Читать книгу Radio Boy - Christian O’Connell - Страница 7

I sprinted up the steps out of the hospital basement, fleeing the scene of the dreadful crime. The crime of Barry Dingle killing my radio career. I walked past the dozing security guard. Quite why there was a security guard at the hospital always puzzled me. Was someone trying to steal the patients? What would they do with them? Sell them on eBay? I was about to hand in my security pass when I thought better of it. You never know when that might come in handy one day.

I then began my very own solemn walk of shame to the bus stop. Like a funeral march. Same as when our dog Sherlock is told off for trying to steal food from the dinner table. His ears go back, his tail drops between his legs and he skulks away, hugging the ground. My walk of shame quickly turned into the bus ride of shame, as I got on the Number Nine as usual to head back to the estate I live on.

At least now I could relate to all those famous people I read about in my sister’s celebrity magazines. The ones with headlines like ‘WASHED-UP STAR NOW CLEANS CARS’.

I asked myself, Did I crash and burn too young?

I didn’t want to go back home right away as I wasn’t ready for my mum’s interrogation. (I was already imagining it: ‘So you said what to him? Then what did he say? Why didn’t you call me immediately? What exactly did he say?’)

Dad would try to fix the situation, but this time he wouldn’t be able to, as it was broken forever. No, at a time like this I needed the kind of people who wouldn’t ask five thousand questions or try to make it better. I texted my best friends, Artie and Holly.

This was a devastatingly serious situation so I used no emojis.

There isn’t an emoji for ‘I’ve been sacked by a bald-headed monster and set three stink bombs off, causing a studio evacuation’. If there was, maybe it would look like this:

I suggested meeting at Artie’s as I knew he’d be in. He’s in every Saturday morning after returning from his weekly pilgrimage to Lionel Vinyl with a fresh batch of records. Artie loves music, but only if it’s on vinyl. These are round discs of black plastic that songs used to be played on in olden times. To me they look like something you’d see in a history museum next to an Egyptian mummy or a dinosaur tooth. It makes no sense that when the rest of the world is simply beaming songs from outer space on to their phones in nanoseconds, Artie is spinning black plastic discs. It’s like preferring to drive an old horse and cart rather than a Ferrari sports car. Or using a carrier pigeon to send a message to your parents asking them to pick you up from the swimming pool, instead of just texting them.

Artie discovered his dad’s old record collection last year when he found him stuffing the discs into bin bags for the guide dogs’ charity shop. Those dogs are amazing. I love my dog Sherlock too. My sister wanted a cat and I was desperate for a dog. Cats are scary to me. They will attack you at any moment with no warning. What an awful pet. If you had a mate who suddenly just tried to scratch you, you would not say he or she was ‘cute’. Dogs are way cooler and help blind people. There are no guide cats.

Anyway, I won the dogs vs cats debate and Sherlock became the fifth member of our family. However, it was a short-lived victory as my sister used all this to get what she really wanted: a pony. It cost way, way more and means we won’t have a foreign holiday this year.

Anyway, as Artie’s dad was cramming these antique relics into his work van, Artie asked what they were. While his dad told him, an instant obsession was formed. Artie took them back into his house and – fast-forward a year – he loves nothing better than sitting in his bedroom, listening to his records on his headphones.

If Artie robbed a bank, maybe to fund more record-buying, and I had to describe him to the authorities, I’d say he looked like an owl. Big eyes, thoughtful and a large rotational head. I made that last bit up, but he does sometimes cough up pellets. This might be from all the out-of-date cakes that are freely available in his house. That’s the big bonus if your parents own a bakery empire. Every time I go round, I’m offered a wide variety of cakes, and it’s guaranteed all of them will be out of date. Artie’s parents own about five cake shops all over town, under the name Mr Cake. Much to Artie’s horror, sometimes his dad makes him dress up in a giant cupcake costume as the shop’s mascot – ‘Mr Cake’ – handing out freebies in the High Street at the weekend.

Artie is accidentally funny. He just says stuff. There isn’t any filter, or any kind of pause, to think about what he is saying. As a result, other kids at school reckon he’s a bit odd. Like the time he was sent to the headmaster, Mr Harris, after our English teacher, Miss Tusk, asked the class to describe her. Artie shot his hand up, she nodded at him to speak and he said, ‘Skin like a ham slice.’ I don’t think it was what she was after.

