by Jim Smith
‘Verrrrry interesting . . .’ said Nancy, closing her book. Bunky was standing on the other side of the room, feeding Nancy’s fish and not really taking any notice.
‘I didn’t do it, honest to keelness I didn’t, Nancy!’ I warbled, picking up a pen and signing the cast on her foot.
‘I believe you, Barry,’ she said, peering out the window. ‘The question is, who DID drink the carton . . . and WHY?’
I finished writing my name and drew a cartoon of myself in my detective hat, making my nose a bit shorter than it is in real life. Gregor jumped off Nancy’s lap and strolled over to Bunky, meowing and stretching out his paw.
‘Maybe it was someone who wanted revenge?’ Nancy muttered to herself. ‘Sharonella, for example . . .’
I turned to Nancy and smiled. ‘Go on . . .’ I said, chewing on my straw.
‘Well, Anton said she was the Phantom Air-Freshener Thief, remember. Maybe she drank his Tears of Granny Laughter to get him back for that?’ Nancy picked up my pen and poked it down the side of her cast to scratch her ankle.
‘Yes . . . yes, of course!’ I cried, looking over at Bunky. He was flicking his foot at Gregor, trying to stop the cat pawing at his legs.
‘I’m not saying it’s definitely her,’ said Nancy, pushing her glasses on to her forehead and rubbing her eyes. ‘There’s loads of people in our class. I’ll have to give this some more thought tonight.’
She put her book down and wheeled her chair over to her desk with her good foot, not that her chair was a wheelchair, it was just a chair that had little wheels on it.
‘That’s right, Nancy. You have a good long think about it,’ I said, grabbing Bunky’s arm. ‘Meanwhile, me and Bunky’ll go ask Shazza a few questions!’
It was getting dark as we turned up at Sharonella’s house and I knocked on her door, doing my door face while I waited for it to open.
‘What’s all this about?’ said Sharonella, opening the door, and I took my hat off and walked in, almost fainting from the smell of her perfume.
‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary . . . just thought we’d pop in and say hello,’ I smiled, chewing on my straw, and we followed her into the kitchen. ‘Evening, ma’am,’ I said to Sharonella’s gran in my Detective Manksniff voice. ‘Mind if I talk to Sharonella for a second?’
‘Do what you like, love!’ croaked Sharonella’s gran, who also stank of perfume. ‘We’re just sorting some stuff out for the jumble sale, aren’t we, Shaz. You boys like a drink?’ she grinned.
Me and Bunky nodded, and she lifted two tiny glasses out of a jumble sale box. ‘Hope these’ll do,’ she said, pouring a centimetre of Cream Soda Fronkle into each one.
I picked mine up and led Sharonella into the lounge, leaving Bunky to chat to Sharonella’s gran. ‘You know why I’m here,’ I whisper-shouted, drinking my cream soda and slamming the glass down on the coffee table, and a budgie squawked from inside a cage in the corner of the room.
‘Ooh Barry, I thought this day would never come!’ warbled Sharonella, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Yes, of course I’ll marry you!’ she giggled, falling into my arms, and we crashed on to the sofa.
‘Cut the funny business, Shazza!’ I shouted, wriggling out from under her and standing back up. ‘I’m talking about Anton’s carton of Beryl. I know you’re the one who drank it!’
Sharonella’s giggle turned into more of an annoyed chuckle. ‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous, Bazza!’ she scoffed. ‘As if I’d drink Anton’s stupid drink!’
She turned away from me and looked through the window at the moon, which was hanging in the sky like a sideways smile. ‘Besides, I wasn’t in the classroom, and I can prove it!’ she said.
‘Perlease, be my guest!’ I sighed, flumping down on the sofa again and pushing my hat back on my head. I was beginning to quite like wearing my detective hat, what with all the pushing it back on your head you can do.
Sharonella took a breath and scrunched her face up so it looked a bit more loserish. ‘ “Ooh, help me, I’ve done a poo and there’s no toilet roll!” ’ she warbled, waggling her arms around like me when I’ve run out of toilet roll.
I thought back to earlier that day, when I’d been in the toilet doing my poo. ‘H-how do you know about that?’ I said, almost chewing through my straw.
