The Donut Diaries (17 page)

‘Yeah, well, we were. So what?’

She stared at me for a couple of seconds and then tossed her hair and walked off.

The school trip is tomorrow. The day after that I go to see Doc Morlock. And then, unless something very special happens, it’s half term and Camp Fatso for me.

I’ve worked out my plan. There are several different bits, and they all have to come off or the whole thing will collapse. This is making me very nervous.

The only way to calm my nerves is with a
you-know-what
. Nothing fancy, just a solid, plain 100 per cent donut. Didn’t enjoy it much. Sort of stuck in my throat and I had to wash it down with milk. I blame the thing with Renfrew.

DONUT COUNT:

Thursday 19 October

EVERYONE WAS EXCITED
in the morning. We were allowed to wear our own clothes, so I didn’t look like such a freak. I’m not saying I looked good – I just had my jeans and a normal, non-embarrassing shirt and a zip-up jacket – but at least I didn’t look like a plum about to go nuclear. Spam was wearing a yellow jumper and a pair of trousers that were, I suppose, light brown, but which also looked a bit yellowy. Together it made him look like a giant streak
of
snot fired out of a footballer’s nose. Corky was wearing tracky bottoms and a Stoke City football top. He doesn’t support Stoke City.
Nobody
supports Stoke City. Life is full of mysteries.

Renfrew had forgotten that you could wear your own clothes and had turned up in his school uniform, which made him look like a total loser.

‘You look like a total loser,’ I said to him, in front of everyone.

He shot me back a look of pure venom. It actually had more impact than the shove he’d given me the other day, and I took a step back.

‘Well, that’s enough of that, Dermot,’ said Mr Wells.

There were three coaches taking us to
Chimpsters
, and the classes all got mixed up.

Some of the tough sporty kids from Newman sat at the back of our coach, and some brainiacs from Campion sat at the front. That left me and Corky and Spam in the middle, which was OK.

After ten minutes, Mr Wells came and sat near us. He leaned over and said: ‘Everything all right with you, Dermot?’

‘Yeah, sir, fine.’

‘It’s just that I noticed that you and Renfrew don’t seem to be getting on very well …’

I shrugged and looked out of the window. We were going past a garage. Unleaded petrol cost 121.1p per litre, which I thought was a pretty odd price for anything. I mean, if you bought exactly one litre, you’d have to pay one pound twenty-one, plus one tenth of a penny. Stoopid. I thought Mr Wells was going to ask some more
questions
, and I made up some good answers as the stoopid garage zoomed backwards, but he just went off to sit with Miss Brotherton who everyone says he fancies.

We reached Chimpsters and all piled out of the coach. The teachers with us were Mr Wells, Miss Brotherton, Mr Braintree and the dreaded Mr Fricker.

Mr Wells tried to get everyone to calm down, but nobody did until Mr Fricker screamed at us, which freaked out a couple of nearby zebras and a camel.

I saw Renfrew standing with the FHK and his cronies. He looked at me furtively.

Or was it guiltily?

Then the fun started. We were divided up into groups, each one with a teacher in charge.
Ours
was, you’ve guessed it, Mr Psycho Fricker. The groups were mixed up, but luckily I had Spam and Corky in mine. There was also snooty Tamara Bello, plus various Campions, Xaviers and Newmans.

‘He’s probably come to wreak revenge on the leopard that got his hands,’ whispered Spam, pointing at Fricker.

He just had on his normal everyday mechanical hands rather than any of his special attachments. Maybe he had a tranquillizer dart attachment in his bag for escaped-animal emergencies.

Mr Fricker handed out work sheets full of questions that we had to answer. Each group had the questions in a different order so we didn’t all visit the same animals at the same time.

Our first question was: ‘How many toes does
a
pygmy hippo have?’ So we headed for the pygmy hippo pen to check it out.

The pygmy hippo, it turns out, has four toes on each foot, making sixteen all together. Cute little fellow.

‘The proper, full-sized hippos kill more people in Africa than lions do,’ said Spam cheerily.

‘Yeah, but you’d have to be some sort of midget to be killed by one of those things,’ I replied.

‘But they have pygmy people in Africa, don’t they?’ Spam continued, oddly reluctant to let the subject lie. ‘I bet they get regularly massacred by pygmy hippos.’

I had to agree that it was possible.

‘B-b-b-b-b-b-b-h-h-h-h-h-h-h,’ said Corky.

After the hippo, the next question was: ‘How
can
you tell a jaguar from a leopard?’ I knew the answer to this already, but we still went to the jaguar enclosure and then to the leopard enclosure, which were both in the ‘Big Cats’ part of the zoo.

We were standing there staring at the leopard’s ear, which was the only bit of it we could see, when Mr Fricker loomed up. He hadn’t screamed for ages, so I thought that’s what he’d come over to do. He was staring quite hard at the leopard’s ear. Spam and Corky both gave me significant looks. Suddenly the leopard-theory of how Mr Fricker lost his hands started to seem a lot less far-fetched.

