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- Herausgeber: Firefly Press Ltd
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
When Grimstink the alien and Layla the thirteen-year-old girl swap planets, they must face down warriors, deathbots, vicars and traffic wardens in their battle for the fate of planet Earth.
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Seitenzahl: 233
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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iiiiii
ivTo Kimberley, for teaching me how to survive on this planet v
vi
Contents
Day One: Friday
Layla
Mum said I had to get a job when I turned thirteen. But I didn’t think she meant onmyactualbirthday. I got home from school today expecting, you know, maybe a present or something, but instead Mum has given me an ugly green backpack and a stack of glossy leaflets.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘It’s your new job,’ she tells me. ‘Delivering promotional material to homes across the local area. Happy Birthday, love.’
I look at the leaflets: FencesandGatewaysatIncrediblePrices. ‘Is this a joke?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Mum.
‘This is my actual birthday present? Ten million leaflets for fences and gateways at incredible prices is my actual birthday present?’ 2
‘I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this for you, Layla. You’ll get five pounds for every hundred leaflets. If you work hard, you could earn quite a lot of money.’
I think about it. This is the worst so-called ‘present’ anyone has ever been given in the history of planet Earth, but maybe I can take advantage. I could dump the leaflets in a bush and claim the money.
‘And don’t think you can dump the leaflets in a bush and claim the money,’ says Mum. ‘Mr Phelps said he’d check at three random addresses and if they haven’t had leaflets, you won’t get paid.’
Bums. So I’ll have to actually do the job.
I hear a snuffly wet laugh from the corner of the room. My brother Reece is there, hunched over his phone. He might be laughing at one of his stupid TikToks but more likely he’s laughing at me.
It’s Reece’s birthday too. We’re not twins or anything. It’s just an annoying coincidence that he was born on my second birthday, so we have to share the ‘celebrations’ every year. And this year is even worse because Mum’s given him a bike. It’s completely not fair, and I say so.
‘It’s not unfair at all,’ says Mum. ‘You got a bike when you were eleven.’
‘No, I didn’t. I got a bike when I was eightand I’ve 3still got it now. It’s bright pink and it’s got a unicorn on the side.’
Reece snorts again. He’s definitely laughing at me. I hate him.
Mum is still banging on. ‘If you work hard at this job, Layla, you’ll be able to afford a new bike. And meanwhile, when Reece is thirteen, he’ll get a job as well. It’s perfectly fair.’
Mum never admits she’s wrong about anything and she never will. Once again, I have to accept the massive injustice of my life: my brother is the chosen one, the golden child, and I am the nobody. My brother gets a bike, and I get signed up for slave labour, delivering stupid leaflets that everyone puts straight in the bin, creating extra damage to our environment and threatening the future of our planet.
I grab the backpack and the leaflets and storm off towards the front door.
Mum calls after me: ‘Change out of your school uniform first please, Layla.’
But I ignore her. On the way to the door, I pass Reece’s shiny new bike, propped up against the radiator. There’s no way I’m doing this job on my dinky unicorn bike, so I help myself to Reece’s birthday present, swinging my leg over as I open the front door and coast out onto the street. There’s a bike helmet dangling from 4the handlebars so I put it on. Not to be safe but because I like stealing things from my brother.
Behind me, Reece has guessed what I’m up to and comes running out of the house.
‘Mum, Layla’s robbed my bike!’ he whines. ‘Make her give it back! Mum!’
It sounds like he might start crying, which cheers me up a bit, but soon I can’t hear him anyway because I’ve travelled so far and so fast. It’s a really nice bike to be honest.
As soon as I’m a safe distance from the house, I stop and look inside the backpack. Mr Phelps has put in a list of addresses, and there’s something else too: a small wrapped-up birthday present with a sticker saying Happy Birthday Layla,love from Mumx.
So Mum did get me a proper gift after all. I’m still annoyed with her though, and I’m slightly hoping it’s a rubbishy present, so I won’t suddenly have to feel grateful. I open it up. It’s a necklace with a little green stone on it. It’s OK, nothing special. Probably from Argos. I clip it round my neck and look at this pile of leaflets I’ve got to deliver.
None of the streets on Phelps’ list are anywhere near here, so I’ll have to travel about a mile before I can even start earning my money. Good job I took the bike. 5
It’s raining. I didn’t notice the weather before I left the house so I didn’t bring a coat, and I can hardly go back for it now. I turn up the collar of my school blazer, which makes no difference at all, and steer Reece’s bike into a shortcut through Heathway Park. The rain clouds have made everything darker and there are no people around. I cycle through puddles, past the playground and around the boating lake – ducks scattering out of my way as I go, over the footbridge, past the empty tennis court.
I notice a bright, multicoloured light up in the sky. Not a star – it’s too cloudy to see stars – and not a plane either because it isn’t moving, just sort of floating there. You sometimes get police helicopters hovering over the park and for a split second I panic that Reece has sent the cops to get his bike back. But helicopters make a noise, and this is completely silent.
Weird.
Even weirder, the light suddenly swells up like a balloon, then breaks apart into six bits, all different colours, and the bits slowly float down towards the ground. It’s like a slow-motion fireworks display.
The biggest light, the purple one, seems to be falling onto the path ahead of me so I cycle off in that direction to see what it is. I get to a bench with a rubbish bin next to it. A sign on the bench says: ‘For 6Granny Jo, who loved this spot.’ Why Granny Jo loved sitting next to a rubbish bin overflowing with dog poo bags it doesn’t say. Anyway, I can’t see the purple thing. Maybe it burnt to ash before it landed. This place is giving me the creeps so I’m about to cycle on when I notice a sort of dim light glowing from inside the rubbish bin. A purple light. I get off the bike, drop my bag onto the bench and look in the bin. There’s this thing. It’s a stone. A fancy-looking stone, more like a jewel. I wonder if it might be worth money.
I pick the jewel out of the bin. It’s nothing like the cheapo stone on my birthday necklace. This one’s about the size of a Quality Street, only much heavier, and it isn’t just glowing – it’s pulsinglike a little heart. I don’t know what to do. Should I leave it here or hand it in to someone? Or should I keep it?
It is my birthday after all. I think I might keep it.
I go to put the stone into my pocket. But it won’t drop. It sticks to my hand like a magnet. I peel it away with my other hand, but now it sticks to that one. I try to throw it away. It won’t go. I shake my hand around, but the stone stays attached.
This is so freaky. The purple stone is still glowing in my hand, still sticking tight, except now it’s doing more than just sticking. It’s melting itself onto my skin, spreading up around my wrist as if it is another 7hand grabbing hold of mine. Now it’s pulling me forwards, like a doorhandle being yanked open from the other side, forwards and up into the air.
‘Help,’ I say, much too quietly. I try again: ‘Help!’
But there’s no one around and, anyway, what could they do?
I’m scared now. I try to get on my bike and ride away, but my feet won’t push down on the pedals. It’s like the bike isn’t real anymore, and neither is the park and there’s not even a path underneath me, not even the ground. There’s only me, surrounded by clouds. And the clouds bubble into the shape of a face – an angry, nasty face, pretending to be human – and the face rushes towards me and then past me, and as it passes me I get a cold shiver of evil and then I fall down and down and down into nothing and my last thought as I fall is that maybe I shouldn’t have taken Reece’s bike after all.
Grimstink, Son of Grimstink
Time until the Cleaving: 27 hours
Atmospheric pressure: 1.7 psi
Air composition: nitrogen/oxygen/argon/carbon dioxide
Air temperature: 12 degrees
Gravitational pull: 9.80665 m/s2
I open my eyes and look around. If any creature of sufficient brain size has witnessed my crossing, I will destroy it. But the location is quiet. I would have liked to mark my arrival with a swift and brutal killing, but no matter. There will be opportunity for that later.
First I must confirm that my devices are in working order. The databox is operational. So too is the wire I wear around my ears and throat to allow communication with this planet’s inhabitants. 9Communication with the earthlings is not strictly necessary but it will amuse me to hear them beg for mercy as I obliterate them. Most important of all, my Tanglestone is where it belongs, hanging on a cord around my neck.
I analyse my immediate surroundings: plant life, several varieties of fungus, miscellaneous birds and small mammals. As predicted, the planet is similar to my own. This is why the Tanglestones were activated and why they brought me here.
