Collins Modern Classics

The Third-Class Genie

by

Robert Leeson

Illustrated by Jason Ford

Contents

Cover

Title Page

1. Disasters Two, Triumphs Nil

2. “Elephant’s Nest up a Rhubarb Tree”

3. Are You Sitting Comfortably?

4. Keeper of the Kan

5. Bowden the Beast

6. Do-It-Yourself, Baghdad Style

7. High Noon at Bugletown Comprehensive

8. Make with the Shekels

9. Abu in High Spirits

10. Flash Bowden – Night Rider

11. Abu Puts In an Appearance

12. “Poor Little Ginger”

13. We’re Being Followed

14. The Siege of the Crane House

15. Dad Makes a Speech

16. Abu Puts In a Disappearance

17. Ma’asalaama!

Postscript

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

ALEC’S ROUTE HOME

Chapter One DISASTERS TWO, TRIUMPHS NIL

MONDAYS ARE BAD enough, any week. But this one broke all records. Alec knew, because he kept a score every day in his head with triumphs on one side and disasters on the other. Today disasters were away down the field while the other team was still in the changing room.

Late as usual, Alec trundled into the schoolyard to join the tail end of line-up. He found himself next to Sam Taylor, which was not a good start to the day. Sam was as thick as a plank and nasty with it, but today he wasn’t interested in Alec. His spotty face gleaming, he was studying someone in the line-up, a new lad, tall, broad-shouldered, with a boxer’s nose. His face was brown but his short, bristly hair was light red.

“Hey, Ginger,” said Sam Taylor.

The boy looked away and said nothing.

“I’m talking to you, Ginger.”

The boy turned.

“My name’s Wallace, Spotty.”

“Oh, beg pardon, Mr Wallace.” Sam’s voice took on a painful, affected accent. “Tell me, Mr Wallace, how does a gentleman from your part of the Commonwealth come to have ginger hair?”

This time there was no answer. The boy’s back was turned once more.

But one of Spotty’s mates muttered, “Must have been a red-headed sailor in port.” Before he could stop himself, Alec started to snigger. He caught a ferocious look from the red-headed boy and covered up his mouth. Sam and his mates were looking away.

“Very funny, eh?” said Ginger.

Alec began to protest when someone loomed behind him.

It was Monty Cartwright, senior master and keeper of the punishment book, famed for his black beret and habit of ranging the schoolyard as though planning military manoeuvres.

“Quiet in the line-up, Bowden. For someone your size you make an awful lot of noise.”

Alec went glumly into school. He knew it was not his day, and he could feel more trouble on the way. He was right: by half-time, disasters had one in the net.

As he wandered into the yard at break, his way was barred by Ginger Wallace.

“Hey, Skinny.”

That hurt even if it was true. Alec looked from side to side. There was no escape and no support in sight. He fixed his eye on Ginger’s half-knotted tie, because looking up into his face made him feel smaller still.

“I’ve seen you down Boner’s Street, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Alec replied before he could stop himself. “My mate lives down there.”

“Does he? What number?”

“Number 85.”

“No, he doesn’t! We live at Number 85.”

“Well, he used to, but he’s moved out to Moorside.” That was true, worse luck. Moorside was six miles away and Alec felt friendless.

“OK, so listen, Skinny. You don’t come down Boner’s Street any more, see?”

Alec swallowed. “I’ll…”

Ginger interrupted. “You come down Boner’s Street, Skinny, and you’ll get thumped. It’s as simple as that.” Ginger walked away, hands in pockets, leaving Alec half scared, half angry.

Later that afternoon was double History and Mr Bakewell let Alec work on his Crusader project. It was nearly finished and Alec had got a lot of fun out of it, but today his mind wasn’t on the Crusaders. It was grappling with this latest disaster.

It certainly was a disaster. Boner’s Street was his secret short cut home. Everyone else thought Boner’s Street came to a dead end by the railway arches, but Alec knew differently. There was more to his secret than just a short cut. No, Ginger Wallace could take a running jump! He was going home down Boner’s.

“Hey,” whispered Ronnie Carter who sat just in front of him. “That’s a sign of old age, talking to yourself.”

“Oh, belt up,” said Alec.

“Less noise at the back there,” warned Mr Bakewell.

Alec gritted his teeth and returned to the Third Crusade. A thought struck him. It was about one hundred yards from the school gate to Boner’s Street along School Lane and, if he got away from school sharpish, he might be able to get through Boner’s before Ginger Wallace put the barricades up. It was worth a try. He began craftily to slide his books and his project folder into his school bag.

