Canyon Chaos (3 page)

Jimmy stared into his soggy cereal. He always ate breakfast with Grandpa – porridge and mashed bananas for Grandpa, cornflakes for Jimmy.

But not today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. In fact, Jimmy hadn’t seen Grandpa for days. He’d spoken to him through the shed door. He’d left cups of tea on the doorstep. He’d stood outside and listened to the banging and clanking as Grandpa worked on his racer. It was the first thing Jimmy heard in the morning and the last thing he heard at night. It couldn’t be long before the neighbours started complaining.

Jimmy was thrilled that his grandpa was building him a robot racer. But he was also a bit worried: a bit worried that Grandpa hadn’t seen daylight for days, a bit worried that he was going to wake up and find it had all been a strange dream
...
and a
lot
worried about driving a robot racer.

The day before, Grandpa’s taxi had disappeared. In the morning it had been parked outside the house as usual. But that afternoon, when he’d got back from school, the taxi was gone. He guessed Grandpa had sold it to pay for the racer.

What if Grandpa does all this work and spends all our money building an incredible robot and I turn out to be a useless driver?
Jimmy wondered.
What if I crash? What if I come last?

It all made him feel a bit sick.

* * *

When he got to school that morning, the first thing Jimmy saw was Horace Pelly in the yard, talking loudly to his friends.

“The engineers at NASA are working very hard on my racer,” announced Horace. “My dad’s told them it’s only a week and three days until the qualifying race and it’s got to be ready in time. My dad says he doesn’t care what it costs as long as it’s the best robot racer the world has ever seen. They’re putting in all kinds of extras. I’ve got a rotograbber and jet-thrusters just like Crusher and lots and lots of other amazing gadgets, but they’re so top secret I’m not allowed to talk about them.”

Jimmy wandered past, trying not to look interested.

“Hey, Jimmy,” called Horace’s sneaky, smug voice behind him. Jimmy stopped and turned round. “Come over here,” said Horace.

Jimmy froze, his freckly face glowing scarlet as it always did when he was feeling nervous. “Why?” he asked.

“I want to tell you about my robot racer,” said Horace.

Jimmy shuffled over. “I know about your racer,” he said. “I heard you the first time.”

“Well!” huffed Horace. “I thought you’d be interested. But I suppose it must be very disappointing for you. I know I’d be
gutted
if I was too poor to buy my own robot and enter the race.” He chuckled to himself.

Jimmy wanted to say something. He wanted to say, “My grandpa’s building my racer. He invented the world’s first robot and would have been a world-famous robotics expert if his friend, Lord Leadpipe, hadn’t stolen the idea and made trillions of pounds out of it.” But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word.

“Anyway,” said Horace, turning back to the admiring faces gathered around him, “let me tell you a little bit more about my racer. My dad thought it should be green, but I said no, it’s got be black. Shiny metallic black. With chrome trim and leather—”

The bell rang. Jimmy and Horace and everyone else wandered into school, Horace still chattering away about his racer.

“All right, Jimmy?” said Max as they sat down for registration.

Jimmy nodded. He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the qualifying race – and every time he thought about it, his stomach fluttered and his brain did a somersault.

After registration, Jimmy tried to concentrate on his maths. Up at the front of the class, the teacher was writing out complicated sums on the board and saying something about long division and square roots. But all Jimmy could hear was Horace boasting at the next table.

“Do you know there are hundreds of qualifying races,” Horace was saying. “They’re taking place in the United Kingdom, France, America, Germany, Japan, Australia – all over the world, all at the same time, with the fastest in each country going through to the Robot Races finals. My racer will win the one in Smedingham by miles, and my father says that no one in the world will be faster than me. They might as well give me my place in the Championship now.”

Jimmy let himself daydream about what it would be like to stand on the winner’s podium at the qualifier, the crowd cheering, the press cameras flashing, the TV interviewers fighting to ask him questions.

“
Jimmy,
” they were shouting, “
is it true your grandpa built your racer?
”

But before he could answer, the dream was shattered by Horace’s whiny voice.

“It’s such a shame you can’t take part in the qualifier, Jimmy. I mean, obviously you wouldn’t win because I’m going to be the winner, but it would be nice for you to have a go. Maybe you could get a pair of robot roller skates. Could you afford a pair of those? I might have an old pair I don’t need any more
...
You’re welcome to borrow them.” Horace sniggered and the others joined in.

Jimmy bit his lip.
I’d probably stand a better of finishing on a pair of roller skates than with Grandpa’s robot
, he thought glumly.

