‘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.
I cycled to Artie’s house and when I got there Artie’s dad, Ray, aka ‘Mr Cake’, answered the huge oak door (with bronze cake-shaped door knocker) halfway through eating a bun.
‘Spike! You look sad – everything OK? Come in.’ I think that’s what he said anyway. It was hard to fully understand with all the cake in his mouth.
‘I’ve been sacked from my radio show,’ I said glumly. Just saying those words out loud caused a pain in my heart like I’d never felt before.
‘WHAT! Why? Did you play some of Artie’s records and put them all to sleep?’ Mr Cake said, still chewing that bun.
‘I don’t have any further comment at the moment,’ I answered. I’d heard troubled celebrities say this when hassled by the paparazzi. Mr Cake laughed out loud at this and a load of crumbs came flying out.
Sure enough, Artie was upstairs in his headphone heaven. His parents had converted the loft into a hangout for their only child. Up there was a massive TV about the size of our dining-room table and a pinball machine. The walls were lined with hundreds of records. Artie’s collection was more like a record library. Radio stations would have less. Most stations only seem to have one CD actually, as they just play the same songs over and over.
I walked over, yanked one of his headphones dramatically away from his ear and yelled, ‘THEY SACKED ME!’
Then I collapsed on to his bed. Artie stopped the record he was listening to. This he had to do with care and precision. You’d think he was a nuclear scientist handling plutonium and any sudden movement might blow the whole world up. Really, though, all it involves is lifting a needle from the record on the turntable. All in the time it takes to get your shoes on. When he could have just pressed PAUSE on his phone.
‘Spike, what are you talking about?’ Artie said as he stood over me.
‘Apparently, no one listens to my show.’ I put my head in my hands. I told him exactly what had happened, sparing no details. The owl took it all in. Then spoke.
‘So … you just give up now? Where’s the fight in you? Gone, just like that? Can’t mean that much to you then.’
‘I’ve been fired. From a volunteer job on hospital radio. How will I ever be a radio star now?’
‘By not giving up,’ said Artie.
‘Who’s giving up?’ said a voice from behind us.
My other best friend had arrived. She has a habit of appearing out of thin air. It’s as if she lives in another dimension and is beamed into our world from time to time. Her earth name is Holly. Elf-like in appearance, with piercing blue eyes that see right through you. My mum once said – a bit cruelly – that her ears stick out so much she ‘looks like a monkey’.
However, no one would ever say anything like this to Holly’s face as that would be a HUGE mistake. Holly may not be one of the super-popular girls at school, but she is seriously tough. A brown belt in karate, she even takes part in big competitions and is unbeaten in eight fights. I once asked her why she didn’t use her skills on the kids at school when they made monkey noises behind her back.
She looked at me intently and said,