When the pips sounded over the tannoy for the end of school, Alec was away like a rocket and across the schoolyard with the first leavers. At the gate into School Lane he screeched to a halt. Ginger Wallace was already there, sitting on a wall.

“Hey, Skinny,” he called. “Don’t forget what I said. You stay away from Boner’s.”

“Oh, leave him,” said a tall, bronze-haired girl who was standing next to Ginger.

“Ma wants us home early,” she added. Ginger shrugged and they walked away down School Lane. Biting his Up, Alec watched them go while around him the hordes poured out of the schoolyard into the road. Soon Ginger and his sister were out of sight.

Alec waited a few moments, then with his school bag swinging he launched himself across School Lane into Upshaw Street. He ran until the street ended by the high canal wall, then he turned left into a narrow lane, slowing his pace.

This alley, lined with derelict houses and broken-down workshops, led back into Boner’s Street. Above him loomed the railway arches. Most of them were boarded up solidly, with thick tarred planking, which gave the streets a gloomy look. The whole area looked grim, with some parts pulled down, and other parts falling down. Only Boner’s Street was more or less intact, with two rows of old three-storey houses, stone steps down to the road and battered stone ornaments on the parapets.

Like Billy the Kid sneaking out of jail while the Sheriff’s back is turned, Alec paused by the corner of Boner’s and looked round. There was no sign of Ginger Wallace or anyone else coming from the School Lane end. The way seemed clear.

But no. A sudden whistling, squeaking sound made him jump back. He skipped over a low wall at the street corner and crouched down while the squeaking noise came nearer. He peeped over the wall. An old lady was pushing a broken-down pram along the pavement. Alec breathed out. It was only Miss Morris with her load of washing. She was Boner’s Street’s oldest inhabitant and they had both seen better days. She trundled along dressed in a bright green turban, plastic mac and workman’s boots, murmuring to herself. Alec kept out of sight. Miss Morris was an inquisitive old lady and she could easily mention to Mum that one Alec Bowden had been spotted lurking in a suspicious manner near the arches. That could be disastrous.

As she disappeared, Alec got up to cross Boner’s Street but flopped down again. He flattened himself to the ground. This meant getting brick dust all over his school trousers, but that was just too bad. He had to stay hidden because the front door of Number 85 opposite had opened and Ginger Wallace stood at the top of the steps, looking up and down the street.

Something was digging into Alec’s stomach, half a brick or a can. It hurt, but he dared not move because just then, Ginger crossed the street and stopped only a couple of yards away on the other side of the wall. Alec tried to make himself smaller but whatever was digging into him was killing him. He wriggled a hand under his body and pulled. The object moved and the pain eased. Ginger Wallace, whistling, charged off down the road.

Alec stood up and looked at the object in his hand. It was a can after all, a beer can with a new label. He started to throw it away, then stopped. There was something strange about the can. It was sealed, but it felt light, as though it were empty. How could a can be sealed and yet empty? It was like one of the locked room mysteries.

The road was empty now, except for Alec. He stuffed the intriguing can into his jacket pocket and brushed most of the brick dust off his trousers. Then he picked up his bag and moved slowly, stealthily down the pavement to the bottom of Boner’s. Here the railway arch spanning the street towered high above him. Like most of the other arches it was boarded up with thick, blackened planking and nailed to the planks was an old notice which read: BUGLETOWN ORDNANCE – KEEP OUT. Alec began to count the planks until he reached the fourteenth from the right. A few seconds later Boner’s Street was empty again. Alec worked this disappearing trick every afternoon on his way home from school. It was simple, if you knew how. The fourteenth plank was loose enough for him to push it back about nine inches and wriggle through to the other side. There are some advantages in being skinny.

Once through the fence and under the railway arch, Alec was in another world known only to himself. In front of him lay a strip of land, overgrown with elder bushes and rosebay willow herbs, littered with piles of moss-covered bricks, fallen chimneys and rotted rafters. At the centre stood a long low building with great holes in its roof. It was the ruin of an old factory, known locally as the “Tank”, though Alec had no idea why. On one side it was cut off by the railway arches and on the other ran the canal, disused now, its black ooze topped with green weed. In one direction the canal vanished under the railway arches; in the other it disappeared among the tangled bushes towards the goods yard and the low level railway, where Alec could hear the distant whistle of shunting engines.

Beyond the canal stood a tall wooden fence, as thick and solid as that which blocked the arches, and beyond the fence lay the estate where Alec’s family lived.