At break time, he and Max found a quiet corner in an empty classroom so that they could talk about the Smedingham qualifier.

“I bet my dad would give you a lift,” said Max, “if you want to go. You are going, aren’t you?”

“I think so,” said Jimmy casually. He wondered whether to tell Max the truth – but he couldn’t quite believe it himself. What if he told everyone he was going to enter the qualifier and then he didn’t? He’d never hear the end of it. So he decided to keep quiet.

Suddenly, in the distance, he heard a scream. He looked up.

“What was that?” he asked.

Horace was on the other side of the playground, lying next to his scooter and shouting for help. He was surrounded by his friends, all standing around smirking and doing nothing.

Jimmy looked at Max and the two of them ran over.

Horace was squirming on the floor, holding his leg and whimpering to himself. “I fell off my scooter,” he whined, “and I think I’ve broken my leg!”

“I’ll go and get a teacher,” said Max.

“No!” shouted Horace, sitting up suddenly, then sagging down again. “Wait. Before you go, I want to ask you a favour. I’m not going to be able to drive in the qualifier next Saturday with a broken leg. Jimmy, would
you
be my substitute? Would you drive my brand-new robot racer for me?”

Jimmy stared at Horace in amazement.

“I—” he began, his mind racing. What would Grandpa say? “Really?” said Jimmy. “Do you really mean it?”

“
No!
” said Horace, jumping to his feet and laughing like a horse with whooping cough. “No, of course I don’t mean it!” he jeered. “Got you, didn’t I?”

He ran off and everyone else rushed after him. Jimmy watched open-mouthed as they raced around the playground, laughing and shouting until they had to stop to get their breath back. Jimmy sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and went off to a quiet corner, the sounds of Horace’s laughter following him all the way.

* * *

A week went by and still there was no sign of Grandpa – or Jimmy’s racer. As he made his way down the street towards his school on Friday morning, the sound of banging and crashing from the shed getting and fainter and fainter in the distance, Jimmy began to wonder if working twenty-four hours a day was healthy for someone Grandpa’s age. He was old enough to retire, after all.

“Grandpa, are you OK?” Jimmy had called through the shed door as he put a cup of tea and a jam sandwich down in front of it.

“I’m fine, my boy,” had come the cheery reply.

“The qualifying races are on Saturday, remember.” Jimmy had said to the shed door. There had been a moment’s silence – and then the hammering and the clanking had started again.

As he stepped into the playground, Jimmy saw Horace and his usual group of friends standing by the main gate.

“NASA delivered my racer last night,” Horace announced.

The crowd of admiring faces around him gasped. Even Jimmy wandered over to listen in.

“He’s called Zoom because he’s so fast. I was driving him round my garden – which is very big, as you know,” Horace explained. “My dad says he had to pay NASA a fortune to get Zoom ready in time, but he’s worth every penny. Who’s going to come and watch the qualifying race to see me win? I expect the whole class will be there – except you, Jimmy. My dad says your grandpa’s so old and blind and deaf he’s not allowed to drive that old taxi any more. Will you have to get the bus? Can you afford it?”

Jimmy suddenly felt himself getting very hot. His cheeks flushed and he clenched his fists. “What if you don’t win?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Horace stared at Jimmy for a moment. “Don’t you understand?” he said very slowly, as though he was talking to a simpleton. “My racer was built by NASA. Even a fool like you and that old man you live with should be able to work that out.”

Jimmy felt like he was going to explode. He’d never felt this angry, and for once he stood up to Horace. “Your racer,” he snapped, “was built by NASA. But it’s going to be driven by an idiot.”

And before Horace could say another word Jimmy spun round and stormed out of the school gates and headed down the street.

* * *

Jimmy ran all the way back home, straight through the house and into the garden where he plonked himself down on the broken old deckchair Grandpa liked to sit in on sunny days. He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that were threatening to trickle down his face.

“Hello, boy! What are you doing home? School’s only just started,” asked Grandpa.

Jimmy looked up. Grandpa was standing in the shed doorway, smoke billowing out from behind him, his hair pointing in every direction and a lop-sided grin all over his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Grandpa. “You look like you swallowed a rotten fish.”

“I didn’t swallow one,” said Jimmy. “I just go to school with one.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Grandpa.

“That boy at school called Horace.” Jimmy replied miserably.

“Ah.” Grandpa nodded. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

“He’s entering the qualifying race too, and he goes on and on about winning and he said stuff and...”

