‘What are we going to do with the element of surprise?’ I said.

  From her backpack Hils pulled out a plastic squirty bottle of chilli sauce.

  ‘Thhhuzzzz,’ she said. ‘Utttuuuccccc uzzz thhu buuuzzzzd ffuummmmn uv duuuufuunz.’

  A guide to understanding what

  someone is saying when they are

  talking to you through a gas mask

  ‘Uv’ = ‘of’

  ‘Oooo’ = ‘you’

  ‘Thuuuuy’ = ‘they’

  ‘Wuuunntt’ = ‘want’

  ‘Kuuuullll’ = ‘kill’

  ‘Thhhuzzzz’ = ‘this’

  ‘Squuuttteedd’ = ‘squirted’

  ‘Uuyyyuuz’ = ‘eyes’

  ‘Ufffuuurrrmmmutuuuuv’ = ‘affirmative’

  ‘Muupppl zyzuuuppp’ = ‘mushy Christmas’

  ‘Uutttt ruuuuly stuuuunngz’ = ‘shoot runny snotballs’

  ‘Ieeeee duuunntt wuuunntt ooo oooozzz thuu ullllummmmmunnt ooo zuuuupuuuuzi’ = ‘five donuts wrapped in ooze thud onto nude zebras’

  I’m not sure those last three are exactly right.

  She reached into her backpack again and pulled out another plastic squirty bottle and handed it to me.

  It was maple syrup.

  ‘Why do I get maple syrup?’ I said.

  ‘Huuuvvv oooo uuvvvaa bun squuuttteedd unnn thhu uuyyyuuz whhuuutth muupppl zyzuuuppp?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been squirted with maple syrup,’ I said.

  ‘Uutttt ruuuuly stuuuunngz!’

  We waited behind the letterbox. Hils had her bottle of chilli sauce ready. I had my bottle of maple syrup ready.

  Then we heard them.

  ‘The grannies are coming,’ I said.

  ‘Ufffuuurrrmmmutuuuuv!’ said Hils.

  ‘Hils, I’ve never fired a maple syrup bottle before. What do I do?’

  The grannies were getting closer.

  ‘Juuuzzzttt ppuuuunnnttt uunnd sqquuuuuzzzz.’

  ‘Hils. Take your gas mask off. This is silly.’

  She took off her gas mask.

  ‘No. I won’t take my gas mask off,’ she said and then put her gas mask back on.

  I wished I had a gas mask. Maybe the grannies possessed chemical weapons.

  That was not a comforting thought to be thinking, especially because it sounded like the grannies were almost right in front of where we were hiding.

  ‘Ruuuddddyy?’ said Hils.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  The grannies stopped.

  ‘Uuuunnnn tthhhuuu cccuuuunnnn uuvvv thhhuuuuuvvv.’

  ‘What? What are we going to do on the count of three?’

  ‘Uuunnnn.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Oooooooo.’

  ‘Hils. Tell me. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Tttthhhrrruueee.’

  We both jumped out from behind the letterbox and started squirting chilli sauce and maple syrup at where we thought the grannies were standing.

  ‘Take that you almost-killer grannies,’ I shouted.

  ‘Uuuuuu dduuunnnttt luuuukkkkk uutttt uuubbbb oooooo dooooo ooooo!’ shouted Hils.

  We squirted everything we could out of our bottles.

  Then we stopped and looked.

  There were no grannies there.

  Just a really big non-granny.

  A man non-granny. A really, very, super big man. Covered in chilli sauce and maple syrup.

  We stared at him. He stared at us.

  As we stared at him he used his finger to scoop the maple syrup and chilli sauce off his clothes and eat it. While he did this he was mumbling to himself.

  ‘They are strong, these young ones. Are they strong enough? No. Yes. Yes.’

  16

  THE TALE

  He just kept on mumbling to himself and eating the chilli sauce and maple syrup off his clothes.

  ‘There is much they must know,’ he said.

