Shark Defence Fortress

Barry Brand, aged four, woke up at six o’clock, fully dressed in a pirate hat, a Wellington boot on one foot and a superhero cape.

“Today,” he announced to nobody in particular, “I shall be doing adventures.”

His older brother Alfie, aged eight, looked up from the book he was reading.

“You’ll be doing trouble,” he corrected.

Barry thought about this.

“Yes. Adventure trouble.”

His best friend Marmaduke, who was staying over, nodded enthusiastically.

Marmaduke would have agreed if Barry had announced his intention to become a potato.

“Adventure trouble sounds brilliant.”

“It isn’t brilliant,” said Alfie.

“Exactly how would you know?” asked Barry.

“Because every time you’re involved, someone ends up apologising to a teacher, a neighbour, a bus driver or a duck.”

The duck incident remained a sensitive subject.

Before Alfie could continue his lecture on sensible behaviour, Mum’s phone rang.

Mrs Brand answered.

“Oh hello, Martha.”

Her face immediately became concerned.

Barry and Marmaduke exchanged glances.

Adult concern was often the beginning of interesting things.

Grandma Brand wasn’t feeling well. The recent heatwave had been hard on lots of elderly people, and she was going into hospital in Leicestershire for tests.

Mrs Brand listened carefully.

Then she nodded.

Then she sighed.

Then she looked at the three boys.

Three pairs of eyes stared back.

One sensible.

Two dangerous.

“We’re going North tonight,” she announced.

“Excellent!” said Barry.

“Why is that excellent?” asked Alfie.

“I’ve never been North tonight before.”

That evening, after hurried packing and several forgotten chargers being retrieved from around the house, Mrs Brand loaded the children into the car.

Before they left, she conducted a full inspection of Barry.

This wasn’t unusual.

Barry had a history.

Most children occasionally forgot toys.

Barry occasionally smuggled wildlife.

Mrs Brand checked his pockets.

His coat.

His backpack.

His shoes.

His pirate hat.

“No Mousey?” she asked suspiciously.

Mousey was a garden mouse who had somehow become Barry’s unofficial employee.

The mouse had previously accompanied Barry to a hospital visit for Grandma Brand, and it hadn’t been well received.   

“No Mousey,” Barry said honestly.

Mrs Brand narrowed her eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“Mostly.”

Five minutes later, a tiny mouse emerged from behind a flowerpot, as the car drove away.

Mousey had been left behind.

For once.

The journey north was surprisingly peaceful.

Barry fell asleep.

Marmaduke fell asleep.

Alfie read.

Mrs Brand drove.

The motorway continued being a motorway.

By the time they arrived, everyone was tired.

Except Barry.

Barry appeared to run on mysterious energy sources unknown to science.

The next morning they visited Grandma Brand in hospital.

Grandma looked tired but cheerful.

“Hello, my treasures.”

Alfie gave her a careful hug.

Barry gave her a hug that nearly relocated several important medical wires.

Marmaduke hugged her despite not technically being related.

The doctors came by and explained things to Mrs Brand.

Everything sounded reassuring.

Tests.

Observations.

Monitoring.

Adult words that meant “we’re keeping an eye on things.”

Soon afterwards, Mr Brand arrived from London.

He took over visiting duties while Mrs Brand considered another problem.

Three energetic boys.

One tiny hospital room.

Several hundred vulnerable patients.

A combination that nobody wanted to test.

“I know,” she said suddenly.

“Know what?” asked Alfie.

“BrickFest.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

Marmaduke gasped.

Even Alfie looked interested.

BrickFest at De Montfort University was locally famous.

A paradise for Lego enthusiasts.

A wonderland of bricks.

A kingdom of creativity.

A place where adults pretended they were accompanying children.

The truth was considerably less convincing.

An hour later they arrived.

The huge hall buzzed with excitement.

Massive displays covered tables.

Castles.

Space stations.

Pirate ships.

Cities.

Trains.

Dragons.

One model appeared large enough to have its own local council.

Barry spun around in amazement.

“This,” he declared, “is the greatest day in the history of days.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“The absolute greatest.”

Alfie folded his arms.

“It is very impressive.”

Which, from Alfie, was roughly equivalent to screaming with excitement.

Mrs Brand found a building area where children could create their own models.

“Stay here.”

“We will,” said Alfie.

Mrs Brand looked relieved.

Having Alfie present was like travelling with a small health-and-safety officer.

She disappeared to buy coffee. 

Barry immediately sat down beside a mountain of Lego.

Marmaduke joined him.

Alfie chose a different table and began constructing something involving structural integrity.

Barry had different priorities.

He grabbed bricks.

Lots of bricks.

“Let’s build a tower.”

“How tall?”

“Yes.”

Marmaduke approved.

They worked furiously.

Soon a tower emerged.

Then another level.

Then another.

Then another.

It leaned slightly.

Then significantly.

Then alarmingly.

“It’s wobbling,” said Marmaduke.

“That means it’s interesting.”

They added support beams.

Windows.

Doors.

More windows.

Extra doors.

A revolving door.

Nobody knew why.

Several Lego people were installed inside.

Then Barry found a tub of tiny Lego weapons.

His eyes sparkled.

“We need guards.”

Within minutes the tower contained an absurd number of armed Lego figures.

“Excellent security,” said Barry.

Marmaduke nodded.

“No one can steal the tower.”

“Especially because it’s made of Lego.”

“Exactly.”

A sensible child might have stopped there.

Barry was not a sensible child.

He spotted a Lego shark.

A magnificent blue shark.

Perfect.

The shark was placed triumphantly on the roof.

“There.”