‘Because it was me who passed you the toilet roll, you luvverly great big loser!’ chuckled Sharonella.
I pulled my hat down over my eyes and thought for a millisecond. On the one hand, this was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me in my whole entire life amen. But on the other . . .
‘This is the keelest news ever!’ I smiled, and I got ready to tell Sharonella exackerly why.
‘Don’t you see what this means?!’ I cried, standing up and grabbing Sharonella by both shoulders. ‘It means you can tell people exackerly where I was when Anton’s carton was being drunk!’
Sharonella looked at me like I was an idiot, which is how she usually looks at me anyway. ‘Sorry Bazza, not gonna happen,’ she said, crossing her arms and scowling at the budgie.
‘Why the keelness not?’ I wailed, and the budgie squawked, fluffing up his feathers.
‘Think about it, Bazza. How’s it gonna look when I say I was in the boys’ toliets?’ Sharonella squawked, but not fluffing up her feathers. ‘I’ve got my keelness to think about, unlike you.’
‘Hang on a milliminute . . . why WERE you in the boys’ toilets?’ I said, wondering why I hadn’t wondered that to begin with.
Sharonella’s cheeks went pink and she turned away again. ‘Oh, erm . . . well . . .’ she stuttered, peering at the moon. ‘Darren sprayed me in the face with Fronkle, remember, and the girls’ toilets were locked, you see . . . I needed somewhere to clean up, so I thought I’d just pop into the boys’ . . .’
I smiled to myself, the way Detective Manksniff smiles when he can tell someone’s lying. Then I gasped.
I was gasping because behind Sharonella, plugged into the plug socket in the wall, was a plug-in air-freshener.
‘Oh my unkeelness, you ARE the Phantom Air-Freshener Thief, aren’t you!’ I cried. I darted my eyes around the room at all the plug sockets. Every single one of them had a plug-in air-freshener plugged into it.
Sharonella twizzled round and hurried over to me, a droplet of sweat zogzagging down her forehead. ‘Pleeeease Bazza, you can’t tell anyone!’ she begged, her perfume floating up my nostrils.
‘Your perfume! That’s air-freshener too, isn’t it!’ I laughed, my straw waggling in my mouth.
‘It’s my gran, she can’t get enough of the stuff,’ cried Sharonella. ‘Plus if I didn’t bring it home the whole place’d stink of budgie!’ she squawked, pointing at the cage, and her budgie’s beak drooped.
Bunky walked in with his empty glass, looking for somewhere to put it down. ‘Even more disgustering than Tears of Granny Laughter!’ he was saying to himself, looking at his half-drunk Cream Soda Fronkle.
‘Please Barry, don’t tell anyone . . . For me?’ whispered Sharonella, and I did my Detective Manksniff smile.
‘What’s in it for me?’ I said, twizzling my moustache, even though I don’t have one.
‘Air-freshener?’ said Sharonella, pulling one out of the wall and offering it to me.
I looked at her hand, and remembered it passing me the toilet roll. ‘OK Shazza, I’ll do it for you,’ I sighed, waving the air-freshener away. ‘Some detective I’m turning out to be . . .’ I said, and that’s when Sharonella’s gran shuffled into the living room, looking at Bunky’s bum. Which sounds a bit weird until you realise why.
‘Ooh, what’s the latest gossip?’ said Sharonella’s gran, pointing at the Daily Poo sticking out of Bunky’s back pocket, and Sharonella whipped it out of his trousers, holding the front cover up to her granny’s glasses.
‘BARRY LOSER DRINKS ANTON’S LAST BERYL,’ warbled Sharonella’s gran, reading the headline out loud. ‘Ooh, you are a naughty boy, Bazza!’ she said, zooming her eyes
in on the photo of the carton. ‘Hey, and you’re a lefty too!’ she smiled. ‘High five!’
Sharonella’s gran held her shaky left hand up in the air, and I did my face I do when I don’t know what the unkeelness someone is talking about.
‘What in the unkeelness are you talking about, Sharonella’s gran?’ I said, scratching my head with my right hand, seeing as I’m right-handed.
‘You’re left-handed!’ grinned Sharonella’s gran, pointing at the photo with her left hand. ‘You can tell from the way you crumpled Anton’s carton after you drank it!’