  When he spoke he spat out some of the maple syrup and chilli sauce. It landed on Hils and me. Thank goodness we were totally protected.

  ‘Much they shouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘Tell them. Don’t tell them. I must. They must know what danger they are in.’

  ‘What danger are we in?’ I said.

  This was weird. Weird and scary. Weird, scary and also pretty exciting.

  ‘Great danger. Great, great danger. Tell them. You must. You must tell the young ones.’

  ‘Yyyuzzzz! Uuuupppuuuuzzzz uuzzz uuvvv thhhuu . . .’

  ‘Hils. Take the gas mask off,’ I said.

  Hils took her gas mask off.

  ‘Appraise us of all pertinent operational matters,’ said Hils.

  In the army that means, ‘Please tell us what great danger we’re facing.’

  ‘You have stumbled upon a secret. A secret few know. A dark secret. A cruel secret.’

  You might be wondering why Hils and I were standing there listening to a completely strange man telling us completely strange things while he ate chilli sauce and maple syrup off his clothes. I think it was because he wasn’t any stranger than anything that had happened to Hils and I in the last few days.

  The man was very big. Fat big. His T-shirt was way too tight and his pants were way too loose. He had fingers like uncooked sausages that had been dropped in the dirt. He had a straggly beard and his hair hung off his head like dirty, wet towels. The top of his head was covered in dandruff. So much dandruff that you could probably have skied on it. When he talked to us he’d sometimes stop talking to us and talk to himself. After a while it was hard to know when he was talking to us and when he was talking to himself.

  ‘Listen carefully to my tale. I can tell it only once,’ he said.

  ‘We’re listening carefully,’ I said.

  ‘In the beginning there was Warren, son of Warwick. Warren was the first paperboy in this neighbourhood. He was the fairest and wisest of all beings. The gods of paper delivery looked down upon Warren and they were pleased with what they saw. Warren rode a magical bike called TwelveSpeed and he delivered all the neighbourhood’s papers with skill and grace in any weather. Warren ushered in a golden age of paper rounds. Every boy and girl who wanted a paper round could have one. The mornings resounded with the swishing of newspapers, the skidding of tyres and Michael Gordon crying because his chain was always falling off.’

  He stopped for a moment as if the next words he wanted to say were stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

  ‘As they rode their bikes on those crisp mornings, little did Warren and the other paper deliverers know that a change was coming. A foul change. A change none of them was strong enough to resist. One by one the paperboys began to lose their paper rounds. They lost them to Dave, a teenager with a driver’s licence and a van. Dave and his van could deliver the papers quicker and more cheaply than those deliverers on bikes. Soon there were no more paperboys – or girls – on bikes. There was just Dave. One Dave to rule them all.’

  He looked around. He seemed scared all of a sudden.

  ‘I must stop. I have told them too much. No. Must tell the young ones. Must tell them. Some things must never be forgotten. What has happened must never be allowed to pass out of knowledge.’

  ‘What happened? Did something happen to Dave? We have to know,’ I said.

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Hils.

  ‘He should have listened,’ said the man.

  ‘Who should have listened to what?’ I said.

  ‘Dave should have listened to the whispers. The whispers of a nameless fear. The whispers that a power was rising. A power that desired a paper round and would do anything to get it. They will get you too, young ones.’

  The man started screaming, ‘I have nothing left. They can take no more from me. Let them come. LET THEM COME.’

  Then he burst into tears. Was he crazy? I just hoped that if he was crazy he’d get to the end of his story before he decided to bite my ear off.

  He stopped crying.

  ‘One gloomy morning,’ he said, ‘not far from the very ground on which we now stand, Dave was delivering papers when he saw the two grannies.’

  ‘The ones who attacked me?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Dave didn’t realise these two grannies wanted to take his paper round from him. They attacked Dave. They attacked him with foul weapons. They cut him. They bashed him. They made him give up his paper round. It is said that some mornings you can still hear Dave crying out, “Lost. Lost. My precious paper round is lost.” ’

  ‘Poor Dave,’ I said.