Artie’s detached house is just on the outside of the estate Holly and I live on. His parents are way richer than mine. We live in a semi-detached house, but Artie’s house doesn’t have any other house attached to it. Also, he has a gravel driveway. I think my dad might be jealous because whenever I mention Artie’s house my dad immediately snaps back with, ‘Paid for by kids’ rotten teeth from all those cakes; might as well have kids’ teeth in his driveway instead of gravel!’

Artie goes on two foreign holidays a year to exotic-sounding places I’ve never heard of. He also goes skiing every year. The closest I ever came to an Alpine trip was when it snowed last year and Dad made me a toboggan. When I say ‘made me’, it was an old door cut in half. I had the half with the door handle.

Holly’s house and my house have numbers, but Artie’s house has its own name. Artie’s house is called ‘Gateaux Chateau’.

The estate Holly and I live on was built in olden times (1970-something) when the people whose job it was to come up with street names finally ran out of ideas.

I imagine the meeting went like this:

‘OK, what can we name all the streets after?’

‘Queens, you know, like—’

‘Done that.’

‘Kings?’

‘Done.’

‘What about birds? Sparrow? Kestrel—’

‘GENIUS! Let’s take the rest of the day off to celebrate how good we are!’

Holly is on Chaffinch Close and I drew the short straw with Crow Crescent.

I got off at my stop. I was going to get my bike and cycle over to Artie’s. No one was at home, but as I was leaving with my bike I saw Terry. Sensei Terry. He made me LEAP right out of my skin as he was crouched behind our garden wall at the front of the house.

‘Sorry, Spike,’ said Sensei Terry as he stood up. ‘I heard a noise and, seeing your dad’s car wasn’t here and fearing a burglary, I came to investigate. Happy to see it’s you.’

‘Yes, just off to my mate’s.’

‘Safe on the roads, Spike. Safe on the roads.’

Sensei Terry muttered to himself as he turned away, going back to scanning the road like a robot.

Sensei Terry, on top of being our postman and a karate instructor (which is why he insists on being known as Sensei Terry), also runs the local Neighbourhood Watch. He lives four doors down from us. When he isn’t working or teaching karate, he seems to be permanently patrolling our streets and area for any, and I mean any, suspicious activity.

Like the time he called the police to our neighbours’ house as their curtains were still closed at lunchtime one Sunday. The police gave the Meachers the shock of their life as they kicked down their front door, splintering it into a thousand pieces, screaming, ‘POLICE! PUT YOURS HANDS UP NOW!’

Only to find a terrified Mr and Mrs Meacher, who had been enjoying a nice lie-in after a late night celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Sensei Terry was made to pay for a new front door and was cautioned by the police. For the second time that year.

The first time was a classic. Sensei Terry called the police to report ‘terrorist activity’ at Number 56 Crow Crescent. The home of a family Sensei Terry hated, as the dad was a rival martial arts instructor.

‘He teaches kung fu; it’s not a patch on karate, just Mickey Mouse stuff you see in movies,’ Sensei Terry would confide to anyone at every opportunity.

The police obviously take these calls very, very seriously. A SWAT team was dispatched and officers with guns stormed the Woodses’ house. They were led out in handcuffs. An emotional Mr and Mrs Woods and their two teenage daughters protested their innocence tearfully.

‘They’re trained to behave like that – they’re lying,’ said Sensei Terry, who was watching it all round at ours. Next to my mum, by her go-to observation post. Just behind the net curtains.

Four ski masks were removed from their house, which Sensei Terry had seen them all in and presumed them to be planning a terrorist attack, rather than what they were actually doing, which was trying on some new ski gear ahead of their trip.

Now Sensei Terry turned to look at me again, frowning. ‘You OK, Spike?’ he asked. ‘You look down.’

I swallowed. ‘Fine, fine, Sensei Terry,’ I said. You see, there are only two members of the Neighbourhood Watch and my mum is the other one. She and Sensei Terry give each other ‘intel’ on a daily basis. Anything I said to him would get back to her, and I did not want my mum knowing about me getting fired. Who knew what she would do.

‘All right then,’ said Sensei Terry. ‘But if you’re ever in any kind of trouble, you let me know, OK? There’s a spare place in my karate class, you know.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘You would learn the ancient art of KARATE, thousands of years of wisdom for just four pounds a week. Think about it, Spike.’

No, I won’t, Sensei Terry.

‘Sure,’ I lied.