From his home you looked down a slope over the allotments and all you could see was this tall fence. People living on the estate, Mum in particular, liked it that way. They didn’t want to know about the Tank because it was an eyesore. But Alec didn’t care. The Tank was his fortress, his space ship, his hideout where he recovered when life’s disasters became too much for him.

To get home, Alec had to cross the canal. He could take the triumphal route, clambering up over the high iron gantry which once supported an overhead crane. Or he could go by the easier route, the one he took when he felt low. Twenty yards down the canal from the main Tank building lay a sunken barge, its timbers just showing above the slime. Alec had fixed loose planks from one timber to another to make a bridge. Today that was his chosen route.

He stopped by the main building to get his breath back and to make one more effort to get the brick dust off his trousers. As he brushed his clothes, his hand knocked against the can in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and studied it again. It was definitely unopened. The metal seal was intact, but it was as light as a feather. He shook it, but no swishing sounds came forth. He lifted it up to his ear like a seashell. Then he nearly dropped it with surprise. He heard a fantastic sound, not like surf on a distant shore, but like snoring on a nearby bed.

Snoring? Alec took a good grip, shook the can and held it to his ear again. This time there was silence, but he had heard a noise. There was something funny about the can, without a doubt. The only one way to satisfy his curiosity was to open it; though perhaps he could save that as a treat for later on.

While he hesitated, his mind was made up for him. From the railway arch came the rumble of a train and a long drawn-out blast from its hooter: “Da-da-da-daaaa”. Alec stuffed the can in his pocket, picked up his bag and ran down to the canal. That signal meant only one thing. Dad was bringing the 3.30 diesel from Manchester into Bugletown Station. “Da-da-da-daaa” was a message to Mum: “Put the kettle on, I’ll be home by five o’clock.” It meant the time was already twenty-to-five and if Flash Bowden wasn’t in re-entry orbit soon, there’d be a cosmic disaster.

And there was.

In his haste to cross the canal, Alec never noticed that one of his planks was out of place, or rather, he noticed it as his foot was on the way down. He did an imitation jungle dance in the air, as he tried to jump over to the farther side, but the distance was too great. One foot landed safely on the bank but the other plunged down into five fathoms of black, green, greasy canal gunge.

“Oh, Nora,” groaned Alec. “Disasters two, triumphs nil.”

Chapter Two “ELEPHANT’S NEST UP A RHUBARB TREE”

KNEE-DEEP IN the canal, Alec grabbed wildly for the weeds and grass that grew on the bank. He lost hold of his school bag. His first clutch was on a bunch of nettles. He yelled, dropped back and grabbed again. This time, he dragged himself on to the bank with a great heave and sat down to work out how much damage had been done. It was a disaster all right. His trouser leg was coated in thick greasy slime up to the knee and so were his sock and trainer. He had to admit that he smelt terrible. He suddenly saw his bag slowly sinking out of sight into the ghastly depths of the canal. Lying flat on the towpath, he stretched out his arm and just managed to reach the handle and pull the bag out. The canal, reluctant to let go, made a rude, sucking noise.

Alec stood up and did his best to clean the satchel, which was fairly easy, and then his clothes, which was more difficult. A handful of grass took off the worst, but five minutes of frantic rubbing still left his trousers looking grotty and smelling worse. “Bowden,” he muttered, “you’ve put your foot in it.”

There was nothing to do but go home. His arrival would be at the most disastrous time, with Dad (saying nothing, but looking grim), Mum (looking grim and saying a lot) and his sister Kim, home from the biscuit works (laughing her head off). But there was no getting out of it. Forward, Bowden!

He crossed the waste ground to the fence. Here again, he carefully counted the boards to find the loose one only he knew about, pushed it forward. With a grunt and wriggle he was out at the foot of the slope below the council houses. No one was about, though it was a fine evening. From the windows came the white glow of televisions switched on, the clatter of cups and plates, and other pleasant sounds of people enjoying their tea without a care in the world.

Was there a chance, Alec wondered as he reached the bottom of his street, of getting in through the front door and sneaking straight upstairs to his bedroom, so avoiding the kitchen and the reception committee? It was a wild hope, he knew. Front doors on the estate were opened twice in a lifetime, for weddings and funerals, and to go in that way would be impossible without knocking. So it was round the corner of the house to the kitchen door. Alec braced himself to go in.

“Psst, Alec lad.”

The voice came from the green and white caravan parked in the back yard. One side rested on a wheel, the other side rested on a pile of bricks built up under the axle. Dad was always threatening to mend it, but never did. The small side window of the caravan opened and a round, red face with wild, white hair peered out.

“Alec lad. What have you done?”

Alec relaxed.

“Oh, Granddad, you made me jump.”

“I don’t wonder. You were trying to sneak in, weren’t you?

Alec nodded.

Granddad’s face disappeared from the window and the caravan door opened. An arm stretched out, beckoning, and Alec, with one eye on the kitchen door, slunk in, while Granddad closed the caravan door after him.

Inside the heat was terrific and the air was blue with pipe smoke and foul with the fumes of an old oil heater. More heat came from a small soldering iron which was slowly growing red at the side of the fire. Through the fog Alec could see Granddad perched on one of the bunks. His thin old body was dressed in the remains of a braided dressing-gown and a pair of striped pyjamas. Displaying a row of broken teeth he grinned at Alec. On the folding table next to the bed were a plate, a loaf of bread, a half-opened tin of pilchards and a jug of beer.

“Hallo, Granddad, what are you soldering?” asked Alec, forgetting his troubles for a moment.

“I’m not soldering, you daft ha’porth, I’m mulling,” replied Granddad, and with that he seized the hot soldering iron and plunged it hissing into the beer jug. A cloud of steam and a strange smell rose to join the general fug inside the little room. Granddad held up the jug. “Want a taste?” he asked, but Alec shook his head hastily.

Granddad poured himself a glass, drank deeply and then wiped his mouth primly on a paper handkerchief he took from his dressing-gown sleeve.

“Now, lad, if you’ll give me your breeches, I’ll clean ’em up for you. I can see you’ve been in the canal. Don’t argue. Take your trainers off and put them by the fire here, while I use the meths on your other clothes.”

“But Granddad,” Alec protested.

“By the time we’ve done that, you can sneak in through the kitchen because they’ll all be in the front room.”

“How do you know, Granddad?”

“Because there’s trouble, that’s why. Your brother Tom, his wife and the baby are going to move back in with us. They’ve lost their place and that means rearrangements and people shifting round.”

Alec’s heart sank. This was truly the most disastrous day he had ever suffered. For the news meant one thing to him. Tom and his family would be given the second bedroom, Kim would have to move into Alec’s little bedroom at the back, and that meant Alec would be moved up to the boxroom. For anyone who thinks a boxroom is a place where you keep boxes, it’s not. A boxroom is a room like a box; it’s a space at the top of the stairs, with a door to stop the bed from falling downstairs. It’s a place where they train men for working in midget submarines. Alec had slept in the boxroom for years until brother Tom moved out. Now, disaster of disasters, he would have to lose his own bedroom and go back there.

Granddad stretched out a thin hand and ruffled his hair. “Come on, lad. Cheer up. There’s plenty worse off. Give us your trousers.” Alec handed them over and sat up on the other bunk while Granddad got out a bottle of methylated spirits and set to work rubbing the stains on Alec’s trousers. As he worked, the old man began to sing, half under his breath.

“Oh, the elephant is a dainty bird,

It flits from bough to bough,

It builds its nest in a rhubarb tree,

And whistles like a cow.”

As Granddad sang, thoughts of disaster began to fade from Alec’s mind…

“Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…

Elephant’s nest up a roobub tree,

Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…”

Suddenly Granddad sniffed.

“There’s a funny smell in here, lad.”

Alec stared.

“You must be joking, Granddad. There’re fifty funny smells in here.”

“Nay, lad, an extra funny smell. Oh, Lord, your trainers!”

Granddad dropped the rag he was using to clean Alec’s trousers and turned to the oil stove from which a thick brown haze was rising.

“Oh no!” cried Alec.

Oh no, indeed. Half the side of one of his trainers was burned through and the other one was singed. Granddad saved Alec’s sock with a quick snatch but the damage was done. Life, thought Alec, had become a disaster area.

“Don’t fret, lad. I’ll tell your Mum what happened and buy you another pair,” said Granddad.

“No, you won’t,” protested Alec. He wouldn’t let Granddad spend his pension on new trainers. “I’ll have to tell Mum myself. Perhaps I’ll get our Kim to lend me some cash and buy myself a pair.”

“Anyway, lad, your trousers are all right now. But don’t stand too close to the stove when you put them on or you’ll go up in smoke.”

Alec dressed quickly, said cheerio, and walked into the kitchen with a shuffle that more or less hid the burnt side of his trainer. The kitchen was empty, as Granddad had predicted, but from the front room came the low sound of voices. Alec crept quietly towards the passage. If he could reach the stairs without…

“Alec,” came his mother’s voice. “Is that you, Alec?”

