Grinny Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Grinny

  Timothy Carpenter’s Introduction

  Diary: Book One

  Diary: Book Two

  You Remember Me!

  The Rollers

  Celebrity

  Scalding Water

  Burns and Flowers

  Discipline

  Tug-of-War

  People Change …

  Mad, Mad, Mad!

  Rat Thing

  Amazer-Laser

  The Strange Diet

  Letters from Lisa

  Dead on Time

  Death with A ‘D’

  The Crush

  TV Spectacular

  Death Cassette

  Broken Banjo

  Breakdown

  Superbrave

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Foreword by Malorie Blackman

  I love science fiction! The best science fiction deals with, amongst other things, possible futures, alternate realities, the uses and abuses of technology, aliens, the paranormal and futuristic science. Science fiction deals with not just the probable but the possible.

  The very first sci-fi novel I remember reading as a child was Chocky by John Wyndham at the age of ten or eleven. After that I was hooked. I loved TV programmes like Star Trek and Lost in Space but that novel was instrumental in getting me hooked on science fiction literature.

  Science fiction is one of the most imaginative and provocative of all the literary genres. The best sci-fi makes you gasp in wonder and surprise as you read. These stories may present worlds and ideas that you have maybe never even imagined before.

  We, the readers, may be presented with enemies from within this world and beyond who will require all of our courage and intelligence to defeat, but they also present us with the enemies inside ourselves – intolerance, stupidity and fear.

  And that’s what Nicholas Fisk gives us with both Grinny and its sequel You Remember Me!

  Both books feature a boy called Tim, his friend Mac and Tim’s younger sister, Beth. Grinny starts, rather ingeniously, when Tim is fifteen – four years after the incident with Great Aunt Emma, otherwise known as Grinny. In the introduction to Grinny, Tim has written the story from his diary, his memory and other writings, and has shown it to Nicholas Fisk (the author), who then encouraged him to get the story published as a warning to others as to what happened in the past and what may happen again.

  Grinny and its sequel You Remember Me! were actually written a number of years apart but in the sequel Tim is now a young reporter still in his teens working for a local newspaper.

  In the novel Grinny, Tim’s attitude to his younger sister is incredibly patronising and dismissive until he begins to realise that maybe, just maybe, his sister is right about their so-called Great Aunt. Grinny turns up on their doorstep unannounced and uninvited and convinces Tim and Beth’s parents that she is their Great Aunt Emma with the words – You remember me … Words that take on a very sinister turn in both stories. It takes Grinny’s horrific accident to confirm Beth’s suspicions and the final confrontation where Tim, Mac and Beth have to outsmart Grinny is nothing less than thrilling.

  You Remember Me! has Tim reporting back to his friend Nicholas Fisk. It ‘stars’ the TV personality Lisa Treadgold, spokesperson for a sinister group called Rule of Law. In an early look at the cult of ‘celebrity’, the whole country seems to adore Lisa – everyone, that is, except Tim’s sister, Beth. In You Remember Me! the stakes are higher and the consequences of the failure to stop Lisa even greater.

  Science fiction stories like these from Nicholas Fisk present us with a thrilling, compelling view of the possible. And like all good stories, whatever the genre, they provide life lessons such as believing in yourself, even when everyone else around you is telling you otherwise.

  Enjoy!

  Timothy Carpenter’s Introduction

  I was only eleven when Great Aunt Emma came to stay with us. My sister Beth was seven and my friend Mac (real name Steven) Rainier was eleven too. Now I am fifteen. I was too young to have done anything about Aunt Emma when she was with us because I was never sure what it all meant and even when everything got frightening and sinister I could neither have proved anything nor gone to someone for help.

  This book is based on my diary and other writings of the Aunt Emma period. My diary was a Christmas present, a big bound book in blue Morocco leather with gold-edged leaves. I remember how excited and pleased I was when I first started writing in it and thinking how handy it was that Aunt Emma had come just at the right time, to give me something exciting to write about.

