Читать книгу The Third-Class Genie - Robert Leeson - Страница 5

Chapter One DISASTERS TWO, TRIUMPHS NIL

MONDAYS ARE BAD enough, any week. But this one broke all records. Alec knew, because he kept a score every day in his head with triumphs on one side and disasters on the other. Today disasters were away down the field while the other team was still in the changing room.

Late as usual, Alec trundled into the schoolyard to join the tail end of line-up. He found himself next to Sam Taylor, which was not a good start to the day. Sam was as thick as a plank and nasty with it, but today he wasn’t interested in Alec. His spotty face gleaming, he was studying someone in the line-up, a new lad, tall, broad-shouldered, with a boxer’s nose. His face was brown but his short, bristly hair was light red.

“Hey, Ginger,” said Sam Taylor.

The boy looked away and said nothing.

“I’m talking to you, Ginger.”

The boy turned.

“My name’s Wallace, Spotty.”

“Oh, beg pardon, Mr Wallace.” Sam’s voice took on a painful, affected accent. “Tell me, Mr Wallace, how does a gentleman from your part of the Commonwealth come to have ginger hair?”

This time there was no answer. The boy’s back was turned once more.

But one of Spotty’s mates muttered, “Must have been a red-headed sailor in port.” Before he could stop himself, Alec started to snigger. He caught a ferocious look from the red-headed boy and covered up his mouth. Sam and his mates were looking away.

“Very funny, eh?” said Ginger.

Alec began to protest when someone loomed behind him.

It was Monty Cartwright, senior master and keeper of the punishment book, famed for his black beret and habit of ranging the schoolyard as though planning military manoeuvres.

“Quiet in the line-up, Bowden. For someone your size you make an awful lot of noise.”

Alec went glumly into school. He knew it was not his day, and he could feel more trouble on the way. He was right: by half-time, disasters had one in the net.

As he wandered into the yard at break, his way was barred by Ginger Wallace.

“Hey, Skinny.”

That hurt even if it was true. Alec looked from side to side. There was no escape and no support in sight. He fixed his eye on Ginger’s half-knotted tie, because looking up into his face made him feel smaller still.

“I’ve seen you down Boner’s Street, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Alec replied before he could stop himself. “My mate lives down there.”

“Does he? What number?”

“Number 85.”

“No, he doesn’t! We live at Number 85.”

“Well, he used to, but he’s moved out to Moorside.” That was true, worse luck. Moorside was six miles away and Alec felt friendless.

“OK, so listen, Skinny. You don’t come down Boner’s Street any more, see?”

Alec swallowed. “I’ll…”

Ginger interrupted. “You come down Boner’s Street, Skinny, and you’ll get thumped. It’s as simple as that.” Ginger walked away, hands in pockets, leaving Alec half scared, half angry.

Later that afternoon was double History and Mr Bakewell let Alec work on his Crusader project. It was nearly finished and Alec had got a lot of fun out of it, but today his mind wasn’t on the Crusaders. It was grappling with this latest disaster.

It certainly was a disaster. Boner’s Street was his secret short cut home. Everyone else thought Boner’s Street came to a dead end by the railway arches, but Alec knew differently. There was more to his secret than just a short cut. No, Ginger Wallace could take a running jump! He was going home down Boner’s.

“Hey,” whispered Ronnie Carter who sat just in front of him. “That’s a sign of old age, talking to yourself.”

“Oh, belt up,” said Alec.

“Less noise at the back there,” warned Mr Bakewell.

Alec gritted his teeth and returned to the Third Crusade. A thought struck him. It was about one hundred yards from the school gate to Boner’s Street along School Lane and, if he got away from school sharpish, he might be able to get through Boner’s before Ginger Wallace put the barricades up. It was worth a try. He began craftily to slide his books and his project folder into his school bag.

When the pips sounded over the tannoy for the end of school, Alec was away like a rocket and across the schoolyard with the first leavers. At the gate into School Lane he screeched to a halt. Ginger Wallace was already there, sitting on a wall.

“Hey, Skinny,” he called. “Don’t forget what I said. You stay away from Boner’s.”

“Oh, leave him,” said a tall, bronze-haired girl who was standing next to Ginger.

“Ma wants us home early,” she added. Ginger shrugged and they walked away down School Lane. Biting his Up, Alec watched them go while around him the hordes poured out of the schoolyard into the road. Soon Ginger and his sister were out of sight.

Alec waited a few moments, then with his school bag swinging he launched himself across School Lane into Upshaw Street. He ran until the street ended by the high canal wall, then he turned left into a narrow lane, slowing his pace.

This alley, lined with derelict houses and broken-down workshops, led back into Boner’s Street. Above him loomed the railway arches. Most of them were boarded up solidly, with thick tarred planking, which gave the streets a gloomy look. The whole area looked grim, with some parts pulled down, and other parts falling down. Only Boner’s Street was more or less intact, with two rows of old three-storey houses, stone steps down to the road and battered stone ornaments on the parapets.

Like Billy the Kid sneaking out of jail while the Sheriff’s back is turned, Alec paused by the corner of Boner’s and looked round. There was no sign of Ginger Wallace or anyone else coming from the School Lane end. The way seemed clear.