“Don’t you listen to him!” said Grandpa sternly, pulling Jimmy out of the deckchair and giving him a big hug. “There’s only one boy who can win that qualifier and he’s the boy who’s wiping his nose on my overalls right now.”

Jimmy laughed.

“Here,” said Grandpa, digging in his back pocket and bringing out a grubby, oil-spattered handkerchief. “Wipe your nose on that.”

Jimmy took the rag and gave his nose a snotty blow.

“Now get yourself to the kitchen,” Grandpa ordered, “and get the kettle on. If we’ve only got two days until the qualifier, we’d better get a move on!”

Jimmy froze. “Grandpa, the qualifier’s tomorrow,” he said softly.

There was a long pause before Grandpa spoke. “The qualifier’s tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Tomorrow. Saturday.”

“You mean it’s Friday today?” asked Grandpa in astonishment. “What happened to Thursday?”

“Thursday happened yesterday. Remember?” said Jimmy, prickly sweat beginning to gather on his skin. “And today’s Friday and tomorrow’s Saturday
...
the day of the qualifier.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Is there another qualifier next week?” asked Grandpa eventually.

Jimmy stared at Grandpa, then took a quick peek through the shed door which stood ajar. On the floor were piles and piles of metal, wire and car parts – parts that didn’t look like they belonged on any robot racer Jimmy had ever seen.

Grandpa was smiling hopefully at Jimmy.

Jimmy shook his head. “No, Grandpa,” he said frantically. “It’s eight a.m. tomorrow at Smedingham high street
...
or never.”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes, and pinched his lips together. Then he nodded, walked into the shed and pulled the door shut.

The clanking and hammering started again, twice as loud and twice as fast.

Jimmy woke up to find Grandpa standing next to his bed. It was barely light outside.

“What time is it?” mumbled Jimmy.

“Six o’clock,” said Grandpa cheerily.

“Six o’clock!” grumbled Jimmy. “Six o’clock in the morning? What’s going on?”

Grandpa smiled. His eyes were red, his face was pale and his usually wild white hair sat flat on his head. But his moustache was bobbing up and down excitedly. “Come with me,” he whispered.

Still in his pyjamas, Jimmy followed Grandpa downstairs, through the kitchen, out to the garden and over to the shed. With every step, he felt more nervous. He could feel the goose bumps on his arms, and a shiver ran down his spine as Grandpa reached for the door handle.

As he stepped through from the natural light of the morning sun to the fluorescent glow of Grandpa’s workshop, his vision blurred for a second. But as his eyes grew used to the brightness, he saw a huge lumpy plastic sheet with something big underneath it standing in the middle of the shed.

“Jimmy,” said Grandpa proudly, “I’d like you to meet Cabbie.” With a flick of his moustache and a flash of his eyes, Grandpa tugged the plastic sheet off Jimmy’s new robot racer.

Jimmy stared at it.

‘New’ wasn’t really the right word. For a while, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It appeared to be Grandpa’s taxi, but with dull grey, metal patches welded onto it. The longer Jimmy stared, the worse it got. The front of the taxi looked like someone had hit it two or three hundred times with a hammer. The roof of the taxi appeared to have three upside-down dustbin lids bolted to it. And where the back doors used to be, on either side was a tangle of pipes and wires and tubes.

“What do you think?” asked Grandpa excitedly.

Jimmy tried to think. He looked at the car. He looked at Grandpa. He looked at the car again.

I can’t go outside in that!
he thought, his heart sinking.
I’ll be laughed out of Smedingham when it breaks down after twenty metres.

He thought about sitting next to Horace Pelly on the start line with all the other children from school laughing at him. The image of Horace braying like an over-excited donkey made him shudder. He turned back to Grandpa, not quite sure what to say.

“I, er—” Jimmy began.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” said Grandpa, beaming. “Introduce yourself.”

Jimmy looked sideways at Grandpa and wondered what he was talking about. For a second he thought that all those long hours locked away may have made Grandpa imagine things.

“Say hello to Cabbie!” Grandpa insisted, pointing at his creation. “He’s fully programmed with an intelligence-compiling processor, so the more you talk to him, the more he learns.”

“Has it got
...
personality technology?” asked Jimmy nervously.

“Er
...
yes, probably,” replied Grandpa, smiling uncertainly. “And Cabbie is not an
it
,” he added, giving Jimmy a pat on the back. “He’s a
he
. So say hello to him.”

Jimmy looked at the machine and coughed. “Hello, Cabbie,” he said quietly.