‘Er, hello? I’m no-ot?’ I said, pointing at my right hand with my left one, but Sharonella’s gran just ignored me. I Future-Ratboy-zoomed my eyes in on the carton and waggled my eyebrows. Sharonella’s gran was right! The carton was only crumpled on the left-hand side.
I pushed my hat back on my head with my right hand and clicked two of my fingers together. ‘That’s it!’ I said. ‘Sharonella’s gran, I think you’ve cracked the case of the crumpled carton!’
It was the next day and me and Bunky were wheeling Nancy through the school gates in Ethel’s wheelchair, which I’d borrowed off Ethel for the morning so that Nancy could come to school with us.
‘Roll up, roll up!’ I shouted, getting everyone to roll up, which was the first part of my amazeypoos idea. ‘Come and sign Nancy’s cast, one at a time!’
Anton Mildew wobbled over, his eyes all puffy from crying the whole night long. ‘I can’t believe you’re still friends with HIM,’ he said to Nancy, plopping the lid off a pen and writing ‘BARRY LOSER DRANK MY BERYL’ on her cast.
‘Yes, it surprises me too, Verkenwerken,’ warbled Gordon Smugly, gliding over. ‘I thought you had better taste in men,’ he said, snatching the pen off Anton in his LEFT HAND and moving it towards Nancy’s leg.
‘AHA, I KNEW IT!’ I boomed, because I’d caught the left-handed carton crumpler!
‘Knew what?’ smiled Gordon, switching the pen into his right hand and squiggling his smug, ugly signature.
‘Erm . . .’ I muttered, trying to think of something to say. ‘I knew that that Fronkle ringpull over there on the pavement would still be in the same spot today as it was yesterday,’ I said, comperleeterly making it up on the spot.
‘That’s cos it’s glued down,’ burped Darren Darrenofski, wobbling over, slurping on a can of Kiwi Fronkle. ‘I did it last week to fool people into thinking they could pick it up,’ he said, and I did a mini-salute to myself in my pocket for making something up that turned out to be comperleeterly true.
‘Erm, I haven’t got a pen,’ burped Darren, crumpling his Fronkle can in his LEFT HAND and throwing it over his shoulder.
‘Pick that up!’ shouted Mrs Wisses, walking past, and it landed straight in a bin, so that shut her up.
I pulled a pen out of my pocket and passed it to Darren, trying not to get too excited. Maybe Darren’s left-handed Fronkle-crumple had been an accident. After all, his right hand HAD been busy picking a bogie out of one of his nostrils.
Darren grabbed the pen off me with his bogie fingers and my nose drooped with disappointment. THEN HE PASSED IT TO HIS CRUMPLE HAND. ‘D-darren, you’re not a lefty, are you?’ I stuttered.
‘Eeve keelse!’ he grinned, signing his name on Nancy’s cast with his LEFT HAND!
‘Darren Darrenofski, I arrest you for drinking Anton’s Beryl and crumpling it up with your left hand!’ I boomed, grabbing his arm and marching him off towards Anton. ‘You have the right to remain unkeel!’ I smiled, looking around at the crowd that had started to gather.
Darren wriggled free and turned to face me. ‘What in the name of Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Fronkle?’ he burped, and the smell of kiwi wafted up my nostrils.
‘Tell him, Nancy,’ I said, and Nancy explained all about Sharonella’s gran working out about the left-handed crumpler, which was pret-ty boring for me, Bunky and Sharonella, seeing as we’d heard it all before.
‘Ooh, it was crumpled by a lefty!’ scoffed Darren, cracking open a can of Bubblegum Fronkle with his left hand. ‘Big deal! I wouldn’t drink a carton of Tears of Granny Laughter if you paid me a million Fronkles!’ he burped.
Darren’s burp wafted into the air, and I imagined a bird flying through it and fainting from the stink.
‘I think he’s telling the truth, Barry,’ said Nancy, from Ethel’s wheelchair. I pulled my hat over my eyes and tried to think.
‘Face it, Barry,’ drawled a smug, ugly voice, and I looked up. ‘You drank Anton’s carton and everyone knows it!’ smiled Gordon Smugly.