  ‘War is hell,’ said Hils.

  ‘So it came to pass that the grannies attacked others and took over all the paper rounds in this area. But that was not enough for them. Their attacks continued and soon they took over all the local deliveries: council newsletters, advertising flyers for Captain Raj’s Curry Spot and Des and Les’s Quik Carpet Cleaning Service. They were vicious, ruthless and relentless. Everyone was scared of them.’

  ‘Even Peter the Iraqi newsagent who is not afraid of anything?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Even Peter.’

  ‘That explains why he ran away screaming,’ I said.

  The strange man continued.

  ‘No one knows where the grannies come from. No one knows where they live. No one knows how many there are but it is said they have recruited other grannies to do their evil bidding. No one knows what their ultimate goal is. Maybe they wish to take over all the deliveries in the world. It was thought they could never be defeated. Until now. This is a new age. There is a new hope rising. Hope that these evil grannies can be defeated. A great battle is coming. A great battle which will shape the fortunes of all those who want paper rounds now and in the future. I have already said too much. I must go. Be careful, young ones. Listen to the wind. Heed the rumours.’

  ‘Do you know how I can get a paper round?’ I said.

  ‘To get a paper round you must go to war with the grannies. That is all I can tell you.’

  He glanced around again. Suddenly he saw something. Something that scared him. Then he just ran off. He ran much faster than I thought someone that big could run.

  ‘Hey,’ I called after him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Warren,’ he shouted as he disappeared around the corner.

  17

  THE DILEMMA

  I don’t know whether you’ve ever wanted a paper round and been told that the only way you can get one is to start a war against some grannies.

  Things I never thought anyone would ever say to me

  ‘To get a paper round you’ll need to start a war with some grannies.’

  ‘Is that rooster brand chilli sauce in your eyebrows?’

  ‘Five donuts wrapped in ooze thud onto nude zebras.’

  A war.

  Against grannies.

  It doesn’t sound right, does it?

  I couldn’t start a war against anybody.

  But I did really want a paper round.

  I was experiencing my first real moral dilemma.

  I didn’t know what to do. (Not knowing what to do is a very important part of a moral dilemma.) I had never even thought of starting a war against anyone. Let alone some grannies.

  Even if I did want to go to war with the grannies, I had no idea how to start a war.

  I needed to talk to Hils. I was sure she’d thought about starting wars. With lots of people. Maybe even grannies.

  The problem was that I wouldn’t see Hils until the end of school. We weren’t in any of the same classes and, at lunchtime, Hils had to go to a meeting of the Birdwatching Club. (Hils told me that she isn’t really interested in watching birds. The reason she is a member of the Birdwatching Club is because she wants to find out if there is a species of bird that could be trained to attack people on her command. I think she does like watching birds. I haven’t ever said that to her though.)

  Hils and I used to have English together. That was until Hils got moved to another English class after she had a fight with the English teacher, Mrs Whyte-Wale.

  ‘Hilary,’ said Mrs Whyte-Wale.

  Hils hates being called Hilary.

  ‘Hilary, can you stand up and read aloud the first stanza of the poem on page 27.’

  Hilary . . . I mean Hils, didn’t stand up.

  ‘Hilary?’ said Mrs Whyte-Wale. ‘Can you please stand and read.’

  ‘No,’ said Hils.

  I always go silent when someone does something really naughty like not reading the first stanza of the poem on page 27. Even if it is my best friend. I go silent because when someone doesn’t read the first stanza of the poem on page 27 I feel like running out of class, I feel like laughing and I feel like telling them to just stop being naughty and read the first stanza of the poem on page 27. I can’t make up my mind which one of those things to do so I just stay silent.

  ‘Hilary, why will you not read?’ said Mrs Whyte-Wale.

  ‘Because,’ said Hils, ‘I think poetry is pointless. The world is a dangerous place. Instead of getting us to read poetry you should be teaching us how to make a knife out of a broken bottle and some sticky tape, or how to blow up an enemy tank using a bag of fertiliser.’

