The Donut Diaries (15 page)

I got the bus across town to the clinic. Although it shut with a satisfying snap, the glasses case wasn’t completely airtight. It meant that a bit of a smell leaked out. An old lady came and sat next to me on the bus, but she didn’t stay very long. She gave me a look that was about ten per cent pity and ninety per cent horror. I thought about trying to explain but, well, how could I? What was I supposed to say?

‘
Er, I haven’t pooped my pants or anything … I’ve
just
got some poo in this glasses case which I’m taking to a fake lady doctor who is going to look at it and see if I’ve been eating too many donuts
.’

I was thinking that this may be a new low for me. But not the bottom. I was still falling.

I hadn’t gone splat yet.

Half an hour later I was sitting in the waiting room in the health centre where Doc Morlock has her clinic. I had the glasses case on my lap. I was reading Alan Moore’s mighty
The Watchmen
– probably the greatest graphic novel ever penned.

It was pretty hot and stuffy in the waiting room. Strangely, all the other people were crammed in the opposite corner to me. Well, not strangely. It was because of the foul reek of poo surrounding me like a cloud of poison gas.

I sensed someone else come in. I looked up.

It was Tamara Bello.

I was still falling. I waited for the splat.

Tamara looked for somewhere to sit. She saw the seat next to me and headed for it. The second before she sat down she recognized me.

‘You,’ she said, without any surprise or emotion in her voice.

I hadn’t had a chance yet to say sorry about booting the ball in her face. I tried now. ‘I’m really sorry about—’

‘What’s that stink?’

I’d forgotten about the poo in the glasses case. ‘It’s … er … this place always pongs. All these sick people. They, er, probably have diarrhoea. Or, er, cholera. Dysentery. Wind.’

Smooth, eh?

Tutting, Tamara sat down. ‘What are you
reading
a comic for?’ she said, before I had time to finish my apology.

‘It’s not a comic – it’s the greatest—’

‘I’m sorry,’ she interrupted.

‘Sorry …? What for?’

‘Throwing your trousers in the puddle.’

Well,
that
was unexpected.

‘Oh. I’m sorry I kicked the ball in your face. It was an accident.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘But really, I didn’t mean to—’

‘I know
you
didn’t mean to do anything. You’re harmless.’

I was completely lost. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It was
him
. He pushed you just as you were about to kick the ball.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t be such a dummy. Steerforth. Who else?’

‘But he was on my side.’

‘He isn’t on anyone’s side except his own.’

I replayed the events in my head. Could it have been Steerforth, the FHK, who nudged me as I tried to score? Could he really have planned the whole thing? Was that the only reason he had let me play in the Big Match? He’d have to be an evil genius. It was too much for my poor brain to take in.

‘How do you know so much about him?’

Another big tut from Tamara. ‘He’s my cousin.’

‘Oh.’ This was all too heavy for me. I didn’t know what to say. So I changed the subject. ‘What are you here for?’

Tamara looked me right in the eye. ‘Verrucas. You?’

‘Oh …’ I couldn’t help but look down at the spectacle case. Her eyes followed mine. Her cute nose wrinkled.

‘Didn’t know you wore glasses,’ she said.

‘Let’s see …?’ She reached out to take them.

The ground was rushing towards me.

I imagined her face. The horror. Imagined what she would say at school. The glasses case. The poo. The freak.

This was it.

The splat was coming.

‘Dermot, come in please.’

I looked up to see Doc Morlock standing outside her door. For one second I felt pure love for the nasty old prune, with her face looking like an angry handbag.

‘Sorry, got to, er, go.’

I followed Doc Morlock, feeling both saved and doomed.

Can’t write any more today. Will have to finish the story tomorrow.

Wednesday 11 October

OK, GOT MY
strength back (he said, wiping donut crumbs from his mouth). What happened next was this:

‘How have you been?’ asked Doc Morlock when I was sitting down. The vulture was back, getting ready to stick its head into that dead wildebeest’s body.

‘OK.’

‘Everything all right at school?’ The vulture’s claws were on the carcass.

‘Yeah.’

‘And how’s the diet coming along? You’ve been good?’ The baldy head and the hooked beak were in.

‘Not too bad.’

‘You have the sample?’ And out comes some juicy bit of meat.

‘Yeah, it’s, er …’ I held out the glasses case.

‘Why would I want your glasses?’

‘No, it’s … you know … in there.’

Somehow her face became even more vulturial, if that’s a word.

‘Why didn’t you use the sample container I gave you?’

‘It was too small. I couldn’t … I mean, my aim … I mean, it …’

‘Didn’t you read the instructions?’

Had there been some instructions? Maybe
there
had been a piece of paper, but I’d just chucked it away. Do I look like the kind of kid who needs to be told how to go to the toilet?