Beside me lies a two-wheeled vehicle and a green sack containing sheets of glossy paper. A label on the sack reads: LaylaTenby,18WarringtonRoad. I assume this to be the creature with whom I exchanged co-ordinates and who now lies dead at the far side of the galaxy. I turn my attention to the glossy papers: Fences and Gateways at Incredible Prices. By scanning these printed symbols, I make a partial analysis of the planet’s written language.
Behind me is a wooden receptacle. I investigate its contents: fruit peelings, plastic bottles, a half-eaten pouch of fried vegetable shavings labelled ‘prawn cocktail’ and several small, unmarked green bags, tied at the neck. I tear one open to find it filled with a brown substance which smells foul and tastes even worse. At the base of the receptacle lies a printed 10journal called CelebrityGossip. I examine the pages, consolidating my grasp of Earth culture.
My next priority is to establish a headquarters from which to work. Ideally a vacant warehouse or other abandoned structure. I apply rational thought: I arrived here by taking the place of ‘Layla Tenby, 18 Warrington Road’. Therefore, Layla Tenby’s dwelling place now stands vacant. I must find 18 Warrington Road and occupy it for myself.
This is logical.
I throw the two-wheeled vehicle into the bushes to cover my tracks, then emerge from the woodlands into a populated area. The dominant species of earthling is a bipedal, apelike mammal similar to Qarlians like me. This will allow me to pass unnoticed amongst them. I walk along the roadway, past the temple of WETHERSPOON. Past GREGGS the baker and BOOTS the cobbler. Some of the earthlings are on foot; others travel in metallic, carbon-fuelled vehicles. Clearly they remain at a primitive stage of development. Once the gateway opens it will be a simple matter to overpower them.
But now I encounter a problem. A male earthling (they call themselves ‘man’) stands by the road, staring at me with frank disbelief. Does he recognise me? Of course not: on this planet, Grimstink’s face is not yet 11known. Then why is the man shocked? Is it the wire around my ear or the Tanglestone at my throat? No, both are hidden by the thick coils of hair that hang from my head. I follow the man’s gaze to my body. Now I understand; he is shocked because I am naked. Before crossing the galaxy, I shed my clothing for ease of travel. Now I must dress myself in a manner befitting my new surroundings.
I will steal this man’s clothes.
I walk towards the human, smiling, my arms outstretched in greeting. But before I have the opportunity to speak, the man turns and runs away.
‘Do not be afraid! I am your friend!’ I lie, as I chase the man at speed, but he calls back to me: ‘Go away you lunatic! And put some underpants on for God’s sake!’
He sprints across the highway and I follow, narrowly missing the speeding vehicles. The man is fast, but Grimstink, son of Grimstink is faster and I soon reach my quarry, bringing him to the ground with a simple swift kick to the back of the legs.
My first instinct is to end the man’s life, and I would not lose a moment of sleep in regret if I did so. But I need information. So instead, I touch a finger to a particular spot on the man’s throat, taking him to a state halfway between consciousness and 12oblivion. This done, I ask him a question: ‘Where is 18 Warrington Road?’
The man points a trembling finger in a northeasterly direction before passing out. I strip the clothing from his body – trousers, shirt, tunic and hat – and dress myself. The man’s shoes are too small for my feet; I leave them behind.
A few short minutes later, I reach my destination: a narrow brick dwelling. The number 18 is affixed to the main door.
Before entering, I use the databox to scan the building from top to bottom. The dwelling contains two human lifeforms. This is a problem: I had hoped it would be unoccupied. But I am not deterred. I hammer at the door, and it is soon opened by a female earthling – or ‘woman’ – of middling years in a long cotton gown reading WINE O’CLOCK.
The woman eyes me warily. ‘Yes?’ she says.
‘I come to offer fences and gateways at incredible prices,’ I say.
‘No thank you,’ says the woman, moving to close the door.
I wedge my foot between the door and its frame. ‘Do not thwart my purpose, Earth woman.’
But she is not intimidated. ‘Bog off!’ she says. ‘I’m not buying anything!’ 13
I place a finger on the woman’s throat, and she too collapses into a deep but harmless sleep. I will kill her in due course. For now, I step over her motionless body and enter her humble dwelling.
There is little to see. A kitchen and a small sitting room with table and chairs. Affixed to one wall, a large flat screen displays what passes for human entertainment: one earthling has prepared a meal; two others taste it and make approving comments; the first earthling begins to weep. A pitiful display.