Then Mr Fricker spoke. ‘How can a leopard change its spots?’

‘Pardon, sir?’ I said, a bit mystified.

‘I said, how can a leopard change its spots?’

‘I think it’s a joke,’ whispered Spam.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ I said.

‘When it gets tired of one spot, it just moves to another.’

There was a moment’s silence. It was really quite awkward. Then Corky started to laugh. Maybe it was just supposed to be a quick ‘Ha!’ but because of his stammer it went ‘H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-ha.’

Mr Fricker looked at Corky, possibly checking to make sure he wasn’t laughing sarcastically, but Corky was wiping tears from his eyes, so Fricker seemed happy enough.

The next question was: ‘Find your closest relation.’

Well, that was easy. They obviously didn’t mean Mum, Dad, Ruby or Ella.

To the chimps we went.

We got there just as another group was leaving. That group included my former friend Renfrew and his new friend, the FHK. The FHK was wearing a long black coat that almost looked like a cloak. Quite cool, actually. Ella would have loved it.

I surveyed the chimpanzee enclosure from a safe distance. There were about fifteen chimps generally lazing around the place. Some were lying over branches, their arms and legs dangling. Some were squatting against the wall, looking like hooligans. A few more were in the indoors part of their enclosure, and you could see them sitting in piles of straw, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and watching telly. Not really, but they did look a bit like that.

And then I saw the one I was looking for. He was twice the size of the other chimps. His face
wore
an expression of contempt, combined with a barely controlled rage.

He was one angry chimp.

He was the boss.

He was the one they call Samson.

I looked at Corky and Spam, and nodded. It was time to put into operation everything we had planned. The next few minutes were going to mean disaster or triumph.

I moved forward to a spot right in front of the evil Samson. He was below me, but only about ten metres away. I was quite safe from physical attack because of the moat. The moat stank. It was probably half full of chimp poo.

Samson looked at me. His eyes were black and full of hatred. You could almost imagine what he was thinking.

Something like:

How dare these bald pink weaklings keep me here. I should be swinging through the jungle, chasing monkeys, getting cosy with loads of lady chimps, in fact generally doing whatever chimp stuff I want to do. But instead I’m in this rubbish enclosure, with this blimp staring at me. Me, the mighty Samson, King of all the Chimps. Well, if we were in the jungle I would tear your arms off and suck your lungs out through the holes. Hang on, just going to have a quick banana
.

There was a banana on the floor next to Samson. He picked it up without taking his black eyes off me. Then he ate the banana without even bothering to peel it.

Now, people go on about how brainy chimpanzees are, but if that’s true, how come Samson never learned how to peel a banana, eh?

But that’s not important now. I could feel the rage building up in Samson. Feel the raw hatred in his glance. He finished the banana. He flexed his long hands – he was definitely imagining how nice it would be to tear my arms off. I stared right back, trying hard not to blink.

Then Samson moved even closer, right up to the edge of the moat. I could smell him, I really could. He smelled like my dad in the morning:
fusty
and hot and a bit eggy.

He sat for a moment longer, thinking (Samson, I mean, not my dad). Then he lifted up his chimpy bottom, and slipped his hand underneath. He closed one eye. It wasn’t a wink. Humans are the only animals capable of winking.
¹
He was concentrating.

Things then happened quickly. I sensed a movement behind me. Mr Fricker coming to drag me back from the edge? I hoped not. I sincerely hoped not. For then, with a flurry and a fizz, Samson stood and hurled a greeny-brown boomerang of chimp-poo at me.

And now that the moment had come, everything slowed down, just as it’s supposed to do when you’re about to die.

I saw the poop hurtling towards me. It spun majestically as it moved through the air. A small dollop flew off from one end, like a chunk of World War Two bomber shot off by an attacking fighter. But the rest of the fuselage was still hanging together, still flying, still heading directly for my face. Samson was one heck of a shot. It was going to land right in my mouth. I was going to be eating the old chimp-poo burger.

Samson was already celebrating, like a footballer who knew his penalty was heading for the top corner. His arms were in the air and he was beginning his victory
Whoooooooooooop!
The other chimps were running forward, ready to congratulate their leader. It was one in the
eye
for humanity! Centuries of oppression and torture were going to be put right.

And then I ducked.

And as I ducked, I turned.

I saw behind me the astonished expression of Steerforth, the Floppy-Haired Kid. His hands were out, ready to give me a shove in the back. I saw him glance down at me, and then up again.

His eyes narrowed, and then a look of horror came over his face.

But only for about, I’d say, one hundredth of a second. Because then the poop smacked into his chops with a sound like a bare buttock being hit with a cricket bat.

The splat had landed!

Corky and Spam and Renfrew were there, killing themselves laughing. In fact, Spam and Renfrew were laughing so much they just couldn’t speak. Corky, however, took a step forward, and said, in a voice as clear as a glass of sparkling mineral water: