Free The Third-Class Genie by Robert Leeson Page B

stopped.
    “Mr Bowden, I presume. Whither away?”
    It was Monty speaking through the partly open door of his office.
    “Just to the toilets, sir.”
    “Hm.”
    Alec scurried into the washroom, hastily ripped off the plaster seal and emptied the can. The liquid was a cheerful golden colour in spite of its pong.
    He was sure Granddad would have liked it, but he had to think of his own interests and Abu’s. When the can was empty, he slipped it back into his inside pocket and walked back to the classroom. As he entered, Mr Cartwright had been on a reconnaissance. Now all was deadly quiet, save for the mournful squeak of a pen here and there.
    Suddenly there came a tremendous belch. Those nearest Alec turned round.
    “Bowden, you dirty old man,” said Ronnie Carter, who sat just in front of him.
    “It wasn’t me,” said Alec, truthfully.
    “Not much, it wasn’t. You’re disgusting.”
    “Oh, belt up,” whispered Alec, as he heard footsteps in the corridor.
    “Haa-up-errp.” This time there was a combined hiccup and belch. Then Alec’s heart stood still as this was followed by a sudden burst of singing in a lively, but slurred, baritone.
    “Hey, give over, Bowden. You’ll have Cartwright here in a minute.”
    “You
have
Cartwright in here!” said a voice from the doorway. “What is the excitement about?”
    He was answered by a series of hiccups, fired off like a machine gun. Then a ferocious burp and another line of the Baghdad Genies’ Anthem, or whatever it was Abu was singing.
    Mr Cartwright’s eyes opened wide. “Bowden?” he said, with shock in his voice.
    “It’s my transistor,” said Alec, desperately.
    “Well, switch it off.”
    “I can’t, it’s stuck in my pocket. Please can I go outside, sir?”
    “I’d strongly recommend it,” said Mr Cartwright menacingly, “and stand outside my room. What are you laughing about?”
    “I’m not laughing, sir.” But the laughter, full, hearty drunken, laughter, mocked him. The sounds of singing and hiccuping followed Alec as he fled red-faced down the corridor and into the washroom. They finally disappeared in gargling and bubbling sounds as Alec turned on a tap and sent a stream of cold water pouring into the can. He emptied it, refilled and emptied it again, shook it, rubbed it against his coat, and then raised it to his ear. Only the faintest of snoring sounds could now be heard. He put the can into his pocket and went down the corridor to Mr Cartwright’s office.
    “Come in, come in. Shut the door.”
    Oh, thought Alec, that sounds nasty.
    “Sit down over there.”
    “Ah, that sounds better,” he thought.
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re playing at, Alec Bowden,” said Mr Cartwright. “I’m equally sure that song was never broadcast, even on Cairo Radio, even if you could get it on your transistor. May I ask where you picked it up? Have you any idea what the words meant? And why the belches and hiccups?”
    Alec’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of a sensible answer to any of the questions. Mr Cartwright, however, was not looking for answers today; he steamed on.
    “Your interest in things Arabian is quite remarkable. The History Department let me have a look at your Crusader project.”
    Alec groaned. This was disaster day, all right.
    “Very interesting. I read it with some fascination. I served for years in the Middle East and I came to realize that the Arabs have quite a different view of history from ours.”
    “That’s right, sir. They thought the Crusaders were a pack of barbarians.”
    Cartwright nodded. “The trouble was, their civilization was on the way down, and ours in the West was on the way up. We owe them a lot.”
    This time Alec stopped himself from saying, “That’s what Abu says.” Instead he said on impulse, “I don’t see why any civilization should be up while another’s down, sir. It’d be better if they were all on the same level.”
    Mr Cartwright nodded and laughed.