But no. A sudden whistling, squeaking sound made him jump back. He skipped over a low wall at the street corner and crouched down while the squeaking noise came nearer. He peeped over the wall. An old lady was pushing a broken-down pram along the pavement. Alec breathed out. It was only Miss Morris with her load of washing. She was Boner’s Street’s oldest inhabitant and they had both seen better days. She trundled along dressed in a bright green turban, plastic mac and workman’s boots, murmuring to herself. Alec kept out of sight. Miss Morris was an inquisitive old lady and she could easily mention to Mum that one Alec Bowden had been spotted lurking in a suspicious manner near the arches. That could be disastrous.

As she disappeared, Alec got up to cross Boner’s Street but flopped down again. He flattened himself to the ground. This meant getting brick dust all over his school trousers, but that was just too bad. He had to stay hidden because the front door of Number 85 opposite had opened and Ginger Wallace stood at the top of the steps, looking up and down the street.

Something was digging into Alec’s stomach, half a brick or a can. It hurt, but he dared not move because just then, Ginger crossed the street and stopped only a couple of yards away on the other side of the wall. Alec tried to make himself smaller but whatever was digging into him was killing him. He wriggled a hand under his body and pulled. The object moved and the pain eased. Ginger Wallace, whistling, charged off down the road.

Alec stood up and looked at the object in his hand. It was a can after all, a beer can with a new label. He started to throw it away, then stopped. There was something strange about the can. It was sealed, but it felt light, as though it were empty. How could a can be sealed and yet empty? It was like one of the locked room mysteries.

The road was empty now, except for Alec. He stuffed the intriguing can into his jacket pocket and brushed most of the brick dust off his trousers. Then he picked up his bag and moved slowly, stealthily down the pavement to the bottom of Boner’s. Here the railway arch spanning the street towered high above him. Like most of the other arches it was boarded up with thick, blackened planking and nailed to the planks was an old notice which read: BUGLETOWN ORDNANCE – KEEP OUT. Alec began to count the planks until he reached the fourteenth from the right. A few seconds later Boner’s Street was empty again. Alec worked this disappearing trick every afternoon on his way home from school. It was simple, if you knew how. The fourteenth plank was loose enough for him to push it back about nine inches and wriggle through to the other side. There are some advantages in being skinny.

Once through the fence and under the railway arch, Alec was in another world known only to himself. In front of him lay a strip of land, overgrown with elder bushes and rosebay willow herbs, littered with piles of moss-covered bricks, fallen chimneys and rotted rafters. At the centre stood a long low building with great holes in its roof. It was the ruin of an old factory, known locally as the “Tank”, though Alec had no idea why. On one side it was cut off by the railway arches and on the other ran the canal, disused now, its black ooze topped with green weed. In one direction the canal vanished under the railway arches; in the other it disappeared among the tangled bushes towards the goods yard and the low level railway, where Alec could hear the distant whistle of shunting engines.

Beyond the canal stood a tall wooden fence, as thick and solid as that which blocked the arches, and beyond the fence lay the estate where Alec’s family lived.

From his home you looked down a slope over the allotments and all you could see was this tall fence. People living on the estate, Mum in particular, liked it that way. They didn’t want to know about the Tank because it was an eyesore. But Alec didn’t care. The Tank was his fortress, his space ship, his hideout where he recovered when life’s disasters became too much for him.

To get home, Alec had to cross the canal. He could take the triumphal route, clambering up over the high iron gantry which once supported an overhead crane. Or he could go by the easier route, the one he took when he felt low. Twenty yards down the canal from the main Tank building lay a sunken barge, its timbers just showing above the slime. Alec had fixed loose planks from one timber to another to make a bridge. Today that was his chosen route.

He stopped by the main building to get his breath back and to make one more effort to get the brick dust off his trousers. As he brushed his clothes, his hand knocked against the can in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and studied it again. It was definitely unopened. The metal seal was intact, but it was as light as a feather. He shook it, but no swishing sounds came forth. He lifted it up to his ear like a seashell. Then he nearly dropped it with surprise. He heard a fantastic sound, not like surf on a distant shore, but like snoring on a nearby bed.

Snoring? Alec took a good grip, shook the can and held it to his ear again. This time there was silence, but he had heard a noise. There was something funny about the can, without a doubt. The only one way to satisfy his curiosity was to open it; though perhaps he could save that as a treat for later on.

While he hesitated, his mind was made up for him. From the railway arch came the rumble of a train and a long drawn-out blast from its hooter: “Da-da-da-daaaa”. Alec stuffed the can in his pocket, picked up his bag and ran down to the canal. That signal meant only one thing. Dad was bringing the 3.30 diesel from Manchester into Bugletown Station. “Da-da-da-daaa” was a message to Mum: “Put the kettle on, I’ll be home by five o’clock.” It meant the time was already twenty-to-five and if Flash Bowden wasn’t in re-entry orbit soon, there’d be a cosmic disaster.

And there was.

In his haste to cross the canal, Alec never noticed that one of his planks was out of place, or rather, he noticed it as his foot was on the way down. He did an imitation jungle dance in the air, as he tried to jump over to the farther side, but the distance was too great. One foot landed safely on the bank but the other plunged down into five fathoms of black, green, greasy canal gunge.

“Oh, Nora,” groaned Alec. “Disasters two, triumphs nil.”