They waited. Nothing happened, and Jimmy’s heart sank.

“I don’t understand it,” said Grandpa, reaching for a screwdriver and chewing the handle thoughtfully. “He should have said hello back. Maybe he will when he’s ready.”

Jimmy looked disappointedly up and down his racer. He knew he shouldn’t feel so let down. He couldn’t expect Grandpa to build a racer like the real ones – they just didn’t have the money. Grandpa was a genius – but he wasn’t a magician.

“Right!” said Grandpa, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “It’s nearly seven a.m. The race starts at eight in Smedingham
...
which doesn’t give us long to get you ready. Come on, Jimmy,” said Grandpa, heading out of the shed towards the house.

Jimmy shuffled after him.

“You make breakfast,” called Grandpa, “while I find a nice surprise for you.”

Jimmy tried to smile.

What next?

* * *

Back in the house, Grandpa disappeared into the cupboard under the stairs while Jimmy put the kettle on and made yet another plate of jam sandwiches. He was beginning to feel sick and his hands were shaking. He had been feeling nervous about the race, but now he’d seen Cabbie he was terrified.

What am I going to do?
he thought.
I can’t tell Grandpa that I don’t want to drive that old rustbucket, not after all the hard work he’s put in. I’ll have to give it a go...

But then Horace Pelly’s horsey face crept into his mind again, the boy laughing himself to death and making fun of Jimmy in front of Max and all his friends.

Grandpa was now deep in the cupboard under the stairs, muttering to himself. Occasionally something would come flying out: an old Christmas tree, a broom with no bristles, a chair with three legs.

“Aha!” came his voice from the depths of the cupboard and Grandpa suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway with dust and cobwebs strung from the corners of his moustache to his ears. He was holding a battered crash helmet. “This was mine when I was just seventeen,” he said, carefully placing it on the kitchen table. “And now it’s yours, Jimmy.” Grandpa patted the crash helmet fondly. A cloud of dust and flakes of paint landed on Jimmy’s jam sandwich.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” said Jimmy with as much enthusiasm as he could find.

Grandpa placed the helmet ceremoniously on Jimmy’s head like he was crowning the next king of the world.

“Come on then, Jimmy,” said Grandpa. “Let’s go and win that race.”

“What about my breakfast?” asked Jimmy.

Grandpa looked at the kitchen clock. “No time!” he said. “You can eat jam sandwiches any day of the week, but you’ll only get one shot at qualifying for the Robot Races. Come on!”

They hurried back to the shed. Grandpa opened Cabbie’s door and Jimmy climbed in.

There were buttons, switches, levers and dials covering every centimetre of the dashboard, on the doors to his left and right and even over the roof above his head. Jimmy’s eyes widened as he looked around. Cabbie might look like a scrapheap on the outside, but on the inside it was like being in the cockpit of a robo-rocket.

“How do I—” he began, looking up. But Grandpa had already climbed onto his rusty old bicycle and was pedalling furiously out of the shed door, heading for the main road.

“I’ll see you at the finish line!” he called over his shoulder.

Jimmy glanced back down at the hundreds of buttons, knobs and levers that lined every inch of Cabbie. “But
...
but I don’t even know how to make it go!” he said to himself.

“Go?” said an excited electronic voice from somewhere behind the dashboard. “Of course! Why didn’t you say so?”

From all around Jimmy came a whirring noise which grew higher and louder as the racer powered itself up. A red button was flashing right in front of Jimmy.

“Am I supposed to press this?” Jimmy asked nervously, not sure if he should expect an answer from the voice or not. There was no reply. Jimmy shrugged, then reached out a finger, took a deep breath and gently pressed the button.

“Whoopeeeeee!” cried the voice and, with a deafening roar, Cabbie lurched forward at an incredible speed, hurling Jimmy back into his seat. He just had time to do up his seat belt before they crashed through the shed doors, out into the garden, through the neighbour’s fence and onto the road.

They bounced down the kerb and Jimmy had to turn the steering wheel sharply to avoid hitting the wheelie bins belonging to Mrs Cranky across the street.

“Come on,” encouraged Cabbie. “Put your foot down. Do you want to be in this race or not?”

For a second, Jimmy’s foot hovered over the accelerator pedal as he thought how crazy this all was. He’d never even tried to drive a car before and now he was at the wheel of a real robot racer.

“Here goes,” he said. He squashed his foot to the floor and Cabbie’s engine roared.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHH!” Jimmy yelled as they exploded out of the shed.