Читать книгу Finding Cherokee Brown - Siobhan Curham - Страница 12

Agatha Dashwood says that ‘if one is to become a proper writer one must write at every available opportunity’. So I’ve decided to take her advice and do some writing on the train on the way up to Spitalfields. Well, hopefully I’m on the way up to Spitalfields. I’ve never been there before so I’m not exactly sure which station it’s nearest to, so I’m heading east and hoping for the best!! And at least I’m not in school. I couldn’t stay there a minute longer after what happened in registration.

It’s so weird to think that I used to love going to school, that I used to be one of those geeky kids who always got their homework done on time and actually enjoyed learning new stuff. I’ll never forget the day I discovered there were minus numbers – I was so excited there was something that came before zero! And the English lesson when I read Anne Frank’s diary for the first time and realised that books aren’t just there to entertain you, they can actually change your whole way of thinking about the world.

Now when the teachers are telling us stuff all I hear is a drone. Kind of like when a radio hasn’t been tuned in properly and you only catch the odd word here and there. The only people I hear loud and clear these days are Tricia and her idiot friends. I hate being scared of them (I’m not going to put this bit in my book – no one likes a heroine who’s a big old wuss), but it’s just that there are loads of them and only one of me. And I’m so short and skinny too. I’m not short and skinny in my daydreams though. In my daydreams I’m a ninja with all the moves. And when Tricia leans forwards and says something like, ‘How does it feel knowing you’re gonna be a virgin your whole life cos no one wants to sleep with a cripple?’ I do a backflip off my chair, land on top of her desk and kick her so hard in the face her head comes flying off.

Don’t think I’ll put that bit in my book either – I’ll sound like a psycho!

Oh no, some freak has just got on the train and sat down opposite me and started talking out loud. I hope he isn’t a terrorist bomber. He isn’t carrying a rucksack, just a tatty old carrier bag. How big are bombs? Can they fit inside a carrier bag? I saw a programme on Channel 4 once about terrorists in the Middle East and one of them blew up a bus with a suicide bomb clipped to his belt.

This person isn’t wearing a belt. I just checked and he saw me looking and now it looks as if I was perving at him. Oh, God – how embarrassing. I’m just going to write in this notebook from now on and not look in his direction at all. Well, maybe I’ll take a few sneaky glances, just to make sure he isn’t trying to set off his bomb.

I suppose I ought to write a description of him, just in case he does turn out to be a terrorist and I need to give evidence. I saw an episode of Crimewatch once where this policeman said that in ninety-nine per cent of crimes, witnesses can’t even remember the colour of a criminal’s hair. Well, I guess the one per cent who do remember must be writers. Agatha Dashwood says that writers have specially heightened observational skills. They have to, to make their stories ‘truly come alive’.

NOTES FOR POLICE INVESTIGATION

The potential suspect has greasy, dark brown hair. I’m not sure if it’s the grease making it so dark, so it could be a lighter shade of brown when he washes it. He looks pretty old. About thirty, I’d say. And he has a big belly, about the size of one of those green watermelons that are red on the inside, with loads of pips that you end up having to spit out all over your plate. The rest of him isn’t fat though, so it kind of looks like he’s pregnant. But obviously he isn’t pregnant cos he’s definitely a man. Unless he’s like one of those women on Jerry Springer who are ‘tragically trapped in the wrong body’. I don’t think he is though – he has too much stubble.

Oh, crap! He saw me looking at him again.

He has mad, staring eyes. And he likes to mutter a lot. I can’t understand what he’s saying though.

Oh no, he’s reaching into his bag. Should I pull the emergency cord? Do they even have emergency cords on the tube? It’s too late, he’s taking something out. What if it’s a gun, not a bomb? What if he shoots me?

False alarm. It’s a book. It’s called One Hundred Ways to Ice a Cake. He isn’t a crazed terrorist at all – he’s a crazed cake-maker!

He’s stopped muttering now and he’s started to read.

I can’t believe there are actually one hundred different ways to ice a cake.

I would have done something though – if he had pulled out a gun or a bomb. I wouldn’t have just sat here. Because I want to write a book. And I don’t want to have to make anything up to make my book exciting. I was thinking about it on the way to the station. The reason I love Anne Frank’s diary and the Little House on the Prairie so much is because they’re true stories. All the cool things the heroines did actually happened in real life. And that’s how I want my book to be. I’ll still use Agatha Dashwood’s book to help me, but I’m going to stick to the facts. And that way I’ll have to make my life interesting. And I’ll have to become the kind of heroine I like to read about. The kind of person who notices the hair colour of a potential criminal and stands up to bullies and isn’t afraid to fight back.