Christopher Crumb's Strange Experiments - An extract.

Christopher Crumb lives at 21 Rectory Close, in the semi-boring village of Gladsby Minor. I would have labelled it completely boring had it not been for this one remarkable resident who changed my life for the better. 

 ‘Crispy Crumb’ as his bullies liked to call him was reasonably bright, but not brainy. At Middle School, he applied himself to what was asked of him and was awarded several above average scores in the annual examinations. He didn’t smoke, swear or chase girls like most of the other boys, because he said that was ‘predictable behaviour’ and he preferred the unpredictable.

I met him during my first year at High school on a very windy October morning.  The playground was pitching like a tilted sea, while we clung to it for dear life. Chris was standing on his own, in the corner of the playground, with his coat fully unzipped, holding the ends out like bats wings. He had his back to me, and for one awful moment I thought he was flashing at someone.

          “What you doin?’’ I said. The wind instantly snatched the words from my mouth screwed them up and tossed them into the sky.

          “What are you doing?” I shouted, tapping him on his shoulder. He spun round, his fingers still gripping the ends of his coat and glared at me.

          “Waiting!” He said, and spun back round.

          “Waiting for what?” I shouted. This time the wind was a bit more lenient. Chris didn’t speak, or turn to face me. He just stamped one of his feet, as though he was kick starting an invisible motorbike. Then something amazing happened. The wind paused between breaths and Chris flung out his arms and jumped into the air. Whether gravity had decided to take a nap, I wasn’t sure.

At the same split second he jumped, the wind roared back into the playground with a vengeance. It picked him up and blew him a good ten or twelve feet backwards. He landed on his back, arms outstretched and I winced at the sound of bum hitting tarmac. I walked over to the crash site and saw his hood had fallen over his face like a shroud. I leant down and peeled it back. His eyes were tightly closed.

          “You ok?” I said nervously.  He opened both eyes and smiled broadly.

          “How far?” he said, excitedly.

          “Scuse me?”

          “How far did I travel? “

          “Erm, I dunno. Twelve, fifteen feet?” Chris got up and smiled again, patting me on the shoulder.

          “Next time I’ll manage twenty.” Over the far side of the playground a group of teachers were huddled together like nervous referees, blowing tired whistles. Eventually, the wind moderated a little and pupils started walking back to class. Chris was striding out purposefully, so much so I had to do this sort of half-run-half-walk just to keep up.

          “The name’s Crumb- Christopher Crumb. What’s yours?”

          “Michael, Mike Poulter.” I replied.

          “That thing back there, with the wind I mean.  Mum’s the word eh? I don’t want anyone to steal my idea. Ok?”

          “O-k. Can I ask what it was you were doing?”

          “If I tell you, you must swear...” He turned to face me, narrowing his eyes.

          “You must swear not to tell a soul - not yet anyway.” As he spoke, he poked me in the chest. Not roughly, like a bully seconds before he punches you with your own fist. No, this was more of a gentle tap, as though he was testing plaster walls in an old house.

          “Sure.” I replied, crossing my heart. Although, why a lapsed agnostic would do such a thing was beyond me. Before he could say any more we reached the reception area. He pointed left down the east corridor, smiling.

          “Double maths for me I’m afraid.”

          “P.E.” I replied, shaking my head and pointing in the opposite direction. We nodded to each other and parted. As I was about to enter the changing rooms, I glanced back and could easily spot him with his head held high, still striding down the corridor, as though he owned the world.

During the next two hours of punishment goalkeeping, I passed my time under the cross bar trying to get an angle on Christopher Crumb. Occasionally, when the cannon-ball-cum-Casey was blasted in my direction I would fall on or near it, in an attempt to quell Mr Ripley’s dislike for me. Every time the ball struck my ample thighs he shot me a look that had ‘serve you right fatty’ written all over it.

I didn’t recall ever having seen or heard of Chris Crumb before today. Normally, anyone with his M.O, or surname for that matter would be right at the top of my ‘boys to avoid’ list.  Such a list was only formulated out of self-preservation to reduce the risk of any ‘bullying by association’. It struck me that the only reason I’d noticed him today, was the fact he’d chosen to perform his wind assisted experiments alone. I too was a bit of a loner, more by accident than intention. Perhaps likes did attract after all?