I looked around at the crowd and held my arms out, begging them to believe me. ‘I didn’t kill Beryl!’ I wailed, feeling my legs go wobbly.
Bunky stepped forwards and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I believe you, Barry,’ he whispered, but I wasn’t listening.
‘Oh, what’s the point!’ I cried, lifting my Detective Manksniff hat off my head and throwing it to the ground. ‘My mum and dad don’t love me . . . Irene is dead . . . and everybody in the whole wide school thinks I’m the Phantom Carton Crumpler!’ I blubbered.
I held my left hand up to my face and looked at it, wondering if I maybe did sleep-drink Anton’s carton. ‘I give up!’ I wailed, and I pulled the straw out of my mouth and snapped it in half, which isn’t easy, seeing as straws are bendy, not snappy.
Nobody talked to me for the rest of the day after that, or for the whole of the night either, seeing as I was sitting in my room on my own, cuddling my crumpled carton of Irene like the loneliest loser since Great Uncle Desmond.
Then all of a non-sudden it was half past twelve on Saturday afternoon and I was in Mogden Hall, surrounded by eight million nattering grannies.
Everybody in the whole of Mogden was there, including Anton Mildew, who was standing behind his granny’s stall giving me an evil stare.
My mum and dad wobbled up, pushing Desmond Loser the Second in his pram. ‘Cheer up, Barry, it might never happen!’ smiled my dad, but it was too late, it already had.
‘Afternoon Kenneth,’ I mumbled, because I’d stopped calling him Dad, seeing as I wasn’t his number one son any more.
I peered up at my mum and sighed, remembering when she used to love me like she loved Desmond. ‘Don’t worry Maureen, I’ll only be around for another ten years or so, then I’m comperleeterly out of your hair,’ I said, a Tear of Barry Sadness squeezing its way out of my eyeball.
‘Oh, Barry,’ said my mum, but I wasn’t listening. Mr Hodgepodge had plodded on to the stage and was setting up his coffin.
‘Oops!’ he chuckled, dropping his saw, and it clanged on to the floorboards. ‘Not a problem!’ he smiled, picking it up with his shaky hand and slicing through a rope, and the curtain fell behind him.
‘Oooh goody! Someone’s gonna get chopped in half !’ grinned Bunky, who was standing behind his granny’s stall, being a walking stick for Nancy.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am The Great Hodgepodge and today I am going to chop my glamorous assistant in two!’ warbled Hodge, starting his magic show, and Madame Harumpadunk hobbled on to the stage, dressed in her spangly gold leotard and yellow tutu.
She glanced over my way and gulped, as everybody in the whole of Mogden Hall apart from me started clapping their hands. I looked around at them all, enjoying their Saturday afternoons, and wondered if I had anything left to live for.
Madame Harumpadunk closed her eyes and crossed herself, did a shaky wave to the audience and hoiked one of her legs into Mr Hodgepodge’s coffin box.
‘I wish somebody would chop ME in half,’ I muttered to myself. ‘I bet everyone would LOVE to see that!’ I said, and an idea popped out of my head into the bit of air where my hat used to be. ‘Hang on a millikeels . . . STOP THE SHOW!’ I wailed, and the whole of Mogden Hall went quiet.
‘Chop ME in half !’ I shouted, walking up the little stairs to the stage, and I heard Gordon Smugly chuckle.
‘Barry, get down from there!’ wailed my mum, lifting Des ou
t of his pram, and I peered at her the way I peer at my mum when I’m about to be sawed into two Barrys.
‘Maureen, Maureen, Maureen,’ I sighed. ‘Nobody wants to watch Madame Harumpadunk get chopped up . . . not when they can see the Phantom Carton Crumpler face certain deathypoos!’ I boomed, and Anton nodded his head.
Mr Hodgepodge loosened his bow tie and sighed. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, Barry, but your gran is really looking forward to this,’ he said, pointing at my granny, who was still clambering into the coffin, looking like she was about to cry.
‘Th-that’s right, B-barry, l-let your old gran get chopped in half !’ she stuttered, her feathers shaking with fear.
I walked towards the coffin, wondering how I was going to walk once my legs had been sawed off. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hodgepodge, but I really must insistypoos,’ I said.