Free When Mr. Dog Bites by Brian Conaghan Page A

stuff.
    Bonkerinos!
    I could do a job like that.
    *
    Mom was lying on the couch with two cucumber slices covering her eyes. I could have eaten a scabby dog, because playing a high-energized performance sport does that to the body. What I needed was carbs. Or some Cup Noodles. But I could have quite easily dived on Mom and eaten her cucumber eyes, I was so Hank Marvin. I wasn’t sure if she was sleeping or not. She didn’t move a muscle. Her belly went up and down, so I knew she wasn’t dead.
    Phew!
    The TV was on. Some guy was making a pasta dish with eggs and bacon. My belly rumbled, making a noise like a little embarrassed fart.
    “There’s soup in the pot,” Mom said, without even looking up or removing her cucumbers. She must have heard my belly fart. I didn’t want soup.
    “Mom, why do you have cucumbers on your eyes?”
    “I was tired, Dylan.”
    “Did you sleep with cucumbers on your eyes?”
    “My eyes are tired. Cucumber helps.”
    “Does it soothe them?”
    “Yes.” It was ultraweird talking to Mom while she was like this. It was what I imagined Martians to be like. “I really need some sleep, Dylan. You can heat up the soup and have that for your dinner. It’s tomato. There’s some bread in the cupboard.” At least it was tom-tom soup.
    “Did the school phone?” I asked.
    “They might have, but I didn’t hear anything.”
    “Okay.”
    “Why would the school be phoning?”
    “Erm, just . . .”
    “Have you been in trouble?”
    “No.”
    “You better not have been.”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “I’ve got enough to worry about.”
    “I wasn’t in trouble, Mom.”
    “Okay, so go and have your soup and let me sleep.”
    “Do you want me to bring you fresh cucumbers?” I asked. I felt guilty about lying.
    “No, it’s fine, Dylan, but if you have tea don’t throw the tea bags away.”
    “No problem, Mrs. Mint.”
    I saw her belly make a wee shudder, like a chuckle. Tom-tom soup is class. No other word for it.
    Class.
    Well, you could say fandabbydozie.
    Amir wasn’t allowed to have anything out of a can; his mom made everything from scratch and used all-fresh produce that you could only get in special supermarkets, which ponged like a super skunk that had pished itself. He didn’t know what he was missing, though. Nor did Mrs. Manzoor. Scooby-Doo would have been proud of me, the way I licked and licked the bowl. Crystal clean. If Mom had been there, I would have told her not to bother putting it in the dishwasher. Then the phone rang, making me jump out of my hickory dickories.
    “Hello, 426258 . . . Hello?”
    The person on the other end didn’t say hello back. Rude. Maybe they were deaf as a post.
    “Hello, 426258.”
    Still nothing. So I said nothing for a bit as well.
    “Dylan Mint speaking . . . Hello?”
    I waited.
    Zilcho.
    I put the phone down because I had made a jumbo blunder. I had only gone and told the person on the other end my name. My full name. If this person on the other end was a murderer or someone who wanted to ride teenage boys, they knew how to get hold of me now. What an eejit. I went back to the kitchen. Then it rang again. My heart went thump, thump, scud, scud. I didn’t want to wake Mom. And I certainly didn’t want to get murdered or ridden. I couldn’t work out which was worse.
    It kept ringing.
    Flippin’ heck.
    I slapped my head before I picked it up.
    “Hello.”
    No voice arrived.
    “Hello. Who is this please?”
    I could hear breathing. Not pervert breathing—normal breathing.
    “State your desire. I know you’re there. This number can now be traced, my friend. The CIA will be all over this. My dad has this phone tapped.”
    Still no reply.
    “CHILD FUCKER,” I screamed in my other voice—but I didn’t mean it to be so loud—before slamming the phone down.
    “Dylan!” Mom shouted. “Was that the phone?”
    “I think so.”
    “What do you mean, you think so? Was it the phone or not?”
    “Suppose so.”
    “Yes or