me to help him up.
‘Already did a hundred earlier, so must’ve overdone it,’ said an out-of-breath Grandad Ray. Sure you did, Topper.
‘I’ve got homework to do,’ I
said.
‘Did … my … first … radio … show … the other day, you know,’ said Grandad Ray in between panting breaths.
‘Oh yeah, did you?’ I lied, knowing full well he had, and the ‘homework’ I had to do was actually listening back to it.
‘Yeah and, gotta say, kid, I was a natural. No offence to you, young man, but I think grown-ups make proper radio.’
‘Glad it went well, Grandad. Have you heard from Nan recently?’ I said sweetly.
‘No …’ said Grandad Ray as he skulked off. Gotcha.
‘Go easy on him, Spike. He’s having a tough time,’ urged Mum while her workout show demanded she get up and do star jumps.
‘He’s doing a radio show at the same time as me, Mum, ON PURPOSE. I’m having a tough time of it too,’ I shouted.
Mid-star jump, Mum managed to get out, ‘It … won’t last …’
I went to my bedroom to have a secret listen to Grandad’s show. I found my headphones and pressed Play. As I listened, I made notes in my notepad. I’m happy to share them with you here on these pages.
Show opens with my Grandad Ray screaming ‘WELCOME TO THE GREATEST RADIO SHOW ON EARTH’.
Some women start clapping and screaming. They may be drunk or just insane. Or both.
Some ballroom-type music plays so loudly I immediately move my headphones away from my ears to stop me going deaf.
‘Welcome, one and all,’ says Grandad Ray. ‘My name is Toni Fandango and this is the Cha-Cha Chat Show, with me and the dancing divas … Ladies, introduce yourselves …’
‘Hi, I’m Susan,’ purrs one of the dancing divas.
‘I’m Jackie,’ mumbles someone who sounds either like they are jet-lagged or have been at the wine.
‘And my name is DAPHNE,’ shouts the last tone-deaf diva.
It was interesting that Grandad Ray wasn’t using his real name, no doubt stealing inspiration from my Radio Boy name. Bring it on, Fandango!
‘This show is for us older folk, the forgotten generation. Well, we have something to say and we will be heard. We will talk about ballroom dancing and the good old days.’
Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad Page 10