Marmaduke stared.

“Why is there a shark on top?”

Barry looked offended.

“Why wouldn’t there be?”

That was difficult to answer.

The tower now stood nearly as tall as Barry.

It featured armed guards, six doors, fourteen windows and a shark.

It made absolutely no architectural sense.

Barry considered this a success.

Nearby, an elderly Lego enthusiast stopped and examined it.

“Hmm.”

Barry beamed.

The man pointed.

“What exactly is it?”

Barry didn’t hesitate.

“It’s a Shark Defence Fortress.”

The man blinked.

“Defending against sharks?”

“No.”

“Then why the shark?”

“The shark does the defending.”

The man opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Thought carefully.

Then walked away.

Possibly to lie down.

Alfie arrived.

He examined the creation.

His expression suggested a headache was developing.

“What’s this?”

“A Shark Defence Fortress.”

Alfie sighed.

“Of course it is.”

“See? He understands.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Barry pointed proudly.

“Those guards protect the doors.”

“Why?”

“Because of emergencies.”

“What emergencies?”

Barry looked surprised.

“Sharks.”

“The shark is already on the roof.”

“Exactly.”

Alfie rubbed his forehead.

Parenthood, he suspected, was exhausting.

And he wasn’t even a parent.

More children gathered around.

Soon a crowd had formed.

Everyone wanted to know about the shark fortress.

Barry happily explained.

Each explanation became more ridiculous.

The shark was now the mayor.

The guards worked for him.

The windows were anti-pirate.

The doors were anti-ninja.

The entire structure floated through space on Tuesdays.

Marmaduke confirmed every statement.

“That’s true.”

“It is?”

“Probably.”

One father listened carefully.

Then asked, “How do the Lego people get food?”

Barry froze.

This was clearly an expert-level question.

The crowd waited.

Finally Barry pointed at the shark.

“He catches fish.”

The father laughed so hard he nearly dropped his coffee.

The crowd loved it.

More people arrived.

Soon Barry was giving guided tours.

“On your left, you’ll see the shark.”

Everyone could already see the shark.

It was impossible to miss.

“On your right, more shark.”

There wasn’t any shark on the right.

But nobody interrupted.

The fortress had become unexpectedly popular.

Even event organisers wandered over.

One took photographs.

Another asked if Barry wanted to enter a competition.

Barry looked at Alfie.

“What do I win?”

“Possibly a trophy.”

Barry gasped.

“A real trophy?”

“Maybe.”

Barry stood straighter.

“I accept.”

The judges arrived.

They inspected dozens of creations.

Then they reached the fortress.

One judge pointed at the shark.

“Can you explain your design?”

Barry delivered a ten-minute speech.

Nobody understood a word.

Not even Barry.

Yet somehow it sounded confident.

There were references to shark economics.

Window strategy.

Door management.

Space travel.

Fish.

Lots of fish.

When he finished, the judges stared silently.

One finally said, “Well… it’s certainly imaginative.”

Which is grown-up language for I have absolutely no idea what’s happening here.

Hours later, prizes were announced.

Children gathered excitedly.

Parents held cameras.

Mrs Brand had returned and looked delighted to discover no one had been arrested.

The winners were called.

Beautiful castles won prizes.

Complex robots won prizes.

Detailed cities won prizes.

Then came a special award.

“Most Original Creation.”

The judge smiled.

“This goes to… the Shark Defence Fortress.”

The hall erupted in applause.

Barry froze.

Marmaduke froze.

Alfie looked genuinely shocked.

Barry marched forward proudly.

The trophy was almost as big as his head.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Would you like to thank anyone?”

Barry considered.

“Shark.”

The audience laughed.

Barry pointed dramatically at the fortress.

“None of this would have been possible without him.”

More laughter.

Even the judges were wiping tears from their eyes.

When the event finally ended, the boys returned to the hospital.

Grandma Brand looked much brighter.

“How was BrickFest?”

Barry carefully placed the trophy beside her bed.

“I became famous.”

“You did?”

“I built a fortress.”

“How lovely.”

“It had a shark.”

“Naturally.”

“And guns.”

Grandma nodded.

“Of course.”

“And windows.”

“Important.”

“And doors.”

“Essential.”

“And a shark mayor.”

Grandma smiled.

“I suspected as much.”

Barry climbed onto a chair.

“Everyone loved it.”

Alfie sat down nearby.

“It was ridiculous.”

“It won.”

“It shouldn’t have.”

“It did.”

“It made no sense.”

“It made award-winning sense.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

Mr Brand laughed.

Even Grandma laughed.

Alfie tried very hard not to.

Then failed.

As evening arrived, the family prepared to head home.

The doctors were optimistic about Grandma’s recovery.

The tests looked reassuring.

Everyone felt happier.

Barry carried the trophy all the way to the car.

Halfway through the journey back to London, he finally fell asleep.

The trophy rested on his lap.

Marmaduke snored beside him.

Alfie read quietly.

The motorway rolled beneath them.

Mrs Brand smiled into the rear-view mirror.

“Not a bad weekend in the end.”

“No,” said Mr Brand.

“Not bad.”

A tiny scratching sound came from Barry’s backpack.

Everyone froze.

Another scratching sound.

Slowly, very slowly, Mrs Brand looked at the bag.

Then at her sleeping son.

Then at her husband.

“Oh no.”

Mr Brand sighed.

“Mousey?”

A tiny mouse poked its head out of the zip.

Mousey had somehow travelled to Leicestershire after all.

The mouse looked extremely pleased with itself.

And tucked under one paw was a single Lego brick.

Just in case it ever needed to build a shark fortress of its own.