Just Annoying! (16 page)

It's slow going. My body keeps sticking to the carpet—there must be millions of cups of spilled Coke and Fanta down here. Not to mention all the other stuff. Old chip buckets, ice-cream wrappers, drink cups, lolly boxes, ripped up movie tickets, used tissues . . . everything except my Jaffa.

At the end of the aisle I do a sort of tumble-turn and slip into the next row. There is a forest of legs and shoes for as far as I can see.

Hang on.

I can smell Jaffa.

I wriggle my way towards the smell and stop. It's directly above me.

I can see two small legs dangling over the edge of the seat.

It's the little kid with the big mouth. If anybody knows anything about my Jaffa then he will. Kids and Jaffas go together like . . . well . . . kids and Jaffas.

I can hear cellophane crackling.

The sound of an engine fills the theatre.

‘Why is that man hanging from the aeroplane?' says the boy.

‘He's trying to catch the bad man,' says his mother in a low voice.

‘Why don't they stop and let him in?'

‘Shhh!' says his mother. ‘Just watch.'

‘That's very dangerous, isn't it, Mummy?' says the boy.

‘Shush!'

I roll onto my back. I push myself slowly out to a position where I can see the boy. Just as I suspected. He's got Jaffas. I have an excellent sense of smell.

He's holding them in his left hand. They are resting on the seat beside his knee. The box is almost full. I can see a Jaffa poking out of the top.

I could just reach up and take it. Just one. It's not my lost one, but it would do. The kid won't mind. He won't even know. He's staring at the screen. It's a low thing to steal lollies off children. Very low. James Bond would never do that. I would never do that.

I'm just going to borrow it.

I raise my hand towards the Jaffa. My thumb and forefinger are poised, like a cobra about to strike. The Jaffa is almost mine.

‘Mummy,' says the kid in a loud voice, ‘why is there a boy under my seat?'

I pull my hand back and wriggle back under cover. Bigmouth strikes again!

‘Shhh!' says his mother. ‘Don't be so silly.'

‘But, Mum,' he says, ‘there's a boy under my seat.'

‘I've told you before,' she says, ‘stop telling stories.'

My cover's been blown! I have to get out of the danger zone. Fast.

I take off down the aisle, elbows pumping. I bump my head. I burn my knees. I knock my shoulders. But I keep going until I can't go any further. I'm caught on a strap. It's pulled tight under my arm. At the end of the strap I can see a handbag. And that's not all. The strap is looped around a woman's ankle.

‘Hey!' says a voice. A hand with long fingernails reaches down and starts tugging on the strap. ‘Help! Someone's trying to steal my handbag. Usher!'

But the harder she pulls the strap, the harder it is to unhook it from my shoulder.

I flop onto my back and push myself out from under the seat to help slip the strap off my arm.

It works. My arm is free.

But now I have an even bigger problem.

Someone is screaming.

‘Pervert!'

It takes me a moment to realise that I'm looking up the dress of the woman in the next seat.

Not that I am looking. I'm not. I'm just trying to get rid of the handbag strap. But it's going to be hard to explain the difference. James Bond would know how to do it, but when it comes to the crunch I'm no James Bond. It's safer and easier just to scram.

I pull my head back under the seat and start the long journey back to where I started. Operation find-the-lost-Jaffa has been aborted. I'll be happy just to find my seat.

Too late.

I can see a white torch beam sweeping across the carpet.

The usher!

I can't go forward and I can't go back.

He stops at the end of my aisle.

He is wearing black leather shoes. The shoelaces are tied in big floppy bows. The toes are scuffed. Probably from kicking trouble-makers like me out of the cinema.

‘What's the problem?' calls the usher.

‘Thief!' gasps the handbag woman.

‘Pervert!' says the woman sitting next to her.

‘Who me?' says the usher.

‘No, under the seat!' says the handbag woman.

‘Which one?' says the usher.

I'm breathing hard. Heart thudding.

Any minute now he's going to shine the torch under the seat.

Unless . . .

Brainwave!

Now don't get me wrong. Tying somebody's shoelaces together is on a par with stealing lollies from children. It's not an activity that I would normally have any part of or recommend to others. But this is an emergency. After all, a field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective.

I reach out and pluck the end of the usher's shoelace from its loose knot. It unties easily. The lace of his other shoe comes undone just as easily. I tie the two laces together in a simple slip knot. I brace myself. This is it. I spread my fingers apart like I'm steadying myself for the start of a one-hundred-metre sprint.

That's weird.

I can feel something underneath my right hand.

It's small and hard. And round.

Hang on!

I don't believe it.

My Jaffa! I've found it.

Against incredible odds.

I put it in my pocket.

James Bond would be proud of me. I steady myself and prepare to bolt.

‘Which row?' says the usher.

‘This row!' scream the women in unison.

The usher bends down and shines his torch right in my face.

‘Good evening!' I say in my suavest James Bond voice and then launch myself right at him and into the aisle.

In his surprise the usher steps backwards. And falls. Ouch!

The torch goes flying.

I'm out in the centre aisle. But in all the excitement I can't remember where I was sitting.

I could yell ‘cooee!' and hope that Danny replies, but that wouldn't be too smart. Everyone would know where I am.

There is one way, though.

It's not going to be pleasant but I have to do it. Only my uncanny sense of smell can help me now.

I empty my lungs. I close my eyes. I breathe in through my nose, searching for a particular smell. A particularly bad smell. The worst smell in the whole world. A smell that's kind of a cross between bad breath, dog pooh and garlic.

Danny's foot odour.

Lucky for me Danny has a habit of taking his shoes off in the cinema. Judging by the smell, it must be about the only time he ever does take them off.

Got it! Two rows back to the middle and nine seats across.

Just in time. At least half-a-dozen torch beams start streaming down the aisles.

Backup ushers!

I throw myself towards the aisle where the stench is the strongest and dive under the seats before the torch beams hit.

I move smoothly until I get to a seat without any legs in front of it. That must be mine. I emerge and slip back into my place as if nothing has happened.