“Yes,” muttered Alec.

“Listen, love. We’re busy in here. There’s a bit of meat pie and tomato on top of the fridge. You can have that for your tea.”

“Can I take it up to my room?” asked Alec, unable to believe his luck.

“All right, but don’t make a mess.”

Alec crept up the stairs with a plate in one hand and his satchel in the other and did not breathe again until he was safely inside his bedroom. It was small, but a palace compared with the boxroom. It had his own bed, a battered old desk Dad had picked up at a jumble sale, a chair and a cupboard full of all his most precious odds and ends. They’d have to go down into the shed if he moved into the boxroom, thought Alec gloomily, as he sat down on the bed and began to eat his meat pie.

As he ate, he started to make up his final triumph-disaster scoreboard for the day. He didn’t write it down, because things like that are highly confidential, but he made it up in his mind like this:

1. Ginger Wallace is out to thump me.

2. Ginger Wallace is trying to stop me going home down Boner’s Street.

3. Ginger Wallace might find out about the Tank.

4. I’ve ruined my trainers.

5. No pocket money for a month.

6. I have to move back into the boxroom.

7. I’m in the doghouse with Monty Cartwright.

He thought over the list carefully. Had he missed anything out? There’s nothing worse than a disaster that sneaks up on you. No, they were all there. The next question was had he made the list too long? Was Ginger Wallace really three disasters?

Alec didn’t hesitate; Ginger Wallace was at least three disasters.

Strictly speaking, numbers four and five were just one disaster. That is, five couldn’t be a disaster but for four. Life without trainers is hard. Life without pocket money is disastrous.

Number six was a disaster all right. It hadn’t happened yet, but neither had one, two, or three, and that didn’t make him feel any better. Number seven he decided to cross off the list. After the telling-off in line-up that day he’d heard no more and Mr Cartwright did not usually brood over past crimes. So that made the score six so far, or five if you counted numbers four and five as one. Five for disasters so far, while the other side hadn’t even crossed the half-way fine.

It was the highest score for disasters since that black day when he’d got all his home works mixed up and collected five detentions in a row. As he thought of this, his eye fell on his school bag. He should really take a last look at his history project on the Crusades before he handed it in tomorrow. He tipped out his books on to the bed and for the thirty-fourth time that day, his heart stopped.

Across the cover of his history project was a green stain. He opened the cover. Almost every page was a sodden green wreck with drawings, cut-outs, and writing all awash with Bugletown Canal gunge. This must have seeped through the side of his bag where the stitching had given way.

It would take ages to look up all that stuff again, let alone write it. That made disasters leading six nil. Almost a rugby score. Was there nothing today remotely like a triumph? He thought for a while. There was that funny, sealed but empty, beer can he had found in Boner’s Street. He could investigate that.

Bowden, he said to himself, you’re entitled to a treat. Give yourself the evening off. Tomorrow’s a disaster from the word go. Let’s save what we can of today. With that he jumped from the bed, took off his school clothes, put on his old jumper and jeans and quietly opened the bedroom door. As he crept down the stairs he heard them still at it in the front room. No trouble at all to sneak out.

“Alec, is that you?” called his mother.

“Yes, Mum. I’m just going out for a bit.”

“What about your homework?”

“I’ve just got some work left to do on my history project, and I’ll do that when I get back.” Alec always had trouble telling complete porkies.

“No telly then, mind you.”

“Shan’t want any.”

“What’s the matter with Mastermind?” That was Kim’s mocking voice.

Alec thought of a crushing retort, then remembered that he’d have to ask Kim for a loan. So with a “won’t be long”, he shot through the back door and was out in the street before you could say antidisestablishmentarianism!

Holding firmly on to his jeans pocket, where the can was wedged rather awkwardly, he ran down the slope and past the allotments. To his surprise, there was Granddad digging away, dressed in his old black suit. Alec waved, but did not stop, and headed for the tall fence round the Tank. If Granddad saw him slip through the loose planking, the old man gave no sign.

Alec paused for a second inside the fence, as he always did, to run his eye over the little kingdom amid its silent wilderness of elder bushes and weeds. The setting sun flashed on one of the few panes left in the window of the crane house, and cast giant shadows between the crumbling ivy-covered walls. Alec was heading for the canal when he remembered that the plank had collapsed under him that afternoon. He would have to cross by the old travelling crane gantry and enter the crane room through the window. Although this was a day of disaster and it seemed unsuitable to take the triumphal route, he couldn’t be bothered to find a new plank for his bridge just now. He turned right and ran along the towpath to the gantry.

Climbing the uprights by the steep steps was easy enough; the difficult part was when you had to cross the girder fifteen feet up above the canal. One false move and you would never be seen again. The safest but slowest way was to straddle the iron and edge your way over a foot at a time. The quickest and riskiest way was to balance on the six-inch-wide girder and walk boldly over like a tight-rope man. Crouching and waddling like a duck, Alec settled for a mixture of the two. Halfway over, it became easier because of the iron arm of an old hand crane which stretched alongside the main gantry.

At last he was across and wriggling his way through the broken window of the crane room. He put one foot on the lever and chain drum which were still linked to the hand crane and then he was down on the floor. He gave a jump and skip and looked around him. Now he was in command. He turned and faced the canal, peering through the dusty broken window. Then he seized the hand crane lever and slowly pushed it forward. He had spent many a Saturday afternoon greasing and oiling the mechanism, so that it moved. With a rattle the chain began to run through the pulley at the end of the crane and drop towards the canal. Alec threw the brake and stopped the chain just above the water. Then he bent down to the drum and taking the handle, carefully wound the chain up again.

When he worked the hand crane, he could imagine anything. He was loading a ship, rescuing a trapped submarine crew, hauling up treasure from a mine, replacing the piles in a nuclear reactor. He finished winding in the chain and put on the brake. Then he heaved himself on to the table and sat a moment looking out of the crane room window.

Now he was ready to investigate the mystery of the sealed, empty can.

“The question is, Watson, not why the can was empty, but why it was sealed?”

“Amazing, Holmes, I mean, Bowden. But what is the answer?”

“I’ll have to open it, won’t I, you plonker?”

Alec held up the can and inspected it. Then he raised it once more to his ear, as he had done that afternoon.

It was fantastic. There was the same noise, a sort of growling as though someone were snoring. It was crazy. Alec shook the can and again the noise stopped.

He slipped his finger into the metal ring at the top of the can and pulled. At first it would not budge. Alec tumbled from the table, placed the can on the floor, held it down with one hand, and pulled at the ring again.

There came a sudden tremendous whistling rush of air, like Concorde landing, and a voice thundered…

“Alec!”

Chapter Three ARE YOU SITTING COMFORTABLY?

“ALEC!”

Alec fell off the crane room table and looked round in amazement. The can, now opened, rolled to and fro on the floor, making cronking noises. But there was no one in sight.

“Who said ‘Alec’?” he squeaked.

There was silence. Then Alec got back his normal voice and repeated: “Who called my name?”

No answer. Alec carefully picked up the can and shook it. No snoring sounds. Nothing. But someone had definitely called his name, as well as made noises like Concorde. His ears were still buzzing. He tiptoed to the door and pushed it open to look down the rickety stairs to the ruins of the main factory. Nothing in sight. Shoving the creaking door back into place, Alec came back to the table and looked once more at the strange can standing upright there.

“I must be going round the twist. All these disasters have finally been too much for me. I was sure someone shouted ‘Alec’.”

“Ah, ing’lizi walad. You English.”

Alec leapt away from the can, as the voice boomed out again. It was like the school tannoy, when Mr Cartwright did his “do-not-resist-or-you-will-be-annihilated” routine.

“Yes, of course, I’m English. But who are you?” said Alec, still alarmed.

“I am slave of lamp – sorry, jug, no, sorry, plate… I don’t know…” The booming voice faded away.

“Don’t go,” cried Alec.

“I don’t go. Worse luck,” the voice gave a hiccup.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“Aiee, well may you ask.” The voice faded away again muttering in a language Alec could not understand.

“You’re not the slave of the lamp, you’re the slave of the beer can,” he said. Then he had an inspiration. “If you come out of the can, you’d feel better and your voice wouldn’t sound so funny.”

There was a fizzing sound, another burst of hiccups and a pop.

“Shukran jazilan, Effendi.”

“No need to be offended,” replied Alec, who had now got into the swing of the game, whatever the game was. Whoever it might be speaking to him, it was good fun and a change from the gloom and misery of the day so far.

“Not offended, Effendi. Effendi, Master.”

“Oh, don’t call me master,” said Alec. “It reminds me of school. Besides,” he went on, “you started calling me Alec. Can’t you carry on like that? It’s more friendly.”

“Alec?” The voice was puzzled.

“Yes. When I opened the beer can, you said ‘Alec’.”

The voice began to laugh.