  And then, later on, it all turned sour and I used to be almost frightened of the diary and writing the next page. Everything I had written seemed to add up to something horrible. The more I wrote, the more certain it seemed that the horror was true and would get worse. I did not keep a diary any more.

  I showed the diary to Mr Nicholas Fisk, the writer, as a result of talking to him about my wanting to adopt journalism as my future career. Of course, I can never talk to my father and mother about Aunt Emma – they quite literally would not hear me. You will understand why when you have read this book.

  Mr Fisk said that I should get the Aunt Emma story published if I want to make people aware of the possibilities facing them and to prepare them for the next time – if there is a next time. It is Mr Fisk’s opinion that the danger is most probably over – the thing happened, the experiment failed and there would be no point in trying it again.

  I wish I could feel sure he is right.

  Diary

  Book One

  Jan. 14

  Astonishing news! I had come back from Mac’s house and had just been shouted at as usual by Mum (TAKE YOUR BOOTS OFF) when I heard the station taxi grinding up the drive and soon after, our bell being rung. I was still in the porch so I opened the door and there she was, all five feet one of her, with two gi-normous trunks. I did not know what to say, but she said, ‘I am your Great Aunt Emma. You must be Tim,’ and I mumbled something about calling Mother, but Mum had heard the bell go and came hurtling along the corridor shouting, ‘If it’s the Guides, it must wait till Tuesday and if it’s Mac, tell him to TAKE HIS BOOTS OFF.’ When she goes to heaven, she will say this to all the archangels.

  I said, ‘It’s Great Aunt Emma, Mum, were you expecting –?’ but she simply said, ‘Most amusing, you witty lad!’ in her Wednesday matinée voice and went belting past on her way to the kitchen. Then she caught a glimpse of Aunt Emma and stopped in her tracks and came to the doorway. ‘Who?’ she said. ‘Great Aunt who?’ I could see she was completely foxed and had never heard of GAE, as I will henceforth refer to Great Aunt Emma, as she is bound to figure largely in these pages from now on.

  GAE said, ‘You remember me, Millie!’ but Mum could only see a vague shape and replied, ‘Oh dear, I am afraid I don’t quite remember –’ Then I switched on the porch light and Mum could see GAE properly. GAE leaned forward and said again, ‘You remember me, Millie!’ and this time the penny dropped and Mum cried out, ‘Great Aunt Emma! Oh do come in, you must be freezing. Tim, help with the luggage!’

  So we got her inside and she is rather a queer old party. Very short, with a hat with a veil, and gloves, and a way of smiling vaguely. Her teeth are very good (false?) and she is very neat. Her shoes hardly have creases in them over the instep, as if she never walked, yet she is quite spry considering her age and soon she and Mum were chattering away about the journey and so on. At first Mum didn’t seem quite with the situation, I could tell she was faking a lot, but she is such a good faker (unlike Father) that only an outsider could have told that she was a bit baffled by GAE. Anyhow, this soon passed, I saw her (Mum) wipe the ba
ck of her hand across her brow which is always a sign that her mind is now made up and Into Action! After another few minutes you could have sworn that Mum had been expecting GAE for the last fortnight, that the bed was aired and so on. She is very good at that sort of thing.

  Then Father and Beth came in from feeding the rabbits. He made a complete bosh of it as usual, saying all the wrong things and making it quite clear that he hadn’t a clue about the very existence of Great Aunts. But she fixed him with her beady eye, and grinned, and said, ‘You remember me, Edward!’ and he re-entered the Twentieth Century in great style, pouring everyone sherry. He gave Beth (who is seven) as much sherry as me (eleven) which is typical. Beth was as ever the Outstanding Social Success and shook hands and said, ‘Oh what a lovely surprise,’ and looked more like a telly ad than ever. I suppose it’s a graceful accomplishment, but it’s also the mark of a little cow. She swallowed the sherry pretty fast and went across to pour herself some more but Mum caught her eye and said, ‘Beth …!’ and that was the end of that. I got another half-glass later. It is quite good sherry, a Manzanilla.

  Mum drew me aside and of course it was me that had to go and put hot water bottles in the spare bed and turn on the heaters and so on to get the room ready for GAE. When I got back to the living-room they were all talking away.