With my plate brim full of assorted cholesterol I chose an empty table and sat down. Once I’d scraped off all the cheese from the pizza and milked the grease from the cheap sausages I assembled my own pizza base hot dog.

          “Very impressive hot dog”. I looked up and saw Chris Crumb carrying a tray full of rabbit food. “D’you mind”? He said, pulling out a chair.

          “Feel free.” I answered, through a mouthful of dough and pig flavoured sawdust. Chris sat down and started chomping noisily on his salad. For the first few minutes we remained silent, doing a sort of bizarre nodding and grinning routine while we each tried to finish our meals. Chris finally broke cover.

          “So Mike, have you worked out what I was doing this morning. In the playground?” During my time on the goal line I’d narrowed it down to three possibilities:-

1.     

Some sort of weird science project

2.    

Borderline insanity

3.   

Indecent exposure

          “At first I thought you were flashing. Then when I got closer I realised you were alone.” Chris spat out a slice of carrot and started to laugh. It was quite an odd laugh for such a gangly eccentric - part squeak and part asthmatic wheeze. If I was him I’d practise a new one so as not to attract attention. A couple of fourth year thugs stopped throwing chips at each other and glanced over.

          “Flashing? Seriously?”  said Chris shaking his head. “No I wasn’t flashing. I was proving a theory.”

          “What sort of theory?” The thugs stopped looking and went back to chip throwing as soon as I said the word ‘theory’.

          “It hasn’t got a name yet. It’s to do with numbers and probability. Do you know about probability Mike? I wanted to say ‘of course I do’ and accompany it with a wry smile or a face-lifted tut. What I actually said was…

          “D’you mean like working out odds and stuff?” I couldn’t have sounded more like a yokel if I’d chewed on an ear of barley and spoken in a West Country accent. Chris saw I was floundering.

          “Sort of. It’s all to do with natural patterns and rhythms. They’re everywhere.” He threw out his arms, palms upwards, making me look around the packed dining room for signs of black balaclavas and grappling hooks.

          “Ri-ght” I said, hoping the next explanation would actually reveal something.

          “Look. You know when you’re on holiday and you decide to go for a dip in the sea. Haven’t you ever bobbed about waiting for the big seventh wave to come?”

          “I can’t swim.”

          “Really?” Well, every so often there comes an extra big wave. Surfers wait for it. The best ones even know when it’s coming. Well I can predict, with an eighty five per cent certainty the precise moment when the wind will increase in strength. I’ve been gathering data for a few months now and I think I’ve cracked it.” He leaned back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head.

          “Impressive though that sounds, why did you feel the need to turn into batboy this morning?”

          “Ah, that was just me having a bit of fun. I suppose I could have just logged the gust in my notebook. But then we wouldn’t have met, and I wouldn’t have had a witness.” I resisted the urge to shout ‘bravo!’ clap or even ‘help there’s a psychotic batboy on the loose!’ Instead I fielded the fried potato missile away from Chris’s face and shook my head in disbelief.

For the next thirty minutes he talked while I nodded and said ‘yes’ and ‘oh right’ a lot. It soon became clear he was a bit of a closet boffin. His scientific knowledge seemed to know no bounds. I was desperate to ask if he’d proved a theory that would simultaneously kill all bullies and endow me with the super-hero powers of flight and invisibility. I’m sure it was well within his capability. During the one-way discourse he offered to show me a few of his ‘works in progress’ at his house after school. There were no obvious signs of burgeoning homosexuality (whatever they were) so I agreed, with the proviso that I mustn’t be drugged and used in some freakish Frankenstein re-enactment. He laughed again, patted me on the back and we went our separate ways.

After school, he waited for me outside the gates, and seemed invisible to the pupils streaming past him. As I approached I could see he was scribbling something in his pocket notebook.

          “Working on a new theory?’’ I said, peering over his shoulder. He closed his book, and shoved it in his pocket.

          “Just observing.  Fancy a shortcut?”

          “O-k.” This was a little like asking a blindfolded hostage the same question? I could tell by the way his face lit up that we were about to put a little theory into practice....