“Not ‘Alec’. I said, ‘Salaam Aleikum, peace be with you!’”

“That’s nice,” said Alec. “I could use some peace just now.”

“May your enemies be destroyed, your crops increase, your camels grow fat and your wives never quarrel.”

“Well, thanks very much, or what was it you said? Shukran jazilan. But my troubles aren’t quite like that,” said Alec.

“Tell me, O master, and they shall vanish like dust before the khamsin wind.”

“Oh, great,” said Alec. “You are just what I need. But please don’t call me master. My name’s Alec. And, by the way, what is your name? And just how do you come to be hiding inside a beer can?”

There was silence for some moments, then a sigh.

“If my master – Alec – is sitting comfortably, I will begin.”

Alec hoisted himself on to the table and sat down.

“Know, Alec, that my name is Abu Salem, Genie of the Third Order of rank and merit in the courts of Baghdad, Damascus and Cairo, one of the slaves of the lamp.”

“But, Abu,” interrupted Alec, “there was only one slave of the lamp.”

“In the days of Aladdin, that was true. But the story does not end there. For when Aladdin became Sultan and the wealthiest man in the world, the magician who was his enemy decided to take his revenge. He used his magic powers to make hundreds of small lamps, each one with a third-rank genie, and he gave these to people in the city.

“Instead of working, all these people began to use their magic lamps to make gold, food or clothes, as they fancied. Soon it seemed that everyone in the kingdom was imitating Sultan Aladdin. There was so much gold that no one cared for it any more and they used it to make buckets and feeding troughs. Aladdin became furious and, thinking that the world was laughing at him, sent his soldiers to seize the lamps and to melt them down.

“But now the people became furious too. They said,‘If our lamps shall melt, so shall yours.’Aladdin had to agree. So all the lamps were melted down, and the great lump of metal was put into the palace storeroom and forgotten.

“Many many years later, when all this had been forgotten and Aladdin was no more than a story for children, there was a great war. The metal in the storeroom was made into shots for cannons and fired from the palace walls. Some landed in the sand and was forgotten again and some was buried in the ruins of the palace. Only a few pieces were found. One was used by a poor man to hold open his door and for all I know the genie sleeps within it to this day. Happy man.

“But one was found by a metal-smith who used it to make a jug. With the handling and knocking and rubbing and polishing of daily use, the genie within it awoke. That unlucky spirit, O Alec, was I.”

Alec leaned forward. He wasn’t quite sure where Abu the genie might be, in spirit so to speak, so he spoke to the beer can.

“How long did all this take?”

“I know not. A few hundred years perhaps. This time the owner was a poor man, like Aladdin in the beginning, and being poor, he was hungry too. When first I told him to make his wish, he asked for food. And food I brought him. Soon, he who had been poor and hungry became rich and very fat. And being rich, he was also vain, and being vain, he wished he were not fat.”

“So, couldn’t you help him lose weight?” demanded Alec.

“Indeed, I could and so I did. He became as light as a feather, but, alas, he said nothing about size. Thus, he rose in the air, like a balloon, and the east wind carried him slowly away over the mountains and he was never seen again.

“It has been my fate, O Alec, to give my masters what they did not want. Be warned. Be warned.”

“Oh, I’ll take my chance,” said Alec. “Go on, what happened next?”

“The jug which had brought such evil into the house was cast out. I slept happily on the rubbish dumps of old Baghdad for a few centuries more. Ah, what bliss…” The voice yawned, and for a moment Alec feared that Abu might go to sleep again. But no.

“I was found by a scavenger who sold me with some other vessels to a smith, who again melted down the metal and made plates. This time I was bought in the local bazaar by a British soldier who planned to polish the plate and send it home to his wife.

“Awakened once more from my sleep, I was at his command. His first order was that I should make him colonel of the regiment and this I did. He immediately turned the officer who had commanded the regiment into a private soldier. Indeed, when I saw the transformations which he brought about, I knew I had met my match.

“Next he commanded the officers of the regiment to do all the duties of the camp. They had to stand guard at night, to make food in the cookhouse, and to polish the great brass cannon that stood at the camp gate. The sergeants of the regiment were made to serve the private soldiers with tea in bed each morning, to press their uniforms and clean their equipment.

“For weeks the soldiers of the camp enjoyed the life of idleness, but soon news of the strange happenings in the regiment reached London. A high-ranking officer was sent to put matters right, or wrong, if you look at it through the eyes of my master.

“But he outwitted them. He rubbed on the plate, called me to his aid and made himself a general. Then he ordered the regiment home to England, much to the joy of the soldiers. But he had been too clever. Unless he could find someone of higher rank to order him home, he had to remain a soldier. His one hope was to find an accomplice. The only man left was the former colonel whom my master had confined to camp for his rude and impudent behaviour. My master offered him his freedom and also to make him field marshal, if he would give the order that would send my master home. Alas for human wickedness and folly! No sooner was his prisoner made field marshal, than my master was once again made a private and confined to camp, where he was ordered to stand guard at night, make food in the cookhouse and polish the great brass cannon at the camp gate. For all I know, they may still be there in that lonely desert camp.”

“But what about you?” demanded Alec.

“Did I not speak of human wickedness? Another soldier, having seen the plate and admired it, took it with him when the regiment sailed for England. He gave it to his wife but she believed that eating from metal plates was bad for the digestion and gave the plate to the passing rag and bone man in exchange for two goldfish, a balloon for her baby and a pair of silk stockings for herself.”

“But how did you come to be in the beer can?” insisted Alec.

“Alas, I know not, neither care I. I know that my pleasant sleep is at an end and I have a new master whom I must serve according to the rules of the Order of Genies, Third Class.”

“Well, don’t look at it like that,” said Alec. “I won’t ask you to do daft things like the others did.”

“Speak not too soon, O Alec. But as you will, so must I do. What is thy will, O Alec?”

“First of all, I want to see who I’m talking to.”

“Your wish cannot, alas, be granted. As a genie of the Third Rank, I have not the power to appear and disappear as well as perform tasks. Ask me another.”

“How about something smashing to eat? Like a Super Atomic Blast Sherbet Bag?”

“Sherbet,” replied Abu, “is not food.”

“Food, ah, food…” Alec could almost imagine Abu rubbing his stomach. “Food!” The voice rose to a roar.

“Go easy,” said Alec, “you’ll have half of Bugletown round here in a minute.”

Abu laughed. “None can hear me but you, O Alec. But food, ah food…”

“Get on with it,” said Alec in desperation.

“Food.”

Out of the air came a white sheet that spread itself over the dusty crane room table. Abu began to chant…

“Nazin Tofa, eggs in wine sauce; Toyla Shorbasi, soup from Paradise; Uskumru Pilaksi, baked mackerel; Kirasili Sulun, pheasant with cherries,” he went on as the dishes, steaming and bubbling, began to crowd the cloth.

“Hold on,” said Alec, “what about the pud?”

“Ah, Sutlach Sharapli; rice pudding with wine.”

Oh, no, not rice pudding! Just like school dinner, thought Alec. But he didn’t wish to offend Abu and so he simply invited him to join the meal. Abu readily agreed; several centuries in a jug or a beer can make anyone peckish. Alec stared as the various dishes rose in the air, emptied themselves and then floated down to the table again. But he was busy enjoying the feast himself. So this is what it was like in the days of the Arabian Nights. Oh, clever stuff, Bowden.

Soon the meal was over, and Alec noticed that it was growing dark outside.

“Time we were getting home, Abu.”

He had barely time to pick up the can, when the table cloth, table, crane room and all had vanished with a rush and he was back in his bedroom again, sitting on the bed, still in his school uniform.

Had he been sitting there all the time? He looked out of the bedroom window. The sky was clear and down in the yard he could hear Granddad pottering about in the caravan. But the can was in his pocket and it was open.

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.

Chapter Five BOWDEN THE BEAST

ALEC DREAMT THAT he sat at a huge table in the stateroom of his elegant 20,000-ton yacht, as it floated at anchor in the Bugletown Canal. Through the porthole he could see the mate, Monty Cartwright, urging on his trusty crew. The state-room door opened and Ginger Wallace, in steward’s uniform, entered bowing and scraping.

“Alec,” he said.

“Admiral Bowden to you,” replied Alec and dismissed Ginger with a wave of his hand.

But Ginger would not go. He shouted, “Alec!”

Alec waved his hand irritably, but Ginger only went on shouting, louder and louder. Then Alec was awake and his mother was banging on the bedroom door.

“Alec, it’s half past eight!”

“HALF PAST EIGHT?”

At times like this, Alec wished he were an octopus. He’d put on his shoes with one hand (or tentacle), his trousers on with another, wash his face with a third, eat his breakfast with a fourth, pack his school bag with the fifth, tie his tie with the sixth, while the other two were busy walking down to Station Road. Mr Jameson, the biology teacher, once said that an octopus brain was just as good as a human brain. If they’d come to live on land there’d be no doubt about who would be boss.

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