  GAE obviously has a knack for social chitchat, she just asks questions that set people talking again. When I came in, she said, ‘Tim, are you old enough to smoke?’ I said no, of course, although I have smoked (what a ridiculous habit). She said, ‘I am so glad, now I won’t have to be polite and offer you one of these horrid things. I have only four left.’ She pulled out a packet of Gauloises and lit one – she had already had one, the stub was in an ashtray – and said, ‘Let me see, are you fourteen or fifteen, Tim?’

  I felt myself turning pink at this ridiculous question and mumbled, ‘Eleven. Nearly twelve.’ Sure enough, Beth said, ‘But he’s old enough to shave, Aunt Emma!’ in her Sweet Little Girl voice and everyone began to say, ‘What shave When shave Why shave Who shave How shave’, just as Beth intended. What makes it all worse is that I tried Father’s shaving things that time simply out of curiosity, not to prove myself a great hairy man or anything stupid like that. But of course as Father is always reminding me, WAW, Women Always Win.

  Anyhow, what an absurd thing to ask me if I am fourteen or fifteen, quite obviously I am not. If GAE thought she was flattering me, wrong guess. I tried to cover up by asking her how old she was. Beth murmured, ‘How rude’ – another point to her – but GAE said, ‘I have been sixty-nine now for more years than I care to remember,’ and everyone laughed politely.

  So it went on like that and she eventually went off to bed in high style. Thank heaven she is not a kisser, just a peck-on-the-cheeker. When Aunt Lilian was here, saying goodnight was like those old movies with sobbing violins.

  Will get Beth somehow.

  Jan. 15

  Got Beth over hogging black cherry jam – none left for breakfast. Kid stuff, but A Man Must Do What A Man Must Do. Father packing Land Rover with cameras and gear for undercroft photos, wish he would take me; it’s the best part of the cathedral, terrific spooky smell. He was in a panic because he’d messed up the lighting gear as usual and GAE kept asking questions. Antiquated old gear he bought in the fifties, weighing a ton.

  Memo – push catalogues of Jap electronics under his nose again.

  GAE no fool. I wonder how old she really is? Very alert and always asking questions, most of them good. Asked Father WHY he wanted to know about Roman settlement below undercroft and he lost another three minutes telling her. Most women merely think his work Quaint, like that woman who kept saying, ‘So historical!’ but GAE wants to know what it’s all for. Kept asking even when Father gone, so not just faking.

  GAE asked where she could get more French ciggies, saw Mum flinch (though she does not mind them as much as ordinary fags). Told her only one place, Tillots in the village, and even then she would be lucky (she was – they did stock them). She said would I take her, had to say yes. So we walked there, me dreading slow tottering steps and having to hang back. But she kept going at a fair old pace. Very cold, nose dripping (mine not hers – she didn’t even mention cold). Funny really, she wore a black long coat, black boots, black hat with fur and veil again. Said it kept her face warm. I said something about the early days of motoring and women wearing veils then but she said she didn’t remember and started asking me about cars. What is a sports car for, she asked, and I said, to go faster. How much faster? I said not really much faster, in fact some saloons were faster than some sports cars. Then why did people buy sports cars? Etc., etc. Lots more of this sort. Questions that made me think. I told her about electric cars but (as we found out later) GAE hates anything electric, which is one of the odd, old-ladyish things about her. She seems to think that anything electrical could leak electricity … she flinches away from electric fires, irons, anything.

  Funny that she asks all these questions at her age, I suppose old people get a second wind when they start looking at life all over again and asking all the questions they didn’t ask when they were young. She never talks about the past.

  All in all, rather enjoyed the walk and certainly she’s a good goer – quite unpuffed on return, lit a Gauloise and read paper right through without a further word.

  Father back early in temper, lighting gear failed as I predicted. Gave him Jap catalogues. This time he may actually look at them.