  That’s why Hils and I aren’t in English together any more.

  First period I had Science with Mr Base-Ball.

  I don’t like Mr Base-Ball.

  One time he was teaching us biology and he started talking about reproduction. (Potential yuck.) Then he started talking about human reproduction! (Actual yuck.) Then Gregor Popovich asked Mr Base-Ball if he’d ever done human reproduction.

  The whole class laughed.

  Mr Base-Ball said that he was a dad so HE HAD DONE HUMAN REPRODUCTION! (Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, weird, yuck.)

  The whole class laughed a lot.

  Except for me. I did not laugh.

  Waimarama Healy didn’t laugh either. She got hiccups. (They lasted for three days. She had to see a specialist.)

  Every time I have Science I am scared that Mr Base-Ball is going to talk about human reproduction again.

  So I never listen in Science.

  That means I will fail Science.

  That means I will never be a scientist.

  That means I will never invent a cure for global warming.

  That means I will never save the world.

  That means we’re all going to die because of a super typhoon.

  Thanks a lot, Mr Base-Ball. Everyone’s going to die because you talked about human reproduction.

  I’m always really tired after Mr Base-Ball’s Science class. It takes a lot of effort to not listen to anything someone says for a whole lesson.

  I thought about what Warren had told us.

  The first paperboy.

  The mystical bike TwelveSpeed.

  The whispers of a nameless fear.

  The attack on Dave.

  That we should listen to the wind. (How do you do that?)

  That we should go to war.

  Was anything he told us true?

  Was he just a crazy lying guy?

  Moral dilemmas are nowhere near as much fun as I thought they would be.

  My Maths teacher is Ms Plumb-Roll.

  I always find it hard to concentrate in Ms Plumb-Roll’s Maths class. Today I found it doubly hard because I was so busy trying to concentrate on whether it was okay to have a war against some grannies.

  The reason I always find it hard to concentrate in Ms Plumb-Roll’s class – even when I’m not trying to work out whether it’s okay to start a war – is because whenever Ms Plumb-Roll is doing anything she always says, out loud, what she is doing, while she is doing it.

  I haven’t explained that very well, have I?

  While Ms Plumb-Roll is writing on the blackboard she’ll be saying, ‘Write, write, write, write, write.’ While she’s putting stuff away she’ll be saying, ‘Put, put, put, put, put.’ While she’s waiting for one of the class to answer a questions she’ll be saying, ‘Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.’ (That always makes it really, very, super hard to think of an answer to the question she just asked you.)

  I know it’s bad but for ages now I’ve wondered if, while Ms Plumb-Roll is sitting on the toilet, she says, ‘Poo, poo, poo, poo, poo’?

  I don’t want to think that but I can’t help myself.

  Let’s say that what Warren had told us was true. The grannies had taken over all the paper rounds. If I wanted to get a paper round then I would have to go to war against the grannies. It was not just my paper round that was at stake. I was not the only person who wanted a paper round. If we went to war against the grannies and won then lots of people could have paper rounds. We’d be doing this for all the other kids – just like me – who also wanted paper rounds.

  After lunch I had Media with Ms Best-Wurst.

  Ms Best-Wurst isn’t married and has no children.

  She has pets.

  The problem is that her pets are always dying. In really strange and horrible ways.

  The double-problem with her pets dying is that she always tells us how they died and then starts crying. Sometimes she’ll cry for the whole period.

  Today she told us that her guinea pig, Sir Flop-A-Lot, was chopped to death when the next-door neighbour’s model helicopter crashed into him.

  She cried for the whole period.

  I wonder if Ms Best-Wurst’s eyeballs are going to get so slippery from all her crying that they fall right out of her eye sockets onto the floor where Junior Silesi (who has the biggest feet in the class) will step on one and get eye-slime all over his shoes.

  What if we fought a war against the the grannies and lost?

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  Moral dilemmas are always full of things that you never think of.

  My final class was Art with Mr Peters-Piper.