The injury log

It was Wednesday morning in London, which meant three things.

First, there was traffic.

Second, somebody somewhere was carrying a takeaway coffee they would immediately forget on top of a car.

And third, Barry was probably about to do something he shouldn’t.

Barry was four years old.

He was curious.

Unfortunately, he was curious about absolutely everything.

“What’s inside a pencil?” Barry would ask.

“Lead,” said Alfie.

Barry would snap it in half.

“What about two pencils?”

Alfie had learned not to answer questions like that.

Barry’s best friend Marmaduke was also four years old and possessed a remarkable talent.

Whatever Barry suggested, Marmaduke would agree with.

“Let’s see if worms like crisps.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s wear buckets as hats.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s start a detective agency to investigate missing biscuits.”

“Okay.”

Marmaduke never seemed to realise that Barry’s ideas usually ended with someone saying the words, “Oh dear.”

This particular Tuesday had already been difficult.

At preschool, Miss Patel had organised a nice, calm painting session.

The plan was simple.

Paint flowers.

Paint trees.

Maybe paint a butterfly.

Instead, Barry had discovered that if you blew through a cardboard tube at wet paint, it sprayed everywhere.

“Look!” he shouted.

A large green splat landed on the wall.

Marmaduke gasped.

“That’s brilliant.”

Then he did it too.

Soon there was paint on tables.

Paint on chairs.

Paint on sleeves.

Paint on shoes.

Paint on somebody’s lunchbox.

One unfortunate splodge landed on a picture of a rabbit and transformed it into what appeared to be a furious green monster.

Miss Patel closed her eyes for three seconds.

Not because she was angry.

Because she was trying very hard not to become a lighthouse and shine a giant beam of frustration across London.

By eleven o’clock she looked like she needed a holiday.

Possibly a very long one.

Meanwhile, at the primary school next door, Alfie was having a completely different sort of day.

Alfie was eight.

Sensible.

Careful.

Responsible.

If rules had fan clubs, Alfie would be president.

At lunchtime he was sitting quietly with his friend Arthur.

Arthur was so quiet that some children believed he communicated entirely through blinking.

The two boys had found a fallen log near the edge of the playground.

It wasn’t very tall.

It wasn’t very exciting.

But they decided to climb on it anyway.

“Do you think this is safe?” Alfie asked.

Arthur considered carefully.

“I think so.”

Which, for Arthur, was practically a speech.

Unfortunately, logs do not care about careful discussions.

Alfie stepped.

The log rolled.

His feet disappeared.

The ground arrived unexpectedly.

THUMP.

A teacher hurried over.

Arthur blinked seventeen times in alarm.

Ten minutes later, Alfie was sitting in the school office with an ice pack and a chin that seemed to be expanding by the second.

By one o’clock it looked enormous.

By two o’clock it looked like it deserved its own postcode.

Mrs Patterson, the deputy headteacher, examined him.

“You’ve got a nasty graze and a mild concussion, Alfie.”

Alfie sighed.

“I knew I shouldn’t have climbed the log.”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“I told Arthur that.”

Mrs Brand nodded.

“That’s very helpful now.”

Mrs Brand was called, and hearing it was Alfie injured, she made genuine haste to jog down the road to school. 

The receptionist met her at the door and ushered her into the nurses room.

A few minutes later, Mrs Brand had thanked everyone in attendance and was escorting her walking wounded to the main door. 

Then she spotted something through the office window.

Barry.

And Marmaduke.

Covered in paint.

Still cheerful.

Miss Patel looked as though she was considering a new career involving fewer children and perhaps more alpacas.

Mrs Patterson had an idea.

A terrible idea.

The sort of idea that seems excellent right up until the moment it isn’t.

“Mrs Brand,” she said sweetly, “while you’re taking Alfie home, would you mind taking Barry and Marmaduke too?”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“Both of them?”

“You can’t separate them.”

“True.”

“It would give Miss Patel a tiny bit of respite.”

Miss Patel silently folded her hands as though praying.

Mrs Brand looked at Barry.

Barry waved.

A streak of blue paint flew off his sleeve and landed on a radiator.

Mrs Brand looked at Marmaduke.

Marmaduke waved too.

A streak of red paint joined the blue one.

“Fine,” said Mrs Brand.

Five minutes later they were all in her car.

Alfie sat quietly holding an ice pack.

Barry stared at Alfie’s chin.

“Wow.”

“Please don’t.”

“It looks massive.”

“I know.”

“It looks like you’ve swallowed a football.”

“Barry.”

“It looks like your face grew a second face.”

Mrs Brand coughed to hide a laugh.

Marmaduke leaned forward.

“It sort of does.”

Alfie folded his arms.

“Thank you both for your medical opinions.”

When they reached home, Mrs Brand settled the boys inside.

She phoned Marjory, Marmaduke’s mum, more for moral support than to report any medical problem.

She provided snacks.

Checked Alfie again.

Then finally went to work in the kitchen again. 

The house became quiet.

For approximately twelve seconds.

Barry stared at Alfie’s chin.

An idea formed.

This was rarely good news.

“I know what we should do.”

Marmaduke immediately said, “Okay.”

Alfie groaned.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I trust Barry.”

Alfie looked horrified.

“You really shouldn’t.”

Barry pointed dramatically.

“We need to investigate.”

“Investigate what?”

“The giant chin.”

“It isn’t giant.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It isn’t.”

Barry lowered his voice.

“What if it’s growing?”

Marmaduke gasped.

Alfie stared.

“Growing?”

“What if by teatime it’s twice as big?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if by bedtime it reaches the ceiling?”

“It definitely won’t.”

“What if it becomes self-aware?”

Alfie rubbed his temples.

“I don’t think that’s how chins work.”

Barry had already disappeared.

He returned carrying a notebook.

Across the front he had scribbled something that Barry believed was:

CHIN INVESTIGATION SQUAD

The writing was illegible.

Marmaduke looked impressed.

“Professional.”

For the next half hour they conducted experiments.

Experiment One involved measuring the chin with spaghetti.

Experiment Two involved viewing it through binoculars.

Experiment Three involved drawing maps.

Alfie tried ignoring them.

Then Barry announced:

“The chin has definitely increased by two spaghetti lengths.”

“It hasn’t.”

“It has.”

“It really hasn’t.”

Marmaduke nodded gravely.

“The evidence is concerning.”

At three o’clock another idea struck Barry.

This was even worse.

“We need to stop the growth.”

Alfie immediately sat up.

“No.”

“But what if—”

“No.”

“What if—”

“No.”

“What if—”

“Especially no.”

Barry thought.

Then smiled.

That smile should have been illegal.

It was the smile of someone who had just discovered trouble and intended to introduce himself.

He and Marmaduke disappeared into the kitchen.

Silence followed.

Parents know this sound.

Teachers know this sound.

Zoo keepers know this sound.

It is the sound that means you should start running.

Alfie followed.

The kitchen looked normal.

At first.

Then he noticed the ingredients.

Bread.

Peanut butter.

Bananas.

Honey.

Yoghurt.

Ice cubes.

A tea towel.

“What are you doing?”

Barry beamed.

“A giant anti-chin sandwich.”

“That’s not a thing… where’s Mum?”

“It is now.”

Marmaduke held up a banana.

“We’re inventors.”

Alfie opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because he honestly didn’t know where to begin.

The sandwich became enormous.

Ridiculously enormous.

Comically enormous.

It looked less like a sandwich and more like a small piece of architecture.

Barry admired it.

“Perfect.”

Then Mum came downstairs, the noise of the toilet flush ending in the background. 

She saw the kitchen.

The giant sandwich.

The notebook.

The spaghetti.

The maps.

The ice pack.

The children.

“What happened here?”

Barry answered proudly.

“Medical science.”

Alfie sighed.

“Oh, Alfie!”

She hurried over and inspected his chin again. 

“Oh my goodness.”

Barry nodded importantly.

“See? Giant.”

“It is rather swollen… even compared to an hour ago.”

“That’s exactly what we’ve been saying.”

Mum pointed at the sandwich.

“What is that?”

Barry straightened.

“Our treatment.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“State-of-the-art.”

“And how,” Mum asked carefully, “does it work?”

Barry smiled.

“No idea.”

For a moment nobody spoke.

Then Mum started laughing.

Even Alfie laughed.

Eventually.

Although laughing hurt his chin.

A little later they sat around the table eating a normal-sized dinner.

The giant sandwich had been dismantled before it became a health and safety incident.

Alfie’s chin remained enormous.

Barry remained curious.

Marmaduke remained agreeable.

And the world remained exactly as chaotic as before.

As bedtime approached, Barry climbed onto his bed. Marmaduke had been collected by his mum, Marjory, 10 minutes before. 

“Goodnight, Alfie.”

“Goodnight,” came the call from across the landing. 

“Your chin seems smaller.”

“It isn’t.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Do you think logs get embarrassed when people fall off them?”

“What?”

“Maybe the log feels bad.”

Alfie stared at the ceiling.

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“Maybe Arthur knows.”

“Maybe.”

Barry yawned.

Then smiled.

“At least your chin didn’t become self-aware.”

Alfie rolled over.

“Goodnight, Barry.”