‘You were supposed,’ continued the evil doc, ‘to use the spatula to take a small sample and put it in the container.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Never mind, give it here.’

I passed her the case and Doc Morlock put it in a clear plastic envelope and stood up.

‘Wait here while I go and analyse this in the lab,’ she said, and left the room.

I felt like a man on trial for his life, waiting for the jury to return their verdict. Suddenly the clock began to tick very loudly. A fly buzzed in the window, sounding like a jet plane taking off.

Five minutes later the doc was back. She walked silently up to the stool chart. The stick
was
in her hand. She pointed to Type 2.

‘This is where we are, Dermot. I found traces of partially digested refined carbohydrates.’

‘Eh?’

‘Sugar, Dermot, sugar. And there was evidence of the kind of food dyes they put in icing. The sort of icing that covers … need I say it, Dermot?’

I shook my head. Already I was eating gruel at Camp Fatso.

‘However … I did note that there were some signs of a reasonable intake of fruit and vegetables, and the sugar levels were just within acceptable levels.’

I wanted to let out a yowl of delight. But Doc Morlock was not done yet.

‘Which is why I am prepared to give you one last chance, Dermot. If, on your next visit, I find
a
magnificent example of a Type Three or Four stool, with no traces of donut whatsoever, then … then we’ll see.’

I was drinking in the last-chance saloon. They didn’t serve donuts.

Thursday 12 October

I’D BEEN PLANNING
my revenge which, I’m told, is a dish best served cold. Just like a donut. Actually, I suppose your
ideal
donut is served at blood temperature. No one really wants a
cold
donut, like out of the fridge or something. That would be plain wrong. But then so would a
hot
donut. Wouldn’t it?

Suddenly I’m not so sure. In fact, I’m going to try it. Back in a minute.

Well, that was interesting, if you find near-death
experiences
interesting, that is. Sneaked into the kitchen while Mum was watching telly and Dad was in the toilet. Put a jam donut in the microwave – just for five seconds. Ping. Nibbled it. Quite nice, but thought it needed a few more seconds. Gave it another thirty. Ping. Bit it. The spongy bit of the donut was fine, but the jam had turned into boiling lava. It squirted its deadliness right into my mouth. I spat it out, but not before it had stripped the skin from the inside of my mouth, the way pizza cheese does when it’s too hot. I let out a strangled scream and gulped cold water straight from the tap.

This was undoubtedly the worst donut experience of my life, if you don’t count the curried donut Mr Alexis made me try as part of the Donuts of the World promotion.

Dad came in and helped me tidy up before
Mum
saw what was going on.

‘I thought you, er, you know, stopped with the donuts.’

‘I’ve cut right down, Dad.’

‘OK, because, well … Camp Fatso. That would be a fiasco, and neither of us want that, do we?’

‘No, Dad.’

We both looked at the door through to the living room. We both knew that what we wanted didn’t matter. If Mum wanted it, then it was going to happen.

Sorry, I was talking about revenge, wasn’t I? Against the FHK. Everything rubbish that had happened to me since I went to secondary school was down to him. He’d planned it all. Why? Because I was a bit of a fatty.

It wasn’t fair.

Well, he’s going to pay for it. All I need is a nice, evil plan.

The trouble is, I’m useless at thinking up evil plans. It’s because I’m one of the goodies. Pity.

DONUT COUNT:

Friday 13 October

I HAD AN
insight into what awaits me in Camp Fatso. I should have known I was in for it after getting on the wrong side of Mr Fricker ages ago when I called him a cyborg. Some people carry a grudge. Some people don’t. Mr Fricker, it turns out, does. Carries it, that is, up on top of his head where everyone can see it, like the way ladies in Africa carry water jars.

The screaming began when we took too long to get changed into our PE kits. There was the
sinister
quiet bit while he told us that we were going to be running for miles through the mud, and then lots more screaming incredibly loudly as we ran along. This was only the boys. The girls got to do netball with nice Miss Gunasekara.

Suddenly netball seemed like the best sport ever invented. Suddenly a small part of me slightly sort of wanted to be a girl.

NOTE TO SELF: NEVER SAY OR THINK ANYTHING LIKE THIS EVER AGAIN.

Of course, the whole thing was a nightmare for me. I’m not very good at running, so I was at the back the whole time with Mr Fricker jogging beside me, screaming directly into my face. Renfrew and Spam kept me company for a while, but Corky was up at the front, way ahead. Turns out he’s as fast as a greased rocket. But soon even Renfrew and Spam were out of sight, because Mr Fricker kept screaming, ‘You’re not trying, boy! Down on that fat gut and give me five press-ups!’ which slowed me down even more, as you’d expect. Five press-ups may not sound very much, but it’s pretty rubbish when you have to do them in the mud with an authentic loony screaming at you, and when you’re shattered anyway because of all the running you’ve been doing.