  Jan. 20

  Muscle Beach1 this morning, Father a bit hearty, saying ‘Swimming in January! There’s luxury!’ Beth as usual moaning and ending up by crying ‘It’s NOT luxury! It’s NOT luxury!’ which made Father and me laugh. We stripped and dived in, horrible anticipation but very nice once done. Water 67°. Father ploughing up and down doing his 30 lengths, very stern and dutiful, but must admit he looks better than most men of his age. E.g. cannot imagine Dr Parry (six years younger than Father) stripped to the buff, must be obscene. Physician, heal thyself.

  Beth doing her amazing breaststroke, head and bottom sticking out of water, mouth going ‘Pouf! Pouf!’, eyes closed most of the time.

  I did length underwater, then two lengths = 50 feet. Nearly burst lungs.

  Mother as usual found excuse, did not come. Yet she is far best swimmer. My theory – she never really approves of the naked bit. Is it her appendicitis scar? Probably. She is quite vain and I don’t blame her as very pretty considering age (34). She moans about the scar – surgeon was a butcher, etc., etc. – but not seriously. But she does mention it. I read an article in the paper the other day that said all this modem thing about families romping around naked and unashamed was a snare and a delusion. I must say I never thought about it at all, the swimming-pool was just a thing we had and it’s always been there – since I was four anyhow – and you don’t wear clothes in your own swimming pool, although you do in someone else’s or on the beach. No one in our house goes around naked indoors or leaves loo door open. But since the Permissive Scene came on, you can’t even brush your teeth without feeling that you’ve got to prove something. I wish I was Father, who simply doesn’t comment – just does what he wants to do. But of course, even that’s all changed now because of GAE.

  There we are splashing in the pool when – ker-doing! – door opens, icy blast ruffles water, and lo! GAE has come among us, wearing gumboots and mild grin! All is instantly confusion! The great traditions hallowed by the Carpenter family are shaken to the corblimey! – particularly the tradition whereby Muscle Beach = unembarrassed starkers. Beth is least affected – she merely says, ‘Eeek!’, then recovers herself and goes on with her rotten breaststroke, this time with her eyes open to see how dear Papa and dear Brother take the situation.

  I zoom out of the pool at the far end and slide like a seal into a towel in one easy movement. So I am now unnaked and therefore unashamed. Not trendy, but true.

  But Father is visibly taken aback. He stops swimming
, stands in the middle of the pool and says, ‘Oh.’ Then he adds, ‘Aunt Emma. Oh. Good morning.’ And, trying to look unconcerned, completes his thirty lengths. But he’s concerned all right, because instead of doing racing turns at either end, which he learned with great labour from the swimmers on TV, he now turns in the modest amateur hand-push manner: the difference being that the amateur manner just causes a swirl of water round his shoulder while the racing turn shows his bottom.

  At last he can swim no longer and once again he stands in the middle of the pool and says, in an abnormally normal voice, ‘Oh, good morning, Aunt Emma. You’re up bright and early.’

  She looks out through the glass overhead as if to check the truth of his statement and replies, ‘Yes indeed,’ – then calmly sits down and stares at Father, waiting for him to say something else.

  Taking the bull by the horns, he says, ‘Well, cough cough, that’s enough swimming for me, hum hum, I think I will get out now.’

  Aunt Emma says, ‘Yes indeed.’

  Father’s eyes flick first to Beth, who deliberately turns her back to him and duck-dives; then to me – but I pretend to have my arms caught in a sweater. Seeing that he will get no support from his nearest and dearest, Father says, loud and clear, ‘You must leave now, Aunt Emma, I’m getting out.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Aunt Emma, the grin fading. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not wearing anything!’ Father grates.

  ‘I should hope not,’ says Aunt Emma. ‘It would only get wet!’

  I was going to go on to examine this situation in depth, but it’s too good to spoil and I am sleepy. So I will leave him in the water, facing Aunt Emma (still seated) and laugh myself to sleep.

  Jan. 21

  Will continue with the events of Saturday (yesterday) as not much doing today. (Incidentally, GAE’s footprints in the snow are interesting. Our footprints lead straight to and from the pool. Hers make a long detour round the filtration unit – with its electric pump and electric humming noise!)