The other lifeform I detected is on the upper level of the building so I ascend a narrow stairwell to the bedchambers. The lifeform is behind a door bearing the sign Reece’sBedroom–KEEPOUT.Laylathat means YOU.
I kick the door to splinters and step inside.
Layla
My butt is killing me. Everything else hurts too, but mostly my butt because that’s what I landed on. It’s sort of ironic because I’m still wearing Reece’s bicycle helmet and that didn’t protect me at all. A butt helmet, that’s what I need.
Where am I?
Not Heathway Park, that’s for sure. The ground isn’t grass or dirt; it’s a sort of hard, black metal. The floor curves up on all sides of me like a satellite dish or one of those pans you use for cooking a stir-fry. A wok. It’s like I’m being stir-fried in the world’s biggest wok.
I try to climb up the side. But it’s too steep. I back up and take a run at it, trying to power my way to the top like ‘Beat the Wall’ on that TV show, Ninja Warrior. But it’s no good. The sides of the wok are too high. I’m stuck. 15
How the hell did I get here? Obviously it’s something to do with the purple stone. The stone is still in my hand, but it has gone back to its normal size and shape now, and it’s stopped glowing. It doesn’t feel sticky or sucky anymore. I check the stone, looking for a button or a switch to reverse the process. But there’s nothing, just a smooth, hard surface. I drop it into the pocket of my blazer and try not to panic while I think about what to do next.
I shout out for help, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel. ‘Hello! Excuse me? Hello!’
After a few seconds I hear a deep rumbling mechanical sound, like a tumble dryer. Something appears up top, peering over the metal rim. It’s not a person or an animal. It’s basically a sort of metal ball, about the size of Mum’s yoga ball, with two lights in the front for eyes. It hasn’t got a body or legs; it’s just floating in the air like a silver bubble, rumbling away. It’s quite cute in a way.
I shout up to it. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry but I think I’m a bit stuck. Has anyone up there got a ladder or something?’
The metal ball wobbles from side to side, making it look even cuter. It could have its own show on CBeebies. Then a long slit opens up where its mouth should be, and the ball swivels in my direction. I suddenly have a very bad feeling about this. 16
‘What are you doing?’ I ask – and the ball answers my question by shooting a beam of white light straight at me. I flinch but the light doesn’t hurt. It just scans me up and down like I’m a barcode or a Tesco Clubcard.
OK so that was strange. Now something else is poking out of that narrow mouth. A thin silver tongue, tube-shaped, like maybe a drinking straw or—
Zap! Light blasts out of the tube – but this time it’s not harmless light; it’s like a jet of burning acid. I can feel the heat even as I jump out of the way. It misses me but only just. The black metal of the wok is smoking where the beam hit.
We’re not on CBeebies now, that’s for sure.
I start to panic. This thing is trying to kill me. It swivels round, aims and fires again – and this time it doeshit me. Am I dead? No – but only because I’m wearing Reece’s bicycle helmet. I put a hand up to my head: half of the plastic has burned away. It won’t save me next time.
I dodge another shot, but there’s no way I can keep doing this for long. I need to fight back somehow, but what with? I check my blazer pocket: two pencils and a Toffee Crisp wrapper – probably not much use against a killer death robot.
Desperate, I unclip Reece’s bike helmet, swing it 17round on its strap and let it fly up at top speed towards the ball.
And – incredibly – it works! The ball tilts off balance, crashes into the side of the dish and comes rolling down into the middle to land at my feet. Dead, by the look of it. I give it a nudge with my foot to make sure. Yeah, it’s definitely out of operation. Nice one, Layla. Go me! Shame there was no one here to witness my skills, but I celebrate anyway with some dance moves.
I’m so busy congratulating myself that it takes a minute to realise that rumbling noise hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s got a bit louder. I look up. There are three more metal balls, all hovering round the rim of the dish, all pointing their guns right at me.
OK, Layla, think.
I think but nothing comes. I’m all out of ideas – and out of bicycle helmets too. Basically I’m dead any second now. Death by stir-fry. I stand frozen to the spot in the middle of the dish and I close my eyes tight, waiting for the metal balls to start shooting.
I hear one of them fire. The heat whizzes past my face but I’m still not dead. I open one eye to look up at the rim of the dish and I see why the shot missed: a boy about my age has grabbed one of the metal balls from behind and swung it out of position, using it as 18a weapon to fire at the other two. And it’s working: he zaps one of them right in the mouth, popping it open in a shower of sparks. The other ball swivels round, ignoring me so it can shoot at the boy instead.
