Just Tricking! (5 page)

‘I like it,' I say, ‘but I'm not very good at it.' I'm trying hard not to panic.

‘Ah!' says Mr Bainbridge. ‘But practice makes perfect! If a fellow really wants to do something badly enough and he's prepared to apply himself for long enough, then . . .'

‘Yes dear,' says Mrs Bainbridge. ‘That's all very well, but perhaps Andy doesn't want to be a painter. What are your favourite subjects, Andy?'

I'm trying hard to concentrate on the conversation, but it's not easy. The roach has relocated itself underneath my left arm. I can hardly breathe. It feels like it's burrowing into my armpit.

‘I guess I like English the best. Not too crazy about maths or science.'

‘No, no, no!' says Mr Bainbridge. ‘You don't want to neglect your maths and science. Keep your options open, that's what I say. Science and technology – that's where the opportunities are.'

Mrs Bainbridge rolls her eyes.

I'd feel sorry for her if I wasn't feeling so sorry for myself. I only have to put up with his bull for one night. She has to live with it.

The roach has finished playing in my armpit and now I can feel it crawling down my chest. I can't stand it any more.

That damn roach could be laying eggs in my belly button for all I know. They're probably incubating in my stomach right now. They'll hatch inside me and burst out of my chest, like the face-hugger in ‘Alien.'

I ask for directions to the toilet and excuse myself from the table.

It's roach-killing time.

The bathroom is upstairs. I snib the door behind me and yank off my T-shirt. It flies across the room, skims the top of the toilet bowl, and lands in a heap beside it. But the roach is not on my chest.

Or my back.

Uh-oh – not a moment to lose!

I kick my shoes off, and peel off my trousers and jocks in one swift movement.

I'm completely naked – except for my socks – but I still can't find the roach.

There are only two places it can be – one of which is too horrible to even think about.

I study the pile of clothes carefully. The roach emerges from the bottom of my jeans. It's creeping up the left leg. I pick up one of my shoes. Very slowly – so that the roach doesn't notice – and raise it high above my head.

The roach reaches the bottom button of my fly.

I take a deep breath.

But something holds me back. If I smash it right there, I'm going to end up with its pasty white guts splattered all over the front of my jeans.

Not cool.

Might look like I've had an embarrassing accident. I put my shoe down slowly. The roach crawls back inside my jeans.

There's got to be a better way than splattering.

I look around for inspiration.

There's a window above the toilet. It's high and very small, but it might do. I could climb up there, hold the jeans outside the window and shake the cockroach off.

No sweat. No splatter. No roach.

I pick up the jeans, taking care to hold the waist and the trouser legs closed so that the roach can't escape. I shut the lid of the toilet and use it to step up onto the cistern. The window is now level with my head.

I lean against the wall for balance and slide the window open as far as it will go. I push the jeans out of the window and shake them as hard as I can.

Suddenly, the roach is on my hand. I get such a fright, I drop the jeans, lose my footing and crash down into the bath.

I feel like lying here, closing my eyes, and pretending it's all just a bad dream – but I have to find the roach before it disappears again. I get out of the bath and study myself in the mirror.

The roach is sitting on top of my head.

This time I know exactly what to do. It's not going to be pleasant, but it's the only way. This is one tricky cockroach and I can't afford to take any chances.

I go back to the toilet and get down onto my knees. I lift the lid and bend lower and lower until my head is right inside the bowl. Then I take a deep breath, reach up and push the flush button.

It's horrible.

Toilet water up my nose.

Toilet water in my ears.

Toilet water in my mouth.

Finally, the flushing stops. I sit back up.

It's gone.

But so are my jeans.

I can't go back to the table without them. What would I say? I can just imagine the conversation:

MRS BAINBRIDGE: Where are your pants, Andy?

ME: Oh, I accidentally dropped them out of the bathroom window, Mrs Bainbridge.

MR BAINBRIDGE: Isn't that annoying! It happens to me all the time. Why don't you have a look in my wardrobe and see if there's anything there that fits you?

Yeah, right. Dream on. Meanwhile, back in the real world, I'm naked from the waist down.

There's no choice, really, but to climb out the window and fetch my jeans. I don't fancy a month without pocket-money.

I climb back on top of the cistern and lean across to the tiny window. It's going to be a tight squeeze, but since I haven't eaten any dinner yet, I reckon I'll make it.

I grip the narrow ledge and pull myself up and halfway out.

It's a long way to the ground. I didn't realise I was so high up.

But I'm in no danger of falling.

I'm stuck.

I can't go forward and I can't go back.

And to make matters worse, there's someone banging on the door.

‘It's taken!' I yell.

‘Is everything all right?' calls Mum. ‘You've been in there an awfully long time!'

‘Yes,' I call. ‘I'll be out in a second.'

‘He's not answering!' says Mum. ‘I think there's something wrong!'

She can't hear me because my head is outside the house.

Then I hear Mr Bainbridge's voice.

‘Stand back, everyone. I'm going to break the door down.'

Oh great. My hero.

I hear a huge crash.

Mr Bainbridge is no muscle man, but the flimsy lock snaps like it's Arnie Schwarzenegger himself out there.

‘Oh my God!' says Mr Bainbridge.

For probably the first time in his life, Mr Bainbridge has taken the Lord's name in vain, but I guess the last thing he expected to see was my bare bum staring at him from his bathroom window.