Читать книгу The Third-Class Genie - Robert Leeson - Страница 9

Chapter Four KEEPER OF THE KAN

BAFFLED AND BEWILDERED, Alec held the can in his hands. Was he dreaming? Was Alec Bowden truly the master of Abu Salem, Genie Third Class, approximately 975 years old? Or was Alec Bowden off his trolley? Had the strain of the day been too much? There were his trainers with a big hole burnt in them by helpful old Granddad. There was his project on the Crusades, all soaked in eau de Canal. The disasters were real enough. But what about the triumph?

He held up the can to the light; it gleamed. He held it to his nose; it smelt beery. He held it to his ears and heard a distinct snoring sound. That could mean only one thing. Abu was sleeping off that enormous meal. Was it mackerel and rice pudding, or pheasants and sherbet? Still the memory was clear. His mouth watered.

He rubbed the can briskly and held it up again. The snoring had stopped. He rubbed it again. No sign. Inspiration struck him. Bending his mouth close to the can opening, he said firmly, “Salaam Aleikum, O Abu Salem.”

The familiar voice repeated sleepily, “Peace to you, Keef Haalak, How are you?”

“I am well, apart from about two thousand problems,” said Alec.

“Aieee, I feared as much. No peace for the genie. Speak, O Alec. What is thy will?”

“My first will is a new pair of trainers.”

“Trainers? What are trainers?”

“Slippers.”

In a flash the scorched trainers had vanished from Alec’s feet, and were instantly replaced by the most elegant pair of pink and gold, plush, satin slippers with curled toes.

“You Great Arabian Plonker,” said Alec, “you’ll have me drummed out of Year Nine!”

“Are the slippers not to your liking?” Abu sounded a little offended.

“They’re lovely, they’re gorgeous, but they’re not me,” said Alec. “I want rubber-soled PE shoes.”

“What is rubber?”

“Good grief,” said Alec. Then he thought. What is rubber? How do you make it? How do you explain it to a 975-year-old genie, who hasn’t had the benefits of Western civilization? All he could remember was a description of plantation life in his geography book. He told Abu. Immediately in front of him there was a tall, smooth-trunked tree, standing in the middle of the room, with white liquid seeping from a cut in the bark and flowing down on to the bedroom floor. Alec bent down and poked the liquor which seemed to be setting like a jelly. Now, what to do? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the next stage in rubber-making.

Did you fry it, or hang it out of the window, or beat it? He wished he’d listened properly in geography or chemistry.

“Ah well, Abu,” he said, “let’s have my old trainers back. I’ll have to buy a new pair.”

“Thy will is my command,” said Abu, as though he’d worked miracles.

“Now, you see my project book over there on the bed. I want it cleaned up.”

For a second the project book vanished, or seemed to. Then it reappeared. But what had that raving genie done now? The front of the book and the first ten pages, which had been stained with canal mud, had been cleaned up. They’d been wiped clean, completely. There was nothing on them.

“Put it back, Abu, put it back,” he yelled.

There was silence for a second.

“Come on, genie-us,” demanded Alec, “make with the project.”

From the front room Alec’s mother knocked on the ceiling.

“A bit less noise up there, our Alec.”

Alec groaned. Then Abu said hesitantly, “I fear I cannot put back what you wrote. For I cannot know what it might have been.”

Alec stared. That hadn’t occurred to him. It wasn’t Abu who was daft; it was he. He’d just have to be more careful what he asked. Abu had warned him about all the disasters that had happened to his previous masters.

“It was a story of the Crusades,” he said.

“Crusades?”

“When King Richard and the other knights went out to the Holy Land to drive out the Saracens and fought Saladin.”

“Aha, Sultan Salah ad-Din Yusuf, Lord of Ishshaan, might hammer of the faithless. Who does not know that great story?”

“Do you? It took me an awful time to look it up in the school library. If I have to do all that again…”

“Fear not, Alec. Take up thy pen. I shall tell, you shall write and the empty pages shall be full once more with great truth. Let us begin with the mighty victory for the true faith at the battle of Hattin…”

Alec rushed to his desk, got out his fountain pen, and began to write, while Abu tirelessly told of sieges, battles, storms of arrows, flash of scimitar and sword, thunder of hooves, and burning sand and sun. There was still much to tell when Alec had filled up the blank space in his project book. But his mother knocked on the ceiling again which was the signal for him to get ready for bed. Outside it was dark now and Alec was tired, but he felt happy again. His project was rescued. True, his trainers were still in a disastrous state, but surely with Abu’s aid he could put that right.

Now that he had Abu Salem, genie of the fight brown ale on his side, nothing was too much. From now on, triumphs would hammer disasters ten nil every day Thanks to Abu. Good old Abu.

“Well, Abu, I’m off to bed, if you’d like to climb back into your can. I’ll leave the lid up slightly to give you some fresh air. It must smell like a brewery in there. Cheerio for now.”

“Ma’asalaama,” murmured Abu.

Alec undressed, wandered out to the bathroom to brush his teeth, but at the top of the stairs he stopped. He could hear his mother and father talking in the kitchen where they were having a cup of cocoa.

“I don’t know, Connie love. It doesn’t matter how you switch around those bedrooms, we haven’t really got room.”

“Well, I’m fed up with it, Harold. For one reason or another we’ve never had enough room.”

“We could get a four-bedroomed house if we moved out to Moorside.”

“The only way you’ll get me to Moorside is to carry me in a coffin. Miles from anywhere, freezing cold in winter…”

“All right, all right, Connie. Anyway, let’s get to bed. Is our Kim in yet?”

“Not her, still, she’s got the back door key.”

Alec heard them move their chairs down in the kitchen and shot quickly back into his own bedroom. He switched off the light and looked out of the window. The railway arch loomed up against the skyline; the Tank, hidden in the dark shadows of the arch, could not be seen. But Alec knew it was there. He had his hideout, and his new friend Abu. Ginger Wallace, Mr Cartwright and all infidels would bite the dust from now on. Flash Bowden, Scourge of the Cosmos, Defender of the Faith, Keeper of the Kan, was on the warpath.

He tucked the can carefully under his pillow and went to sleep.