The boy yells something down to me, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. It sounds a bit German maybe, but at school I only do Spanish and even then all I can do is ask him if he’s got any brothers and sisters which is not very relevant to our current situation. The boy dodges another shot, then fires back: another direct hit, sending the ball skidding down into the dish next to the one I killed.
Finally the boy kills his own metal ball by grabbing its mouth at the top and bottom and wrenching it open like a big metal pistachio nut. Got to admit, I am quite impressed with this lad.
The boy ducks out of sight for a moment before a rope comes tumbling down over the side of the dish towards me. I tug on the rope, wondering if my arms are strong enough for me to climb up and out of the dish, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as I am holding the rope, I’m yanked up and over the top.
I flop over the rim and out into the middle of a huge empty building. It looks like a sort of big warehouse, like B&Q or IKEA but a hundred times bigger and with no shelves or staff. The roof is about 19a mile over our heads. Holding the other end of the rope is the boy. He’s normal looking apart from these weird eyebrows that sort of swoop out from the side of his head like wings. He’s wearing jeans and a white top with a leather jacket, the kind of outfit Dad started wearing after he split up with Mum.
‘So cheers for saving me,’ I say. ‘Appreciate it.’ I get my phone out but there’s no signal, not even 3G.
Eyebrow boy starts waving his arms about and talking to me in his language.
‘I can’t understand you,’ I say. ‘Where am I?’
He points over my head, up towards the roof of the building. Hundreds of metal balls are pouring in and rumbling towards us like a cloud of angry metal wasps.
Grimstink, Son of Grimstink
Time until the Cleaving: 26 hours
Beyond the splintered door, an earthling boy sits on a bed, gawping up at me like a grounded fish. I judge him to be approximately eleven years old, only five or six years younger than myself, yet clearly far weaker in terms of strength and wisdom. I doubt this lad has ever commanded a battalion or been forced to suck lizard poison from his own foot.
I decide to say something light-hearted and friendly, to put the child at ease. ‘Greetings, Earth boy,’ I say. ‘Have no fear, for I have no wish to kill you.’
This is of course a lie. I have every intention of killing the boy, and soon, but first I will gather any intelligence he might provide. By the appearance of the lad, such intelligence is unlikely to be plentiful. 21
‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘And what did you kick my door in for? It wasn’t even locked.’
I think fast. ‘I sensed you were in danger,’ I say. (He is in danger – from me.) ‘I am here to protect you.’
‘Does Mum know you’re here?’
Deducing that ‘Mum’ is the name of the female I disabled on the lower level of this dwelling, I lie to the boy again. ‘I arrived here to find Mum under attack from a squadron of deathbots,’ I say. ‘I eliminated the deathbots and Mum is safe, though she must rest on the floor awhile.’
The boy accepts my lie without question. Clearly, he is a creature of remarkable stupidity. ‘So, what are you?’ he asks. ‘You called me Earth boy. Does that mean you’re, like, an alien or something?’
I could tell the boy everything. I could tell him about the planet Qarl, about our leader Merrel-Graa, about our mission to scour the galaxy for civilisations that might one day rival our own, and to destroy them. But I tell him none of that. Instead, I simply say: ‘Yes, I am an alien.’
‘Awesome,’ says the boy. ‘My name’s Reece Tenby. What’s yours?’
My name? This boy has the intelligence of a worm but, still, I do not wish to give him the advantage of 22knowing my real name. And so I think logically and adopt a name the boy will trust. A name I encountered in the pages of the journal Celebrity Gossip.
‘My name is Ed Sheeran,’ I say.
Reece Tenby eyes me with scepticism. ‘Ed Sheeran?’ he replies.
I nod in confirmation. ‘Ed Sheeran.’
‘You’re seriously telling me your name is Ed Sheeran?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My name is Ed Sheeran, son of Ed Sheeran.’
‘That must cause a few problems,’ says the boy. He studies me for several moments more before adding, ‘I’m also kind of confused about why you’re dressed as a traffic warden?’
I look down at the clothes I stole from the man in the street. ‘I will tell you everything,’ I say. ‘But first I need food and strong wine.’
