Free Nicking Time by T. Traynor Page A

too quickly.
    “What flavour is this red stuff supposed to be?” Lemur asks.
    “Raspberry,” says Hector.
    “Oh.”
    “It’s not like the raspberry in raspberry ripple.”
    “You’re right, it’s not.”
    “Or like raspberry jam.”
    “Yuk. I hate that stuff – it’s full of bits that get stuck in your teeth.”
    “Or like raspberry Angel Delight.”
    “I’ve never had that one. Good?”
    “Quite nice. Or was it strawberry?”
    “None of them are as good as butterscotch.”
    “Aw, butterscotch! It’s magic!”
    “Imagine if the van sold butterscotch sauce on ice cream cones!”
    We fall silent in admiration. Hector has truly brilliant ideas sometimes.
    “Is that Kit?” says Lemur, squinting.
    She’s holding a cone in one hand and a torch in the other. My torch, to be precise.
    “Hey! That’s mine, that torch!” But she’s too far off to hear and my ice cream is tasting too good for me to get up and chase her.
    “She’s always taking my stuff,” I complain. “You’re so lucky to be an only child, Hector.”
    “Sometimes,” says Hector. “A lot of the time it’s really boring.”
    “The annoying thing is,” I continue, “that I don’t want to use
her
stuff. It’s all girly rubbish. Nothing worth taking.”
    “So you’ve got to be inventive to get her back?” says Skooshie. Having five brothers and sisters means that Skooshie’s experience in this area is impressive. There’s not a trick he hasn’t used or been the victim of.
    “Yeah. I hide things a lot.”
    “Nice one.”
    “And tell her she has to do stuff, pretending I’m just passing on the instruction from my mum or dad.”
    “Yeah, I like that one. There’s loads of opportunities for it in my house,” Skooshie says. “It’s got that you can’t really trust what anybody says.”
    “I can still see her,” says Hector, making owl eyes with his fingers to improvise binoculars. “Everybodyfinished? Could it be Sherbet Dip Time?”
    “Yeah!”
    And we’re off again, in pursuit of Kit. That’ll teach her to take my stuff.

12
    It’s raining: an endless Weegie drizzle that drips and seeps into the den where it finds nooks and crannies we haven’t been able to block. We’ve had days and days of sun, each one hotter than the one before, and the heat has finally exploded in a storm. Today. Friday. Cathkin Day. When we’ve finally got the jemmy and there’s nothing to stop us – except now the weather. We’re sitting it out in the den. We’re more or less dry, but we’re feeling aggrieved, we’ve nothing to eat and on top of that we’re bored. Brain-numbingly bored.
    I’ve just turned to Bru to argue that I’m more bored than he is when Skooshie’s bare foot is thrust between our faces.
    “Wouldn’t it be great,” says Skoosh, “if you could hear with your feet?”
    “Great how?”
    “Well, think about how useful it would be if you were a spy.”
    “How could that possibly help you in spying on somebody?”
    “It would be unexpected. The element of surprise.People would never suspect you could hear what they were saying.”
    “Brilliant – except your feet are attached to your legs which are attached to your body which is attached to your head which features your actual ears – which, unless you are very, very, very tall, are within hearing distance of your feet.”
    “And don’t you think people would notice a foot in their face?”
    “Aw. You don’t think it’ll catch on?” says Skooshie. His toes droop, like they’re disappointed to hear that.
    “Actually, it might work,” I say.
    “How?”
    “Not for eavesdropping. For knocking people out. One whiff and the stink would overwhelm them. Pure dead toxic.” Bru and I choke, clutch at our throats and keel over backwards to show how it might go.
    Skooshie is delighted.
    “Brilliant,” he says.
    “You can take your foot back now.”
    This uses up about a minute. Then it’s back to being bored.
    “Ghost stories!” says Hector,